Page 20 of Brenna, Brat

I studied my empty glass. “Sure.”

He fought his way out of his chair to get that for me, and I took things slower and sipped delicately rather than guzzling. “Thank you,” I said again. “My drink is pretty good, which surprises me. This bar is dirty.”

“It wouldn’t be my pick, normally,” he conceded. “I just wanted to break up what I thought was going to turn into a brawl. I’m a pacifist.”

“Are you? I saw you fight,” I said. I was taking things slower, but the vodka had loosened my tongue a little. “I saw a video of you pounding on a guy at center ice.”

“That’s still online? Things there never die,” he said. “He was dirty and he went after our best player. But I didn’t make a habit of that and I’ve never hit someone outside of hockey.” He made a fist and looked at it, before turning to study me. “Why were you watching old videos of my games?”

“I wasn’t,” I said quickly. “Well, I was, but by mistake.” I searched for what that mistake might have been and was hit with a bolt of inspiration. “I was looking for your address to add to our preferred customer mailing list,” I stated.

“I thought I’d opted out of that list,” he said. “Aren’t there laws in this state against consumer harassment?” When I only stared, he laughed. “So you were looking me up. Why didn’t you text me back?”

“I’ve been busy.”

“With what?”

“Well…the gum sculptures melted,” I commented, and then he wanted all the details and to look at the pictures I’d taken of the mess.

“This is horrific,” he said, scrolling. “How are you going to clean it?”

“I’m trying to stay away from that and let my boss handle it.”

Campbell looked at me. “I thought you did everything around there, but I still don’t understand why. If you hate your boss and your coworker is an idiot, why not quit?”

Here came the vodka-tongue. “It’s because of Alecta’s mom,” I said. “Her mom is Chic.”

“That means stylish, right? So what if she is?”

“No, I meant that Alecta’s mom is Chic with a capital C, like I’m the Brat with a capital B.” He still didn’t understand. “In the eighties, her mom was an important local fashion designer, Chic Cathay. She made custom clothes for all the Detroit celebrities and sports stars, and she was fairly famous herself around the Midwest.” There were so many pictures and clips online of her dressed to the nines, glamorous and glowing.

“I never heard of her,” he stated.

“Have you spent a lot of time studying fashion icons from before you were born?” I asked, and didn’t wait for him to say no. “She had her atelier in the rooms upstairs from the gallery until she quit the business pretty abruptly. I think her sales had been falling off for years,” I explained. “Taste and styles changed, and she had a very definite aesthetic. But she did really well for awhile, so she probably doesn’t even have to work now. And she owns real estate, too. She owns the building that houses the gallery.”

“What does that woman’s life have to do with you?”

“That’s what I want to do,” I answered. “I want to be a designer. I went to fashion school in New York but I hated it there. I felt so lonely and far away from everyone. I came back home and I’m trying to get my career going and I thought a connection with Chic would help. I want her advice and her contacts. Yes, she was popular a long time ago, but she must still know people. And I’m a fan,” I admitted. “I wanted to meet her and I thought maybe we’d become friends or something, Brenna and Chic.”

“Chic,” he repeated. “That can’t be real.”

“She’s actually Shyril Stanke,” I said, nodding. “But doesn’t it sound cool that she was known by a single name? She only needed that the one word, and I would love that.” I considered. “It would depend on the word. I don’t like it when they call me Brat.”

“Who calls you that?”

“My family, when they think I’m acting that way,” I explained. “Do you have a nickname besides ‘Enforcer?’”

He laughed. “I was not, not in any sense, a hockey enforcer. So, did it work? Did taking the job at the gallery get you in with Chic, the eighties icon?”

“No, not yet,” I said. “I found out that she and her daughter aren’t very close. I tried to get Alecta to introduce us, but sheignored me.” Just as she’d disregarded my request to fix the toilet that ran constantly but didn’t flush well, she’d also paid scant attention to when I’d said that I wanted to meet her mother. “Chic has only come to the gallery once since I’ve been there, and she didn’t want to talk to me at all. She ignored my questions—she ignored me in general. I emailed her, too, but she didn’t respond.”

“Maybe she’s not the mentor type.”

I shrugged. “Who needs a mentor? My job is fine. I spend most of my time there sketching and planning instead of working. Dion’s on his phone for hours, and he doesn’t care what I’m doing. Nobody cares what I’m doing.”

“That must be a relief.”

I detected a little envy in his tone, and I imagined how his days went. “Is your dad all over you? Does he micromanage?”

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