Knit One, Girl Two Page 2

  She was murmuring to The Phantom, "There's gotta be a way to get exactly that copper," in response to Captain Werewolf's sidekick's red hair when her phone rang. It was too early for Jasmine to be out, so her adrenaline level rose slightly just as it did for any unexpected phone call. Her grandfather—

  It wasn't Mom on the phone, though, but an unfamiliar local number. "Hello?"

  "Hey, is this Clara from Ft. Sockerdale Knitworks?"

  "Speaking?"

  "This is Danielle Solomon. Tucker at the gallery texted me a picture of your card—"

  "Oh my gosh, yes!" Clara blinked rapidly and slammed her laptop shut. The Phantom sprang away in disdain and went off to lick his paw in the middle of the kitchen floor.

  "He said something about you wanting to do a yarn line based on my paintings," said Danielle.

  "Yeah," said Clara. "I'm a small-batch indie dyer, and I was really inspired by what I saw today." She explained how sock clubs worked. "So, there would be six of them, spread out over a year.”

  "And people don't know what they're getting beforehand?"

  "Nope!" Clara said brightly. "For a lot of them, that's the appeal. And many of us, we make it exclusive so that if you don't sign up and you see how pretty the color is once we get to that month, too bad so sad."

  "Ah, that's how you get 'em." Danielle chuckled.

  "I mean, it's not for everybody," Clara continued. "My friend Marisol is super picky about colors so she never does sock club because the surprise doesn't make sense for her."

  "Wouldn't people be able to get spoilers from my website, though?"

  “That's on them. Besides, it's not like they know what I'm going to do with all the shades of pink in a roseate spoonbill. I could do... variegated, speckles, semisolids with a contrasting heel-toe color..."

  "Yeah, I was looking at your website," said Danielle. "I don't know how to knit, but I loved what I saw. The colors believed in themselves."

  Clara beamed. "Ooh, I like that. Can I use it as a testimonial?"

  Danielle giggled again. "Sure. Speaking of which, we should get together and discuss the legal stuff."

  "Oh, sure!" sure Clara. Thinking quickly of the bleeped-out "o" in “God” on Danielle's website, she steered her suggestion towards something more compatible with a stricter observance than hers, just in case. "Are you free for lunch Sunday? We could go to the Deli Den." There. Addictive kosher food and not interrupting Shabbat.

  "Sounds great! Don't let me hog the half-sours."

  "Thumb-wrestle you for them," Clara blurted, before flushing at her forwardness. Ugh, why did her game sound like she was thirteen?

  "No way, with you knitting all the time you probably have super-fingers," said Danielle. "How about one o'clock?"

  "Okay, cool!"

  As Clara hung up the phone, she stood there blinking into the empty house. For a moment she felt like she were trying to reconcile two Danielles — the gorgeous stranger on the website, and the friendly real person on the phone who was also in all statistical likelihood, straight. I'm just making a friend, is all, she told herself.

  But then she saw that picture in her mind again, the vintage beauty of her, and grinned in spite of herself.

  ❀

  "I figured out the next sock club."

  "Oh, cool!" Jasmine swished the ladle through the crock pot, most likely aiming for the unattainable ideal of an equal ratio of goodies. "What is it?"

  Clara explained about the gallery. "So we're meeting for lunch on Sunday."

  She wouldn't have realized how transparent she was if Jasmine hadn't countered with, "I've known what that look means ever since I first saw it at Daniel Greenbaum's bar mitzvah reception, when you and that band girl, Lauren or whatever—"

  Heat flared in Clara's cheeks and she covered her grin with one hand. "Memories, man. Why do you remember that?"

  "You were gone for like a half hour," said Jasmine. "In twelve-year-old years that's an eternity."

  "That was a good eternity," mused Clara as she ate.

  "So anyway," said Jasmine. "This artist?"

  Clara smiled as she shook her head. "I'm just havin' fun. She looked super cute on her website, but she's probably straight."

  Sunday afternoon at five minutes to one found Clara sitting in the parking lot of the Deli Den, primping. Not that it mattered mattered, but there was no sense in not looking her best for the first time meeting a new work contact, either. She made a flamboyant kissy face at her reflection — straight dark brown hair, small dark eyes under well-sculpted brows, a prominent nose, and a killer smile. Beyond the mirror's reach was a tailored shirt in plum plaid and a brown skirt.

  Jasmine had called her out on the plaid that morning. "Just in case?"

  Clara only stuck her tongue out.

  Time for the meeting! She scooped up her pile of sketches and printouts and left the car, squinting into another sunny South Florida afternoon.

  She halted in her steps when she realized that the voice she heard talking on a phone in front of the restaurant came from Danielle herself. Covertly, Clara flashed a glance at her. Danielle was still pretty, but a slight redness in her face and circles beneath her eyes made her look more human than in her website photo.

  Hovering politely near the ixora bushes Clara tried not to eavesdrop, but she'd already come too close and turning around would look even more awkward.

  "No, no," Danielle was saying into the phone. "Don't—don't you—no. Don't you dare. If you — no, listen to me, Ashley. They don't mean anything. I'm so sorry they hurt you like that, but they're wrong. Listen — if I came up to you and told you your dog was made of carrots and shit ranch dressing, would you believe me just because I'm your teacher?"

  Clara giggled, and tried to hide it because she was pretending not to listen. My, my, these little pink flowers were fascinating...

  "I hear you giggling, Ashley. I want you to take that giggle and paint it for me. Then I want you to solemnly promise me not to show it to them. As far as I'm concerned, they've lost the right to teach you. People like that drive wonderful, talented little ducklings like you right out of the art world."

  Danielle paced back and forth in front of the restaurant, fidgeting with a decoration on her purse that looked like a lime. Wait, was her whole purse an avocado? "Well, I don't care if all you want to draw is mermaids. Keep on drawing mermaids. Fuck, draw me as a mermaid. Give me a big ole anglerfish on a leash, too. No, not anglerfish. What are those... those terrifying one with the... with the teeth—" Danielle's free hand flailed around as she dithered.

  "Viperfish," Clara blurted out without realizing it.

  Danielle spun around.

  Clara, her face suddenly a campfire, could only hold up a knitting project and grin shamefully.

  "Draw me as a mermaid with a viperfish on a leash. Diamond studded collar. And every time one of those schmegegges comes out with some more crap about representational art being less, imagine what those teeth can do. Because I promise, I take very good care of my pets' dental work... okay, you okay now, Ash? My lunch meeting is here. But don't you fucking dare destroy that painting. Promise me. Promise me. Okay. Good girl. See you Tuesday."

  Danielle hung up the phone, slightly breathless. Compared to her glamorous website picture, with hair slightly out of place and face a little blotchy, she was less beautiful, but more arresting.

  Danielle stuck out her right hand with all the force of a weapon, but with a grin that disarmed it. "Hi, I'm Danielle Solomon, and I fucking support representational art. How are you?"

  "I'm Clara, and I have a mermaid poster in my bedroom!" Clara quipped. Well, okay, there were two mermaids in the picture and they were making out, but still.

  "Don't worry; I wouldn't have canceled the yarn deal if you liked abstracts." Danielle waved one hand reassuringly as she used the other to hold the door open for Clara. "I just feel really strongly about letting people, you know, like what they like. And that's twelve times more important when
you're talking about the actual artist, making the stuff. Two, please!"

  "Booth or table?"

  They ended up in a booth by the window, and put in their orders. "Thank you so much for coming out to meet with me," Clara gushed. "I've gotten really excited about this project, and I hope you like what I came up with."

  "I don't know if I know enough about knitting to know if I like it or not," said Danielle, "but what I do know I like, is the idea of my paintings inspiring a whole yarn collection. I mean, who wouldn't!"

  Clara shrugged. "A lot of people haven't realized how big knitting is. They still associate it with grandmothers and pregnancy."

  "In other words, with desexualized women," Danielle pointed out. "And therefore, it becomes devalued."

  "Hmm," said Clara, pondering. "I never made that connection before."

  "Fair warning—I'm kind of a big obnoxious feminist."

  "You don't seem obnoxious at all!" Clara chattered. "Those things you were telling that student on the phone sounded really encouraging. Not that I should have been listening, obviously. Sorry!"

  "Hey, I'm the one who decided to have a big public conversation in the breezeway instead of in my car. Ooh! Pickles."

  That would be the waitress coming back with small bowls filled with crispy half-sours and fluffy little onion rolls.

  "I could just fill up on this stuff," Danielle said through her mouthful of bliss.

  "I'm glad you like this place. I come here with my family all the time."

  "Yeah, me too." A weird look that almost reminded Clara of a crack spreading across thin ice settled over Danielle's face.

  She hastened to steer her away from whatever it was. "Our people really do have the best comfort food."

  Danielle nodded slowly. "Chicken soup that takes the whole day to make."

  "Bagels and lox with all the trimmings."

  "Brisket."

  "Noodle kugel, the kind with peaches and raisins."

  "Gefilte fish?" Clara grinned mischievously.

  "No, now I can't talk to you anymore," Danielle kidded.

  Clara shrugged. "I like it."

  "Good, you can have my share. Along with matzo."

  "I'll pass!" Clara rifled through her portfolio, making sure the pages she'd printed were in the right order to go with her sketches.

  "Nobody actually likes matzo. It's basically a cracker with dysthymia."

  "Gentiles do," Clara pointed out as she arranged her papers across the table. "Ever complained to one of your Christian friends, or like, atheists who were raised Christian or whatever, during Passover? They always say they like it." And every once in a while she ran into someone Jewish who did, too, but that wasn't as common.

  Danielle studied the pages in front of her, where a close-up of a coconut palm in the sun was paired with a variegated yarn in greens and yellowish-oranges that matched its tones. "Oh, wow, you really distilled this down to its color skeleton."

  Clara beamed. "That's good, right?"

  Danielle nodded. "It's like you were working from a picture of my original palette." She moved on to the next grouping of sketch with painting. "How does this work?"

  Clara had transformed roseate spoonbills walking through the water at sunrise into a shimmery combination of pale blues and silvers, with pink flecks scattered throughout. "Spatter dyeing is really in right now," she explained. "I've had people tell me it makes knitting shawls with long expanses of garter stitch more interesting."

  "See, I don't even know what garter stitch is."

  "Matzo for knitters," Clara quipped. "Okay, not really. But it's just.... the same stitch over and over. Sometimes you need to do it to get from point A to point B between the interesting parts."

  "We have stuff like that in art, too," said Danielle. "It can be meditative. Relaxing. Soothing. Or just frustrating, depending," she added. "Can I take a picture of some of those?"

  Clara nodded. "I mean, like, none of this is finalized. These were just my initial ideas. I'd have to do a bunch of test skeins first, might even knit swatches..." Danielle had her phone out and was already happily snapping pictures. Now that Clara could see the back of the phone clearly, she noticed a familiar pawprint symbol. "Is that Captain Werewolf?"

  Danielle nodded. "Yeah. I know—"

  "No, I love that show! That's the only way I get through the most boring parts of knitting projects. Like a really long shawl border." Clara took another pickle from the dish. "Are you caught up?"

  "No, I'm three episodes behind, but I got spoiled about the—wait, are you caught up?"

  "Yeah, I'm good." Clara snickered. "I read fanfic so I'm paranoid about being spoiled by some thirteen year old's plot summary."

  "I wish they'd just let Cinnamon Blade and Soledad be together in canon already."

  Cinnamon Blade was the redhead whose hair Clara had been thinking about turning into a club colorway. "Me, too! I can't resist that bad girl - good girl vibe they've got going on." Little points of heat prickled in her face as she realized she might be talking to a lady who walked on her side of the rainbow.

  Danielle shrugged. "At least we can console ourselves that as long as it's just subtext they can't kill them off like all those other shows."

  "Yeah, true."

  "Perfect get-rich-quick scheme—life insurance policies on all the lesbians on sci fi shows." Danielle pointed at Clara. "Am I right? I'm right. Foolproof."

  Danielle took out a sketchbook and a pencil, but just then the waitress arrived heavily laden with goodies. "I did that," she mock-bragged to Clara, pointing at the book as she pushed it aside.

  Clara put away her printouts and sketches and dug in. For a few moments both women thought only of food, but eventually conversation revived. "So what kind of legal protections would you want for me to go through with this?"

  "Well, I mean..." Danielle paused to take a long sip of her Dr. Brown's. "Nothing major. I mean, it's not like I have to tell you not to have homophobic ads or whatever."

  Clara burst into self-conscious giggles. With flared jazz hands and a funny robotic voice, she said, "Don't buy my yarn—I am too gay." Her heart was beating in her face from how inane that sounded, but she was also glad for the opportunity to come out in the natural flow of conversation.

  Danielle responded to this with a sort of contented cat-face, heavy-lidded and smiling subtly, as if Clara's admission relaxed her. "Speaking of, have you ever dyed any of the identity flags?"

  "When I first got into dyeing I did the ace flag for a friend, but I didn't use enough mordant to fix the plum dye to the yarn and it bled into the white part. So it was, like, plum, silver, black, and pink. She liked it anyway, though."

  "It sounds pretty," said Danielle.

  "I was going to do bi colors next but that was the time I used too much dye and it was coming off on my hands when I tried to knit with it. Made me get sick of those colors really quickly."

  "The bi colors look like shit." Danielle picked up the parsley garnish from her plate and stuffed it in her mouth. "I'm bi, by the way. If I could trade our flag with the ace one for a hundred dollars I'd take it."

  "Is that the hundred dollars you got for taking out life insurance on the dead lesbians on TV?"

  Danielle smirked at her and snapped her fingers.

  "So, any real rules?"

  "My dad's a lawyer. How about I get him to draw something up that we can sign that says anything you dye based on my paintings has to credit me and have my full name and website?"

  "Yeah, that sounds fair," said Clara. "What about royalties?"

  Danielle waved her hand. "Don't worry about it."

  "Are you sure? I don't want to feel like I'm exploiting you—"

  "If it goes well, you can take me to dinner."

  Clara knew right then that she was making the face Jasmine would have recognized from Daniel Greenbaum's bar mitzvah.

  ❀

  The next week flew by as the box office kept Clara busy during the day and the dye-pot
s — in her case, gigantic kettles like the ones Italian grandmothers ladle spaghetti from in ads for pasta sauce — at night. She tested her ideas, hanging wet yarn up to dry in all the bathrooms until Jasmine protested and started leaving mocking post-it notes on the mirrors. "If I'm gonna live in a preschool," read one in her distinctive loopy handwriting, "can I have Playdough for dinner?"

  Like any other week, she topped off her evening reading fanfiction on her laptop in bed. On Tuesday night, when she finished a particularly toothsome vignette about Soledad and Cinnamon Blade, she realized that maybe Danielle would like it too. It was short, so it wouldn't come with the pressure of "here, read this 75,000 word story!" Plus, it was G-rated, so she wasn't doing something as inappropriate as sending a sexy link to someone who was, at least for now, a work contact.