The Vinyl Princess Read Online Free PDF Page B

besides, smart doesn’t always mean nice.
    Mom reappears in my doorway in the dress, a simple black sleeveless thing that makes her look like the opposite of who she is. She turns around and shows me the back.
    “How does my butt look?”
    “Good. You might want to consider a thong, though; you have VPL.”
    “VPL?”
    “Visible panty line.”
    She moves to a mirror on top of my bureau and cranes her head around, straining to catch a glimpse of her butt.
    “I can’t wear one of those things. They’re like medieval torture devices. Why am I supposed to look like I don’t wear underpants? Wouldn’t a man assume that I have underwear on under this?”
    I shrug. “I dunno. It’s complicated.”
    “Do you own a thong?”
    “Nope. Kit has one in every color, though.” Kit’s lingerie collection mystifies me. My collection is not a collection and it could easily belong to an eleven-year-old boy.
    My mom spins around and adjusts her breasts in the mirror, fussing with her bra straps. I watch her, thinking, Shouldn’t that be me? Shouldn’t I be the one fussing over what to wear on a date while my mom looks on and gives sage advice?
    “Tell me I’ve at least got this part right. I just spent fifty dollars on a new bra.”
    “You look great. Almost hot.”
    “What are you going to do tonight?” she asks me, still working with the bra.
    “Nothing much. I’m kind of tired.”
    “Do you feel okay? You want me to cancel?”
    “You wish. No, Mom, you have to go. What if he’s great?” I try to look hopeful for her.
    “What if he’s not?”
    “Only one way to find out.”
    My mom sighs and starts to walk out of my room, her shoulders sagging. Her high heels clack against the hardwood as she walks, leaving divots. At my door she stops and turns. “If this one is horrible, that’s it. I’m done.”
    “Good attitude.”
    She grimaces and clacks down the hallway like Dead Man Walking.
    I watch out my bedroom window as my mom takes the porch stairs gingerly in her heels and heads up the street toward the wine bar where her alleged prince awaits. The irony of this role reversal isn’t lost on me: me watching from the window like a worried mother as my mother heads out on a date.
    I take off David Bowie and replace him with the Sex Pistols— Never Mind the Bollocks . I crank the volume and take the stairs two at a time, arriving in the kitchen in time to see a spider scuttling across the countertop. He’s one of the black ones. We have three kinds in the house: the black ones, which are the scariest, the translucent white ones, which can easily be mistaken for small dust bunnies, and then the dangly-legged ones that do push-ups when you try to touch them. I wonder what the different colors do when they run into one another; do spiders have turf wars? Or do they all live a harmonious existence in our house, respectful of one another’s space? God knows we’ve got enough bugs for everyone in this place.
    “I’ll let you live if you promise not to get any bigger,” I tell him. He disappears between the stove and the fridge.
    I pull a frozen mushroom pizza out of the freezer, a small ice cave, badly in need of defrosting. I kick the refrigerator door shut with my foot, balancing on the other one to lean over and turn the oven on. I execute a series of complicated pseudo-ballet moves that I made up, over to the cupboard for a glass, keeping perfect time to Johnny Rotten’s ragged vocals as he belts out “Holidays in the Sun.” My plan is simple: pizza, a little light dinner music while writing a blog update including my plan to take over the world, and a movie—I have my choice of several that I borrowed from Bob & Bob’s but I’m leaning toward On the Waterfront , an enduring classic, and then, if my mom’s not back, a little pacing of the floors, but somehow I get the feeling she’ll be home in time for the end of the movie. She loves Marlon Brando like I do.

Chapter 3
    A t five a.m. on Saturday