“It’s honeysuckle,” I told her, smiling wistfully at the flowers that Logan’s mother had allowed to grow freely around her garden gate. “It can grow anywhere.”
“Sure can,” Britta replied, shaking her head. “Times like this, I wish I had a workin’ camera.”
“Hey, over here,” I called out, pushing through a nearby door. Joining me, Britta pulled an industrial-sized flashlight from her belt, bouncing the beam of light around the dark auditorium. The large room was fitted with sloped theater seats, each aisle slanting downward toward the band pit below. Above the pit sat a grand stage, its red velvet curtains hanging in tatters.
“You’re thinkin’ we should check backstage?” Britta’s voice echoed eerily throughout the empty room.
Suddenly conscious of how our voices carried, I glanced nervously around the dark. “Yeah, but keep checking the floor—watch out for crawlers.”
“Sugar, who ya think you’re talkin’ to?” Flashing her teeth, Britta sliced her machete through the air. “Ain’t no Dead Head got the drop on me yet.”
Gripping my bat with both hands, I followed Britta down the aisle, eyes peeled for the slightest movement.
“You ever play any instruments?” Britta asked.
“No,” I laughed softly. “I was usually sitting in detention… you?”
“Girl, same. I was a wild child—hardly ever showed up to class. And when I did, I was always gettin’ sent to Mr. O’Shea’s office. That man would be yellin’ at me, tappin’ that dang tap shoe and tellin’ me I’d never amount to nothin’.”
Chuckling, Britta climbed up onto the stage. Holding her arms wide, she spun in circles. “Look at me now, Mr. O’Shea, I’m a goddang star!”
Laughing, I pulled her across the stage and through the tattered mess of curtains. The backstage area was twice as dark and twice as eerie, with stage props and backdrops looming from every direction, their towering forms casting creepy shadows across the tomb-like room.
“Shine the light over here,” I whispered. The beam bounced around me, landing on a row of garment racks, each rack fitted with a clear vinyl covering.
“Well, shit,” Britta breathed. “Gotta hand it to you, Will—I woulda never thought to check a dang school for clothes.”
Britta propped the flashlight on the floor, shining its light on the clothing racks and we set to work. While I was busy searching for zippers, Britta was slicing through vinyl coverings with her machete.
“Looky here.” Britta held out the long billowing skirts of an opulent white wedding dress. “Now, I don’t know what Maria’s plannin’ on wearin’, but a woman needs options. Aw, hell, is that a dead mouse in there? Well, we don’t need to be tellin’ her about that part.”
Laughing, I plucked a plum-colored blouse with a pussy-bow collar from the rack, hung alongside a pair of wide-leg black slacks, the bottoms of which had been chewed through with holes. The tag on the hanger read, DONNA—MAMMA MIA!
“I like this,” I murmured. It wasn’t something I would have ever picked out for myself previously. It was simpler, and far more understated than the bold, attention-getting clothing I’d once worn. Fingering the soft fabrics, I wondered what Logan’s reaction might be to seeing me wearing something so out of character. Would he laugh?
“I woulda knocked ‘em dead in the twenties,” Britta said, touching the sequin headpiece she was wearing.
“You’re going to knock ‘em dead now,” I told her, nodding earnestly. Though Britta claimed to be in her early forties, she didn’t look a day over thirty. Her long blonde hair shone; her sun-kissed skin glowed gold, and she was confident in a way that defied age.
Eventually we amassed two piles of clothing—items we wanted to keep for ourselves and those we’d be gifting to Silver Lake. Among the piles were pinstriped suit coats with matching pants, frilly blouses, and flapper dresses that, with a bit of sewing, could be easily turned into something more modern. Britta had even found herself a little black number, beaded and fringed from bust to hem.
“You find any anything weddin’ worthy yet?”
“Not yet…” I trailed off as I pulled another garment bag free from the rack; unzipping the bag, a length of emerald green satin spilled into my hands. Holding the dress up to my chest, I swished the mid-calf-length skirt back and forth around my legs. Two skinny spaghetti straps held up the fitted bodice, which dipped low. At the waist, three small white pearls trailed down the center. The tag read, PARTY EXTRA—THE SOUND OF MUSIC.
“Maybe this one?” I asked, stepping around the rack.
Hands on her hips, Britta let out a low wolf whistle. “Sugar, that is definitely your dress. I don’t know about EJ, but you’ll have every other red-blooded man pantin’ after you.”
I turned away, still holding the dress against my body, a small smile tugging at my lips. Britta was right—this was definitely my dress.
