Alex, Approximately

by Jenn Bennett

  She seems nice. Has a great handshake. Pretty hot. The same height as him. Hope she likes him as much as he likes her, because he’s smiling like a doofus. Then I hear her quietly laughing at something he says, and see her push her purple glasses up to rest atop her head and that makes me feel better.

  As I wait for the CPA–cop macking session to come to an end, I pack up my boardwalk map and look around the diner. Without my dad’s body blocking the view, I now notice the person who’s been sitting on the stool adjacent to his. It’s a boy about my age with sandy-blond hair. He’s eating eggs and drinking coffee. When he moves his arm, I see two things: (A) He’s wearing a red T-shirt screen-printed in black with Cary Grant’s face, and (B) he’s reading a guide to the summer film festival.

  My heart picks up speed as my gaze flicks over him. He’s eating slowly, engrossed in his reading, taking small bites of scrambled eggs. His well-fitting shorts reveal toned, tan legs. Worn sandals slap against the counter’s metal footrest as his knee bounces. The orange-and-blue key chain sitting next to his plate is printed with a familiar logo that I’ve seen on the boardwalk: Killian’s Whale Tours. That’s not by definition a retail shop, but it is a storefront along the boardwalk that has a view of the ocean. One with a counter, and possibly a family-owned business. I mentally call up my map and place the shop about three stores away from a churro cart. No resident cat, but then again, cats are mobile.

  Could it be . . . ?

  My brain is telling me to slow down, but my heart is thinking, Pennies from heaven!

  He’s cute. But he’s no Porter.

  God, what’s wrong with me? Who cares about stupid old Porter, anyway? I push him out of my mind and focus on what’s in front of me, try to match it to the Alex I have in my mind. Could this guy be witty? Sensitive? He looks well-groomed. Are serial killers well-groomed?

  This is harder than I thought it would be.

  I pull myself together and remember that if it is Alex, he doesn’t know who I am. To him, I’m just a girl sitting in a diner. I’m not Mink. Deep breath.

  “Grant,” I say.

  He looks up from the brochure. “Excuse me?”

  “Your shirt,” I explain. “Cary Grant. Only Angels Have Wings, if I’m not mistaken.” I’m not. I’m totally showing off. What a total geek I am, but I can’t help myself.

  His head drops. He smiles now, and he’s got great teeth, a big, white smile. “Yes. You’re the second person ever to recognize that, and I’ve been wearing this for almost a year.” His voice isn’t what I imagined. Sharper, somehow. But still good.

  “I’m a huge Grant buff,” I say. “Bringing Up Baby, The Philadelphia Story, The Awful Truth, His Girl Friday.” I tick them off on my fingers, getting a little carried away and flushed in the cheeks. Reel it back in, Rydell. I clear my throat. “And North by Northwest, of course,” I add, dangling that like the bait that it is.

  “Everyone loves that,” he agrees.

  Huh. Can’t tell if he’s being droll or sarcastic. Then again, Alex has a superior sense of humor. Hard to tell.

  He thinks for a moment, then says, “If I had to pick one, it would be My Favorite Wife.”

  “Seriously? I love that movie,” I say. “Irene Dunne and Randolph Scott are brilliant.”

  “Adam and Eve,” he agrees, smiling.

  “I’ve seen it a hundred times.”

  “You know, Randolph Scott and Cary Grant were lovers.”

  I nod. “Probably. No one’s ever proven it, but I don’t doubt it. I think he probably liked men and women.” I shrug. Who cares anyway? Cary Grant was sex on a stick. More important, he was charm on a stick. At least on the big screen. I don’t really care what he did off the screen.

  “Patrick, by the way,” he says, and it takes me a second to realize he’s introducing himself.

  Patrick. Huh. Not Alex, but Patrick? Of course, we aren’t using our real names online, so that means nothing. More important, does this feel right? I honestly can’t tell, but my pulse is racing, so if that’s any indication, maybe that’s a yes? And he still doesn’t know to connect the Me sitting here with the Online Me, so I guess it’s okay to give out my real name now. Besides, my dad’s a few feet away, not to mention a cop with a badass handshake.

  “I’m Bailey,” I say, then decide to add, “I’m new in town.”

  “Cool. Nice to meet another movie aficionado.” He slides the film festival brochure toward me. “We have a summer film festival every year. This year’s lineup is so-so. A few good things, like the Georges Méliès shorts and North by Northwest.”

  Heart. Pounding. So. Fast.

  “I would love to see all of those,” I squeak out in a voice higher than Grace’s.

  “Right?” he says, grabbing his keys and gesturing toward the festival brochure. “Keep that. It’s hot off the presses. Anyway, gotta get back to work. I’m at the whale tours up on the boardwalk—Killian’s. Orange and blue, down by the big gold Ferris wheel. Can’t miss it. If you ever want to have coffee and talk about Cary Grant, come by and see me.”

  “I might take you up on that offer.” I hate coffee, but whatever. It sounds so adult, so romantic. This is not a boy who’d get me fired or embarrass me in front of dozens of people. This boy is sophisticated. Whale watching! That sounds so much nicer than surfing.

  He raises a hand, a triangle of toast clamped in his mouth, and jogs out the front door.

  I’m reeling. Seriously, truly reeling.

  “Who was that?” my dad murmurs over my shoulder, watching Patrick get into what appears to be some sort of red Jeep.

  “I’m not one hundred percent sure,” I say. “But I think I’m getting warmer.”

  LUMIÈRE FILM FANATICS COMMUNITY

  PRIVATE MESSAGES>ALEX>NEW!

  @mink: Anything new in your life?

  @alex: Like . . . ?

  @mink: I don’t know. Something happened recently that made me have a little more hope about the future.

  @alex: Me too, actually, now that you mention it. Maybe. For your future hope . . . how far ahead are we talking? Tomorrow? Next week? (Next month?)

  @mink: I’m a one-step-at-a-time kinda gal. So I guess I’ll try tomorrow and see where that leads.

  @alex: You definitely don’t dive into anything, do you? (I was hinting.)

  @mink: I really don’t. (I know you were.)

  @alex: Maybe sometimes you should. Take a chance. Do something crazy. (Are you going to ask your dad about the film festival?)

  @mink: Is that what you would do? (Maybe I already have.)

  @alex: With the right person? Yes. (When will you let me know?)

  @mink: Interesting. (He’s thinking about it. And so am I.)

  “You’re a good man, sister.”

  —Humphrey Bogart, The Maltese Falcon (1941)

  9

  * * *

  I’m standing behind the Hotbox with Grace and Mr. Pangborn. He lost his key. We’re holding our register tills, waiting for Porter to come back from the cash-out room and unlock the door. I’m not even sure if Porter’s made it through the lobby yet, escorting the other ticketing agents we’re supposed to be replacing. Heck, I don’t even know if Porter knows we’re locked out. I do know that it’s a few minutes past noon and the line is pretty long. Freddy, the guy in charge of taking tickets at the turnstile, keeps peeping around the corner at us, the look on his face progressing from Antsy to Dismayed.

  Mr. Pangborn sniffles and rubs his nose. “We’ll give him another minute to make it to cash-out before I buzz him. No sense in making him panic. He’s got to get the tills to the room first.”

  Grace and I look at each other, shrug, and both make he’s got a point faces. What are we going to do? There’s no one at the information desk right now. The lady who’s supposed to be stationed there, who also has a key to ticketing, is outside in the parking lot, schmoozing with a tour party. Mr. Cavadini is on an extended lunch break with the shift supervisor. Besides, Mr. Pangborn doesn’t lik
e to bother him, and who am I to argue?

  He leans back against the booth’s door, a little breathless, and crosses one ankle over the other, revealing a pair of white-and-black striped socks. I sort of love them. And I sort of love Pangborn, even though his eyes are slits and he reeks of weed. Grace says she caught him vaping up in his car before work yesterday. He’s got to be in his seventies. Let the guy have a few bad habits, I say.

  “Next month will be my fortieth anniversary working at the museum,” he muses in a soft voice. He’s got a gentle way about him that makes you want to listen to what he has to say. I’m not sure why Porter gets so frustrated with him. He’s just an old man. Have a heart.

  Grace’s lips pucker. “That’s nuts.”

  “You must like it if you’ve stuck with it this long,” I say.

  “Eh, I like talking to people. And I don’t have any college or training, so what else am I supposed to do? This is all I know.” He scratches his head and his crazy white hair sticks up in different directions. “They tried to make me retire about ten years ago, but I didn’t really have anything to do at home. I never married. I’ve got a dog, Daisy, but she gets tired of seeing me all day. So even though they didn’t pay me, I just kept showing up for work.”

  “What?” Grace says, unable to hide her disbelief. “For how long?”

  “Oh, about three months or so. Mr. Cavadini finally got sick of telling me to go home, so he officially rehired me and put me back on the schedule.” He smiles, big and wide, lifting his shoulders. “And here I stand. It hasn’t killed me yet. I think Porter should be in the cash-out room by now. Cover your ears, ladies. He’s not going to be happy.”

  Grace knocks shoulders with me while Pangborn radios Porter. “Glad we’re finally scheduled together again.”

  “Me too,” I say, genuinely meaning it. “Team Grailey, taking care of business.”

  “Team Baice, dropping the hammer.”

  We both laugh until Freddy peeps around the turnstiles again and Grace makes a hissing sound at him. He leaves us alone now. “Got plans this weekend?” she asks me.

  “I don’t know. Why?”

  “There’s a bonfire on Saturday after work. Party on the beach.”

  I grip my till harder, thinking of Porter’s friend Davy. “Is this the one at the Bone Garden?”

  “Yeah. You’ve heard about it?”

  “Only in passing.”

  “The core of it is a surfer crowd, but other people show up, too. They’re usually every Saturday night in the summer. Sometimes they’re boring, sometimes they’re fun, but I thought it might be a good place to meet people from Brightsea, since you’re new. I can introduce you.”

  The evader in me cowers, readying an excuse to turn her down, but the weird thing is, I think I want to go. Especially with Grace. So I say, “Sure, why not?” And before I know it, I’m telling her where my dad lives, and we’re making plans for her to pick me up in her car. What do you know? I guess I’m a social butterfly. Must be all this fresh air and sunshine.

  Or maybe it’s just that I’m feeling more hopeful about life in general after finding out my dad has a new girlfriend. A kickass cop girlfriend. “We’re just friends. Taking things slow,” he assured me on the ride home yesterday. That was all he offered, so that’s where we left it. As long as he’s happy and there’s no weirdness, I’m fine with it.

  And speaking of fine, there’s the other more important thing buzzing around in my brain: bumping into Patrick at the Pancake Shack. Patrick, and only Patrick, I remind myself for the millionth time, who may or may not be Alex. But I decided last night that I’m going to muster up the gumption to go talk to him again. I’ve been daydreaming about it off and on for hours. Epic sigh.

  A rush of cool museum air blows across my arm, and my daydreaming is cut short when I have to step to the side to avoid the buffalo that is Porter, charging the ticketing booth.

  “I’m going to rip out your large intestines, sew this key to the end of them, and then stuff them back inside your body.”

  Porter opens Pangborn’s hand, shoves down a key, and closes the man’s fingers on top of it. “Don’t. Lose it. Again.”

  The older security guard smiles. “You’re a good boy, Porter. Thank you.” Pangborn pats him on the shoulder, completely unfazed by Porter’s bad attitude. He’s a better man than most. “Come along, ladies. Freddy’s got ants in his pants. Let’s bust up this line and sell some tickets.”

  Team Grailey—I win the name game—kicks butt, per usual, and we do bust up that line, because we are the best. Our shift supervisor remarks on the good work we do, and when Mr. Cavadini drops by to check on us, for once, he even gets our names right. It’s a good day, right up until about four p.m.

  Museum foot traffic has slowed. My break’s almost over and I’m nearly ready to power through my last couple of hours, but I’ve still got a few minutes, so I’m strolling through Vivian’s Wing. I’m in the San Francisco Room, which has a Golden Gate Bridge that visitors walk beneath and a fake Chinatown street, where you can peer inside staged storefront windows that look like they did in the late 1800s. As I’m gazing at a Chinese tea shop, I notice two kids, maybe thirteen, fourteen years old, acting a little weird. They’re standing a few yards from me, in the nearby 1940s San Francisco film noir display, eyeing a replica of the Maltese falcon, which is sitting on the desk of famous fictional detective Sam Spade—played by Humphrey Bogart on the big screen. One of them, a blond boy in a white polo shirt and Top-Siders, is experimentally touching the statue, while his friend, a drowsy kid with a backpack, keeps a lethargic lookout.

  I can guess what they’re planning. Morons. Don’t they notice the security cameras? The backpack kid does see them, though, and he’s inching around, blocking his Richie Rich friend with his body, looking up at the camera and judging the angle. I don’t know what they hope to accomplish. Everything in the museum is glued, nailed, screwed, or locked down.

  Only it’s not.

  Polo shirt touches the falcon, and it jiggles. Just a little. But enough.

  They’re going to rock it off its mounting. The jerks are planning a heist.

  I glance around. Only a few museum guests in this room. I keep my head low and casually walk to the other end of the room, where I know from memorizing the stupid employee map that a call box is hidden in a wall panel. Making sure I’m not seen, I duck behind a potted palm, pop open the panel, and hit the button for security. Porter’s voice booms over the old line.

  “Talk to me.” He’s on his radio doohickey. I can tell by the click and static.

  “It’s Bailey,” I whisper. “I’m in the San Francisco Room.”

  “That’s a long way from ticketing, Rydell. And speak up. I can’t hear you. Or are you trying to come on to me? Is this your sexy voice? I like it.”

  I groan and seriously consider hanging up. “Shut up and listen to me. I think some kids are trying to steal.”

  “I think you have the wrong number, sir.”

  “Porter!” I grind out. “They’re stealing the Maltese falcon.”

  “Keep your pants on. I’m two rooms away. I’ll be right there. Don’t take your eyes off them, but don’t approach. They might be dangerous or something. I’m being serious right now, in case you can’t tell.”

  The phone goes dead. After closing the panel, I casually step from behind the palm and pretend to be looking at some paintings while keeping an eye on the kids. They’re still rocking the falcon statue. A couple is passing under the Golden Gate Bridge, and the two boys see them, so that halts their thieving for a moment. I disappear behind the potted palm again.

  Come on, Porter. I know the falcon’s not actual movie memorabilia, much like most of the rest of the stuff in this place; only two statues were used in the original film, and one was auctioned off for several million dollars. But it’s the principle of the thing, and it makes me mad.

  “Where are they now?” Porter’s warm breath grazes the hair around my ear
. My neck and shoulder involuntarily clamp together, and for some reason, he finds this amusing. “Ticklish, Rydell?” he whispers.

  I ignore that comment and lower a palm branch to show him the boys, who are now rocking the statue again. “There. White polo shirt and backpack.”

  “Dirty little pigs,” he mutters incredulously. “The falcon?”

  I won’t lie. A little thrill goes through me that Porter’s as mad as I am. I like that we’re on the same page about this. “What are we going to do?” I whisper.

  “Rule number one in apprehending thieves and shoplifters according to the Cavern Palace guidelines is that we absolutely do not make a scene. No chasing. No nasty blowups. Nothing that causes the other guests to feel uncomfortable, so that means we’ve got to smoke them out, nice and easy.”

  “I don’t follow,” I whisper.

  Porter drops his head to speak in a lower voice. “We let them steal it.”

  “What?” My face is near his face, so close I can see all the golden flecks in his brown eyes. Did I know they were brown? I never noticed until now. “We can’t do that.”

  “We can and we will. Then we’ll follow them to the exit and bust their asses in the parking lot.”

  “Oh,” I say, more than a little intrigued by this prospect.

  “Now, they might split up. I’ve had this happen once before with a pair of Jay’s cuff links last summer. Bastards got away with a thousand bucks’ worth of gold while my ass got chewed out by Cadaver. So I might need some help. Will you?”

  “Me? I don’t know . . . My break’s over.”

  “Bawk, bawk,” he whispers back, cawing like a chicken. The tip of his nose touches mine, and we’re so close, I can now see his chest lifting up and down . . . and the jumping pulse of a vein on his neck. Were his shoulders always this broad? Mother of Mary, he seems bigger up close. And instead of wanting to punch him in the stomach, which should be my normal Porter response, I’m starting to want something else that makes my breath come faster. My clothes suddenly feel too tight.