The multipierced fuchsia-haired clerk in black shorts over black leggings, three-inch-heeled Mary Janes, and a gray mechanics shirt that said "Bob" walked over to me. She had the kind of style that in Dullsville could be seen only on satellite TV. And instead of my usual retail experience of either being ignored or seen as a potential thief, she greeted me as if I were a movie star at a Beverly Hills boutique.
"Can I help you? We have tons of stuff on sale." I eagerly followed her around the store until I was exhausted from rack after rack of gothic clothing.
"Feel free to ask, if you need anything else," she said.
I had my arms stuffed with fishnet stockings, knee-high black boots, and an Olivia Outcast purse.
Libby modeled a black T-shirt that read "Vampires Suck."
I felt a pang in my heart and a lump in my throat.
"I'll buy it for you," she insisted, taking it to the cash register.
Normally I would have screamed with delight at a shirt like that. But now it only reminded me that Alexander was gone.
"You don't have to."
"Of course I do. I'm your aunt. We'll take this," she said, handing the clerk the shirt and her credit card.
I held my gothic goodies. Everything reminded me of Alexander.
"I'll just put these back," I said. But then I thought about how sexy I'd look in boots and black fishnets, if I found him again.
"We'll get these, too," my aunt said, seeing through me, and handed the clerk my merchandise.
Aunt Libby lived on a tiny tree-lined urban street with skinny row-house apartments from the 1940s--a sharp contrast to my contemporary suburban house and neighborhood in Dullsville. Her one-bedroom apartment was small but cozy, with a bohemian feel-- flowered rugs, pillows, wicker chairs, and lavender potpourri filled the living room. Italian masks decorated the walls and Chinese lanterns hung from the ceiling.
"You can crash here," Aunt Libby said, pointing to a paisley futon couch in the living room.
"Thanks!" I said, excited about my new digs. "I appreciate you letting me visit you."
"I'm so happy you came!" she replied.
I placed my suitcase by the futon and glanced at a Pink Floyd clock hanging above the antique "just for show" fireplace, which she had filled with unlit candles. I had only a few hours until sunset.
Libby poured me carrot juice as I unpacked. "You must be hungry," she called from her tiny art deco kitchen. "You want an avocado wrap?"
"Sure," I said, plopping down at her vintage weathered-yellow dinner table with a beaded napkin holder and a wobbly leg. "I bet you have a hot date tonight," I hinted, as she topped my sandwich with sprouts. "But that's okay. I can take care of myself."
"Didn't your father tell you? I guess he wanted it to be a surprise."
"Tell me what?" I asked, envisioning Libby handing me VIP passes to the Coffin Club.
"I have a show tonight."
A show? I didn't travel all the way to Hipsterville to spend three hours sitting in a garage.
"It's downtown," she said proudly. "We're having a private performance tonight for the town's senior citizens, so I'm sorry to say you'll be the only one there without gray hair. But I know you'll love it." She grabbed an envelope hanging on her fridge by a rainbow magnet. She opened the envelope, pulled out a ticket, and presented it to me.
Dracula
The Village Players performed in a former elementary school. The actresses' dressing room was a classroom that still smelled of erasers, and the large windows were covered with heavy shades. Mirrors replaced the chalkboard, and a long vanity lined with makeup cases, flowers, and congratulations cards sat in place of a teacher's desk.
As Aunt Libby applied her makeup and squirmed into her white Victorian dress, I spun a forgotten globe in the corner, letting a black- painted fingernail come to a rest on Romania.
Of course, under any other circumstances I would have loved to see a performance of Dracula. I would have gone every night, especially to see my aunt as an admittedly old, but I'm sure convincing, Lucy. I would have ordered front-row seats. But why would I want to see a fake Dracula when I could see the real thing sipping a Bloody Mary down the street at the Coffin Club?
The stage manager called from the hallway, "Five minutes."
I hugged Libby and told her to break a leg. I hoped she wouldn't notice my empty seat during the performance, but I couldn't worry about that as I hurried up the aisle to the back of the theater.
I pulled aside an elderly usher who looked like he might be one of the undead. "Which way to the Coffin Club?" Some people spend all their lives searching for their soul mates. I had only an hour and a half to find mine.