I got really excited when Alyson said, “And now, time for dessert,” but I should have known better. In unison she and Veronique reached into their purses and pulled out their flavored lip glosses.
After that delicacy, we moved from the restaurant into the bar area. Everything was purple and red, and there were voodoo dolls and candles everywhere, so it seemed cool, and its coolness was confirmed by the fact that the bartenders appeared to be way hipper than the patrons.
There were a lot more men than women, most of them like the guys who hung around the keg at the UCLA fraternity parties I’d been to, slouching in jeans and untucked shirts and baseball caps, giving each other the occasional high five and appearing pretty much all the same. The bartenders, on the other hand, were wearing an assortment of black leather items and had piercings in all different places. The best one was a woman with really pale skin and dark hair wearing a black lace-up corset, black leather pants, a studded black choker, and a matching black leather wrist cuff. All the other bartenders seemed to kind of defer to her, as though they too felt her supreme excellence and honored her as their Queen. Or maybe she was just their boss. I sat on a stool in her section, hoping some of her coolness could ooze in my direction. Acting on Alyson’s advice I ordered a bottle of water and a straw.
Before I could really start enjoying myself, Veronique popped up onto the stool next to me, her back to the bar, facing the room. At first she just sat quietly twirling her hair on her finger, with a little frown, but after a while she said, “I totally don’t get it.”
“What?” I asked, because I had to.
“Why all these guys are into you. They’re fully eye-humping you.”
Eye-humping. Why thank you, Veronique, for searing that image into my brain for all time.
And she wasn’t done! She looked at me and wrinkled her nose. “I never would have thought you were so bacon.”
“Bacon?”
“You know, sizzling hot?” Her expression changed to genuine confusion. “Do you and your friends speak Braille or something?”
“Yes, yes we do,” I admitted. “When we’re not speaking Esperanto.”
“Oh.” And she went back to scoping out the room.
I decided, despite the eye-humping, I kind of liked Veronique. I mean, how could I not like someone who believed I spoke Esperanto? And at least, unlike my so-called real friends, she didn’t treat me like I had been the subject of a secret government experiment. Or if she did, it was nothing new.
As a gesture of friendship I went, “I’m sure the guys are all staring at you, not me.” Plus, I was pretty sure it was true.
“No. I can fully tell when a guy is running my plates—I mean, checking me out,” she added for the Braille-speaking crowd. “I have this, like, psychic ability to sense when guys are getting ready to put the moves on people. Like that guy over there in the cargo pants? A minute and ten seconds, he’ll be over to ask me to dance. I bet his line will be something about numbers.”
As we counted down the seconds, I said, “Who is Miles? In the limo you said he was a friend of Alyson’s?”
“Sort of. He’s this guy that Alyson—I mean, he’s no one. I’m not supposed to tell about him.”
“Please?”
But before I could get her to spill, time apparently ran out. The exact guy she’d said sauntered over, put one elbow on the bar, and said to her, “Can I borrow your cell phone to call 911? You’re so hot you’re setting this place on fire.”
Which meant that now Veronique had a superpower as well. Great.
As she went off with Mr. 911 she pointed to a group of guys across the bar and said, “One of them will be over to talk to you in two minutes, tops. He’ll bring up love.”
I guess the odds were sort of in her favor, since a girl sitting alone at a bar is probably fair game, but I was still surprised that she was right again. Well, almost—it was two minutes and eighteen seconds. But the guy’s line was, “Do you believe in love at first sight?”
“No.”
“Me either. That’s why I want to see you again tomorrow.”
“Thank you, but I’m busy,” I said, and developed an enormous interest in my water bottle.
“What about the next day?” He put his finger under my chin and turned my face toward his and I got a big whiff of cologne. “I just can’t get enough of those dimples. Come on, what do you say?”
The cologne must have had some special brain-numbing power, because my mind went blank, and I said the first thing I thought of. Which was, “Favor de dejar un especimín en este copa para el doctor.”
“What?”
“She told you to pee in a cup,” the ultra cool Queen of the bartenders said. “I think that means get lost.”
When he was gone I caught her eye and said, “Thanks.”
She shrugged. “Don’t mention it. What’s your name?”
“Jasmine,” I said.
“Listen, Jasmine, you’ve got to be direct with these guys. Don’t beat around the bush. And don’t worry about hurting their feelings—God knows they’re not worried about hurting yours.” (Little Life Lesson 8)
She had the kind of scratchy voice that suggests a lot of serious life experience, much of it occurring late at night in smoky bars. I felt like I had been taken under the wing of a Sage Master who would teach me the ways of the Cool and Jaded and protect me from evil. It was an extremely comforting thought.
Only I forgot the part about how somehow whenever the student faces a Supreme Test of Strength, the Sage Master is on a cigarette break.
So I was on my own when Bachelor Number Two sat down next to me and murmured, “Excuse me, don’t I know you from somewhere?”
I said, “No.”
He looked at me with his eyelids half lowered and went, “Now I remember, it was in my dreams. Want to make a few of them come true?”
Be direct, I heard my master’s voice whisper. I said, “Does that line really work?”
Number Two went, “You’re talking to me, aren’t you?” And winked.
That was when I noticed he was about five times as big as I was and wearing a T-shirt that said UCLA WRESTLING, which didn’t look borrowed. I decided the not-beating-around-the-bush thing to do, at that point, would be to get away. So I said, “No,” took my bottle of water, and walked to the only place I knew a woman would be safe from a man.
As usual, there was a line in the bathroom.
Standing in the line at least gave me a chance to hear Bachelor Number Two pound on the door of the bathroom behind me and say, “Who do you think you are walking away from me? I’ll be waiting for you, tall bitch.” And not in, like, a cooing voice.
I was pretty sure that being followed to the bathroom by irate wrestlers was not the kind of behavior that Model Daughters engaged in. That or responding to the name “tall bitch.” So I decided that as soon as I got into one of the five bathroom stalls I’d just stay there and never come out. That’s why. Not because I am a coward.
Much.
But the thing is, it’s kind of boring to sit in a bathroom stall. Especially one at a fancy place, where no one has written anything instructive on the walls, like what number to call for a good time, or who is H-O-T-T. Once I’d read the label on my bottle of water, then shredded the label on my bottle of water, there really wasn’t anything left to do.
Well, okay. I could ponder the failure of my Model Daughter scheme. Because I was pretty sure Model Daughters didn’t find themselves hiding in bathrooms while a guy shouted, “Hey, tall girl, I’m still here,” every time the outside door opened. I even found myself wishing I’d brought some dental floss so at least I could be doing something to deal with my plaque production superpower while I waited. (Little Life Lesson 9: Always carry dental floss with you. You never know when it could come in handy.) Truthfully, I was starting to feel a little sorry for myself.
Then I heard someone sniffling in the stall beside me. Model Daughters do not eavesdrop because they’re too busy
minding their own business, but my business had pretty much ground to a halt, and I couldn’t help myself. Especially after the sniffling turned to a voice, which said, “I just want it all to end. I can’t live this way anymore.”
Who wouldn’t listen then? Are Model Daughters supposed to be heartless as well? I don’t think so.
Especially not if they think they recognize the voice. And if, happening to look beneath the wall between the stalls, they see a foot with a black smudge shaped like a lightning bolt on the nail polish of the left big toe.
It was Fiona Bristol. Crying.
And talking on the phone, I realized, when she said, “You have no idea what it’s like. I’m terrified all the time. Terrified for myself, even more terrified for my son. I know what you think, but I have no choice. Every day asking myself what if, what if, I can’t go on like that, I—”
There was silence broken only by her sniffles until she said in an angry whisper, “How can you promise that? You don’t know. He might come at any moment and take us by surprise. And God knows what he will do. He’s capable of anything. This is the only way.”
Another pause. Her toes were pointed in, like she was pigeon-toed, and I pictured her slumped back hopelessly. I wondered where Fred was. Maybe the Fabinator was baby-sitting. Poor Fred.
Like she was reading my mind she said, “You know I hate leaving Fred, even just for a few hours. He’s not feeling well and he gets so scared, and today, after what happened with the cat…”
I listened to see if she would mention me, but she just said, “Maybe. But it’s too late now. I’ve made my decision. More than anything, I just want this to be over. I want to be able to go home. I want us to be done with this charade.”
What charade?
She listened to the person on the other end of the phone for a few seconds before taking a deep breath and saying miserably, “God, why does doing the right thing have to be so much harder than doing the wrong thing?”
Silence again. I heard the scrape of a lighter and smelled cigarette smoke. She said, “Yes, I’m positive. And I’m grateful.” Crossing one leg over the other, she said, “I don’t know what I would do if I didn’t have you, darling, I really don’t.”
Darling? Did she have a secret boyfriend?
There was a long pause while she listened to whoever was on the other end of the phone, and when she spoke again she sounded resigned. “I know. But having to talk to you on the phone like this instead of—Thank you, Alex,” she said curtly. “I hardly need to be reminded of that.”
Alex. That was “Darling”’s name.
There was another pause, and then she said, “Knowing you’re on my side, that you’re there for me, will be there for me the whole time no matter what, means everything. Listen, I’m going to get out of here. No, I won’t do anything drastic.” The cigarette butt fell to the floor, and she crushed it under the heel of her shoe. “Yes, I promise. Love you too.”
I heard her push the OFF button on her phone. For a few moments she sat very still. Then she took a single ragged breath, pushed herself up, and walked out of her stall.
I wish I could say I had a moment of indecision about what to do, that I took into account the whole Model Daughters Are Own-Business-Minded thing, and Bachelor Number Two on the outside waiting to pounce on me. But I didn’t. And not (just) because I am nosy. Or because I owed her for being my savior earlier that day. There had been something in Fiona Bristol’s tone when she said she wouldn’t do anything drastic that sounded like maybe she’d had her fingers crossed. And we were on top of a forty-five-story building.
No part of the Model Daughter job description could possibly involve letting someone plunge to their death, I reasoned, so I bolted out of the bathroom after her as soon as I could.
Or anyway, that was my plan. By the time I threaded my way through the line of women applying lip gloss, teasing up hair, squinting at themselves in the mirror, and waiting to use the bathroom, she was gone. The corridor the bathroom gave on to was empty—Bachelor Number Two must have given up, I noted, not exactly shedding any tears—but then I thought I saw someone just beyond it. I was so distracted looking ahead of me that I didn’t notice the man coming toward me until I almost bumped into him. Which shows I must have been preoccupied because he was wearing a long white caftan and had a huge beard. Kind of hard to miss. In fact, he looked a lot like Polly’s mom’s Kabala teacher, except this man had a longer beard and a gold watch. (Polly’s mom’s guru is strictly anti-time-keeping. He says watches interfere with the body’s rhythms.) Even with that concession to the modern world, he was not exactly the kind of person you’d expect to see at a place like the Voodoo Lounge. His breath didn’t smell like he’d been drinking, but he seemed a little unsteady on his feet. I said, “Pardon me,” and moved to the right, but he did too, and then we both went to the left. He gave a half smile and mumbled, “I hadn’t planned on doing any dancing tonight,” and it fully would have been funny, if I hadn’t been trying to get anywhere. Finally he stepped to one side and I stepped to the other and went by him. But it was too late.
Fiona Bristol was long out of sight. I headed for the place I’d choose if I were going to harm myself, the outside balcony that was on the corner of the building, to look for her. I pushed my way through the packed crowds and for once I was glad to be tall. I walked all around the balcony twice, but I didn’t see Fiona anywhere. If she wasn’t outside it meant she wasn’t going to hurl herself to a dramatic death. At least not right then.
Still, I wanted to be sure she was safe. I went back inside and stood at the edge of the dance floor to see if I could spot her there. I was standing on my tiptoes trying to see over the packed crowd when a male voice behind me said, “Excuse me. Don’t I know you?”
No. Please, no. Not again.
A wise voice in my head rasped be direct.
Without turning around I said, “That arctic blast you’re feeling? It’s the chill coming off my cold shoulder.” Snappy and direct. Done and done.
There was silence, which I thought meant mission accomplished, but before I could pat myself on the back, the Male Voice returned, closer behind me this time. It said, “Do you have a copyright on that? I think that’s the best line I’ve ever heard.”
Not only did Male Voice say that, but it said it in a British accent. One of the really fancy ones.
I turned around and found myself face to chest with a Greek god. At least if his pecs, which I could see through his well-fitted—but not tight—white linen shirt, were anything to go by.
Then I looked up.
Six
I swooned.
No, I didn’t, but I fully could have, because his face was even better than his voice or his pecs. And it was a face I knew: the face of the cute guy from the Snack Hut at the Venetian pool!
And he was smiling at me. And was cuter up close.
Better-than-ice-cream cute. Super-duper-deluxe-supersize-that-please-ma’am cute. Who-cares-what’s-on-TV-I-can-just-stare-at-you-all-night cute.
Yes, that cute.
Suddenly I did believe in love at first sight. Because there was the proof, all wrapped in a dark-haired, lightly tanned, moss green–eyed, worn-in jean-ed, green suede Adidas-ed, white-shirted package—that was at least four inches taller than me.
My one true love.
He smiled more—he had really nice teeth—and said, “I thought it was you. I saw you at the Venetian pool this afternoon. With the cat.”
And because there are monkeys that live in my head and always make me say the wrong thing, I said, “Ah. If you saw my moves there, I guess you’re not going to ask me to dance.”
I’m pretty sure the vocabulary word to describe that is “suave.”
Unsurprisingly, he looked at me like I was a lunatic and sort of seemed to choke for a moment before recovering speech. “Actually, I wanted to ask if you were all right. It looked like things got a bit rough for you.”
He came to see if I was all right!
My limbs were all hot and cold and my heart was so loud in my ears I felt like I was on some kind of medical show. I said, “It was nothing. I just feel bad for those people whose wedding I interrupted.”
“I think they’re lucky—at least their wedding will be memorable. Not just another boring ceremony. Although I really felt the groom should have jumped in the water as well.”
Like he had read my mind. Soul mates, that was what this was called. I couldn’t speak.
He nodded toward the dance floor. “I didn’t mean to interrupt you if you were looking for your friends, Miss—”
“Callihan,” I stammered. “But you can call me Jasmine. Or Jas.” Or Snookums. Honeybunch. Hotsie Totsie Cowgirl. My Little—
“It’s nice to meet you, Jasmine. I’m Jack.”
Is it me, or do Jas and Jack sound really, really good together? They do! The monkeys in my head thought so too, chiming in to sing “Jas and Jack, sitting in a tree, K-I-S-S-I-N-G” as we shook hands.
His hand was strong and warm and soft. I did not want to let go.
His superpower, it became clear, was to use his smile to debilitate anyone who came close to him and erase their memory so they could not think of what they meant to say, or who they were, or anything besides, “Wow is he hot, I wonder what his favorite flavor of ice cream is.” Which is what I was thinking when I realized he was talking again.
“Are you the baby-sitter?”
“The what?”
“The baby-sitter. For the boy with the cat?”
I laughed. The idea of me baby-sitting, given the kind of rapport I had with children, was very funny. “Um, no.”
He looked confused. “Then you’re a friend of the family’s?”
“No. I’d never met them. I mean, before. I have now. They introduced themselves afterward.”
He said, “How were they?” and for a moment his voice sounded different, more intense. Then he shook his head. “I’m sorry. What I meant to ask was, were they, ah, grateful?”
“Yes. Mostly they seemed relieved.” Which was very different from how Fiona Bristol had sounded in the bathroom talking to darling Alex. Meeting the Man of My Dreams had momentarily distracted me from looking for her, but I was on a mission. I made myself remove my eyes from Jack and glance around the dance floor, toward the bar.
Bad Kitty Page 5