Miss Adventure

by Geralyn Corcillo

  “Jack.”

  He grabs my hand and we take off across the living room. In a few seconds, we both tumble onto my big, beautiful bed.

  CHAPTER 22

  I open my eyes to find myself looking into Rose’s tuxedo face. She’s sitting on my chest, staring at me. “Hey, Rosie.” I lever myself up onto my elbows and see Dorothy, Mal, Pacquito and Ginger all curled up on the bed, staring at me.

  And then there’s Jack, lying next to me, out for the count.

  Wow.

  Jack.

  I’M IN BED WITH JACK.

  I’m so excited I want to call someone right away, but Jack is the only one I can think of to call, and he’s sleeping. Plus, he already knows about us.

  So, instead of calling someone, I curl onto my side, dislodging the three cats, to watch Jack sleep. But he doesn’t do that thing lovers do in books and movies and wake up just because I’m watching him. Nope. His breathing is deep and regular. I don’t think he’s waking up anytime soon.

  I look down to the bottom of the bed where Pacquito and Ginger rest their chins on Jack’s legs. I wrinkle my forehead. Jack must’ve gotten up at some point to let the animals in. What a nice thing to do. Maybe this means that he meant what he said last night.

  Maybe he really does want to be my boyfriend. But how much does he care about me? So far, enough to think of the animals in the middle of the night. But does this mean he’s going to be a couple with me? Will we do stuff together? Will we do everything together?

  I watch him sleeping, and I just cannot picture it.

  Then again, I can.

  Am I crazy? Will Jack actually kiss me in public? I don’t mean he’ll take me to the mall and start making out with me by the pretzel stand. But when I show up at Into the Wild, will he say hello and give me a quick kiss on the lips? Will he sit by me in class? Will he introduce me to people as his girlfriend, or will I still be his secret? Will we eat dinner together a lot? Sleep together almost every night?

  I sigh, snuggling deeper into the blankets. It’s not that I need to have all the answers or a plan. But it might be nice to know what’s going to happen when Jack wakes up.

  Half an hour later, I’m still waiting, still wondering. I look at the clock. Ten a.m. on a Sunday.

  The Giants play the early game against the Eagles.

  Sliding out of bed, I set off for the laundry room. In the dryer I find my favorite pair of boxers and the threadbare Ah-ha T-shirt I’ve had since ninth grade.

  Fifteen minutes later I’m curled on the couch with a cup of coffee and Fred.

  Kick-off. Downed in the end zone. Touchback. Boooring.

  “Lisa!?” Jack comes crashing into the room, making me yelp and slop my coffee onto Fred. Jack stops short when he sees me on the couch. His hair stands out in all directions and his eyes look all panicky.

  And oh, yeah. He’s naked.

  “Lisa,” he says on this huge sigh. “I thought you left.”

  Putting down my wet, sticky mug, I struggle out from under Fred, who doesn’t seem to mind at all that I spilled coffee on him.

  I stand up to face Jack. “Uh…it’s my house.”

  He looks around. “I know.” He looks at the TV, which has the Giants at first and ten. He looks at me, then back to the TV, then back to me. “You’re watching the early game?”

  “Eagles at Giants.”

  Jack scrunches his eyebrows together. “You have NFL Sunday Ticket?”

  Oh, God. He’s mad that I got out of bed to watch football after our night of crazy passion. I’m going to lose Jack because of the New York Giants.

  “It isn’t like that,” I insist. “It’s not like I abandoned you for Eli. When I woke up, I tried doing the romantic thing. I watched you sleep for a while, but you didn’t wake up and it was ten o’clock.”

  Jack starts laughing. Then he looks at me and laughs harder.

  “What?”

  He pulls me into a hug, the really good kind where he molds me against his body and runs his hands down my back. Then lifts his head from my neck and takes a deep breath.

  “Jesus, Lisa.” He takes my face in his hands and kisses me so tenderly my toes curl against the hardwood floor. He smiles against my lips. “You even made coffee.”

  * * * * *

  Once the Giants kneel on the ball for the win, Jack stretches out. He’s all behind me and under me, so I stretch out, too. “I’m starving,” he says, moving my hair with his fingers and kissing me on the neck.

  I shift into a sitting position. “I’m not sure what else I have. We already finished all the bagels and eggs, and you polished off the jar of olives. Maybe I have a stick of butter you can eat.”

  “I can do one better.” He sits up, biting me on my naked shoulder. “My fridge is stocked with cold cuts.”

  “Really?” He might have pastrami.

  Man, I SUCK as a vegetarian.

  “We can be there in ten minutes.”

  “Okay.” I leap up from the couch and then stop on a dime. “Wait. We can just order food.”

  “I know.” Jack walks to the hall where he finds his pants halfway underneath Pacquito. “But I have these fantasies about having sex with you all over my house. All over the property, really.”

  “Hmmm,” I say, considering. “Do you have Sunday Ticket?”

  “Get dressed, smartass.”

  * * * * *

  The cool sheets glide across my thighs as I bend my knees. Jack feels warm where he’s pressed against my hip. “So, this is your bedroom.” I look around.

  “Like it?”

  “Definitely my favorite,” I snuggle down into the covers. “This might sound boring, but being in bed with you rocks. I mean, the foyer and the kitchen were fun, and the couch was mighty convenient at half time.” I smile like the little girl who’s found the most Easter eggs. “But this is heavenly. And sinful. Perfect, really.”

  “So…” He glides a hand up my leg. “You like my bed. And it only has one comforter.”

  “But it’s a cool comforter,” I look at the white downy comforter with grayish-blue seersucker stripes. “It reminds me of an old fashioned summer suit. Makes me think of Country Time lemonade or The Great Gatsby.”

  Jack leans up on his elbow and looks into my face, a small crinkle between his brows and half a smile curving into his face.

  “What?” I ask quietly.

  “It’s just that you…”

  I smile. “I what?”

  “Everything in your life reminds you of something else,” he says. “Every comforter you own reminds you of something, your floor lamps remind you of London, your wardrobe reminds–”

  “So?” I say, cutting him off before he figures out that having so many animals reminds me of Ally Sheedy in Short Circuit. “I like things that make me happy.”

  “But it’s all stuff from your past,” he says. “Or from make-believe. It all reminds you of something else.”

  I touch the hair falling over his forehead. “You don’t,” I say. “You don’t remind me of anyone or anything. You’re totally alien.”

  “What a thing to say when I’m naked.”

  “Seriously,” I say. “You live on a planet where there’s no fear. It’s like living on a planet where there’s no laughing or no cookies. I can’t imagine it.”

  “Lisa, I’m pretty sure everyone gets scared.”

  “But you don’t get scared of normal things.”

  “I guess not,” he says, considering. “You scare the hell out of me, and you’re anything but normal.”

  I feel my heart stutter, then race, but I pretend Jack hasn’t said anything HUGE. After all, I’m not stupid enough to hang my hat on anything a guy says in bed. So, I laugh instead. “What a thing to say when I’m naked.”

  “So you are.” He moves to cover me. “So you are.”

  CHAPTER 23

  It’s seven o’clock when Lupe sticks her head into my office. “You still here?”

  “Yeah.” I lean back in m
y chair. “Lots to do. We sign on Thursday.” I look away, as if I need to find some sheet of paper on my desk. But really I just don’t want her to see my deep blush as I think about Jack again. Make that still. I can’t stop. “What keeps you here so late?” I ask.

  “SAT class just got done. I’m leaving in a minute. You gonna hang out a little longer?”

  “A little.”

  Lupe goes back to her office to get her stuff, and when she leaves, I’m left all alone.

  I pick up the phone, deciding to try Jack on his cell. I’m starving, but I don’t want to miss out on eating with him if he wants to grab dinner.

  Am I being a freak?

  Chances are good.

  No answer. No Jack since we pried ourselves apart at five this morning. Now, I’m suffering serious withdrawal.

  That’s it. I’m going across the street for a really fatty pastrami sandwich and a Coke. After that, I’m heading home.

  Forty minutes later, I drive through the rich blue night dotted with winks of lights. I turn onto my street and just stop myself from slamming on the brakes.

  Holy !

  Some survival instinct prevents me from making a spectacle of myself and keeps my foot on the gas, allowing me to cruise casually down the street.

  The media is in front of my house. No emergency vehicles, just media.

  THE MEDIA.

  Lights, people, commotion. The dogs bark up a racket.

  I bite my lip and swallow. I need a place to hide. I look up to Dolly’s house, but it’s two houses beyond mine. Too risky. Dom and Jeff live even further up the street. That leaves Ethel. I turn into her drive, pulling all the way to the back. I dash out into the night chill and scamper to her back door, getting there just as she opens it. Without saying a word, I slip inside.

  “Sorry, Ethel.” I close the back door so hard that it’s peach and white checked curtain jumps. “Something’s going on at my house and I have no idea what. I just need a sec to collect myself.”

  “Well, I was wondering what all that kerfuffle was.” She seems put out, but then looks at me from under wrinkled lids. “You don’t know either?”

  I shake my head, trying to hold back the panic.

  Ethel thrusts her hands on to her hips. “You need to get out of here.”

  “I know,” I cry, grabbing the door handle. “I’m sorry.”

  “No,” she interrupts, crossing the kitchen to a pegboard by the fridge. “I mean out of the neighborhood. At least for tonight.” She brings me a set of keys. “You can take the Lincoln. It’s in the garage and fully gassed. I just had it out on Friday.”

  I stare at her.

  “And I’ve got a pageboy wig around here somewhere.”

  * * * * *

  Ethel is very organized. It took us only about five minutes to find the wig in the extra bedroom, sitting on a mannequin head next to pile of McCall’s magazines from the seventies. But then it took us another ten minutes to dust off, de-cobweb, and style the thing.

  Now, with my frosted bob bouncing around my collar, I navigate the buoyant Lincoln through impossibly narrow streets toward the heart of Echo Park. Right now I need a home base, and anywhere near Jack is out of the question.

  I just can’t shake the feeling that this Media kamikaze has something to do with him. Ridiculous, I know, that anyone might be spying on me and care about my sex life.

  But the only amazing thing that has upended my life in the past 48 hours is my sleeping with Jack. And now cameras are hounding me.

  So, I head to Lupe’s apartment. I’ve never actually been to her place, but I’ve seen her address countless times on her paychecks.

  Jeez. Maybe going to someone’s house because you’ve printed their paychecks is illegal.

  Like I care. This is an emergency. I just hope she’s home. I didn’t dare call her. Can't people spy on what you’re saying on a cell phone pretty easily?

  I pull to the curb across from Echo Park itself, and park. I dart across the street and race up a set of steep stairs. At the top, I find myself on a small, idyllic lawn with big Fantasy Island-looking plants all around. The greenery camouflages the aging stucco and ill-fitting screens of a one-story apartment building. A few lights by various front doors help me find Lupe’s place.

  I knock quietly. “Lupe,” I whisper when she opens the door, “I’m in trouble. I need help.”

  She sweeps me in with a hug and closes the door. She makes shh shh noises as she strokes my hair. “How long have you been pregnant?”

  * * * * *

  After I’ve explained to Lupe that I'm not pregnant but hounded by the media, she gives me a shot of vodka then sits down to boot up her laptop. “Where are your parents?” I ask before drinking. “And your brother?”

  “Parents are bowling and Eric’s out.”

  “Okay,” I say, and toss back the vodka, nearly choking myself.

  Lupe slaps me on the back, then returns her attention to the laptop. “Maybe it’s not that bad,” she says as she types. “But we’ll Google you and find out what’s going on.”

  I’m still reacting to the vodka when Lupe suddenly slams shut her laptop.

  “What?” I ask, snapping to attention. “What’s wrong?”

  Lupe doesn’t look at me. “It’s bad,” she whispers. “It’s really bad.”

  “The center?” I cry. “Did the bank foreclose on HEYA behind my back? But we’re so close!”

  Lupe looks at me. “HEYA? No, it’s nothing about HEYA.” She looks away and shakes her head. “You don’t deserve this.”

  “What? What don’t I deserve?” My voice gets high and tight. “Is it Jack? Did something happen to him? Tell me. Please. Oh, God. Did he fall off a cliff or something? Oh, God.”

  “No, no, no,” Lupe says, putting her hands on my shoulders to steady me. “It’s about you.”

  Jack is okay. It’s about me. Jack is okay. “Come on, Lupe, show me.”

  She doesn’t move.

  “Please, Lupe. Just show me. Please.”

  Lupe turns back to her laptop, opens it, presses a few keys, then turns the screen toward me.

  And there I am.

  Me in my tight white dress dancing and flapping my boa around as I teeter and strut across the dance floor of the Ritz Carlton Laguna. The music sounds tinny and distorted, adding to the sensation that I’m trying way too hard.

  Streaming video of my dance for the whole world to see. And replay over and over.

  My stomach turns inside out and my mouth tastes funny. I can’t breathe and I cannot look. Not for a second longer. My eyes drift to the right side of the screen where a news byte accompanies the video.

  LISA FLYTE NOT RECOVERED FROM BURGER BARN BRAIN DAMAGE?

  I read down the screen, trying to gulp air in high-pitched gasps. I recognize the website. It gets tidbits of information then sets them afire with queries and innuendo. And now it’s sunk its teeth into me with bloodthirsty euphoria.

  Am I trying to get even richer as a celebrity? Is this a ploy to get the world on my side with this pathetic demonstration? Do I even know what I’m doing? Would a mentally balanced person wear that dress and boa? Is anyone taking care of me? Watching over me? Other than millionaire rebel Jack Hawkins?

  “No.” Every muscle in my body clenches up so tight I can’t even exhale. “No no no. Not Jack. Please not Jack.”

  I bolt out of the chair and head to the door. “I’ve got to see him.”

  “Have you read this?” Lupe meets me at the door, pressing her palm against it. “Maybe seeing him right now isn’t such a good idea.”

  “I don’t care what they’re saying,” I say. “It’s all untrue. I have to go see him.”

  “But right now he might not want to be seen with a–” She stops herself.

  “Lupe! I’m not really brain damaged! I’m just me!”

  “But–”

  I am so outta there that my pageboy tumbles off as I skitter down the steep steps toward the street. I manage to shov
e the wig back on just before I peel out.

  Jack doesn’t answer his cell. I decide to drive to Into the Wild. It’s late, but Jack might have been trapped there by all the Media. And it’s practically on the way to his house anyway. I tear through the streets of old Los Angeles as quickly as the wave-like motion of the Lincoln will allow.

  But I get careful as I approach downtown. Into the Wild is likely mobbed by reporters, so I rely on the pageboy and sheer dumb luck to get me access to Jack.

  And the dumb luck pays off.

  I’m at a stop sign looking two blocks down toward the Media hubbub clustered around the parking garage door to Into the Wild. The metal gate opens and Jack’s truck emerges.

  Maybe he’ll stop and tell them all to go to hell. Or at least tell them I’m not brain damaged.

  But he doesn’t even slow down. He’s not giving them the time of day. I can smell the bio-diesel truck from here even as it turns away from me to move in the opposite direction.

  Unbelievably, the huddled camera people are unprepared to give chase. As they scurry to their vehicles, Jack and I are handed the few seconds we need to navigate the deserted one-way streets of after-hours downtown L.A. I turn right. In less than a minute, I find myself face to face with Jack’s truck at a green light on a one-way street. I’m the one going the wrong way, but I totally planned it that way.

  Finally. Jack.

  We just stare through our windshields at one another.

  Jack.

  I mouth the word, my heart sobbing in relief to see him.

  His face is unreadable in the greenish glow of the traffic light.

  I reach up, pull off the pageboy.

  Jack.

  Now he knows it’s me, and we’re in this together.

  Jack and me.

  He turns left away from me and drives down toward USC. I follow.

  My cell rings. Jack. I answer. “Jack!”

  “Stop following me. Go home.” Then nothing.

  My foot slides off the gas and I look at my phone. Call ended.

  Call ended?

  Jack must have a plan. And he’s being cagey about using his cell.

  I turn around, heading for the 101 and home. Jack and I are like spies, or super-heroes, on a mission. When I pull onto my street, it looks as though some newscaster is giving a live report. I look at my cell again. 11:05.