Read Online Miss Scarlet's School of Patternless Sewing by KATHY CANO-MURILLO - Free Book Online
Authors: KATHY CANO-MURILLO
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or help a customer.
One day when she walked in, she noticed he had a ripped shirt pocket. To an addicted seamstress like her, it was like the last drink of beer to an alcoholic. She couldn’t let it be, and she offered—no,
demanded
—to stitch it up for him. His face turned paler than bleached cotton. She took it as a hint to back off. Butjust when she thought he’d had enough of her, he invited her to choose the tunes to play in the store. She played cuts from her LP collection and told him all about her favorites. He assured her that if she ever wanted to sell any of them, she knew where to go.
She hoped his offer still stood. It wouldn’t be enough to make a dent in her tuition, but Scarlet believed the action would at least kick-start her plan.
4
I t’s Black Friday,” Nadine, lead cashier for Vega’s Vicious Vinyl, said to her boss. “Marco, get with it. The store is finally kinda sorta crawling with customers and you’re pining over that
Gone With the Wind
chick again.”
Marco, emotionless, drew a large graphic sign on the chalkboard to promote the holiday sales. “She’s named after Miss Scarlet from the game Clue. Not Scarlet from
Gone With the Wind
.”
Nadine snorted. “Ha! Classic. Who in the hell would name their kid after a board-game character?”
“Her brother and sister did it,” Marco said. “By the time her mom had Scarlet, she ran out of ideas and let the older kids name her. Clue was their favorite game. Plus, all that red hair. Focus on the customers.”
Marco continued to assist Nadine with their version of the holiday rush (ten people), but at the same time, he glanced at the framed dollar hanging on the wall and blushed a little. His first sale. Smack dab in the center of the bill was a big red lipstick smooch from Scarlet, and
x
’s and
o
’s she drew with a teal Sharpie from her keychain.
She’d become a semi-regular. From her hairdo to her makeupand retro dresses, she could pass for a ’50s movie star, but was not to be confused with the crop of baby-bang rockabilly chicks who frequented his shop. She reminded him of the girl in a formal gown who would dive into the pool at a stuffy party. Scarlet’s style was as unique as her range of music. He never knew what to expect. One day it was a Weather Report jazz album, the next Laura Nyro’s Greatest Hits. In his prison of mundane secondhand retail, Scarlet Santana was a blinking neon sign of living the good life.
“Hey, lover boy. Check who just crossed the threshold,” Nadine grunted, jabbing Marco in the back with her elbow. “Why does she always look like she just escaped from an
Archie
comic? Saddle shoes? Really?”
Marco gulped and saw Scarlet headed his way. “Whatever. It’ll never happen. If she’s an
Archie
comic, I’m a boring page from the phone book. We have nothing in common,” he said.
Nadine spun him around, gripped his shirt pocket with her black-polished fingertips, and ripped until the sound of snapping stitches filled Marco’s ears. “What the hell? Why did you do that again?” he asked.
“Now you have something in common.”
Carrying a stack of albums in her arms, Scarlet approached the counter. “Hi, Marco. Merry Christmas!” She beamed, blinking through a feathery set of black lashes and checking out the eclectic mix of customers. “Wow, you kiddos are busy today. It’s like pennies from heaven in here!”
Nadine slammed the drawer to her register. “On that note, I’m going to light a new stick of incense for Michael. Whistle, scream, or set off the fire alarm if you need me.”
Marco ignored Nadine. “What can I do you for?” he asked Scarlet, motioning for her to step to the end of the counter with him. She followed, sliding the albums down the way.
“You know how I told you about my records? Well, I want tounload some of them. For starters, I will bestow upon you my entire David Bowie picture disc collection! Each one is worth more than a gold nugget,
One day when she walked in, she noticed he had a ripped shirt pocket. To an addicted seamstress like her, it was like the last drink of beer to an alcoholic. She couldn’t let it be, and she offered—no,
demanded
—to stitch it up for him. His face turned paler than bleached cotton. She took it as a hint to back off. Butjust when she thought he’d had enough of her, he invited her to choose the tunes to play in the store. She played cuts from her LP collection and told him all about her favorites. He assured her that if she ever wanted to sell any of them, she knew where to go.
She hoped his offer still stood. It wouldn’t be enough to make a dent in her tuition, but Scarlet believed the action would at least kick-start her plan.
4
I t’s Black Friday,” Nadine, lead cashier for Vega’s Vicious Vinyl, said to her boss. “Marco, get with it. The store is finally kinda sorta crawling with customers and you’re pining over that
Gone With the Wind
chick again.”
Marco, emotionless, drew a large graphic sign on the chalkboard to promote the holiday sales. “She’s named after Miss Scarlet from the game Clue. Not Scarlet from
Gone With the Wind
.”
Nadine snorted. “Ha! Classic. Who in the hell would name their kid after a board-game character?”
“Her brother and sister did it,” Marco said. “By the time her mom had Scarlet, she ran out of ideas and let the older kids name her. Clue was their favorite game. Plus, all that red hair. Focus on the customers.”
Marco continued to assist Nadine with their version of the holiday rush (ten people), but at the same time, he glanced at the framed dollar hanging on the wall and blushed a little. His first sale. Smack dab in the center of the bill was a big red lipstick smooch from Scarlet, and
x
’s and
o
’s she drew with a teal Sharpie from her keychain.
She’d become a semi-regular. From her hairdo to her makeupand retro dresses, she could pass for a ’50s movie star, but was not to be confused with the crop of baby-bang rockabilly chicks who frequented his shop. She reminded him of the girl in a formal gown who would dive into the pool at a stuffy party. Scarlet’s style was as unique as her range of music. He never knew what to expect. One day it was a Weather Report jazz album, the next Laura Nyro’s Greatest Hits. In his prison of mundane secondhand retail, Scarlet Santana was a blinking neon sign of living the good life.
“Hey, lover boy. Check who just crossed the threshold,” Nadine grunted, jabbing Marco in the back with her elbow. “Why does she always look like she just escaped from an
Archie
comic? Saddle shoes? Really?”
Marco gulped and saw Scarlet headed his way. “Whatever. It’ll never happen. If she’s an
Archie
comic, I’m a boring page from the phone book. We have nothing in common,” he said.
Nadine spun him around, gripped his shirt pocket with her black-polished fingertips, and ripped until the sound of snapping stitches filled Marco’s ears. “What the hell? Why did you do that again?” he asked.
“Now you have something in common.”
Carrying a stack of albums in her arms, Scarlet approached the counter. “Hi, Marco. Merry Christmas!” She beamed, blinking through a feathery set of black lashes and checking out the eclectic mix of customers. “Wow, you kiddos are busy today. It’s like pennies from heaven in here!”
Nadine slammed the drawer to her register. “On that note, I’m going to light a new stick of incense for Michael. Whistle, scream, or set off the fire alarm if you need me.”
Marco ignored Nadine. “What can I do you for?” he asked Scarlet, motioning for her to step to the end of the counter with him. She followed, sliding the albums down the way.
“You know how I told you about my records? Well, I want tounload some of them. For starters, I will bestow upon you my entire David Bowie picture disc collection! Each one is worth more than a gold nugget,
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