Jody Gehrman - Notes From The Backseat (Red Dress Ink Novels)

Thanks to my agent, Dorian Karchmar, and my editor, Margaret Marbury, for their hard work on my behalf. Thanks to their assistants, too, Adam Schear and Adam Wilson, who never failed to get back to me and were always on top of their game. My lovely comrade Terena Scott read endless drafts of Gwens adventures and continually believed in her, even when I had my doubts. My web designer and good friend, Rosey Larson, is an endless source of encouragement and support. Tommy Zurhellen trained his keen eye on early incarnations and lent his usual priceless feedback to the mix (complete with bad jokes and adorable sketches). Bart Rawlinson offered a steady stream of advice, inspiration and delicious meals to get me through the long haul. Thanks to my family for their continual love and support, especially my mom and dad, who read my rough drafts with an enthusiasm only parents can sustain. As usual, my biggest thanks goes to David Wolf, who put up with more tantrums and freak-outs over this manuscript than any man should ever have to bear.

M y best friend, Gwen, talks like an auctioneer when shes excited. Her hands flit about and her mouth moves so rapidly shes already halfway through the story by the time you can say, Whoa, whoa, whoa. Back up. Start at the beginning. Her mind has a tendency to race ahead, and getting her to explain anything in a simple, chronological sequence is almost impossible. This time, though, she spelled it all out pretty clearly, with only occasional lapses into stream-of-consciousness neuroses peppered with expletives. Who could blame her for those little slips though, when the Creature from Planet Blonde was treating her like the gassy old family dog, making her ride in the backseat for thirteen hours on twisty coastal roads, filling her head with suspicions about Coop, whos probably the only man in the western hemisphere with the body of a rock star but the heart of a

Oh, wait. Im doing it now, too, arent I? Okay, let me back up a little.

I was packing for Paris when I realized I had absolutely nothing to wear. It was one of those dry-mouthed, cold-sweat moments that sometimes hit you when youre leaving the country in less than twenty-four hours with your very French fianc to meet his upper-crust Parisian parents. We were staying for a month and so far Id packed my favorite pair of threadbare plaid pajamas, the oversized Mickey Mouse T-shirt Ive been wearing since I was twelve, a pair of ancient Levis with four patches sewn into the butt and my toothbrush. Im not very schooled in the art of fashion, but even I knew I couldnt very well make a glamorous impression with that wardrobeat least, not without accessorizing heavily.

There was no question. I had to see Gwen, stat.

A little background: I met Gwen twelve years ago, during our sophomore year at Analy High. I was the new kid, walking around with that dazed, Im-never-going-to-survive-until-three-oclock catatonic stare. The minute I stepped foot in the Home Ec room I spotted her and my listless I-dont-care-if-you-talk-to-me-or-not mask slipped away just like that. The morning sunlight through the dirty windows lit her like a starlet waiting for her close-up. She was wearing leopard-print kitten heels and a boxy 1950s pink wool suit. At her throat was a strand of pearls, matching earrings shone from the dark, meticulously arranged sweep of her shoulder-length bob. But here was the touch that rendered her truly surrealthe over-the-top Gwenism that made me wonder if Id stumbled through a metaphysical portal and come out in 1957: on her head was a pillbox hat. It sat at just the right, casually precise, slightly flirtatious angle, and I could tell by her smirk that she knew the effect was dazzling.

Gwen Matsons reputation at Analy High could be summed up in two words: total freak. Everyone there considered her a tragic example of what could happen if you were just a little too weird to be cool. She was cuter, smarter and better dressed than anyone at that small town schoolshe was even valedictorian and yearbook editorbut the popular kids treated her like a leper because she insisted on walking around in pillbox hats, patent leather shoes and kid gloves. This was the nineties and Grunge was King. Gwen was the anti-Grunge; shed sooner set her own hair on fire than don a flannel shirt.

In sharp contrast to Gwens stubborn eccentricity, I was a die-hard conformist. Gwens willingness to stand out terrified me, so much so that I was afraid, in those first few seconds, to befriend her. I hesitated there in the doorway of that stuffy Home Ec room, hovering between my just-try-not-to-be-noticed past and the bright pink future of a friendship with Gwen. I guess her allure was more powerful than my fear, because I stepped forward and said in a small, trembling voice, Hi. My names Marla. She seized my pale fingers and we shook hands like the wives of ambassadors meeting on the steps of the White House. Gwen Matson, she said. Charmed, Im sure.

As soon as we finished high school we ditched that northern California hippie town and headed off to UCLA together. I studied modern dancea useless degree, but I couldnt help myself. Im very impractical. Its one of the few things Gwen and I have in common, though for me it manifests in a rather crippling inability to make a decent living. Gwens impractical in a different way; shell pack four mink stoles, three pairs of stilettos, a satin gown and a cigarette holder for a trip to my Colorado hunting cabin in December. She doesnt even smoke. On the career front, though, Gwens impressively together. She double majored in business and costume design. Now, at twenty-eight, she owns a beautiful little vintage clothing store in Los Feliz and she designs for a handful of little theatre and indie film companies scattered throughout L.A. Its widely understood that Gwen only designs for period pieces, and only when the period is somewhere between 1952 and 1963. Everyones learned not to even call her unless their show falls between those dates; otherwise, their Juliets always end up looking suspiciously like Jackie O.

Determined to solicit Gwens professional advice, I left my barely packed suitcase gaping open on my bed and drove east from Santa Monica toward Los Feliz. On the way, I stopped at a Rite Aid and bought a few things Id need for the trip: Visine, mascara, ear plugs, a French manicure kit (when in Rome). On my way to the register I passed through the stationary aisle and a small leather-bound book caught my eye. It looked completely out of place there amidst the juvenile primary-colored spiral-bound notebooks and plastic neon pencil boxes. It had a soft, buttery cover and the pages felt substantial as I flipped through them. I couldnt find a price tag, but I stuck it in my plastic shopping basket anyway. It was an impulse buy, like the Snickers bar or Cosmo you snag just before you reach the checkoutit had the same reckless, slightly sinful flavor, even though I wouldnt normally classify a blank book as indulgent.

When I got to the register, the girl rang up everything else, her long, clawlike fingernails flying over the keys with practiced ease. When she got to the journal, though, she stood snapping her gum, flipping it this way and that with a puzzled look. Whered you get this? She had a thick accent, maybe Puerto Rican.

Umstationary aisle, I said.

This is not a product we carry.

I furrowed my brow. Butit was there. On the shelf.

I dont know what this is. She snapped her gum some more, then called out to a short, acne-ridden boy at the next register. Hey, Tom, you know what this is?