Cupcake

by Rachel Cohn

  "That's not your real name," he huffed.

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  ''It so is too.''

  I took my Cali driver's license out of Mrs. VonHuffingUptight's chain strap Chanel shoulder bag, another item from my mother's closet. When I was younger, her fashion taste seemed horrendous. Now it still seems horrendous, but also kitschy and cool-- and ringer lickin' swipeworthy.

  Max inspected my ID, then, satisfied with my name claim, said, "Go figure. A real live Cyd Charisse in my own apartment. I never thought I'd see the day. Do you have a dance to share along with the cupcakes?" He placed his pipe back in his mouth and lit up.

  I said, "I'm not the dancer type of Cyd Charisse. But would you mind not smoking, because what if I did want to break out into a dance number but all that secondhand smoke of yours impaired my ability to perform?"

  Max continued to puff away. "My apartment," he said. "My rules." I hope Danny never adopts this man's methodology. "I'm not entirely sure this isn't a dream, you know. Girl named Cyd Charisse appears at my apartment door, loaded with cupcakes? Why don't you have a seat and prove yourself. At least tell me about why you can't keep the noise down up there tonight."

  I cleared about a year's worth of New York Times Sunday Arts & Leisure sections from his sofa and took a seat, crossing my legs like a proper VonHuffingUptight.

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  "First I gotta question for you," I said. "Are you 'Max' like Maxwell the singer or 'Maxim' like de Winter as in--"

  "As in Rebecca !" Max said, sounding impressed--and pleased. Maybe all my Rear Window movie-watching time was not a complete waste of time. "Who's Maxwell the singer?"

  "You know, neo-soul guy, really hot body in the practically naked videos on the Smooth R & B music choice channel?" To Max's confused look, I added, "Catchy groove tunes that sound great at first then just become kinda grating, at least when you're stuck in your bedroom flicking channels while waiting for a broken leg to heal?" Max's face downgraded from confused to bordering on bored. I can intuit people with short attention spans like me, so I figured I'd better change the subject. "Maxwell was so last millennium, never mind. So speaking of music ... I realize you think our party was making too much noise, but are you aware that it's a Saturday night? And that tonight is Halloween?"

  "Ah," Max said. He sat down on his piano bench. "That explains a lot about the noise coming from everywhere. The Village at Halloween. Nightmare."

  "You must not get out much," I said.

  "I try not to," he said, proud.

  "Are you the neighborhood pariah?" I asked him, hopeful. He chuckled. "That's got to be the first time anybody has ever said that to my face. Why yes, I believe I am. At least when it comes

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  to noise complaints." Hard, loud footsteps thumped from the ceiling. Max reached for a long broom standing against the wall. He stood up on the piano bench and banged the top of the broomstick several times against the ceiling. Then he shouted up at his upstairs neighbors, "KEEP THAT RACKET DOWN!"

  Keep that racket down? I had figured Max for being about fiftysomething years old, but sleuth girl with the old movie database in her head now had to judge that based on the ceiling-swatting broom and the dime-store dialogue of a grouchy-old-man-ruining-everyone's-good-time-in-a-Mickey-Rooney-movie, Max could possibly be closer to a thousand years old.

  In response to the racket the upstairs neighbor thumped several times more on the floor. Then, from the neighbor's courtyard window, we heard "FUCK YOU, MAX!"

  Max smiled, refuting my binoculars impression of him as the mystery man with the permanent frown. While live and in person Max's smile appeared much in need of teeth whitener, or possibly dentures would be the better way to go, it nonetheless reflected him as an old soul who clearly would be this lost soul Cyd Charisse's first new companion in her new life. "New York," Max said. "I love it!"

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  ***

  TWELVE

  The name flashing on my cell phone reminded me that I haven't

  picked up a book in a very long time. Luis.

  The name, not a book. Luis whose aunt knows my bio-dad, Luis who drove me around the first summer I spent in New York when I was sixteen. And, sorry to be a shallow girl here, but Luis of the gorgeous athlete body, the wavy-slick black hair, the honey eyes and cinnamon skin, and 'scuse me, lisBETH, the total heterosexual swagger. Luis who, while no Shrimp, was also no George. Luis was familiar. Familiarly enticing. (See: Earlier desire for uncomplicated hook-up.)

  "Are you going to answer that or not?" Max said, his hostile expression indicating disapproval of ring tones belching out the

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  South Park song "Uncle Fucka" (Best song ever not involving KC and the Sunshine Band).

  I sat outside in Max's garden (access! mission accomplished!), reclining on the hammock situated directly underneath a clothesline that had country flags hanging from clothespins, instead of wet socks and reminder notes to water the plants. As I swayed on the hammock, Bolivia flew proudly over my face, with Namibia blowing a gentle breeze on my ankles. So much better than a Halloween coming-out party with Danny-boy strangers.

  Even the phone's vibration felt good in my hand.

  Loo-eese. Luis who's only a few years older than me but for whom I was still jailbait the summer I was sixteen, despite our one hot and heavy make-out session that was, 'scuse me again, cut short by the swagger of lisBETH's unexpected arrival into our scene that night.

  "I gotta take this one," I told Max. You have no idea.

  Luis is like a chapter from a book I put on hold and now I'm ready to take out.

  "Rude ring tone," Max muttered, glaring at my cell. "Cole Porter it's not."

  Max got up from his hot-pink-painted chair under the hammer-and-sickle flag lamp shade, where he'd been hanging with me for the last hour, eating cupcakes and smoking his pipe. The detective in

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  me was sorry for the abrupt end to the getting-to-know-Max-time, but she could fill out her report later, after investigating the Luis interruption.

  The report would detail these Max-facts:

  (1) Mystery man is no mystery--Max will tell you anything, just ask;

  (2) He earns his living as a composer, creating song jingles for commercials, TV shows, and movies;

  (3) His true love, Tony, died from AIDS before I was even born, in the time before medications could contain the disease. And while Max shares my desire to experience true love again, meeting a new guy is hard, given Max's agoraphobic tendencies, which only further endears him to me, because how amazing are cranky people on a quest for true love, anyway--it's so cute and unrealistic;

  (4) Max eats random food like beets from a can and lox chips, etc., because he is very into consumption of small food items but not so into real meals, for no other reason than "just because," and if Max were three generations younger, I would suggest Just Because as the name for his queercore swing band, because the name completely explains Max; and

  (5) While Max does know many secrets of the universe (Laurence Olivier and Danny Kaye had a thing going on!--

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  my supposedly fine-tuned gaydar would never have deduced this based on their performances in either Rebecca or White Christmas, respectively), Max knows nothing about Hot Nude Yoga, though he agrees the flyer, retrieved from Mrs. VonHuffingUptight's handbag for Max's inspection, is enticing indeed. Like most things in this city, I'll have to find out about it myself.

  As Max stepped back inside his apartment for a bathroom break, I answered the call of the Luis. "Hey there," I murmured, in some previously unknown voice, as though Max's pipe smoke had wafted straight down my throat and was just waiting for Luis to check in so the voice could go all husky. And maybe get its owner lucky.

  Luis did that New York thing I love of skipping over pleasantries. He jumped right in like the center hoops-player he is. "Rumor has it you moved to New York instead of Berkeley with your boyfriend like you were threatening to do last spring when we ran into ea
ch other and exchanged digits. Rumor also has it the boyfriend es historia and that you've been doing the Ma'hattan thing going on three months already and haven't rung my cell once to let me know. 'Sup with that?" That deep voice, holding out the promise of sculpted biceps and ripple-tight abs. That Nuyorican accent, hard and street-smart fast with soft Spanish echoes. Sigh.

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  I couldn't resist busting his chops, a short little detour on what would surely be my opportunity to bust out. I teased, "What makes you think it's appropriate to call a girl so late? Are you aware that it's around midnight?" I could hear the Halloween parade revelry going by in the background of Luis's phone. He idled within my vicinity. Rumor must have told him that the Village Halloween parade vicinity was also within the new neighborhood realm of Cyd Charisse.

  Luis said, "Are you aware that I don't care? And if you're so concerned about the late night hour, why's your phone turned on, anyway?"

  I took my shot to get right down to business--I could never play hoops guard, because I am totally forward material. "Are you aware of the rumor that I turned eighteen not too long ago?" Jailbait no longer, but totally willing to temporarily be taken captive.

  Luis laughed. "Rumor might have heard that. So what's taking you so long? I'm right now in front of the Village b-ball court where I ran into you last time, right by your brother's apartment. You know the Mick D's round the corner from the court? How about I wait for your vanilla shake self outside the front, say--half an hour from now?"

  "Rumor has it that vanilla shakes like some hot fries with extra salt to go along with," I said, jumping up from the hammock. "Rumor expects you to be prepared when she arrives."

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  I love rumors, at least now that I am freed from the boarding school drama that was my high school past and the rumors aren't vicious (if true) ones about me. They're delicious ones bringing Loo-eeses to me.

  There's the key difference between me and those Nancy and Trixie sleuth girls. They never get to grow up and get theirs.

  I do.

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  ***

  THIRTEEN

  Picture this.

  You are striding through the Village in the middle of the night on Halloween, on your way to answer a booty call. You have permanently retired that VonHuffingUptight Halloween costume and changed into a comfortable and casual, old-school hip-hop look, with green Adidas track pants slung low on the hips, and a short, tight white Grandmaster Flash T-shirt. Your long black licorice hair is tied in a bunch behind your head, to allow maximum attention on your bare vanilla shake midriff. You've got new curves to strut, and you know it.

  You do not answer a phone call from your mother on the way to this booty call.

  YOU DO NOT!

  Unless you are a glutton for punishment, as I apparently am.

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  "Cyd Charisse, why can I hear so much noise? Where are you?"

  "Walking around the Village. I'm allowed."

  "It's one in the morning there!"

  "Which means it's ten in San Francisco. Shouldn't you be in bed by now, Mom?"

  "I'm in the last trimester of my fourth pregnancy. I have two children running me ragged." (False. She has a nanny and a housekeeper whom my younger siblings run ragged.) "I do not sleep." (Translation: The doctor cut off her Ambien supply until the baby's born.) "I try to keep Ash and Josh from killing each other, I worry about you flung out in New York City, and I go to the bathroom regularly." (Fair enough.) "But I do not sleep." (Clearly.)

  Silent pause followed by an audible sigh. On my part, not hers--though I'd just pulled off her signature move--the "Nancy Classic," as I call it. I swear, I am becoming her. It's scary. However, I further swear I won't end up like her, a fresh young thing who left home at eighteen to start a new life in Manhattan and wound up knocked up by a married man.

  "Mom, why are you calling me?" Don't ask me about the Plan, don't ask me about the Plan.

  "I wanted to hear how Danny's party for you went."

  Phew. I could be honest about that one. "I don't know. I left it."

  "You what? Isn't that a little rude?" A lot rude, probably. I had other things on my mind. Like that I was within a block of the Luis

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  meeting point, and I didn't need my mother ruining my mood. "CC, are you still there? I don't like the sound of this. You're not getting into trouble again, are you? I thought we were through with that. I thought--"

  Done. Click. Phone turned off. The CC signature move.

  Everybody's good at something. Danny bakes. Shrimp paints. Max composes. I ... don't know my own special skill yet, but if I had to nominate one it would probably be my ability to wear skirts that barely fall below my ass and yet somehow not come off looking like a skanky ho either. (I think.)

  My mother? Her special skill is never letting me forget that once upon a time I was a so-called bad girl, a little princess who was pregnant on her sixteenth birthday. Expelled from posh boarding school soon after the pregnancy was terminated--and all because of a bad ex-boyfriend, who not only didn't help out with the clinic visit, but was also dealing drugs out of his dorm room (with me in it). All the trouble that came before I went home to San Francisco, grew up a little, fished out a Shrimp, and then bravely threw him back into the sea.

  I'm on my own now. I don't have to answer to my mother. I made my sacrifice.

  As I approached the meeting spot, I noticed Luis's center court height first. I loved my pint-size surfer boy Shrimp, but there's something intoxicating about a guy taller than me. For one thing,

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  at my height there aren't that many of them dudes. For another thing, those extra inches towering over me somehow feel protective, and safe, and sexy--at least on the right guy. After Luis's height, my eyes honed in on the gold cross chain dangling over the black hair on his tank-top-attired chest's luscious cinnamon skin. The shine of the gold cross chain felt like a divine signal calling out to me, Hail Mary, how've ya been? Is this center court body the answer to your prayers, or what?

  "Damn," Luis said. His hands mimicked the outline of a curvy female silhouette. "You look good." I believed his sincerity. He looked like he was about to salivate, and not on account of the milk shake in his hands. "Different. All grown up and filled out. You sure ain't no scrawny Lolita girl anymore. You still carry that old rag doll?"

  "Gingerbread retired," I told Luis. "She came along for the ride to Manhattan, but she mostly just hangs out in my bed in my new apartment now. She's not into traveling in my handbag all the time anymore. She's got, you know, canasta games with the various bedroom tchotchkes to figure out. Better ways to spend her time than looking after me."

  "Does she now?" FUCK! That Luis smile. He handed me a bag of piping hot fries. I could taste the extra salt.

  Two summers ago when Gingerbread wandered this city with me, lodged inside my handbag, she shared my crush on Luis. She

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  also shared a certain psychic vibe with me, and I could feel it returning full force now, wafting over from her current doll emeritus state of retirement in my bedroom. I knew she would not only authorize, she would also absolve me for the sins I knew I was about to commit.

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  ***

  FOURTEEN

  So this was what the Walk of Shame looked like.

  I stumbled past the white hallway walls leading from my bedroom, but the walls had turned psychedelic, swirls of sherbet pinks, reds, and oranges dizzying me. The hallway's round ceiling light appeared to hang extra low, hovering like a UFO, attempting to grab my throbbing head and twist it, throttle it, destroy it. Although the distance to my destination was only several feet, each step forward felt like two steps back, as if I were attempting to cross an infinite, barren dessert, parched, instead of simply trying to find my way to the bathroom, to puke.

  I don't know how long my bathroom prison sentence, prostrate before the porcelain goddess, lasted. I could have been there for five minutes or an hour. The time-
space continuum blanked out.

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  Danny stood leaning against the hallway wall when I finally emerged--or was it crawled? (felt like it)--from the bathroom. That hallway wall definitely played favorites, because it did not appear to sprout monster-goblin hands trying to envelop Danny, to harsh him.

  My arms reached for a table to steady myself, but my shaking hands found no such support. My blurry vision tried to make out the time on the wall clock behind Danny. It may have read noon, or it may have flashed a rainbow-sherbet-colored neon sign: Care to puke again? Care to puke again?

  Danny said, "Luis left about an hour ago, if that's who you're looking for."

  Luis? Who's Luis?

  Want to be magically transported back to bedroom without any physical effort on my part. Want peace, not Loo-eese. Head. Pound. Head. Pound.

  In response to my silence Danny continued, "Think you can make it to the living room for a little talk?"

  From the tone of his voice, no way was the Talk going to be "little."

  "No," I muttered. "Back to bed."

  I staggered past Danny. I could barely find my way, for all the unkempt strings of hair falling in front of my face, but as I returned to my bedroom, I could see through the hair enough to

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  spot a tiny Dixie cup on my nightstand, with what appeared to be green Jell-O inside it. As I collapsed onto my bed, an unopened condom wrapper fell to the floor from underneath the pillow at the far side of the bed. Oh, that Luis.

  Oh, shouldn't that wrapper be open--and discarded in the trash, after its contents had been properly used?

  Vague memories crept into the available 1 percent of my conscious waking state. Something about Jell-O shots at a salsa club where Luis's friend worked and wouldn't card me. Salsa dancing with Luis even though I don't know how to salsa dance. Yes, yes, it was coming back, 28 percent and getting stronger, now I saw it: Two bodies jiggling, pressing together, the cinnamon boy can really dance and the vanilla girl really can't, but it doesn't matter, there they are, grooving and laughing, gulping agua with Jell-O chasers. Catch up with them now, Ay ay ay, they're making out in the bathroom (oh, so sweet), and hello, they're racing back to vanilla's apartment, toting along some extra Jell-O for the ride. Folks, they're too smashed and turned on to bother using the condom.