Libby the Librarian: A Rom Com Novella Read online

  I went into the bathroom and put the dress on. I felt ridiculous, like I was wearing a costume. I came back out, carrying the heels in one hand.

  “Well?” I demanded, daring either of them to laugh at me.

  “That looks great!” Shasta said.

  “Put the shoes on,” Adam said. I stepped into the heels. I felt awkward. Gangly. I hoped I didn’t fall over. I hadn’t worn heels since Tabitha’s wedding, where I’d spent the whole time up front gripping the elbow of Bride’s Maid Number Three. She probably still has the bruises.

  Adam wasn’t satisfied. “What do you think of these?” he asked, holding up an old pair of glasses with thick brown frames. “I found them in your top drawer.”

  “You went through my drawers? That’s an invasion of privacy.”

  Adam looked slightly chastened—maybe he just doesn’t have a good grasp on protocol when in women’s bedrooms—scratch that. More likely he doesn’t think I count as “women.” I can’t imagine him going through his girlfriends’ dressers like that.

  “Did he do this to you?” I asked Shasta. “Did he demonstrate such a wanton lack of respect for the sanctity of a woman’s boudoir?”

  Shasta didn’t want to get involved, but I’m guessing from her expression that the answer is no. It’s just me, then. My desire for privacy doesn’t count.

  Shasta took the glasses from Adam and held them up. “These are perfect!”

  “Perfect for what?”

  “They scream Sexy Librarian.”

  “They scream myopic ninth-grader, is what they scream.” That wasn’t a year I was eager to revisit. I thought the glasses were hideous, but I took off my sensible wire-frames and replaced them with the chunky brown monstrosities, just to show how ridiculous they looked.

  Adam and Shasta weren’t laughing.

  “They really are great!” Shasta said.

  “You’ve got to be kidding!“ I protested.

  “No, put some makeup on you. Put your hair up and you’re perfect,” Shasta said.

  “Perfect? Perfectly laughable.”

  “Nobody is going to laugh at you. Trust me,” said Adam.

  I was heading back to the bathroom, when I heard Adam say, “I never noticed what a nice ass—“

  “—assets Libby has. Yes, she does. Very nice assets.” Shasta finished his statement for him, like she knew I could hear them talking about me.

  It’s very weird to overhear your friends assessing the shape of your assorted anatomy like that. It made me feel like a horse at auction, all over again.

  By the time Shasta and Adam left, I was exhausted. I was too tired, even, to reorganize my books. It’s hard work trying to be nice to people who have your best interests at heart, but are probably leading you down a path to public humiliation. I was glad I wouldn’t have to deal with any more “personal transformation” tomfoolery until next Sunday.

  All week I avoided Adam. It wasn’t hard. It was finals week, and that meant he was busy. I wasn’t. Everyone suspends their research during finals week, so I had a lot of time on my hands. I wasted a lot of time at work—when I should have been enriching my mind or catching up on my filing—looking at those websites where they teach you makeup techniques. I was going to feel pretty silly if I could recite the complete works of Poe, but couldn’t learn to apply eyeliner.

  By the next Sunday, I’d almost regained my composure and gotten used to my new hair. It wasn’t much different from my old hair, really, except that it was shinier and had streaks in it. I’d made a halfhearted attempt to practice putting it up the way Shasta had shown me, but I never managed to make it look as good as she had. I had also—per Shasta’s instructions—started weaning myself off my pair-of-kakis-and-button-down-a-day habit. It hadn’t been easy. All I had to do, Shasta insisted, was wear one item every day that I wouldn’t normally wear. Her theory was that it was less of a shock—to me and everybody who had to look at me—to transition a little at a time. It was sort of working. On Friday, I wore black trousers and a white blouse that had, up until now, lived a life of isolation and quiet despair in the darkest recesses of my closet. But I couldn’t bring myself to add the set of bangle bracelets my aunt had given me last Christmas. It was asking too much of myself to go around clinking all day.

  On Sunday, Adam arrived before Shasta. I was still eating breakfast. I let him in and shuffled back to the kitchen in my robe and slippers. I sat down to finish my coffee. Adam poured himself a cup and kicked Kipling—who hissed at him—out of my other chair.

  “How are you feeling?” Adam asked.

  “Fine. Why shouldn’t I be?”

  “Well, I know you. You don’t like change.”

  “I do like change. Just yesterday, I rearranged my living room.”

  “The compulsion to constantly rearrange your furniture is not quite analogous to embracing drastic alterations to your lifestyle.”

  “I wouldn’t call a new haircut a drastic alteration to my lifestyle.”

  “It’s not just a new haircut.”

  “Isn’t it?”

  “Seriously—“ Adam did look serious. “I think you are going to discover that men are starting seeing you in a whole new light.”

  “I don’t think I’m too interested in the sort of men who are impressed by a little primping.”

  “You say that now, but I believe you are going to be severely disoriented by the attention that’s going to start coming your way.”

  “That was the general idea, wasn’t it? Doll Libby up. Slather her with makeup. Dress her up pretty. All so men won’t run away screaming.”

  I knew I was getting sarcastic, but I couldn’t help it. I get sarcastic when I get scared. I know it’s neither logical nor sensible to be scared, but that doesn’t change the way I feel.

  The doorbell was ringing, so I sent Adam to let Shasta in.

  Shasta had been correct. Makeup was harder than it looked. I did alright with my base layer. You just have to rub that on and check for streaks. Contouring and blusher were more difficult. Then we got to the eyes, and I made a hopeless mess.

  The Sexy Librarian calls for something Shasta called Cat Eyes. Cat Eyes involve liquid eyeliner. Liquid eyeliner was created by the devil himself, probably formulated somewhere in the deepest recesses of hell. The sole purpose of liquid eyeliner is to make otherwise coordinated and capable people feel like they’ve sprouted flippers instead of hands.

  Adam thought it was hilarious. Shasta didn’t like him laughing at me, so she gave up, cleaned off my mess and redid my eyes herself. She’d demonstrated on herself first. She looked great. Of course.

  When she finished with me, she handed me the mirror. When I looked at myself, I no longer looked like me.

  “What do you think?”

  “This is very weird.”

  “I think you look beautiful.” Shasta said. I think she was just being kind, but still, it was nice to hear.

  Adam was staring at me like I’d been replaced by an extraterrestrial or transformed myself into a disembodied head.

  “Stop gaping at the poor girl like that and tell her how good she looks!” Shasta scolded him.

  He didn’t stop gaping, but he did, at least, parrot back the line about how good I looked. “I had no idea makeup was so effective,” he added.

  That was pretty offensive.

  “Worried that all those beautiful girls you’ve dated over the years may just have been ugly girls with a good makeup job?” I asked.

  “You’re not the least bit ugly,” Shasta said. “With or without makeup.”

  I waited for Adam to say something reassuring like that, but he didn’t. Adam’s not that great at reassuring.

  “Let’s go shopping!” Shasta said.

  Shasta loves shopping. I hate it. I order on-line whenever possible. I’d order groceries on-line if I could.

  “You want me to go out in public like this?” I asked, pointing to my face.

  “Of course. It’s going to take a while for yo
u to get used to it. Might as well get started right now.”

  I couldn’t go out in my robe and slippers, so Shasta put together an outfit for me.

  Adam wanted me to wear the ninth-grade ugly glasses, but I insisted that the prescription of the lenses was so old that I’d be better off wearing no glasses at all. He knew better than to try and talk me into that, so I stuck with my sensible wire-frames.

  “Who’s your optometrist?” Adam asked.

  “Dr. Webber. Why?”

  “No reason,” he said and put the ninth-grade uglies into his pocket.

  Shopping was worse than I’d anticipated. I wasn’t even allowed to do any actual shopping. I spent the whole time in the fitting room while Shasta handed me stuff to try on. Every once in a while, I could hear Adam lobbying for something he’d found. Shasta vetoed most of his choices. That was probably a good thing. Judging by the reasons Shasta gave for her rejections, Adam was trying to turn me into Slutty Librarian.

  Shasta and I finally came up with four outfits we could both agree on. They all involved something Shasta called a Pencil Skirt and more feminine variations on my beloved button-downs. They weren’t bad, and, as I twirled in front of the mirror, even I could see that they did great things for my—assets. So far, so good. But we hadn’t even started looking for shoes yet, and I had a terrible foreboding that Shasta was never going to sanction combining Pencil Skirts with my favorite worn-in penny loafers.

  “Don’t I get to see anything?” Adam asked as we emerged from the fitting room.

  “I’m not going to make the poor girl try on everything all over again just for your benefit,” Shasta said.

  We moved on to shoes, which was every bit as traumatic as I’d anticipated. I can’t walk in heels. We finally compromised. One pair of ballet flats and one pair of heels, which Shasta admonished me to practice in around the house, before attempting their public debut.

  “You really wear these things on a regular basis?” I asked.

  “You’ll get used to them.”

  I don’t think I will. In a couple of months I’ll be back to my customer-service-representative-persona. But Shasta is having fun. Adam is hanging around her. That’s all that really matters. I’m just orchestrating the reunification of two people I’m fond of. The more time I spend around Shasta, the more convinced I become that she is perfect for Adam. They were meant for each other.

  Three

  All week I practiced applying the eyeliner Shasta had given me. I gradually got better. It still wasn’t as perfect as Shasta’s, but then she’d had years of experience.

  Friday morning, I decided to test drive The Sexy Librarian by wearing the whole getup to work. There was a good reason I chose Friday; I knew for certain that Adam was leaving on Thursday to go out of town and wouldn’t be back until Monday morning. The last thing I needed was him hanging around my office smirking. I felt silly enough already.

  Shasta was opening at the Salon, so I stopped by there before I went into work, just in case I’d unwittingly committed some fashion faux pas. When I got there, she was just turning the lights on.

  “Wow!” she said. “You look fabulous!”

  “I feel a little ridiculous.”

  “Well, you don’t look ridiculous. You did a great job on your eyes. I wasn’t sure—“

  I think she was going to say she hadn’t been sure I’d ever get the hang of liquid eye-liner, but she never finished her sentence.

  “So, how’s it going with you and Adam?” I couldn’t help asking. I’m terribly curious, but I haven’t been able to bring myself to quiz Adam on the subject.

  “Fine.” Shasta was looking at me like it was a strange question. She changed the subject. “What are you doing this weekend?”

  “The usual.”

  “We should do something to celebrate your successful transformation,” Shasta said. “My boyfriend and I are going out this evening. You should come with us.”

  “Your boyfriend?”

  She hadn’t mentioned any boyfriend.

  “Brad. He’s great. You’ll like him.”

  Would I? I was still reeling from the revelation that she had a boyfriend. It had seemed obvious to me that she and Adam were on the verge of getting back together. Adam seemed to be under that impression, too. Did Adam know about this alleged boyfriend?

  “Has Adam met Brad?” I asked.

  “Once, maybe. So, you want to go out for drinks with us this evening?”

  I said yes. Better see the competition Adam was up against. Perhaps, I wasn’t as competent a cupid as I believed myself to be.

  The Sexy Librarian turned out to be a big sensation. I was getting a disconcerting level of attention before I even made it into the research department. I couldn’t tell if it was positive attention. Mostly, I think it was consternation tinged with disbelief.

  My boss, Dr. Maxwell, didn’t even try to cover up his astonishment. “What in the world did you do to yourself?”

  Tina, his assistant, tried to hush him up, but he ignored her.

  “I got a makeover,” I said.

  “I’ll say,” Dr. Maxwell said and retreated back into his office.

  That was a bit deflating.

  The whole morning was a little confusing. Tim, a graduate student who is in the middle of collecting material for his thesis and comes in almost every day, actually ran into a closed door he was so busy staring at me.

  Not very flattering. I think he was trying to determine if it was really me or not.

  The women in the research department were all very nice. They complimented my hair and makeup. Tina called my new look, “stunning,” but I think she was overcompensating for Dr. Maxwell’s bad behavior.

  By the end of the day, all I wanted to do was go home, wash my face and lay on the couch in my pajamas, but I couldn’t. I had promised to go out with Shasta.

  Shasta and Brad came by to pick me up.

  “I brought you something,” Shasta said, holding up a garment bag. “Go try it on.”

  It was a dress. Tiny and sparkly and short.

  “Isn’t this a little over the top? Where would I ever wear this?”

  “Just try it on,” Shasta said.

  I tried it on, just to humor her.

  “You might want to ditch the knee socks,“ Shasta said when I came out of my bedroom. Brad didn’t even look up. He was engrossed in his phone.

  “Sure,” I said. “If I ever have occasion to wear this dress, I’ll remember not to pair it with knee socks.”

  “I thought you might like to wear it out tonight.”

  “Tonight? I didn’t think we were going anywhere fancy.” Actually Shasta was pretty sparkly herself, except her sparkles came in the form of a halter-top.

  “You won’t be out of place, where we’re going,” Shasta insisted.

  “I’d be out of place anywhere in this dress. It’s awfully short.”

  “You’ll get used to it.”

  “Right, like I’ve gotten used to high-heels.”

  I hadn’t gotten used to high-heels. I had stopped actually falling over, but I still felt like I was going to.

  “Speaking of heels—“

  “No!” I said. “I am not subjecting myself to this dress and to a pair of high-heels at the same time.”

  “I thought you might feel that way.” Shasta pulled out a cute pair of flats that matched the dress. “You can borrow these. You know, we are almost the same size.”

  We might average out to be the same size, but let’s just say that Shasta’s assorted bits and articles are arranged in a far more aesthetically pleasing manner than my own.

  I peeled off my knee socks and tried on the flats. They fit.

  Shasta insisted on fussing with my hair, but I finally got us out the door. Brad had barely said a word. Not exactly an intellectual giant, I’m guessing. Shasta could do so much better. Adam, for instance. All is not lost. It’s not like she’s engaged to this Brad guy, or anything.

  We went to
a club called The Presidio. Shasta had been right. I would have felt much more out of place in, well—anything I had in my closet.

  We sat at the bar for a little while and then Shasta wanted to dance.

  “I don’t dance,” I said.

  “Come on,” Shasta insisted. “There’s nothing to it. You just move your body in time to the music.”

  She probably believed what she said, but I resemble a spastic windmill when I dance. She finally gave up, and she and Brad went out on the dance floor without me.

  I sat alone at the bar, but not for long. A kind of weird-looking guy came and sat down beside me.

  “Hello, Beautiful!” he said.

  I turned my back to him. I didn’t come here to be mocked.

  Shasta and Brad came back.

  “Anyone ask for your phone number?” Shasta asked.

  “Certainly not.”

  “That’s surprising,” Shasta said. “Whenever I come here without a date, I’m swarmed.”

  That wasn’t very kind, comparing the two of us. It was a very unShasta-like thing to say.

  “I think I’ll get a taxi home,” I said.

  I felt like crying, but I couldn’t or I’d turn out looking like a demented raccoon. I couldn’t even rub my eyes when they itched.

  “But we just got here,” Shasta protested.

  “I’m not feeling well,” I said. It wasn’t exactly a lie. I wasn’t sick, but I definitely wasn’t feeling well.

  Shasta put me in a taxi.

  When I got home, I took off the dress and put it back in the garment bag. I’ll take it by the salon on Monday after work. Shasta has Monday afternoons off, so I won’t even have to see her. Maybe, I was wrong about Shasta. Adam might be better off without her.

  Monday, I reverted to kakis and button-downs. Dr. Maxwell was the only one who approved.

  Tina said it was a shame. “If I could be so lucky as to look like you, I’d take full advantage of it,” she said.

  I’m starting to wonder if everyone is conspiring to make fun of me. I may be getting paranoid.