Switch and Bait

by Ricki Schultz

  Ansley chokes on a cheese hunk, but she doesn’t repeat my words. She politely nods along, as has been her general conduct for the majority of this date.

  She hands the phone back to him.

  “I guess you’re more adventurous than I,” she says, stuffing her face full of pimento cheese.

  “That-a-girl,” I say under my breath.

  “Here goes.” Dominic rubs his hands together and then it’s back to his fork to take the proverbial plunge. I can only see the back of his head, but I hear him gag, see him coughing over his plate, bending over his knees and struggling to regain his breath as Ansley watches.

  When it sounds like he’s breathing normally, Ansley stops, midcracker, to ask if he’s all right.

  He chuckles and takes some water. “Yes,” he says.

  “And how was that?” I ask.

  She repeats.

  He screws up his features, scratches at the purposeful scruff on his cheeks. “It was—spongy.” He winces. “I wouldn’t eat it again, I don’t think.”

  “The testicles were better, then?” I can’t help myself. And Ansley must not be able to either, because she repeats every word.

  “I’m still glad I did it, though. I’m glad I’m not one of those negative, sheltered people.” He takes another swig of water.

  “Like me?”

  “Well, kind of.” He wipes his mouth with one corner of his napkin. “But at least you did it with the beef tartare. And aren’t you glad? Wasn’t it the best thing you’ve ever tasted?”

  I can’t take it anymore, and I’ve decided Ansley can’t either.

  “No,” I say. “No.”

  Ans hesitates as she glances in my direction. We lock gazes in the mirror, and suddenly she fixes her stare on her date—and repeats my words.

  “Oh, come on,” Dominic scoffs. “What’s the big deal?” He leans back in his chair and is back to his scotch now.

  “Exactly,” I answer. “What is the big deal? I’m not a seven-year-old who doesn’t want to eat green beans; I’m a grown-ass woman. I told you politely I didn’t want to try it, and that should have been it, but you kept pressing, kept pushing. That is what represents culture to you? Trying exotic food you don’t want to eat just to shut up some guy who’s got his head stuck too far up his ass to let well enough alone?”

  She says it, and his mouth hangs open, yet he’s finally shut up.

  But I’m far from done.

  “Not to mention, you’ve just spent thirty bucks on an appetizer you didn’t even like to—what? To prove how worldly you are? Eating balls makes you more experienced at life than someone who already knows what she likes?”

  Ansley’s hands shake as she finishes my sentence. The terror in her eyes indicates to me that she’s never told anyone off, ever in her life, and I’m not sure how she feels about it until—whoosh. She wrestles a bit with her napkin and then spikes it to the table. Right on her plate, like she DGAF. Then she rises, rushes past the server, the hostess station, steadies herself on the corner of the bar as she makes her way toward the ladies’ room once again.

  Dominic’s turned to see where the hell she’s going, and I leap from my chair. I don’t care anymore about whether or not he sees me. Gordon offers him a small shrug as I leave him, leave them both, in my wake and search after our girl in the bathroom.

  When I throw open the door, the acrid tang of Ansley’s attempt at a meal assaults my senses immediately, and I hear her retch—and then retch once again a moment later.

  I just stand at the sink, say nothing. I’ve probably said too much already anyway. I’m not sure what to expect when she’s finished. My own tongue-lashing? A blubber fest?

  But when she turns around, forehead slick with perspiration, all she does is throw her arms around me.

  “No one’s ever stood up for me like that,” she croaks.

  “You did it yourself,” I say.

  “Not really,” she mutters into my shoulder, and I just hold her there.

  Like I’m back in the eighth grade and I’ve just slapped that sixth grader Eddy Morelli right across the face for messing with my little sister Abby. Ans is a mess of sniffles and waterworks just the same.

  “Then let’s consider this the first time.” I stroke her hair.

  After she gains a moment’s composure, she washes her face in the sink, and it’s almost déjà vu in terms of our first meeting.

  I hitch a thumb toward the door. “So not Dominic then?”

  And she cracks up.

  Chapter 7

  Sweat stipples my forehead just under my headband. Giant pom-poms of pale pink, fuchsia, baby blue, and white explode like fireworks along the path. They cheer me on like spectators at a half marathon as I begin my run through the U.S. Botanic Garden.

  Shoop shoop, shoop shoop.

  Slow and steady.

  I like to start and end my run here when the weather warms up. Sunlight glittering through the trees, large stretches of shady spots dotting the pathways; the lush backdrop a welcome change of pace from the crowded sidewalks and the Metro station. Although today I can only kind of enjoy that because half my vision is obscured behind this stupid eye patch. My eye is still a bloodshot sphere of horror.

  But I’ve finally found my rhythm today, despite my lack of depth perception. I refuse to stay inside and stare at screens on such a gorgeous afternoon. I can’t.

  I hang a left and jog past the National Air and Space Museum, a snort escaping my nose as I leave the Smithsonian in my wake.

  We’ll have to get Ansley to a point where she can be readmitted there. Poor girl.

  Poor me.

  I need to figure out some dates for her where there’s little chance of her inflicting bodily harm on herself or others.

  Once I reach the Holocaust Memorial, I slow to a brisk walk and gaze in reverence, take a brief respite at the Jefferson Memorial long enough to stare out over the sun glistening on the surface of the Tidal Basin. And then I pick it back up and run along the Potomac, straight toward Abraham Lincoln himself, when the phone strapped to my arm vibrates against my bicep.

  A tour group clusters at the base of the memorial when I reach it, the leader’s nasal drone echoing off the walls. My thighs ache as I climb the steps and park my hiney where I’ll be the most out of the way of the tourists. I allow myself a few seconds to enjoy the cool of the stone against my back as I press it to the column and check the message.

  One can never go too long without screens, apparently. I loathe myself, but this is business.

  This message is from Kevin—well, well, well, after three days, he speaks!—and before I read what he’s said, I do a quick scroll back through his photos to refresh my memory as to why I’d chosen him for her in the first place.

  Ah yes.

  Sandy blond hair. A dusting of freckles across a wide nose.

  Cute.

  Nonthreatening looking.

  He’s not holding a fish in any of these pictures—which, the fish thing isn’t a deal breaker, but it makes him stand out from the crowd because, let’s face it, most of them are. He is standing in front of a Muscle Milk vending machine in what I gather is a gym selfie, though—but I guess that doesn’t have to be a bad thing.

  Health, and all that.

  I go against my Blanche instincts and decide Ansley finds it charming.

  Kevin: Hey there, beautiful!

  Ooh. Punctuation and everything!

  My gaze stretches across the reflecting pool and drifts heavenward. I take in the contrast of a brilliant blue sky against the stark white of the Washington Monument. A spire of strength asserting its dominance. A beautiful disruption to the landscape.

  Me: Hiya!

  I scrunch my face at the screen.

  Solid enough. It’s no Four score and seven years ago, but this “Kevin” didn’t give me too much to go on.

  I sit, awaiting his response, but after the tour group trickles on, I realize I could be sitting here until next Tuesday. I do a
little scrolling and swiping, my attention this time set on Abe, and I wonder what he’d have put on his profile.

  Honest.

  Six-foot-four, because I guess that matters.

  I laugh.

  Would Abraham Lincoln be passive-aggressive about height like some of these guys tend to be too?

  I look down and realize there’s still no answer from Kevin, so rip goes the Velcro, back goes the phone on my arm, and I plod my way toward the Capitol Building.

  It’s a bit of a haul, but I forget all that because, the nearer I get, my attention is snagged by a crowd gathered on the steps coming into focus.

  Signs popping. Fists pumping. A cloud pulsating with anger and intensity.

  It seems to be mostly college-aged kids. I’m not great at eyeballing estimations even with two functional eyes, but I determine there to be about thirty of them, gun-to-my-head. They’re all yelling things at a dude in a suit, who’s doing his best to ignore them. He keeps looking back toward the doors and checking his phone.

  This is probably a cause I believe in, but I just kind of want to finish my run and go home. I didn’t want to have to Feel ’n stuff today.

  But my heart swells as I come upon the group. What a country. What a time. A magic stirs within my chest at their chants (“We will be heard! No votes for Byrd!”).

  And just as I make out what exactly it is they’re saying, the last word stops me cold. The pride of free speech that lassoed me to them suddenly tethers me to my spot.

  Byrd.

  Timothy Byrd.

  The House Republican that Henry advises.

  I haven’t wrapped my mind around this for even two seconds before I realize—yep—the suit could definitely pass for a G.I. Joe.

  No doubt about it—there he is.

  And a smile leaks its way across my face because here’s a whole crowd of people who aren’t putting up with his condescending bullshit. I lean against a railing and cross one leg over the other.

  The only thing that’s missing is popcorn.

  He’s changed his approach with the crowd, looking a bit like a maestro now at the top of the steps as he tries to conduct the protesters quiet with downturned palms. It’s not really working and all his attempts seem to do is spur them on even more.

  It’s weird seeing someone you know in that position. I don’t feel half the amount of zeal I did twenty seconds ago.

  But I stand back, cross my arms, and just watch how he handles this, a grin cracking my face.

  His expression is poised. His fingers outstretched. His demeanor calm.

  He looks confident, albeit outnumbered.

  Just then, Mr. Byrd emerges from the main doors and there’s a brief hush over the protesters as he makes his way to join his right-hand man.

  “I represent you too,” Byrd says, palms pushed out in what seems a scooch too confrontational (defensive?) to be surrender. “And I want to keep doing so. Now, in this upcoming runoff—”

  “Run this off!” Someone’s voice rings out like gunfire from the group, a raw shout that sounds as though it surprised even the guy from whom it came.

  We’re all recovering from the outburst, looking this way and that, when—whoosh—a projectile. Young men and women duck—clutch at one another to get out of its way—and Byrd is pelted square in the middle of his crisp, white dress shirt with an honest-to-God tomato.

  A tomato!

  I do a double-take, and it’s a few blinks before I register what’s just happened. Byrd too. He staggers back like he’s been shot, the servicemen who flank him grasping at his arms, and it’s Henry who addresses the crowd.

  “Very productive.” The smart-assery in his tone riles the protesters, but even I have to admit it’s not unwarranted. One of them just threw freaking fruit like this is a goddamn play in a Little Rascals movie.

  Henry shakes his head, mouth yanked down at the corners. “Until we can have a mature discuss—”

  Splat.

  Torpedo number two whizzes past his left ear and pancakes against a stone column. I can’t stop my mouth from hanging open. Henry shields that purty face of his and scans the crowd.

  So do I.

  And I spy the culprit—a zitted-up white kid hunched over a brown paper bag. He’s doing his best to sport a man bun—oh honey, you’re not Jason Momoa—and, just as his bony fingers produce another weapon of mass hilarity from the depths of the grocery bag, my feet develop minds of their own.

  I sprint my way over to the kid, wrap my fingers around his tomato-wielding arm, and suddenly we’re stuck in an awkward wrestling ballet.

  Round and round we go, step two-three, step two-three, as he wrenches this way and that. Spit forming at the corners of his downturned mouth. My abs—my biceps—ablaze as they strain against his spindly arms, trying to keep him from launching a third fruitastic missile.

  “This isn’t how we do this!” I bark. “This isn’t how we get anything done!”

  I feel like I’m ninety-seven—a sneeze away from adding “you whipper snapper!”—but I can’t help admonishing this moron.

  His pulse throbs against my grip.

  He fixes his face in a grimace and then utters through clenched teeth, “What do you know, you stupid bitch?”

  Ohhhh no.

  The word ignites me from my toes, and I have the sudden urge to peel off his pimply face.

  We struggle right. Left.

  The crowd around us hoots and hollers, I’m not sure for whom at this point.

  “Arrest them!” someone shouts, and with eyes the size of the fricking tomatoes, I throw a desperate glance over my shoulder—

  And lock gazes with Henry.

  He seems to jump at the recognition and then something like amusement touches his face. Whatever it is, it gives me the burst of strength I need to remember the only move I mastered when Gordon and I took that self-defense class last fall.

  Concentration still trained on Henry’s stare—I got this, buttercup—I’m able to lift—twist—this dude’s arm up and over. Clasp his wrists together behind his back. Hold him there, defenseless.

  And then a laugh worthy of a Bond villain bubbles up from the pit of my stomach.

  “Who’s the bitch now?” I can’t help myself from hissing in his ear as the guards descend upon us.

  But my moment of glory is cut short as now I, too, am being restrained, arms clamped firmly behind my back. And though I’m not kicking and spitting like my new friend a few feet away, a wave of fear runs through my core as I realize they might think I’m the one who threw the tomato.

  Before I can obsess about that, however, my focus goes back to Henry. He pushes past the mob and makes his way to us. Gives us all some room.

  “Let them go, Johnny,” he says. He never takes his eyes off me.

  I’m feeling—well, lots of things, if we’re keeping score. Sweat drips into both my eyes—the good one and the mangled one—my heart hammers against my ribs, and my legs buzz with leftover adrenaline.

  So much for a relaxing jog through the Mall this afternoon.

  “Sir,” the one restraining me answers. “This goes beyond peacefully protesting.”

  Henry frowns and examines his shoes. Wipes at the bottom half of his face with a large hand and lets out a sigh. “They were tomatoes, Johnny.”

  The sentence hangs there.

  “Mr. Byrd is fine,” he adds.

  A moment. And then: “All right, you heard him. Let’s break this up, everybody!” Johnny releases his grip on me and starts herding the crowd away until they disperse.

  I’m still rubbing at my wrists, trying to gain my bearings, when I realize it’s just Henry and me left. His shirt’s disheveled from the commotion, I suppose, and a few beads of perspiration threaten to drip down the sides of his face.

  “I almost didn’t recognize you. I thought National Pirate Day was in September.” He takes a step in and reaches down, the backs of his knuckles a tinge on the clammy side as he grazes my cheek next to my eye
patch.

  For a split second, it’s like we’re back on Isla’s patio three years ago. Just the two of us frozen in tableau.

  “What happened?” He pulls back as quickly as I perceived his touch.

  I try to hide the fresh embarrassment blooming on my chest and give an awkward snicker. “That was a whiskey-related accident from a couple of days ago.”

  “Wild night?” His eyebrows climb high, the suggestion of a dimple making an appearance.

  “Not exactly.”

  A beat.

  “You want me to go get your boyfriend for you?” He nods in the direction of the kid from the scuffle, who’s not much more than a dwindling dot headed away from us.

  “My boyfriend!” I give him a playful thwap and grab my hand back immediately after to keep it the hell under control.

  “Yeah, I assume that was your boyfriend, right? You have terrible taste in men.” He smiles then shields his face like he’s bracing himself for another smack.

  I glance up at him through what I hope resembles a glare, but I can feel the betrayal of my own smile. “I used to.”

  I’m happy with the zing, so I start to walk away victorious.

  He lets me go a minute, and for some dumb reason I feel bad, like that was too mean, like why can’t I just let well enough alone, but then he jogs to catch up with me.

  Probably to say something even worse.

  “You know, you saved my life.” There’s a slight huff to his laugh as he falls in step. Catches his breath. “Saved my suit anyway. Can I give you a ride home?”

  “I’m a big girl,” I say. “I got here myself, and I can get home myself.”

  He snorts, that familiar ol’ Henry sarcasm making a comeback. “Of course. I wouldn’t dream of underestimating you.”

  Now I’m the one laughing. “Don’t you need to deal with Mr. Ketchup packet anyway?” I gesture toward the steps and he turns back, where his boss’s whole head is still as red as the giant splotch on his shirt.

  “Good call,” he says. “Well, I owe you one.”

  I scrunch my face and think of Ansley. And this inevitable pickle I’ve gotten myself into.

  “How about let’s just call us even now. Deal?”