Chapter 8 Inner Goth
After Alexander gave me a kiss good night outside Aunt Libby`s apartment, he admitted he had prior plans with Jameson and wouldn`t be able to meet the following evening. I was disappointed, but since I hadn`t given Alexander any warning of my arrival in Hipsterville, I tried to be mature. Though I was totally bummed out my boyfriend and I would have a night apart, I hadn`t spent any time with Aunt Libby. We were due some family bonding time.
The following day, as usual, I got up late. Fortunately for me, Aunt Libby was not a morning person, either. By the time I woke up and dragged myself out of the cozy confines of her down comforter, I found my aunt wearing a knee-length kimono robe, drinking herbal tea, and listening to NPR.
It`s after two, I said, noticing her stove clock. I was shocked I`d slept as long as I did but even more surprised that my aunt was still not dressed.
Well, you had a particularly long day yesterday. And I chose to have a lazy day, too.
Aunt Libby poured me a cup of coffee and fixed me a veggie sandwich.
I have the perfect place to take you tonight, she said, placing the plate in front of me.
You don`t have a hot date tonight with Devon? I teased.
Not until tomorrow night. And I told him you were coming with me.
Not on your life!
Sorry, but he`s taking us both to the Summer Arts Festival.
Well, you have twenty-four hours to convince me that that is a good idea, I said between bites. So what are we going to do?
There`s a club here in town that has teen night from nine until eleven.
I rolled my eyes. I imagined a Chuck E. Cheese`s with a disco ball.
It`s called the Coffin Club, my aunt exclaimed.
Excuse me?
It has your name written all over it. I don`t mean the coffin part, of course. But it`s very goth and I think you`d enjoy it.
I`d love to go!
I`m a bit old to be hanging out there, but hey, why not?
That`s why Aunt Libby was so special--she didn`t care what people thought. Ever since I was a little girl, my aunt marched to her own drum, African or not.
So we have a few hours to find something appropriate for me to wear, my aunt stated. I don`t have anything darker than yellow. Whatever my Aunt Libby did, whether it was drumming so hard she got calluses or performing so much she lost her voice, she put forth 110 percent. Hanging out at a nightclub with her sixteen-year-old niece was no exception.
Where are we going? I asked as we hopped into her car. Hot Gothics?
Aunt Libby let out a loud laugh. I have to find something that I can fit into, right?
A few minutes later, we were driving into a gravel parking lot and walking up the stairs of the vacant elementary school, which was now home to the Village Players Theater.
Along with a car key, mailbox key, building key, and door key, my aunt possessed a Village Players Theater key. It took her a minute or two to figure out which key opened the front entrance door, but she eventually found it.
We sauntered down the main hallway, passing Village Players posters of West Side Story, The Sound of Music, and South Pacific, an empty principal`s office, and a cafeteria.
We passed a tween-sized water fountain, which still had a wooden step stool placed before it, and stopped in front of a door marked 3. What was once a classroom for ten-year- olds now had a sign above it that read: COSTUME SHOPPE.
The blackboard and filing cabinets were still in place, but the teacher`s and child-sized desks had been removed, perhaps sold at an auction or sent over to the new elementary school. Dozens of boxes, labeled BROACHES, HATS, SCARVES, sat on the floor in the front of the classroom, while racks of dusty costumes were lined in rows where the students` desks once belonged.
The room was filled with the combined scents of thrift store clothes and textbooks.
Aunt Libby and I stepped over boxes and dug our way through the old clothes with the sole purpose of bringing out my aunt`s inner goth.