by Steve Bloom
I look at her. To own or not to own? That is the age-old question. Whether it’s nobler to be a lofty landlord or suffer the slings and arrows of lowly tenancy. I ask you, seriously, who gives a flying crap? It doesn’t matter, especially in Pritchard because, let’s face it, the whole town’s a shithole. But somehow it will always matter for Shelby. There will always be divisions, subtle gradations of status, the insatiable need to feel superior. And this, I abruptly realize, is her imperfection. And as imperfections go, it’s a whopper. I mean, it must be exhausting to always have to be devising new and better ways to look down on other people.
Shelby leans toward me, parts her shimmering lips, and shuts those emerald eyes for another go-round. Mine are wide open, for the very first time.
Beauty. Grace. Sophistication. Shelby possesses all these qualities and many more. But she’s no Celia Lieberman. It would never occur to Celia Lieberman to ask the question. Celia Lieberman has too much class—real class, the kind that can’t be bought or sold. Celia Lieberman’s the Genuine Article. And no slouch in the looks, sophistication, and smarts departments either, although I’d never put the word “grace” and Celia Lieberman together in the same sentence. Celia Lieberman’s a total klutz, but hey, that’s part of her charm. And that’s when I realize something truly earth-shattering.
I’ve fallen for Celia Lieberman.
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I’ve fallen for Celia Lieberman? How can this be? I’ve fallen for Celia Lieberman. Hard. Head-over-heels hard. Celia Lieberman! How could I have fallen for Celia Lieberman?
Yet I have.
Holy shit, I think, as I sprint back the way I just sprinted, I’m looney tunes for Celia Lieberman! I’m deep in the throes, besotted, down-for-the-count, hung up on Celia Lieberman! Holy shit, my mind races as my body struggles to keep up, what if I’m too late? My heart’s jackhammering to break out of my rib cage as I catapult five stairs at a clip. Holy shit, what if Celia Lieberman’s gone?
Careening around the second landing, I almost run right past her. She’s sitting on the bottom step, her face cradled against her knees. Thank God! Bent over, gasping, I attempt to play it casual-like.
“Ready to go?” I ask nonchalantly.
Celia Lieberman looks up at me. Her makeup’s all runny, her hair’s gone frizzy. She’s crying. I want to lick away the tears, drop by adorable drop.
“I said I’d be back,” I gently remind her.
“But Shelby?” she asks, uncomprehending.
“I told her I couldn’t go to Prom with her because I was madly, hopelessly in love with Celia Lieberman,” I report. And that, word for word, is what I did tell Shelby. I guess maybe she was right about me and Celia Lieberman all along.
Celia Lieberman rises, furiously brushing the wetness from her cheeks. I’m such a stupid dick. I’ve hurt her. Badly. Really badly. Most likely too badly. But all that counts for now is that she’s here.
“You ignore me, take me for granted, treat me like second best . . . ,” she blubbers, the droplets, now hot, angry ones, returning.
“Yes.”
And then I’m tearing up and blubbering too. Afraid I’ve blown it. Terrified I’ve lost her. I don’t know what I’ll do if I’ve lost her. We stand in the grungy stairwell so close together yet so far apart. We stand there, streaming tears, two of a kind, a pair of complete and total emotional wrecks.
“And now you expect me to just forget it?” she says in a choked voice. “To just forgive you?”
“If you could, I’d greatly appreciate it,” I whisper. “Yes, please.”
And man, somewhere along the line I must’ve done something right despite myself, because miraculously, she’s in my arms. We kiss our first of—I fervently hope—many kisses. Because we’re talking fireworks, my friends, sweet symphonic music. Major, major, major wood.
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The ballroom at the Radisson’s packed tight with sweating adolescence. We move hypnotically, one great churning mass, to Nas throwing beats on the fuzzy sound system. It’s dark, a little rank even. No fancy light shows here, no glitz or glamour. And no prescribed dance steps. Here, it’s strictly freestyle. My peeps. We take our lumps, we pay our dues.
Tomorrow we go our separate ways to wherever Fate takes us. Well, fuck Tomorrow. It’s Prom. Tonight, all that matters is Today.
“WHOSE WORLD IS THIS?” Nas riffs. “WHOSE WORLD IS THIS?”
“IT’S MINE! IT’S MINE! IT’S MINE!!” we all thunder in refrain.
The name’s Rattigan. Brooks Rattigan. 3.83 Overall GPA. 4.14 Weighted. 720 Verbal. 760 Math. 680 Writing—but everyone knows that section’s bullshit. National Merit Letter of Commendation Winner. Tri-State Liar. All-Around Jerk. I’ve been them all in my time. From here on in, I’ll settle for just being me. It’s a tough enough gig as it is.
In the crush, a hand gives me a friendly shove. The Murf, resplendent in a fluorescent purple tux, grins wide, flashing an emphatic thumbs-up of approval at my date. Then I catch a load—and I mean load—of his. Julie Hickey. Spilling out, hanging all over him. The Murf shoots me a wink. Mission accomplished.
I laugh. The Murf, my main man. The mother did it. Celia looks at me questioningly, as she always has and always will. Smiling, I draw her near.
Success. Noun. Being cool with who you are.
Acknowledgments
First and foremost, I’d like to thank my amazing, steadfast manager, John Tomko, who’s stuck with me through thin and thinner, even when he probably shouldn’t have. Thanks for having the patience and keeping the faith, man.
To my self-appointed guru, Julianna Baggott, whose beauty, work ethic, and talent are surpassed only by her generosity of spirit. It’s been my great pleasure and distinct privilege to be gently guided by her.
Old pals Bob Rodat, George Rush and John Spiegel. Thanks for the read, wise counsel and/or moral support, guys. New pals John Katzenbach and David Wolpe, likewise.
To Heather Whitaker, who showed me the errors of my characters’ ways.
Alix Reid, editor extraordinaire, of course, for trusting her instincts and having the courage of her convictions and not just settling for the tried and untrue. I won’t mention her boundless good cheer and infuriatingly well-taken notes.
Beth Davey, my agent, imperturbable and indefatigable—adjective, tireless, tenacious. Thanks for fighting my battles for my own good.
Finally, mountain ranges of appreciation and love always to Jennifer, for reading, re-reading, and re-re-reading the never-ending drafts, listening to all the rants, and just plain putting up with me.
About the Author
A working screenwriter for TV and movies for over 30 years, Steve Bloom attended Brown University and the graduate film production program at University of Southern California School of Cinematic Arts. Among his produced credits are the films “The Sure Thing,” “James and the Giant Peach” and “Tall Tale.” The Stand-In is his first novel. The idea came to him when a friend asked if Bloom’s daughter might know someone who could escort his daughter to a dance when her date suddenly canceled. Steve lives in western Massachusetts with his wife, Jennifer, and their French bulldog, Ricky.