The Deception Dance

by Rita Stradling

  I throw yet another bag in the car and close the door. "No ...”

  "You should find out, as soon as possible. I lucked out with your sister: we’re like each other’s best friends in the whole world, but my dorm was full of shallow bitches and yours will be, too. You should get a move on it." She looks at me and covers her mouth. "Oh, I'm sorry; I didn't offend you, did I? When I said I'm Linnie's best friend. I mean, because I know you guys are close."

  "Nope, not at all." I pull my lips into a straight-lipped smile, while stepping out of the way of an oncoming couple on the narrow street, bustling with pedestrians.

  "So, does Linnie talk about me, like, when she calls home?" Chauncey's says.

  Every phone conversation I've had with Linnie in the last six months has started, "Me and Chauncey were shopping . . ." or, "going to a party . . ." or, "eating Chinese food." But why end my lying streak now? I say, "Once in a while." I shove my hands in the pockets of my skirt.

  As we walk around, Chauncey offers to buy me something in every store. Just for some peace, I let her buy me a pair of one-inch heels that are marked down to a price I could maybe someday imagine spending on shoes, like if I ever get married.

  “How about I buy you a dress too; I’m taking you on a date tonight.” She bats her eyelashes. "It'll be so much fun. We can go to a nice dinner then to a club and see if we can find hotties to fall in love with.”

  Four days with Chauncey down, nine weeks to go; I have to play nice. “Yeah, okay,” I say, "To the date, I mean. I have a dress.”

  “Oh, is your dress . . . ?” She examines me from head to toe and trails off whatever she was saying. “Well, if you’re sure.”

  Back at the hotel, Chauncey insists on doing my hair and make-up. Every time she spreads something on my face, I'm sure she’s painting me up black like the Goth she thinks I am. Chalky powder weighs down my eyelids, begging to be scrubbed off.

  Before turning to my reflection, I get the exact same nervous stomach feeling I get when a cop pulls behind me on the freeway. When I spin, another girl looks back at me from the bathroom mirror, her lips part in a silent 'whoa.'

  “You look great," Chauncey says, while pulling my hair into a twist and clipping it. "You know when I called you a Goth this morning; it wasn't, like, an insult. I meant that you're gothic chic, because you're pale and have black hair, and all. Well, anyway, you’re pretty and it's no wonder that woman gave you her card. You have to be careful though, she was probably a fake.”

  “I threw her card away,” I say.

  She holds up her straightening iron while leaning forward in a fit of laughter. "Wow, good job. Modeling sucks. You always have to lose weight and stuff, not fun. And it makes you realize that people only love you if they think you're beautiful."

  "That's stupid," I say.

  "Not really. It's the truth.” She tilts her head and stares past me at her reflection. “I liked modeling. It isn't for everyone, but I was good at it." Wow, Chauncey can do a complete opinion three-sixty in fewer than ten seconds, impressive. When her focus returns to my hair she says, “I'd never get a tattoo, but I like yours."

  I clap my hand over the back of my neck. "That’s not a tattoo, it’s a birthmark.”

  “I can’t straighten your hair with your hand there.” She brushes away my hand and traces a finger along my mark. “Your birthmark looks just like a little flying bird.”

  “Your dress is so ‘something I would have bought last season.’ Cute." Chauncey says when we're finally ready to walk out the door. Chauncey's dress, a silver halter thing, couldn’t be tighter if she’d shrink-wrapped it on. I can't decide if she looks more like she just stepped off the runway or climbed down from a stripper pole. There is no way we’re not attracting hordes of Italian men tonight.

  I don’t have a purse or a nice jacket that will match my much more modest red spaghetti strap dress, so I tuck a few Euros into my bra and leave my cell phone.

  Chauncey again puckers her lips at her reflection, as we walk past a mirror in the hall outside our room. She says, "Okay, I’m taking you to somewhere I know you can’t afford. So, please don’t offer to help pay. I’m paying for everything.”

  I am about to object but she adds, “You’re doing me a favor. I want to go to this restaurant and I want to go to this club, but I can’t go alone. Please, just let me do this.”

  “Sure. Um, thanks Chauncey. I’ve never gone to a club before.”

  “Tonight will be great,” she says, voice sounding a bit high pitched, as she gives the mirror one more sultry look, then heads for the elevator.

  In the elevator, I reach for the button for the top floor.

  "What are you doing?" Chauncey says.

  I draw back my hand, "Do you mind if we ride the elevator up to the terrace first, it's supposed to have one of the best views in the city."

  "We have a reservation."

  "It'll only take a couple seconds."

  "Fine," she says, slamming her finger on the button.

  When we reach the top floor, Chauncey follows me, as I walk down the hall. "I'm taking you to Antica Pesa," she says as we pass tinkling piano music and the faint aroma of Mediterranean spices. "My dad says I can't miss it; and when my dad recommends something ...” She stops, staring into an open door.

  My gaze follows hers into a well-lit room. A long gleaming wood bar stretches down a wall of alcohol bottles, I don't recognize and could never afford. Three men occupy the room: a middle-aged bartender in a tux, his single patron, and a small piano player with a red bow-tie. Balancing the other half of the room is a line of couches, tables and chairs, and behind them is the view. The elegance and perfect balance of the room can't compete with the view from the half wall of windows; green trees scatter throughout an expanse of domes and temples and towers.

  "Let's skip Antica Pesa," Chauncey says, still staring into the room.

  "Huh?" I say, "Um, Chauncey, I usually don't skip meals." And besides, I'm starving.

  "I'll order you something; let's go sit at the bar."

  I look to the bar, where the only patron, a blond man turns to glance at his watch.

  "Flower guy!" I say so loudly that the bartender, blond man and piano player all glance over. Not for the first time, I reflect that if my high school year book had given a 'most likely to humiliate yourself in public' award, I would have won it.

  Chauncey levels a look on me that clearly questions whether I'm mentally competent.

  "He sent me a flower," I whisper, "yesterday, in the piazza." If there were moisture in the air, it would sizzle off my cheeks.

  "Good, then you can introduce me."

  When I turn back, he's already standing and crossing the room toward us.

  “Hello, do I know you?” He smiles that same unguarded, heart-stopping grin. “Yes,” he says, answering his own question, “The white rose.” Still halfway across the room, he offers his hand. "I’m Nicholas Tapper.”

  I approach to shake it, but Chauncey steps in my way. “My name’s Chauncey Halverson and she’s ...” she gestures over her shoulder and says, “Raven Smith.” She steps closer and throws her ringlets from side to side. "Are you American?”

  “Swedish actually,” he says.

  “You don’t have an accent?” she says, giggling.

  “Thank you. I've been practicing.” Maybe he realizes how strange his comment sounds, because when we just stare, he runs a hand through his blond hair and explains, "I work for my grandfather, and when I finish school, I'll be taking over his American accounts. He's had me travel to America many times to study the culture, dialect, expressions, and all things like that, but, I don't want to bore you. Come, sit down, and join me for a drink."

  Chauncey touches Nicholas's arm. "No, you don't bore me in the slightest. I find you very interesting." Her loud, forced-sounding giggles startle me out of my smile.

  Nicholas’s raised eyebrows look a little startled too; he recovers by leading us to the bar.

  Aft
er insisting on sitting between Nicholas and me, Chauncey calls to the bartender, "We're going to order one of everything on your anti pasta menu." She pats my head and says, "Raven here is a big eater."

  I roll my eyes and sigh. "Yep, that's me. How does the saying go? I never met a ham sandwich I didn't like."

  Nicholas leans over the bar and turns to me. He says, "I've met a couple: those ham sandwiches can be a rough crowd. But as for pizza, we were made for each other. I've spent many a night, gazing into the pepperonis of a fine looking pizza."

  Do you hear that Chauncey? I think your snide remark just backfired. Also, my ‘birds of a feather’ radar was beeping; could I have just found another member of club dork?

  Chauncey pouts out her lips and whispers, "I'd go for the ham, I like it a little rough."

  I choke on… air, and Chauncey slaps my back, hard. Jeez. The awkward tension, buzzing in the silence that follows, is so strong I search for something, anything, to say. "So they have pizza in Sweden?"

  He seems relieved, as he answers, "Yes, but it's not like your American pizza. Sometimes, I'll have our cook order ingredients from the United States, but it does not taste the same, by the time it reaches Leijonskjöld Slot."

  I gaze at the ceiling thinking. "Isn't a 'Slot' a Swedish castle?"

  Chauncey sits straighter. I don't know if it's possible, but it looks as if her dress slipped farther down and tightened. "You live in a castle?" she asks.

  "It's more like a big house." Nicholas shrugs.

  Chauncey leans toward Nicholas, blocking my view of him. "After Raven gorges herself, we're going to a club. I'd love it if you joined us."

  Nicholas leans back into my view and grins his firecracker smile my way. "Yes, I'd love to join you."

  "Sir," the bartender says while refilling Nicholas's wine glass, "You asked me to remind you of your reservation."

  "Oh, yes, I'll need to cancel that." Nicholas stands extracting a cell phone from his suit pants pocket. "If you ladies will excuse me for a second." He walks out of the bar.

  "We'll each take a glass." Chauncey says to the bartender before turning on me. "We're friends, right?"

  Honesty or diplomacy? That is the question. "Sure," I say.

  "Friends don't block friends; so why don't you have the food I bought you delivered to our room, and go eat there."

  The waiter pours a glass of wine, two glasses, showing no indication that he heard what Chauncey just said.

  I lift up my glass and take a sip of wine. Watching the Chauncey show isn't exactly my idea of a good time, but, if I leave now, she'll think she can push me around all vacation.

  "It's not smart to get in my way," she whispers with a smile. She must take my silence for acceptance, because she calls to the bartender, "Excuse me, we have a change of plans, could you send all the food to room 311?"

  The bartender nods and crosses to a computer register.

  "Change of plans?" Nicholas asks. I didn't even hear him re-enter the bar.

  "Raven's feeling anti-social, she's ...”

  "Oh," Nicholas interrupts, looking at me. "We could do this some other time. Perhaps tomorrow ...”

  "Oh, Raven, you could join us for one drink, can't you," Chauncey practically begs me, her lip pouting out like a freaking two year old. I just stare at her; I have no idea what she wants me to say.

  "Thanks, you're such a sweetheart, we'll all go out together." she actually has the gall to glare at me after she says this. “You," she says to the bartender, "another change of plans, can you have her food wrapped up? I’ll call for the car.”

  "I'll see what I can do, miss," the bartender says with a slight bow of his head.

  I somehow managed to change my mind twice without even saying a word; I should do a ventriloquist act, I've got talent.

  Nicholas takes Chauncey's seat when she leaves to call for the car.

  "I'm only going to stay for one drink," I tell him.

  He smiles, "Then that is my plan, also. Perhaps, though, tomorrow, I could spend some time with you?"

  "Tomorrow, my sister and I are going to Vatican city." I look into his grinning face and say, “I think I'd like you to come. If you want, that is."

  He nods.

  "I meant to thank you, for the rose; it completed a wonderful moment; but you, uh, left so suddenly . . . ?" I say this as if it’s a question, hoping he'll explain what happened in the piazza, but, Chauncey returns.

  She stands, staring where Nicholas's arm is close to mine on the bar. “Five minutes,” she announces and then turns on her heel to stalk out.

  A waiter walks through an open door, carrying a stack of several plates, that are covered in foil; he sets them in front of me. Nicholas hands the waiter a credit card and gestures to my leaning tower of appetizers.

  I wave. "Wait, the other girl, Chauncey, is paying for this.”

  “Oh, it’s not a problem.” Nicholas brushes it off with a wave of his hand.

  I crane my neck to glance around for Chauncey; she’s gone. I would offer to pay but I don't have even close to enough for the appetizer pile.

  I stare down at the tower of wrapped plates and sigh. I’m never going on a date with Chauncey again. I bet she’s thinking the exact same thing about me, right this second.

  Chapter Four

  Day Four (continued)

  I opt to sit in the front seat with the driver, not wanting to fight for Nicholas or chance sitting next to Chauncey, the ‘dine and ditcher’. After a few attempts at conversation, I realize that the driver, Alberto, doesn’t speak English and would rather not try.

  The city lights flash by. I concentrate on nibbling the top plate appetizers, not wanting to look at the oncoming headlights or notice the chaotic way we’re weaving through them. I have no idea what I'm eating, but it tastes a little like tuna.

  We pull to the curb and the driver announces, “Distillerie Babilonia.”

  I smile and thank him.

  "Leave your food in the car, Raven," Chauncey calls from the back seat.

  The driver nods, so I do as she says.

  After passing a number of clusters of men and women dressed up for the night, some of who call to me or Chauncey, we enter the Distillerie Babilonia. The music thumps deep in my body and is enforced by the flashing neon lights. I don’t like techno music, but I find my body swaying to the beat of the subwoofer. Chauncey tells us she's heading to the "little girls’ room," which just sounds sick to me, and instructs us to meet her at a group of sleek leather couches along the far wall.

  When we reach them, Nicholas sits down right next to me and says into my ear, "Please, never do that again.”

  I try to raise one eyebrow, but they both lift.

  “Leave me in the back of a car with your friend, at her mercy,” he answers to my questioning look, grabbing his chest. His voice sounds raw and high pitched, “I felt like a little fish, caught by her octopus arms.”

  I can’t help it: I laugh. “I’m sorry.”

  “You should be, my innocence took a real hit this evening.” If Nicholas's smile is unguarded, it is nothing to his laugh; he has a laugh that would make half the people in a crowded movie theater turn around. Even though the techno music makes us shout to be heard, a few inches from each other, a couple cranes their necks to see Nicholas, as he's laughing, which only makes me laugh all the harder.

  And that's how Chauncey finds us, buckled forward, eyes streaming with water, laughing.

  Standing ten feet away, the glare she gives me sobers me right up. “I’ll get drinks,” she announces, then turns on her heal.

  Nicholas wiggles his eyebrows. He has to yell to be heard over the music, "Oh, she’s mad.”

  “And you’re making it worse." I shake my head but I'm still smiling.

  “I can’t help it; she scares me. I’m using you for protection.”

  I turn to examine him. My face muscles are sore. “So, what's Sweden like? We're not going there.”

  "You should, it's paradise
in the summer. Sweden has green rolling hills, old windmills and churches, farmland everywhere. I often hop rocks along the ocean-side for kilometers.”

  I ask, “hop rocks?”

  “Jump from one boulder to the next, keeping up momentum so you don’t fall. Sometimes I’ll swim in the North Sea with jelly fish, or...”

  “Isn’t that dangerous?” I laugh. “Don’t you get stung?”

  He leans in close. "No, you just don't swim with the black ones.”

  Chauncey walks up.

  I jump away from Nicholas.

  With precise movements, she hands us each a tall shot glass filled with brown liquid. I stare at mine with trepidation; I’ve never taken a shot before, never drunk anything stronger than wine. I lean and pass mine to Nicholas: "Here, you take mine.”

  Chauncey narrows her gold-painted eyelids. "What, you’re not drinking that? I bought the shot for you, that is so...”

  Nicholas hands me back my shot and I take it. The alcohol burns my throat. I hold my breath to keep the liquid down. I’m not giving Chauncey another reason to hate me, not when we’re spending another two and half months together.

  They both smile at me and take theirs.

  Chauncey stands. "I’ll get some more.” She hops away from us, heading back to the bar.

  “So how did you two end up hanging out together?” His tone makes it clear how odd he finds our pairing.

  “She’s my sister’s roommate; I’m trying to like her.”

  “How’s that going?”

  The room shifts of its own accord. “What?” The lights behind Nicholas swirl and focusing on his face is difficult.

  “How’s befriending Chauncey going?”

  I laugh and lean against the leather seat. "Terrible.”

  “Do you ever wear your hair up?”

  I stare at his beautiful face. His cheeks are flashing different colors-- no, that’s the lights.

  “May I?”

  I nod, not sure what I’m agreeing to. He walks away from me and behind the leather couch. He puts his hands in my hair and scoops it to the top of my head, holding my head from falling off.