Kevin doesn’t exactly float her boat; he’s a pinkish young man whose jeans always appear brand new and never quite fit him. Kevin’s main outside interest seems to be the pale mustache he is trying to grow. He talks in radio code even when he’s off duty. In spite of all this, Taylor is about to relent. It’s been so long since she had any fun she’s afraid she’ll forget how. The next time she talks to Jax, she wouldn’t mind telling him she was dating someone. She makes her decision while she is helping the woman who has forgotten color find her way to the fire-engine-red door of the hospital: this Saturday, Taylor and Turtle will go somewhere with Kevin. If he didn’t have Turtle in mind, that’s his tough luck. He can go along with the idea, or he can turn himself around and 10-27.
Barbie and Turtle are out on the tiny patio behind the kitchen when Taylor gets home from work. Barbie has on a pink bikini and is lying on a bedspread, working on her tan. She looks like some kind of exotic bird tragically trapped in a rotten cage. Taylor slides open the stubborn glass door and drags out one of the falling-apart kitchen chairs, reminding herself to borrow a screwdriver and some screws from the garage at work. The late-afternoon light seems too weak to penetrate human skin, but it’s the first time they’ve seen the sun in two rainy weeks, and Barbie claims she can’t miss her window of opportunity. She says her tan is an important element of her personal identity. She has put Turtle to work cutting out gold foil stars and gluing them onto a short denim skirt Barbie found at a store called Second Hand Rose.
“That’s going to fall apart the first time you wash it,” Taylor observes.
Turtle stops cutting out stars. She lays the scissors carefully on the cracked concrete patio and comes over to sit on Taylor’s lap.
“Oh, I know that.” Barbie is lying facedown and her voice is muffled. “I just won’t ever wash it. See, Taylor, this is costuming, it’s not like regular clothes.”
As far as Taylor can see, everything Barbie wears is a costume. “What happens if it gets dirty?”
Barbie turns over on her side, looking a little peeved. “I’m careful, okay?”
“Okay. It’s your skirt.”
“This is going to be the All American ensemble,” Barbie says patiently. “It goes with a red-and-white-striped halter top and a lace petticoat. It’s just come out, we saw it today when we were scouting out what’s new in the Barbie section.
I’m like, this is so perfect, but it’s not going to be easy to get lace like that. That’s going to be a challenge.”
Taylor is tuning out; she’s learned when to stop listening to Barbie. She knows she won’t get a quiz later on the All American ensemble. Kevin, the computer whiz, would say that Barbie is all output and no interface. Taylor strokes Turtle’s hair. She’s wearing the same green overalls she wore on the Oprah Winfrey show, though they are a good deal the worse for a summer of wear, and, Taylor notices, they’re short in the leg and tight around the middle. Her toes have grown an inch or two past the ends of her sneakers; Taylor was horrified to realize Turtle was doubling up her toes in there, without complaint. Now she’s wearing Barbie’s size-six yellow flip-flops. She’ll have to have new clothes before she starts school in a week and a half.
More costs. Taylor feels defeated. If only Barbie’s wardrobe talents could be put to civilian use.
“What did you do today?” she asks Turtle. “Besides scouting out the toy store and cutting out stars?”
“Nothing.”
Taylor doesn’t consider Barbie the ideal baby-sitter, but she’s obviously short on choices. She hopes school will begin before Turtle gets warped by the world of fashion design.
“You want to go to the beach or something on Saturday?” she asks.
“Yes.” Turtle leans back against Taylor’s chest. She takes both Taylor’s hands in hers and crosses them in front of her.
“I’ve decided to go out with Kevin,” she tells Barbie.
“Who?” Barbie asks, with genuine interest.
“That rabbity guy from work. Just mainly so he’ll quit asking.”
“Oh, right, Taylor. Like going out with somebody is a real wonderful way to give him the message you’re not interested.”
“I see your point.”
“Did you bring a newspaper?” Barbie asks.
“I forgot.”
“Tay lor! This is, like, the fiftieth time I’ve asked you. I wanted to look at the want ads.”
“For a waitress job? But think about it, it’s not worth it.