Part 42 (2/2)
He shrugged. ”Who doesn't like Star Trek?” he said. ”And any reporter worth their byline knows it's always about the next story, Blondie. No matter what.”
I shook my head. It was the ”no matter what” part where my compet.i.tor and I parted company. Unlike Drew the Shrew, ”anything goes” was not the code of journalistic ethics I wanted to go with.
”Here.” He thrust the bike in my direction. ”You babysit the beast for a change. And make sure you secure it so it isn't stolen.”
I grabbed the handlebars. ”I'll keep our transport safe from Romulan raiders, sir!” I clicked my heels. ”You can count on me.”
Van Vleet muttered a dismissal Star Fleet would throw the book at him for and walked off. Meanwhile, I texted my own earthling mother to find out where she'd parked the shuttlecraft and slowly made my way there, pa.s.sing the Intergalactic Marketplace that, in addition to various alien species on parade, featured food, beverages, souvenirs, and the a.s.sorted wines and spirits. I stared at the replica of the U.S.S. Riverside near the square, making a mental note to get a selfie of me with the s.p.a.cecraft.
I spotted Kenny Grey's now familiar van and his small, canopied kiosk, but no sign of the artiste at his booth.
”Permission to come aboard!” I called out, pus.h.i.+ng the bike up to the RV and propping it near the door. ”h.e.l.loo! Anybody here?”
The door opened. Keelie Keller stepped out. Her hair pulled tightly back at the crown in a ponytail, Keelie wore the little red mini dress that signified you were either yeoman or communications officer.
”There you are!” She said. ”We've been waiting for you!”
”We?”
”Your mum and me.”
”Oh?” I frowned. Keelie was hanging out with my mother again?
”Show her, Jean!” Keelie urged.
Jean?
”Show me what?” I asked, feeling the same level of anxiety I'd felt before opening any ”gift” from my brother, Craig.
”Ta-da! We give you Yeoman Janice Rand!” my mother announced and stepped out, holding another red Star Trek mini dress in one hand and what looked like a Longaberger basket made of blonde hair in the other.
”What-I? Who?”
”The boots are inside!” Keelie said. ”Your mum helped with sizes.”
My eyes must've done a the-h.e.l.l-she-did number, because my mother shook her head.
”Said information to be held in the strictest of confidence, right Keelie?”
”Oh, sure. Of course,” Keelie said. ”It's just between us girls. Come on! Come on! Clean up and get into your costume! This is going to be so much fun!”
I stared at her, confused.
”Where's Tiara? She'll make a much better Yeoman whatever her name is than I will,” I protested.
”No, she won't. I can't trust Tiara anymore. First, it was the deal with Jax at the covered bridge. Now the cops think she made up that story about almost being abducted.”
I blinked.
”What? Tiara lied about the kidnapping? She made it up?”
Keelie shrugged. ”Manny said some things didn't check out, so I don't know what to think.”
”Where is Mr. Bodyguard, by the way?” I asked.
Keelie looked a bit sheepish. ”He had to take care of something. I was supposed to stay in the bus until he got back, but I kind of sneaked out.
”You and Tiara have been best friends forever,” I tried again, because it was true and because I so didn't want to squeeze into a mini dress and woven wig and parade around the square in the role of glorified maidservant. (Although I must admit, the boots intrigued me.) ”I can't deal with Tiara right now,” Keelie said, dismissing my protests. ”So go on and get dressed, Tressa, and let's paint this town red!”
Hopefully not as in ”expendable” red.
I said it before, and I'll say it again, red is so not my color.
Feeling railroaded, I nevertheless grabbed the togs from my mother. As I pa.s.sed, she whispered that there were clean undies in the bathroom. I only hoped she'd picked up a pair that wouldn't show those unsightly panty lines.
I balked when I spotted the black Spanx. I downright revolted when I saw the black panty hose sitting nearby.
No way, Mr. Roddenberry wherever you are. No flippin' way.
Panty hose and I share a tattered and torn past. Consequently, I avoid them whenever possible. And on an eighty degree day? That seemed reason enough for going the natural route-well, until I checked out legs that had gone too many days without seeing a razor.
”Nubs Central,” I muttered, running a hand down my leg.
”What's that, Tressa?” my mom said.
”Nothing, Mom,” I said, drawing a bead on the hosiery. ”It's gonna be like this,” I said. ”You're going to cooperate. You are going to slide all the way up, including the all-important crotch area, and you're gonna stay where you belong, and you're going to do it all without a fight. Do we understand each other?”
”Tressa, who are you talking to?” My mother asked.
”I'm on the phone!” I lied. My mom already had enough problems. No sense adding to them with a daughter who threatened control top panty hose.
I took my quickie shower, patted dry, and dressed. Boots in hand, I stepped out of the trailer and took a seat in a nearby lawn chair.
”Hey! Where's your wig?” Keelie asked.
”I really don't think I need it. Yeoman Rand had blonde hair, right? I have blonde hair. So, why do I need a wig?”
”Because, silly goose, the woven beehive hair is Yeoman Rand's trademark. It's what sets her apart. Makes her distinct. Without it, you're just another blonde Yeoman.”
I grimaced. ”A blonde Yeoman who won't pa.s.s out due to heatstroke!”
Keelie grabbed the wig and plopped it on my head. ”Sometimes beauty is painful,” she said. ”Surely you've endured waxes. Besides, you don't have to wear it that long. Just long enough to stroll around Riverside a bit.”
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