Heather’s bedroom had always made Kim uncomfortable. For one thing, its decor was ultra-feminine, almost an idealized little girl’s room, like the aristocratic bedchamber of a fairy tale princess. When their parents divorced, their father had sought to assuage his guilt over depriving his daughter of a perfect family life by buying her a fantasy bedroom, with white antique furniture and an abundance of lace, ruffles and frills. The centerpiece was a four-poster bed with a ruffled white canopy embroidered with pink rosebuds and a fluffy matching quilt. Small lace-trimmed pillows were piled luxuriously against the decorative headboard. A vanity with a large mirror in an intricately carved white frame was covered in cosmetics and bottles of lotions, and a short stool with a seat upholstered in soft white fabric and rimmed with flouncy ruffles sat before it.
On the opposite side of a dresser with bas-relief butterflies etched into the drawers was a free-standing, full-length mirror, which reflected a diminutive rocking chair and wall shelves displaying a collection of stuffed animals across the room. A door backed with a full-length mirror stood ajar on the other side of the bed, opening to a closet. The room was lit by lamps strategically placed on bedtables, dresser and vanity, topped with frilled damask shades and by a lone window framed with draperies in the pattern of the bedspread. The few places where the walls themselves were visible between the ample furnishings were papered in a pink rosebud pattern echoing that of the bed covers on a field of pure white.
The other thing that disturbed Kim about Heather’s room, however, was that it was a complete mess, a disaster area. For someone with a well-deserved reputation for intelligence, drive and organization in most aspects of her life, Heather was a total slob. Only small patches of carpet could be seen between piles of dirty laundry, shoes, empty bags of cookies and chips, teen magazines, half-read paperbacks, videotapes and compact discs. The bed was a riot of clothes that had been considered then rejected as the outfit of the day, curlers, a blow drier and assorted makeup. Empty cola cans and water glasses seemed to grow like mushrooms from the tops of the dresser and tables. Lingerie hung from half-open drawers and door knobs and a bathrobe was draped over the rocking chair. The surface of the dresser was a garden of high-tech gear: a portable TV, stereo, camera equipment and video supplies. School awards, souvenirs and knick knacks tumbled from shelves and dying houseplants lined the dusty window sill.
“God, Heather,” Mandy groaned. “Glad you finally got around to cleaning your room,” she added sarcastically. “We’ll never find anything for Baby Kimmie to wear in this landfill. There isn’t even a place to sit,” she moaned.
Heather was sufficiently discreet to avoid creating photographic evidence of her own slovenliness and had stopped filming. “No problem, Mandy,” she replied. “Just give me a sec.” In moments, Heather had scooped up armloads of laundry, trash and miscellaneous junk and dumped them into one big pile in a corner behind the bed.
Mandy vaulted onto the center of the hastily cleared bed, laid back, then rolled onto her side and smiled at Kim, who remained on his hands and knees just inside the doorway. “Do you think you can dig out those tennis panties we were talking about, Heather?” she asked.
Heather disappeared into her closet. “They used to be my Mom’s,” she said from deep inside the bowels of the closet. “They were kind of big and dorky, so I never wore them, but they should be stashed in here somewhere.” After ejecting various articles of clothing like a dog digging for a buried bone, Heather materialized and tossed a handful of lacy cloth to Mandy.