The Gentleman's Guide to Vice and Virtue (Guide #1)(14)
Deep down, Sam was grateful for her intrusive mom and the garlic restaurant below them. Being smoked out of her own bedroom and preyed upon like a three-legged field mouse was perfect motivation to get the hell out of Downers Grove. As sad as Sam was about separating from her friends, she was counting down the days until she moved to Providence and attended the Rhode Island School of Design.
Sam was an extremely gifted artist for two reasons: she was talented and she was poor. She learned early in life that if she wanted nice things she would have to get creative and make them herself. And Sam was planning to make a career out of this skill.
Of all the credentials in her application, the Rhode Island School of Design admissions board had been most impressed with Sam’s portfolio of the do-it-yourself furniture in her bedroom and the descriptions of how she created it.
Dumpster Diving Décor is how I would describe my unique style of design, Sam wrote.
The platform and headboard of my twin mattress are made from a stack of wooden crates I found on the side of the road. Above my bed, the suspended bookshelves were shopping baskets I found in an alley, painted red, and nailed to the wall. My lounge chairs used to be halves of a huge tire I rolled home from a junkyard. I lined the inside with red cushions and use the hubcap as a coffee table between them. My bedroom didn’t have a closet, so I made a wardrobe out of an old fridge from the restaurant below my apartment. I painted the appliance turquoise and stuck the handles of an old mop and broom through it to hang my clothes.
The lighting in my apartment is terrible, so I took a bicycle wheel, wrapped it in Christmas lights, replaced the bulbs with empty liquor bottles to magnify the light, spray painted everything gold, and created a chandelier any rock star would be envious of. I made a stand for my record player and vinyl collection out of a stack of 1950s suitcases from my late grandfather’s attic. I covered a wall with the record covers and now the Rolling Stones, the Smiths, the Knack, Gang of Four, and the Killers watch over my bedroom like rock guardian angels.
My mother made the mistake of giving me her old vanity set. She expected me to keep it in pristine condition, but I painted it black, beat it with a chain (that part was just for fun), covered it with hundreds of witty bumper stickers, and now I use it as a computer desk. I’m not a big fan of mirrors, so I covered the oval plate of glass with pictures of my friends and magazine cutouts of my favorite television show, Wiz Kids.
All it took was one glimpse of Sam’s portfolio and anyone could tell she had a gift. (The portfolio also made it obvious Sam was in desperate need of financial aid to attend RISD, so she passed it along to every scholarship program she applied to as well.) However, recycling objects of convenient shapes and sizes was much more than just a hobby for her. Restoring what others had cast aside, giving it a new purpose, and granting it a new identity was Sam’s greatest therapy. She only wished transforming herself could be as easy as upgrading the trash she found—but Sam would need much more than a fresh coat of paint for what she had in mind.
“Well, I’m gonna try to rest,” Sam said into her computer. “Good night, see you tomorrow!”
“Good night, Sam,” Topher said back at her.
Just as Sam logged off her computer, her mother, Candy Rae Gibson, walked into her bedroom without knocking. She had a bulging shopping bag in one hand and a vodka gimlet in the other. If there were a statue erected in Candy’s honor, it would need these items to look authentic.
“Good Lord, Samantha,” Candy said, and winced at the smell of the candles. “Do you really need all those going at once? It’s like a séance in here—but I can’t tell if you’re summoning the dead or scaring off the living.”
“Mom, you’re violating my privacy when you don’t knock,” Sam said.
“Oh, please,” Candy said, and rolled her eyes. “I wish there was something going on in this room that warranted privacy. The day I catch you watching pornography or smoking a joint I’ll die of shock.”
“Noted,” Sam said under her breath.
The fact that Sam was Candy Rae Gibson’s daughter was proof God had a sick sense of humor. In Sam’s opinion, her mother was feminine to a fault. Candy always had big hair, long nails, wore too much makeup, and hadn’t owned a pair of pants since the eighties. She was very friendly but not very bright, and often reminded people of a large cocker spaniel.
Candy worked as a hairdresser at a local salon and told all her clients at great length and in great detail how she was crowned Miss Georgia Peach 1999 at just eighteen years old—not that any of them asked. Coincidently, she had also been pregnant with Sam at the time, which made her cry on demand better than all her competitors. The open floodgates following the “world peace” question were what secured her the crown. Occasionally, after Candy had one too many vodka gimlets, Sam would find her waltzing around the apartment in her old tiara and sash.
“What do you want, Mother?” Sam asked as if her presence was causing her physical pain.
“I just got back from the store and picked you up some clothes I thought you’d like for your trip.”
Candy emptied the shopping bag on Sam’s bed. To her daughter’s horror, it was a pile of tank tops, miniskirts, lacy bras, and neon panties. They were clothes for a barbecue at Barbie and Ken’s, not a cross-country road trip with her friends.
“You know I wouldn’t be caught dead in any of those,” Sam said.