“Roxy told me what’s going on over there. You’ll find a way to save the place,” he urges. “I know you will. You’re Monroe.”
“Unfortunately that doesn’t hold the same sway as being Sherbrooke Station.”
“I could talk to our label,” he offers, “see if there’s anyone else interested. We’re still the biggest band they’ve signed, but they have some major up-and-comers on there now. I’m sure you could get someone who would pull the student crowd in.”
“That would be great,” I tell him. “Thank you so much.”
“Glad I could do something.” His voice rises suddenly. “Hey, where do you think you’re taking that fine ass? I’m not done with it.”
“Excuse me?” I splutter.
“Talking to Roxy. She’s trying to leave.”
“And that is my cue to hang up.”
* * *
I own exactlyone piece of clothing that I can remember paying more than fifty dollars for.
Okay, that’s an exaggeration. I consider essentials like boots and coats worth investing in, but the grey and white striped silk blouse from some fancy boutique on Saint-Catherine street was a spur of the moment splurge instigated by Roxanne.
As such, I have worn it a grand total of zero times.
“It’s kind of itchy,” I complain as Roxanne throws my coat at me and tries to shoo me out the door.
“No, it’s not. It’s silk. You’re just feeling weird about wearing it.”
“And these pants are too tight!” I insist.
“They’re high-waisted skinny jeans. They’re supposed to be like that. Fashion is pain.”
I roll my eyes at her. “Wow, you’re so metal.”
“I am. Now are you going on this date already?”
I stare down at my outfit, fussing with the edge of my shirt where it’s tucked into the pants. “Maybe I should change.”
Roxanne comes over and lays a hand on my arm. “You can wear whatever you want, Monroe. The most important thing is that you feel like yourself.”
“I know that,” I concede, “I just want to feel...like the most stylish version of myself.”
I’ve never been on a date where I didn’t half-expect the guy to show up in sweatpants. I planned on heading downtown straight from Taverne Toulouse before I realized meeting Julien in leggings and a turtleneck might not be the most desirable course of action. I then sent him a very stupid and embarrassing text in which I asked what he was wearing, but even after warning him that we wouldn’t be spending the evening in formal attire, I couldn’t shake the sudden onset of insecurity. This prompted a mad dash to my apartment and the frantic emptying of all my drawers before I realized my spring wardrobe consists of almost nothingbutleggings.
I have only one friend who could work a fashion miracle with such limited resources. I suppose DeeDee could manage something too, but she’d probably just throw a tank top and some daisy dukes at me and tell me freezing my ass off is worth it if I look hot.
So I phoned Roxanne.
“I’ve never seen you so flustered before,” Roxy gushes as she pats me on the head. “It’sbencute.”
“You’re not helping me feel better.”
She switches tactics. “Your ass looks amazing in those pants. Where are you meeting this guy?”
“Frango Tango.”
“You’re wearingthisto Frango Tango? You’re going to knock him dead.”
My coat nearly slips out of my hands as horror takes hold of me. “Is it too fancy? I told you not to make me too fancy! I told you I wanted to look casually intriguing. You know, like, ‘maybe I trimmed my bush for this, maybe I didn’t’ kind of intriguing.”
