Holding Out for a Hero Read online

  It used to be, I’d wake and start sobbing for no reason at least three times a week. I couldn’t stop. Nothing happened to upset me – everything was fine. There wasn’t any explanation or trigger, but it happened on and off for years. Years.

  Finally, fed up and exhausted, I sought help.

  The space was small, cramped and dusty, but Dr Papadopoulos was kind. He was also short, hairy and Greek.

  ‘You can call me Dr P., if you like,’ he offered with a small smile at that first meeting. ‘So how can I help you, Libby?’

  ‘If I’m honest, I was hoping for some knock-out pills? Major issues with sleep,’ I said, thinking this would be an easy thing. Write me a prescription, and I’ll be on my way. The family doc at the walk-in healthcare clinic had prescribed some, but they weren’t doing the trick: I’d wake again in a few hours, still crying and now groggy and disoriented too. I needed the hard stuff, the kind that could Quiet Riot, because I didn’t want to feel the noise.

  Wasn’t going to happen. Dr Papadopoulos was a psychologist, not a psychiatrist. Apparently there’s a difference, and only one can write a prescription.

  ‘I guess I’ve made a mistake,’ I said, and stood, ready to go.

  ‘There’s never a mistake in asking for help.’ He shrugged, then scratched under his jaw. For a professional, he was a bit dishevelled and schlumpy. His rounded shoulders were covered by an old fuzzy cardigan with missing buttons. Its bright asymmetrical pattern was garish and distracting. ‘Why do you think you struggle with sleep?’

  Sitting back down, I glanced up. ‘Oh, ah . . . mostly the sobbing gets in the way, probably just stress. So a good shut-eye pill will fix that little issue, I’m sure.’

  He smiled. ‘It doesn’t exactly work that way.’

  ‘So how does it work?’

  ‘We talk.’ He shrugged. ‘We figure out why you’re not sleeping. Why you wake in tears. What you’re holding onto.’

  ‘And then?’

  ‘We work it through until you’re ready to let it go.’

  ‘Pretty sure some good sleepy-time meds would do the trick.’ I smiled again, intentionally trying to keep things light.

  Dr P.’s eyes narrowed, seeing through my bullshit, but he didn’t call me on it. Not then.

  I’m not sure why I went back to see him today.

  Reaching for a tissue, I dab my eyes, then blow my nose. ‘So stupid,’ I mutter, angry at myself. I say this over and over, because I don’t know what else to do. I’m under water again. This is what happens. The darkness creeps up, wraps itself round my ankles and pulls me under, an inch at a time.

  My chest hurts, my throat’s tight and I can’t breathe even though I gasp with every sob. Everything floods me. The ‘so stupid’ becomes ‘I’m stupid,’ and it’s repeated again and again.

  Ugh, I hate this. I cry harder as the small things build to the larger, and like an anchor, they weigh me down. That’s how depression works. It drowns its victims slowly, immobilizing them until they stop fighting and give in.

  My eyes once again fall to the notebook, the one sentence that’s incomplete. Who am I? This is when the voice I can never silence pipes up: I didn’t go to college, I’ve never owned a house, never married, and have no children. Things I don’t even want, but things most people have accomplished by now. All I have is Pretty in Pink, my store, and it’s enough – but now I may lose that. I crumble the legal notice and toss it across the room. I don’t want anything to change. It’s so ill-timed, so unfair . . .

  So stupid.

  CHAPTER 2

  ‘Pretty in Pink’

  Psychedelic Furs, 1981

  More like pretty panicked

  The weather mirrors my mottled mood. It’s been raining all night, creating a typical Manhattan mix of cool, dank air and drizzle that seeps into the joints and makes my knee flare. It also makes walking the six blocks from my apartment miserable, so I’ve opted for a cab.

  ‘Right there,’ I say to the driver, pointing to my corner shop through the fogged windshield. The Pretty in Pink sign illuminates in bright neon, just like the original shop in the movie. It’s not the most beautiful of storefronts, at least not in the conventional sense. The outside brick could use some touching up, the awning needs repair and the building itself shows its age. But Pretty in Pink is just like me: it’s a little dated, somewhat offbeat, and stubbornly stands alone.

  ‘Thanks.’ I jump out and slosh across the one-way street, unable to avoid the puddles. By the time I’m under the weathered canopy, my feet are soaked. The door’s unlocked and the alarm doesn’t beep, so I know Jasper, my manager, is already here setting up for the day. From habit and for safety, I twist the deadbolt behind me before dragging my feet across the doormat to rid them of excess water. Making my way to the back office, I flip the alternative rock station back to the preset Eighties.

  ‘You’re here early,’ Jas says from the small kitchenette where he’s fixing a coffee. Jasper’s look is more Nineties surfer grunge than pop-star Eighties, and he resembles Keith Urban a bit. Although with the rolled-sleeve flannel, concert T-shirt and shaggy blonde hair jutting out from under a grey slouchy hat, he has a Kurt Cobain vibe. At first glance, you’d think he was in his late teens instead of twenty-nine.

  ‘Yeah, just wanted to clean up some.’ I swipe the duster from the cleaning pail and eye his cap more carefully. ‘You can’t wear the merchandise, Jas.’

  ‘I bought it.’ He motions towards the front register. ‘But what I don’t buy is you here, cleaning, on a Sunday morning. What gives?’ He takes a sip, turns and leans against the counter.

  ‘Nothing gives,’ I mumble as I move towards the front.

  ‘A good bonk usually helps,’ he calls out.

  When I turn with an exasperated eye-roll, he smiles crookedly with his upper lip pulled high on one side. It’s more a cute snarl than a Rebel Yell.

  Five years ago, when I first hired him, I thought he was a struggling musician in between gigs, figured he needed to pay some bills. Hoped it wasn’t debt due to other issues, like gambling or addiction. With the earrings, tats and unkempt hair, I had to wonder. Plus, why would a grown man want a crap job at a vintage store? I even worried he’d just been sprung from the clink.

  ‘I’ll expect you to show up on time, every time, no exceptions,’ I’d said when I gave him the position.

  ‘Of course. Not a problem.’

  ‘And the drawer has to balance, every day before you leave. We’ve had some trouble in the past and I have a no-mistake rule now.’ I was trying to be so tough and formidable, not sure if he was the best choice to run the store unsupervised during the day. Teens were a pain in the ass, but a grown man who looked like one could be a pain in the pocketbook.

  But Jasper showed every day, and worked hard. He did what needed to be done without being told and had great promotional ideas to move hard-to-sell items. In fact, I gave him a raise within the first month and promoted him to manager not long after. Over time, we’ve become great friends. Friends. Of course, both he and Dora think it should be more. In our little Pretty in Pink ensemble, Jas is my Duckman.

  ‘How’s the website coming?’ I yell over my shoulder and the music. He’s also my IT guy, in charge of our online presence. I don’t really understand all of it, but I get the need to be current even if the majority of our products aren’t.

  ‘I have about half the inventory loaded.’ Jasper ambles to the front door and flips the sign to Open, then moves to the register so we can start the day. ‘I’ll jump back in this afternoon when Robbie shows up.’ He shuts the cash drawer, and again regards me. ‘So, really – you good?’

  I haven’t told Jas the situation we’re in with the store. I haven’t said a word to anyone. I can’t seem to bring myself to do it. This is where the hero needs to come in.

  ‘Libbs? I asked if you were OK, you’ve been—’

  Before I can answer, the front door rattles with a knock-knock-knock. Since I relocked, Jas didn�
�t know to unlock. I turn, still wrapped in my hopeful fantasy, but instead of the streetwise Hercules fresh from the fight, it’s level-headed Dean with a bag of fresh bagels. What’s he doing here? And I hope he remembered schmear.

  The door’s base is jammed. It always sticks in the frame when the temperature shifts, so I throttle it open with a small kick. The Open sign smacks the glass from the force. ‘This is a surprise.’

  Dean shrugs, offers me the bag and starts browsing about. ‘Yeah, well, I was in the neighbourhood.’

  ‘You’re never in the neighbourhood,’ I say, already suspicious, glancing between him and Jas, but then temporarily distracted by the baked goods. Oh, yes, cinnamon raisin and schmear.

  ‘Gonna do a trash run,’ Jas says with a half-smile before disappearing.

  The trash was taken out last night. I slather up a half-slice, take a bite and focus again on Dean. Something’s definitely up. Again.

  He leans over the display case, pressing palms against the glass. ‘Oh, no way.’

  ‘That’s worth about a hundred dollars,’ I say with a fast swallow, motioning to the Mr T. action figure still in its original packaging.

  ‘I pity the fool who pays that,’ he says with a small smile, then turns his attention to the items on top. ‘I cannot believe you sell water ring toss.’

  ‘I tried to get Duncan to play, but he was bored in less than thirty seconds.’ Duncan is Dora’s son from her short first marriage. He’s just turned five and stays with her ex mostly, since he’s remarried and settled. Maybe that will change when Dean and Dora are hitched? I hope so. I’m not done reprogramming him. He thinks Wham is a cleaning product.

  Dean turns to flip through the poster carousel, obviously stalling. ‘Yeah, well, if it doesn’t have wifi, forget it. Lost cause, I’m afraid.’

  I’m the one lost. ‘So what’s up, what are ya doing here?’

  Dean freezes, as if deciding how to start, or if he should, or maybe if he should run.

  ‘Spill it.’ Wiping my mouth, I take a step forward and peer at him anxiously.

  ‘OK.’ He takes a step back, hands raised in surrender. ‘Just don’t shoot the messenger. Dora’s arranged a full-on salon day and the first date is scheduled for tonight. Just wanted to warn you her and Finn were scheming.’

  ‘Tonight?’ My head drops to my hands. ‘Nooooo . . .’ It comes out as an exasperated whine.

  Dean’s brows are held high, his eyes filled with mirth. ‘Oh yes, I’m afraid so. Expect them to pop over soon and ambush you.’

  ‘I said I was thinking about a new look. That doesn’t mean I really wanted one.’ I can’t believe Dora and Finn are really doing this. OK, yes, I can – but still. ‘Does she know you’re here?’

  ‘Oh, heck no.’ He shakes his head, then laughs. ‘She thinks I’m in the bathroom.’

  That’s so like Dean. Under his laid-back guise of ease, there’s a lot going on in there. He’s the calm to Dora’s storm, and the soothing yin to her ding-a-ling yang. ‘Y’know . . . it’s not like I’m walking around in neon-blue eyeshadow, netted gloves and leopard pants.’ At least not today.

  ‘Yeah, well . . .’ He laughs and reaches in his pocket to grab the ringing phone. Glancing at the screen, his expression falls. ‘Uh-oh, busted,’ he says, motioning to the phone while walking to the door. ‘Hello, lovely . . . no, no, I’m sure I said bye.’ He nods, pops the semi-stuck door and steps outside into the drizzle. With a smile and wave, he’s gone.

  So is the air from my lungs. Some hero. All he brought was more bad news. At least he left the bagels.

  I swipe another, then the duster, and begin frantically swooshing bins and clothing racks. Angry puffs rise into the air. This whole makeover blind-date thing is stupid. I’m not stuck in the Eighties, I’m stuck on Ollie. He’s some kind of wonderful, which is some kind of crap because that’s some kind of over.

  My friends want me to date the Breakfast Club types? We are the Breakfast Club. We’ve always been. And funnily enough, I first saw the movie with Ollie when I was maybe twelve.

  I remember this like it was yesterday.

  I’d stayed for dinner, like I often did, and Ollie and his dad were arguing, as they often did. Oliver seemed charged up by the debate, spurred on by his father’s aggravation.

  After dinner I was invited to stay the night, so I heard most of their exchange from Dora’s room. It was a shrine to all things rad and awesome. The walls were a bright yellow and papered with torn photos from Teen and Tiger Beat.

  Dora had all the best Eighties retro, including designer jeans: Jordache, Gloria Vanderbilt, even a pair of teen-worship-worthy Guess. That was our thing: it set us apart from the Nineties drones, and enabled us to embrace our first year of junior high with major fashion confidence. ‘I’m gonna grab a soda, you want one?’ I asked Dora, halfway to the door.

  ‘Naw, I’m good.’ She was busy arranging puffy stickers on her closet door to frame a Luke Perry pinup, completely in her zone. He was shirtless, so it was completely understandable.

  The only light in the kitchen came from the clock on the stove. I hadn’t realized it was so late. I opened the fridge, swiped a can, then heard laughter. Ollie? He had the best laugh. It comforted, like grilled cheese cut diagonally and warm tomato soup.

  The TV flickered from the family room, making weird shadows in the hall, so I peeked in. His long dark hair screamed rebel, and dressed in sweats and lazily sprawled over the sofa, he looked like a rock star. When he regarded me with a sideways glance, I about dropped the drink. ‘Um, want one?’

  ‘Ah . . .’ His blue eyes narrowed, but then he shrugged. ‘Yeah, sure.’

  I gave him mine, like the kid from the famous Super Bowl commercial. Only it wasn’t a Coke, and Ollie wasn’t the footballer Mean Joe Green. I didn’t leave, either. Instead I stood, mesmerized by the screen.

  ‘You ever see The Breakfast Club?’ He popped the tab, creating fizz and drawing my attention.

  ‘Of course.’ I’d only seen the trailer and caught bits and pieces.

  ‘You can watch, I don’t care.’ Ollie sat up, offering some of the sectional couch to me. ‘This movie completely shows the truth. See that guy?’ He pointed to the principal. His suit looked more Seventies than Eighties, with the exaggerated point of the collar. ‘Major dickweed. Represents every adult who thinks they have the right to control you and everybody else.’

  ‘Like your dad?’ The words were out before I thought them through.

  Ollie turned to me, surprised. ‘Yeah, exactly.’ He flipped the hair from his eyes just so it could settle back in the same place, and smiled slightly before turning again to the screen.

  My stomach fluttered. He smiled. Kind of. In silence we watched Judd Nelson and Molly Ringwald spar, Emilio Estevez confess and Anthony Michael Hall stick a pen up his nose while asking the most profound question imaginable. Who am I?

  I cut a glance to Oliver, only to catch him looking back. I panicked. ‘So, who are you? Bender?’ I wrung my hands, needing the movement. ‘You’re definitely not the jock.’ Ollie didn’t play sports, at least not any more. His father rode him hard about quitting football, saying he had so much potential.

  Ollie shifted so he faced me, his upper lip curled back somewhat over his teeth. I should’ve kept my trap shut. I just knew he was going to tell me to get lost. This was cringeworthy.

  ‘Why, you like the jock?’ Ollie smiled. It was naughty and mischievous, and made my cheeks flush warm.

  My forehead bunched. ‘As if.’ I didn’t know what else to say.

  ‘Exactly.’ Maybe he didn’t either.

  Again we sat in silence until I couldn’t stand it.

  ‘So who do you think Dora is?’ What I really wanted to know was who he thought I was, but I chickened out. I wasn’t sure what to do with my face, so I stared straight ahead, holding my breath and waiting for his answer.

  ‘Ah . . . the spoiled princess. Yeah, Dora’s just like Claire, pampered and bratty.’


  I whipped my head in his direction. ‘But I have the red hair, not Dora.’ It came out whiney, but if Ollie was Bender and Bender liked Claire, I wanted to be Claire. Even Molly Ringwald, who initially was offered the part of Allison, wanted to be her.

  His eyes slid over me, top to bottom, analysing the careful ensemble Dora and I were experimenting with for next week: paint-splattered T-shirt, jeans with button-fastened suspenders, and a slathering of feathered jewellery which I didn’t really like. ‘The earrings were Dora’s idea. They don’t really go, but—’

  ‘She convinced you otherwise. Why do you listen to her? She’s a total poser.’

  My face crumpled. ‘You think we’re posers?’

  ‘She is.’ Maybe I still looked crushed, and that’s why he continued, ‘Look, all I’m saying is the Eighties thing doesn’t work on her, but on you . . .’ He shrugged. ‘You kinda pull it off. So don’t let her change you, OK?’

  My heart thrummed inside my chest. He thinks my Eighties style’s cool? He doesn’t want me to change? I couldn’t help but smile, and it was a big, oversized, dopey one. ‘OK.’

  ‘Although I still think you’re more like—’

  The smile dropped. ‘Don’t even say the Basket Case. She’s crazy and has severe dandruff.’

  His gaze glided over my wild waves of hair, as if to consider. ‘Well, you don’t have dandruff, but—’

  ‘Shut up.’ I tossed a pillow his way, and he quickly sent it back. Suddenly I was aware of how close we sat, the exact deep blue of his eyes, and even the small scratch on his jaw. I sat quietly, dazed, my thoughts a jumbled mess. He liked my retro look. Ollie, cool ‘everyone has a crush on Ollie’, liked my look. He’d finally noticed me . . . Now what? Confused butterflies fluttered inside.

  Whatever I was feeling, I liked it. It also freaked me out. We were technically two and a half years apart in age, but because of our birthdays, only two years apart in school. So yeah, he was a ninth grader and he liked me. Well – my style. If I had to pinpoint the exact moment the Eighties became my signature thing, that was it. X marks the spot.