Old Prada Slingbacks
Those men came for Dad again, their big black suits filling up the spyhole when they knocked.
"Excuse me ma'am," They called out, booming voices and harsh annunciation, "We have a warrant, you'll have to let us in whether he's home or not."
Marissa knows better than to argue, people might see a van of FBI agents battering down her door and that wouldn't help Dad any; so she opens the door and they come in two-by-two like in Sunday school. She doesn't say anything, not even a 'hello' or 'come in', they know what to do and she's too tired (scared/confused/knowing) to fake pleasentries. They've come for Dad -of course- she always kinda/sorta knew that they'd stop believing her one of these days and just cut out the middleman (woman, no just a girl).
She hears Dad screaming and crashing things in his office, she hears the whir of the paper shredder and how his heels of his Prada Leather Men's Fashion 2003 shoes scratch the laquered floor. It cost 10,000 to do that and now there will be deep grooves and fault lines that Consuela will have to pretend to fix. Maybe there will be a new throw rug next week, tastefully fitting the drapes with deep reds and golds.
Maybe.
Marissa doesn't figure they'll have this house much longer and she thinks that maybe she'll do a reverse-Ryan and end up in trailers that never lose their smell no matter how many times she'll clean them. Maybe the FBI will find nothing and everything will be normal. Maybe they just want to talk to him about all the charities he funds and how they just wanted to congratulate him on a job well done. Maybe Marissa is just fooling herself and she should start choosing what to hide at Seth's house before the bank comes to foreclose.
Maybe everything will be all right.
Maybe.
Dad screams and she sees him escorted out red-faced and crying and scaring her so much. Mom is angry that the FBI ruined the new office floor and she shouts obscenities in their wake. She shakes her fist and the delicate tennis bracelet with white gold accents slips across the morroccon tiles and blind Marissa with their shine.
Mom shuts the door behind Dad and turns to Marissa and her sister, "Pack all the clothes you'll need, we're going to my Mother's." Sister runs up the stairs, already planning her cute Voiten ballet-style skirt and absolutly awesome Kathrine Kline jumper with courdery lining. It will so work with her red shoes from Bloomingdale's.
Mom motions Marissa from her perch on the stairs, shushing Marissa's strangled sob of "Oh god, Dad, is he going to be-"
"We'll be fine." She says, "Afterall we didn't know about your father's..." She rubs her forehead, "mistakes. Don't worry, he's the only one that will be charged."
Don't worry she says as she makes her way up the stairs, we'll be fine.
Marissa want's to scream at her and call her names and tell her what a selfish bitch she is and that gold isn't her color and she's so goddamn self-centered and-
Marissa runs up to her room, two steps at a time with her too-thin- gangly-stick legs and her arms swinging so fast she almost throws herself off balance. She has to pack. She has to empty her closet (and dig through her shoe drawer for the bottle Smirnoff tucked away in some old Prada slingbacks).
She's drunk by the time the suitcase is on the bed, plastered as she opens her dresser and collapses to the floor so she can get a better look at the bottom drawer. All her skirts and leggings are pressed neatly and smelling of Ceder (thank you Conseula, she whispers under her breath, thank you thank you thankyouthankyou). The first thing her shaking fist gets is her Bisou-Bisou nymph skirt with slit knees and curled edges. She knows that she wants it and packs it quickly, making sure the edges stay curled. Next is the DKNY leahter mini skirt with silver star studs and pleated silk inserts; her fingers slip into the silk and she's suddenly afraid of getting sweat all over the threads. She quickly packs it and then turns back to the drawer.
Her Givenchy wools skirt with its matching belt is sidled up to the Moschino plaid silk skirt with sheep skin trimming, both crumpled and dusty from disuse. Should she pack the Diesel jeans skirt that looks so good with the Fendi tee or would the Ambercrombie and Fitch do just as well with the Calvin Kline? Should she pack all the expensive clothes and squirrel away the cheap stuff to some friends for later, or vice versa in the chance that the bank will check?
She wants to tip the entire dresser into her suitecase and spend the rest of the night finishing off the Smirnoff and then the Captian Morgan's and then the Grey Goose and then the Golden Sun tequilla hidden in her world globe, her sock drawer, her tampon case. She want's to collapse onto her bed and wake up and go to school and forget that Dad is sobbing somewhere where big burly FBI men look on and that Mom isn't calling up all her old boyfriends to see who's done better for himself and that her sister isn't two doors down crying into her pillow telling her Sak's Breast Cancer Awareness Day teddy bear that she hopes Daddy's ok and isn't being raped by big black men like she saw on TV that one night three weeks ago when no one was looking.
Marissa's hands are tangled in Tommy Hilfinger and Ralph Lauren, she finds herself sobbing into the silken pleats and artificial crumples of her Moschino; big fat salt tears stain and drip and dry and leave black black marks into her clothes, ruining the texture, ruining the look, ruining everything normal and fine and...
Her hands shake and she begins to push all the clothes, not caring about the folds or the creases or the style or the colors, pushes them all into her bag until it bulges and she keeps pushing: Manalo Blaniks and Marc Jacobs and other spindly and sharp stilletoes and slingbacks and clogs mixing with delicate blouses and razor thin bikinis. Something tears but she continues to pack, pushing and shoving and bending and moving.
Moving. She doens't want to move, she doesn't want to leave doesn't want to go anywhere.
Dad's red face reflects back at her on her shiny Prada shoes and she finds herself unable to meet his gaze.