Queen of Babble

He looks surprised. “She isn’t? Whoa. Coulda fooled me. Sorry.”

“She and Chaz have been dating for two years!” I’m still shocked.

“Okay, okay. Jeez, no need to jump all over me. I said I was sorry. She just seems kinda dykey to me.”

“She hardly said two words to you!”

“Right.”

“What, any woman who doesn’t fall all over you is a lesbian?”

“Relax,” Blaine says, “would you? God, you’re worse than my sister, for Christ’s sake.”

“Well, I can see why your sister might be upset with you,” I say, “if you go around accusing her friends of being lesbians when they’re not. Again, not that there’s anything wrong with that.”

“Jesus,” Blaine says, “chill out. What, are you a lesbian or something?”

“No,” I say, feeling my cheeks start to heat up, “I’m not a lesbian. Not that-”

“-there’s anything wrong with it. I know, I know. Sorry. It’s just, you know, you’re here by yourself, and you got so upset when I asked about your friend…”

“For your information,” I say, “I’m here by myself because I just got out of a very bad relationship with a British guy. Yesterday. That’s why I’m here, as a matter of fact.”

“Yeah? What’d he do? Cheat on you?”

“Worse. He cheated on the British government. Welfare fraud.”

“Oh.” Blaine looks impressed. “Hey, that’s bad. My last girlfriend turned out to be a disappointment as well. Only she dumped me.”

“Really? What for? Did you accuse her of being a lesbian, too?”

He smiles. “Fu

“Oh,” I say. And he looks so sad that for a moment I really do feel sorry for him. “Well, I’m sure you’ll meet someone else. There must be lots of girls out there who’d enjoy dating someone with a recording contract and a trust fund.”

“I don’t know,” Blaine says, looking depressed. “If so, I haven’t met any.”

“Well,” I say, “give it time. You don’t want to rush into anything right away. You need to give yourself a chance to heal emotionally.” This sounds like such good advice. I should give serious consideration to taking it myself.

“Yeah,” Blaine says, sucking on his joint, “I hear ya. That’s what I told my sister about Craig. But did she listen? No.”

“Oh? Craig is your sister’s fiance? Is he a rebound?”

“Oh, hell, yeah. I mean, he’s better than the last guy she almost married-least this one’s not part of Houston ‘society’”-he makes quotes around the word with the fingers that aren’t holding the joint-“but talk about boring. I mean, the guy practically makes Bill Gates look like freaking Jam Master Jay, if you get my drift.”

“Right,” I say.

“Still,” Blaine says with a shrug. “He makes her happy. Or as happy as any guy can. Still, Mom’d much rather have her marrying some guy like ol’ Jean-Luc.”

I am disgusted with myself for the way my heart turns over even at the mention of Luke’s name.

“Oh really?” I say in an attempt to appear only casually interested in the topic.

“Shit,” Blaine says, “are you serious? If Mom could get Vicks to hook up with some guy who went to one of those fruity boarding schools, like Luke did, and has a castle in France, she’d frigging cream herself. Instead,” he says with a sigh, “she got stuck with Craig.” He holds out a hand and examines the fingers that say F-U-C-K. “And me.”

“Oh yes,” I say, “I noticed your tattoos at di

“Truthfully,” Blaine says, “I don’t remember if it did or not, I was so wasted. Soon as I get back home, I’m having ’em lasered off. I mean, it was fu

“Wow,” I say. “I’ll be sure to look out for it. What’s the name of your band, anyway?”

He blows a blue plume of marijuana smoke toward the ceiling.

“Satan’s Shadow,” he says reverently.

I cough. And not because of the smoke.

“Well,” I say, “that’s an…unusual name.”

“Vicky thinks it’s dumb,” Blaine says. “But I notice she still wants us to play her gig.”

“Well,” I say, “weddings are a big deal to girls. You should probably go apologize to your sister, don’t you think? I mean, she’s really stressed. I’m sure she didn’t mean to take it out on you.”

“Yeah,” Blaine says, lumbering, with an effort, from his chair, “you’re probably right. Hey, you wouldn’t be interested, would you?”

I blink, confused. “Interested? In what?”

“You know,” Blaine says. “Me. I’d never cheat the government. I’ve got a CPA for that.”

“Oh.” I smile at him, startled but flattered. “Thank you very much for the offer. Ordinarily, of course, I’d jump at the chance. But like I said, I’m just coming out of a relationship and I probably shouldn’t rush into anything new too soon.”

“Yeah,” Blaine says with a sigh, “it’s all about the timing. Well, g’night.”

“Night,” I say. “And, um, good luck. With Satan’s Shadow and all.”

He waves and shuffles from the kitchen. And I hurry out as well, clutching my bucket.

The late 1800s saw the prominence of the “puffed sleeve” on women’s gowns for which A

Amelia Bloomer’s trousers, meanwhile, finally found eager supporters in young female enthusiasts of the newly invented bicycle, and no amount of chastising from their parents, priests, or the press could induce girls to give up their “bloomers,” or their bicycles.

History of Fashion

SENIOR THESIS BY ELIZABETH NICHOLS

18

His talk was like a spring, which runs

With rapid change from rocks to roses

– Winthrop Mackworth Praed (1802-1839), British poet

Igot the rust stains out.

I know. I can barely believe it myself. I’m standing in the kitchen of Chateau Mirac early the next morning, having soaked the gown overnight in my room, then hurried downstairs-seemingly at the crack of dawn, but a glance at my cell phone tells me it’s only eight-to rinse it in the kitchen sink, which is much wider than the one in the bathroom across the hall from my room.

I swear that’s the only reason. It has nothing to do with my fearing Dominique might find me there and demand I hand the dress over to her now that it’s saved.

Really. Nothing to do with that.

Saved, but still not perfect. I have to mend the torn strap and the jaggedy parts along the hem, plus give the thing a supergood ironing when it finally dries.

But I did it. I got the rust stains out.

It’s a French miracle.

I’m gazing at the dress with rapturous self-satisfaction when I hear someone behind me say, “You did it!”

And I nearly have a heart attack, I’m so startled.

“GOD!” I cry, spi

“Sorry,” Luke says, “I didn’t mean to scare you. But…you did it! The stains are gone!”

My heart is hammering a mile a minute-but I have to admit it’s not just because he startled me. It’s also because he looks so gorgeous in the morning light. His freshly shaved face is still glowing a little pinkly from whatever he uses as aftershave (I suspect plain alcohol, since he doesn’t smell like anything in particular, except clean), and the ends of his dark hair are curling damply against the collar of his blue polo shirt. He’s got on those jeans again-the ones he was wearing the first time I met him, the Levi’s that fit his butt so perfectly, not too snug, but not too loose, either. He looks like something dropped from a helicopter-you know, the perfect guy, for a needy girl trapped on a desert island.