He laughs and says, “If there’s no pillow fight in it for me, I’m not sure I can render my services. We’ll work out payment over dinner.”
Jade and I go to the locker room so she can get changed to meet Nicole at Nobu. She confides the following things to me. Andrew really, really likes her. And she knows this because he bought the pale blue sparkly skates she was wearing so that she wouldn’t be the loser kid with the ugly rental skates at the party. And she could keep them forever and ever. And then she asks how old Andrew will be when she turns sixteen. I tell her that he will be twenty-eight and will seem really old and boring to her at that point. But will still be her friend.
I take him to a place with super-comfort food, especially the home-baked pie, especially the blueberry. I tell him that dinner is on me, and he tries to order two pounds of caviar.
I keep to small talk during the matzo ball soup and hush puppies. Before the meat loaf, I hesitantly bring up my main conversational course. I want to talk to Andrew about Thomas mainly because I don’t have anyone else to talk to, but also, as a man, he will be able to think like Thomas thinks (girls think we can do that, but we are kidding ourselves). As a friend, he will tell me the truth.
“How did you feel about the kiss? Not the one in the car, the one at the door.”
I’m taken aback a little. But it’s a fair question.
“I was pretty excited. And I guess I was relieved to be honestly excited.”
“Because you were afraid you might be using him?”
“Yes.”
He sighs. And looks at me in a very tender and wonderful way that paradoxically makes me afraid of what he’s about to say.
“Don’t be. You can’t use somebody who’s using you.”
“Is that what you really think, or are you just…”
I stop myself. I was about to use the word jealous. And I realize in this one instant that this was, of course, exactly why I asked him to dinner, exactly why I’m telling him all of this. I want him to be jealous. The truth of that shocks me so that it takes me a beat before I can come up with a lie to cover…
“Or are you just a guy who thinks that all guys are the same and all girls need to be protected from them.”
He stares at me evenly. No smile at all.
“No, I’m not that guy. I’m the guy who knows that this particular guy is a flunky to an important casting director, and yes, I checked him out and he is a flunky, is not looking to cast you in anything. Because he doesn’t have the power to do so.”
“Fine. I’d like it better if he just really liked me.”
He says nothing. Takes a bite of meat loaf and annoyingly starts to hum a tune I sort of recognize. As if our conversation is over.
“What makes you so sure,” I say, “that he doesn’t?”
“That’s not it at all. I think he wants you and likes you. A lot. He’s going to a lot of trouble, sticking his neck out even at the risk of rejection, which I’d bet this guy doesn’t do all that often.”
So now I’m really confused.
“So now I’m really confused,” I say. “If I want him to like me, and he really likes me, are you telling me not to date him just because he’s a flunky?”
He looks at me as if I were rather slow.
“Nobody told you not to date this guy. Actually, my advice, for what it’s worth, is that this sounds like exactly the kind of situation you should pursue.”
Why does this feel like the last thing I want to hear?
“You said the guy is trying to use me.”
“Bad choice of words on my part. The guy is dangling career stuff, thinking that’s what it takes to get you interested. But actually, you’re relieved that this isn’t about a role, and you guys can date simply because you’re hot for each other. As long as you’re clear on who he is and what he can or can’t do for your career, you’re smart and careful and you’ll do what’s best for you.”
“But you don’t like the guy. I mean, you don’t like him for me.”
“I’ve never even seen the guy, and this is only about what you like. Look. It’s hard to tell the difference between how we want someone to feel about us and how we actually feel about them. If the person is attractive, we always want them to want us, and sometimes we get so busy trying to make that happen, we forget to keep track of whether we actually want them or not. Plus, we always want what we’re afraid we can’t get…”
“But you’re telling me I can get him.”
“Sure. But the important thing is what you’re telling me: that you actually want to get him.”
This throws me into a tornado of mixed emotions. On the one hand, do I really want Thomas or just want him to want me? On the other hand, it does explain my confusion over Andrew because, as he so wisely says, we want every reasonable candidate to want us. The truth is that I meet very few guys who I could ever even see myself wanting to be with, and this one comes complete with the world’s sexiest and most possessive girlfriend, so of course I want him standing in line for me, somewhere just behind Thomas.
“How did you know you really wanted Carmen, instead of just wanting her to want you?”
“I still don’t know. She fascinates me; I know that much.”
Of course, I’m overwhelmed by a desire to learn absolutely everything about their relationship.
“Well, I won’t comment,” I comment, “because you haven’t really asked me for advice on that.”
“Thank you.”
This kind of cools me off on the whole Andrew thing. We finish our dinner pleasantly enough. More talk about French and Italian movies. Make up a few of our funny stories about the waiters, the other diners, and particularly the stunningly put-together hostess.
Out on the street, I offer, “I’ll just grab a cab; you probably have to get home.”
“I’ve got time to drop you.” Meaning, he indeed does have to get home.
At which point, a cab pulls over, dropping off a woman who proves that you can at least be too thin, if not too rich. I give him a friendly wave and just jump in the cab and take off without really saying anything.
On the way home, I feel kind of bad. Almost as if I’ve broken up with a boyfriend or something. This shows how limited my experience is with actual boyfriends. I’ll call Andrew tomorrow and be all friendly and everything.
I enter the apartment to encounter a beaming Nicole. I don’t think I’ve ever seen her so darn happy. She is positively bursting to ask…
“Who. Is. Thomas?”
Oh boy.
“Thomas who?”
“Thomas who sent you no fewer than fifty yellow roses. With an incredibly romantic note.”
As I draw a breath to kill her with the poison boiling in my tongue…
“Which of course I haven’t opened or read. I’m just getting back at you because you’ve been holding out on me.”
The flowers are beautiful beyond belief and come in a crystal vase that shames our whole apartment. The note says, Thinking of you. And then it says, Instead of working, sleeping, or doing anything else.
Should I call him? No. Of course I should. It would be smarter not to. But also rude not to. Was he staring out his apartment window at the city, wondering which twinkling light was mine? I’ve never had a boy do anything like this for me before. Andrew is right: Thomas really does like me. And thinking about it, Thomas is pretty close to perfect. Lying there in bed, I can’t come up with any real imperfection. And he may be a flunky now, but we all have to start somewhere. He certainly has entrée to a world full of exciting introductions and premieres and dinner reservations. What’s wrong with falling for a guy who also might be able to help me reach my dreams?
I grab my phone. And before I can talk myself out of it, I’m dialing his number. He picks it up on the first ring.
“Hi.” And his voice is silk and everything soft and warm and excited to hear from me. All in that one simple word. And before I can say anything, he says…
“You’re
going to need your beauty rest.” And before I can ask why, he says, “Because you’re reading tomorrow for Robin.”
My heart pounds and stops all at once. Andrew was wrong. Thomas is anything but a flunky. My man delivered for me.
“Rosalie is going to be there. And hang on to your flannel jammies, so will our director. He’s back from Africa. I’d sent him your reel. I don’t want to oversell this, but he’s absolutely open to you. It’s a shot, a real one.”
“God bless you.”
“Believe me, I’m happier than you are.”
Not possible. I do Jade’s booty dance alone in my room because I can’t contain my excitement. We talk for twenty more minutes while I get ready for bed. He listens to me brush my teeth. And then, when I turn out the light and crawl under the covers, he says…
“Good night, beautiful. I hope I’m in your dreams.”
And I’m reckless enough to say, “In a funny way, you already are.”
CHAPTER TWELVE
sloane
I wake up with James’s copy of Siddhartha between me and my pillow. I spent all day yesterday reading Siddhartha through two and half times, apparently falling asleep in the process. I love his underlinings and notes in the margins. And I love the way his lower lip is like a shelf someone carved out of something I’d like to touch.
In the bathroom, I decide to put on some makeup, trying to do it so that none of the girls will notice and James won’t notice but will just find me attractive and not know why. I’m obsessing over some mascara, making sure there are no telltale clumps, when Max stumbles into the bathroom without knocking.
“Sorry!” he says, and closes his eyes quickly. But he doesn’t shut the door. He just stands there with his eyes closed.
“I’m dressed, Max. You can open your eyes,” I assure him. He opens one slightly. Thus reassured, he comes in and elbows me away from the sink so he can brush his teeth. In the mirror, he studies my reflection as I try to perfect my “natural” look.
I want to say something to him about his birthday note but don’t want to make him feel awkward or even more repulsed by my feminine presence. And then as if he’s reading my mind, which I really wouldn’t be surprised if Max has the ability to do, he says…
“I borrowed Bill’s words for your card. He said them. That day we climbed the tree.” He stares at me directly in the mirror. I’m afraid I’ll cry if I look at him, so I keep working on my eyelashes.
“It is a beautiful card. They are beautiful words, Max.”
He nods. He knows. That’s why he used them.
He spits and begins to rinse. I look down at his head and want to burrow my face in it for comfort but am afraid of ruining the moment. As he slurps water straight from the faucet, which is a new “guy” habit of his, he confesses, “I found Bill in the sky. In the stars. Like on your ceiling.”
He turns off the water and looks at me directly. His face so open and clear and innocent.
“I’ll show you one night,” he says. And walks out of the bathroom.
And as I’m savoring this shared moment, he reminds me not to get used to it. He calls from down the hall, “You look a lot prettier without all that gunk on your face, Sloane.”
I stare at myself in the mirror. There is still a slight crease on my face from where I fell asleep on James’s book. I think of the line I was reading, the one James had underlined and put an asterisk next to: “Siddhartha stood alone like a star in the heavens…That was the last shudder of his awakening…Immediately he moved on again and began to walk quickly and impatiently, no longer homewards, no longer looking backwards.”
I steel myself to get on with my day. A deep breath and I float down the stairs. My two seconds of serenity are immediately broken when met with my mother’s inquisition.
“You look happy,” she says. It’s not a statement but a question. Why?
“Thanks. So do you.” I try to focus on the scrambled eggs and toast she slides under my nose.
“Could it have anything to do with the book you were reading all day yesterday?”
I don’t look up. “Maybe. It’s the kind of book that makes you feel good about the world. I’ll let you read it.”
“Hello!” she says so I have to look up. “I’m asking about the freakishly gorgeous young man, I can’t even use the word boy, who dropped said book off.”
“That would be James. He’s new.”
She sits down directly across from me.
“He obviously likes you. You obviously are happy that he does. Why won’t you talk about it?”
“Oh, don’t worry, I talk about it with lots of people. But I think what you mean is, why won’t I talk about it to you?”
She flinches a little, as if my words pinched her.
“And the answer?” she asks calmly.
“The answer is that I’d rather not.”
There’s a really long silence while she tries to control her temper. At last, she simply stands and walks out of the kitchen. She doesn’t even turn off the burner under dad’s bacon.
I’m so mad at her for being that way I can hardly see straight. I don’t want her knowing anything about James. She’s clearly trying to be all chummy with me about it only so that she can suss out what sort of regulations she needs to implement. My mom rules under martial law when it comes to dating. Under penalty of grounding or worse, I wasn’t even allowed to date until my sixteenth birthday. It embarrassed and frustrated me beyond belief, not that I was batting away dates. It sort of equated boys and punishment in my mind. And it certainly didn’t leave communication lines open where I want to sit down and have a chick chat with dear old Mom. I obeyed her stupid rule, and now that I’m old enough and some guy drops off a book, she has to be all up in my business. I’m so sick of being under her microscope. I leave my eggs and go back upstairs to redo my makeup.
I turn my dad down twice on his unusual offer to drive me to school. On the third offer, I just say thanks and wonder if he has some dad thing on his mind. Please let it be anything other than my dreams. He only asked that once how I slept, so hopefully he’s simply forgotten.
When my dad gets angry with me, his voice gets low and really slow, and it just scares me to death.
“What’s going on with you about your mom?”
So the dad thing is actually a mom thing and not at all about my dreams.
“I’m sorry I snapped at her at breakfast. I’m just tired, which is no excuse. I promise I’ll apologize soon as I see her.”
“Not nearly good enough. You’ve been angry with her for a year. It started abruptly, right around your sixteenth birthday, and it’s actually getting worse.”
“Daddy…”
“Be quiet. Your mother and I discuss it all the time. It is breaking her heart and mine. It is completely unfair, and I want to know right this minute what it’s all about.”
“I don’t know, Daddy. I feel it too. I keep hoping it will go away. I know it’s not anything she’s doing wrong. I’m hoping it’s just like a teenage daughter separation thing, where I have to push her away so I can leave or something.”
“That’s the worst excuse I’ve ever heard. Teenagers can pout and have tantrums, but this has been going on for a year. If it doesn’t change and change soon, the next step is talking to a professional.”
I wish I could take the train into New York and start seeing Emma. I wish Emma actually existed. If she did, I could ask her why this is happening to me. I could ask her about Maggie.
“I mean it, Sloane. This has to stop. We’re a family. The world doesn’t revolve around you. Do you understand me?” He glances from the road, sees the tears filling my eyes. “Do you?”
“I do,” I say. And then the truth just slips from me. “I don’t know what’s wrong with me.”
But of course I do. I just don’t know why.
He drops me at school. There is no thought of a kiss goodbye, or even saying anything. I try to close the car door without slamming it, but maybe
it sounds too loud anyway.
Ashamed, I go straight to the bathroom and look in the mirror. Sure enough, the stupid mascara has blackened under my eyes so I look like Gordy when he suits up for a game. I carefully wipe it away, feeling like an absolute monster to be treating my mom so meanly. I remember her hurt face in flashes of clips from the past year where she attempted to talk the way we always had before and I just slammed the door.
Besides, there’s nothing to talk about. I’m indulging in a tweener fantasy that the most beautiful boy who ever lived could possibly like me. How would I say that to her and what would I say to her endless questions at every breakfast as to how the big non-romance is going? Talking about my fantasy and longing is humiliating and for some reason would be exponentially more humiliating with her.
I walk into homeroom and there he is, in the back as usual, with an empty seat next to him. The second he sees me, he waves me over. I forget I have a mother. I forget everything. Except, try not to run. At least not too fast.
I slide into the seat beside him. He stares at me pleasantly but very intently.
“Good morning,” I say.
“Hi. I’m sorry for staring; I was just noticing something, that’s all.”
There follows an extremely long two seconds of silence.
“I’m waiting,” I say.
“Your lashes are so long.”
It may be hard to understand, but that sentence sets my heart to racing more than if he had proposed marriage or something. He thinks I’m a little attractive at least. Right?
“Thanks. And thanks for the book. I’d read it long ago, of course…”
“Of course,” and he smiles at how pretentious that was. But it is a really kind and friendly smile. As if he knows I’m trying to impress him, and that’s okay because he complimented my eyelashes. I wonder how he’d like them without the residual mascara. A worry for another day. I think you can have them dyed permanently. Mental note to check that out. I mean, who knew he was an eyelash guy.
“What happened there? Were you in a duel?” He points to the tiny gap in my fabulously long lashes caused by a chicken pox scar from when I was a kid.
Lucid Page 13