by Sarah Miller
Gid’s face clouded. “Are you all right?”
A Town Car slowly circled one end of the quad, and Pilar flagged it. “I’m fine.” If I mention it, it will just be worse.
They got into the car and she sat far away from him. “So, the Fairmont,” Gid said, slapping his knees in happy anticipation. “It sounds pretty cool.”
Pilar opened her window. The limo driver, who also had a pocket square, was wearing the worst cologne. She sniffed in fresh air. “It is badly in need of a renovation,” she said.
She didn’t say anything else for the rest of the trip. She just stared out the window, thinking, please don’t let my mother ask if we are dating. Every once in a while, her eyes drifted over to the pocket square, and she thought about what a mistake she’d made inviting Gid.
The Town Car pulled up to the hotel in such a way that Pilar was closest to the entrance, and she hopped out and made for the door without much regard to Gideon.
“Hello?” he said. “Remember me?” He caught up to her and put a friendly hand on her shoulder. She didn’t shake it off, but she wished he would take it away. A few seconds passed, and he did.
The inside of the hotel was red and gold and ornate, pink and green with gold accents. The drapes were gold. Old women with thin lips walked in pairs, clutching jeweled purses and, in some cases, each other. The staff wore black. They moved briskly and alone, and so smoothly that it seemed they were on wheels.
“Whoa,” Gid said. He checked out the menu for the Oak Room. “This place is pretty rad, right? I mean, I can see why you think it’s a little gay, but I mean, a sandwich for twenty-five bucks? That’s gotta be a hell of a sandwich.”
Pilar was very nervous. More nervous than she’d ever been the whole time I’d been in her head. She turned and checked herself out in a circular mirror edged with carved gold sparrows. She sucked her stomach against her back and enjoyed the fact that she was sharing her reflection with a throng of people transfixed by the sudden and arresting arrival of such beauty, pointing bellboys, jealously glaring women at the reception desk, a concierge pretending to read a map for some guests but instead staring longingly at Pilar over the top of it.
Don’t let her bother you, Pilar thought. Don’t let her, don’t let her, don’t let her. Remember. You’re OK. If you weren’t, all these people wouldn’t be staring at you.
Pilar’s mother was coming toward them, taking tiny steps in a pair of high-heeled blue shoes with rhinestone buckles. Her suit was white. Blond hair, obviously but carefully dyed, framed a still young, very beautiful face, heart-shaped like Pilar’s but paler, and with a smaller mouth. Her eyes were light and alert, and her stick-thin body seemed to vibrate with the anticipation of people saying and doing the wrong thing.
Pilar took in her thinness, staring at her mother’s hips, which were so narrow that, looking at them head-on, you got the feeling you could just pinch her with your thumb and forefinger and lift her off the ground.
She saw her mother’s eyes light on Gideon, then shift slowly downward.
If she asks him where he’s from, she’s noticed the pocket square.
“Darling.” Mrs. Benitez-Jones leaned in toward Pilar and gave her a stiff embrace. Then she backed away and took in Gideon. “You go to Midvale as well, yes?” She smoothed her skirt as she spoke, unconsciously, repetitively, as if trying to soothe herself.
“Yes,” Gideon said. He stood up straight, as he always did when talking to adults. “I met you and your husband last fall at parents’ weekend. We were over near the front of my dorm, and—”
Her eyes quivered in their sockets. “And where are you from, Gideon?”
I knew it.
“I’m from Fairfax, Virginia.”
“Oh,” said Mrs. Benitez-Jones. “Is that horse country?”
Gideon looked at Pilar.
“It’s kind of pre horse country,” Pilar said encouragingly.
“I’m sure I’ve seen a horse or two,” Gid said. “Here or there.”
There was an awkward silence.
“You always see a horse somewhere,” Gid went on. “That’s what my dad always says anyway, ‘Hey son, let’s drive around until we see a horse,’ and I say, ‘OK, Dad, let’s!’”
Mrs. Benitez-Jones, after turning away from Gideon in annoyed confusion, surveyed Pilar intently. She began at her feet, making a little hum of approval at her shoes. “Those T-straps are very slimming to your ankles.” Her eyes moved up. “The perfect length on that skirt. Things are coming out a little longer this year, and of course, that’s good for you, with your thighs.”
Gideon giggled.
Pilar braced herself as her mother continued up her body all the way up to her neck.
Hold still. It will be over soon.
“Well, Pilar,” Mrs. Benitez-Jones said, “I would advise a salad.”
With Mrs. Benitez-Jones leading the way, they moved past the gold mirrors into the Oak Room.
Whew. That could have been a lot worse.
Like how? Like if her mother brought in a scale and calipers and weighed and measured her in the lobby?
Gid tried to touch Pilar’s elbow. “Are you all right?” he said.
“Yes,” she said, “I’m fine.”
But I knew how Pilar got a tight, achy feeling in the bottom of her chest when she was upset. And she was not fine. But as they approached the table and Pilar saw her father, she put on a big smile.
Pilar’s dad was like eight hundred years old, and he looked like a turtle. He barely stood up when Pilar came over to the table in the middle of the dining room. He made a noise in his throat, which I guess was sort of in Spanish. “Bleeenn,” he said, and pressed his cheek against Pilar’s. He squeezed his eyes. “Amor,” he said, visibly exerted.
“How are you, Daddy?” Pilar said in Spanish.
Mr. Benitez-Jones just pointed at Gideon. It was actually less like he pointed and more like his hand just drifted up in the air, as if he were a ghost.
“Alejandro!” Mrs. Benitez-Jones shouted. “This is Grayman.”
“It’s Gideon,” Pilar corrected her.
They sat down. “Well! This place has a certain passé charm, n’est-ce pas?” Mrs. Benitez-Jones said. “Where do your parents stay when they come up to visit?”
Gid laughed. “Uh, sometimes my dad stays at the Super 8. But not the one in Natick. That’s a shithole. The one in Weymouth is gorgeous!”
Pilar pressed her flattering T-strap against Gid’s foot, and he leaned toward her. “My mother doesn’t understand the sarcasm,” she muttered.
“I can see that,” Gid said. “I was just trying to give her a little crash course. I think she’s enjoying it, don’t you?”
Mrs. Benitez-Jones did not seem to be enjoying herself at all. She tapped a pink nail on the table, and her paper-thin nostrils flared.
I don’t know why boys don’t know how stupeed they are when they do the exact thing you’re complaining about.
I agreed with Pilar on this. I was also pleased to notice that, although my pocket square had had its desired effect, Gid’s own cluelessness wasn’t exactly working in his favor either.
At least he ees a distraction. That’s all I expected.
Preceded by the overpowering scent of cologne, a waiter materialized between Mr. and Mrs. Benitez-Jones. He was short with gelled spikes in his hair and looked like a gay porcupine. “Have you dined with us before?” he asked.
“What kind of a ridiculous question is that?” Mrs. Benitez-Jones asked.
The waiter turned pale. “All right then. May I get you a drink?”
Mr. Benitez-Jones raised his ghost arm and groaned.
“One for me as well,” Mrs. Benitez-Jones said. “See that it’s here before I return from the women’s lounge.” She put three syllables into the word lounge. Then she gave them all a dark look before she spun around and stalked off.
The waiter stepped around the table toward Gid and Pilar. “I didn’t get that,” he said apol
ogetically.
“They want gin on the rocks,” Pilar said. “Make them doubles, but use the small glasses.”
The waiter left. Gid watched him. Then he stood up and ran after him.
I shouldn’t have brought Gideon. He ees out of his element. I can’t really blame him. I mean, eef I went to a pancake breakfast in Fairfax, I would hardly know what to do, other than to not eat pancakes. Pilar turned to her father, forcing a smile. “How are you, Daddy?” she said.
With a gnarled hand, he shifted his cane from one side of his chair to the other. “Pilar,” he said. “Al final, estoy feliz!”
I wonder eef he means he is happy to finally see me or to finally have pretty much checked out of life.
Gid came back, rubbing his hands together. “I just got us drinks,” he whispered to Pilar.
Pilar’s mother was coming back from the bathroom. She eased herself into her chair and spread her napkin on her lap.
The waiter came, bearing four drinks. He set down Mrs. Benitez-Jones’s drink first, and, with her first indelicate act of the day, she set it to her lips and slurped. Mr. Benitez-Jones took some time getting his drink to his mouth, and when it did arrive, it seemed he was unclear as to whether he should tip his head back or tilt his hand up. He did both, and in an instant, drained the glass. “Keep ’em coming,” Mrs. Benitez-Jones said. “I’ll order for us. My daughter and I will have the endive salad, dressing on the side. Her friend and my husband will have the steak.”
“Very well,” said the waiter. In front of Pilar and Gideon he set down two large glasses that looked like Coke. Pilar took a sip and was relieved to find it tasted strongly of liquor.
“Delicious,” she whispered.
“I hope that’s Diet,” her mother said.
“Oh, it is,” Gid said. He smiled at her. Pilar tasted it again. Gid wasn’t kidding. She was touched that Gid had known to get her Diet. Most guys wouldn’t have remembered.
“Thank you,” she said. “You’re really sweet.” I shouldn’t be so hard on heem about the pocket square. He’s sweet. What would eet be like to be with someone so sweet?
I hated, hated, hated that Gid had remembered to get her Diet. It was such a boyfriendy gesture.
Mrs. Benitez-Jones didn’t seem any more thrilled with the idea of Gid’s being her daughter’s boyfriend than I was. She drank her gin like she was Lance Armstrong and it was steroids. Then sat back in her chair and with her straw poked angrily at the ice cubes. She took a sip and cocked her head to one side.
“So, when do you start your job with the movie studio?”
Pilar shook her head. “I don’t,” she said. Here we go.
Mrs. Benitez-Jones shuddered. “What? I don’t understand.”
“It’s just that…” Pilar gave Gideon a pleading look. “Madison got it.”
Mrs. Benitez-Jones held onto the table and inhaled for about forty seconds.
“It’s all right,” Pilar said quickly. “I mean, I…”
Her mother finally exhaled and folded her hands in front of her. “Madison? That doesn’t make any sense. She is not anywhere near as attractive as you are. How could she possibly have…have taken such a thing away from you?”
“Well,” Pilar said carefully. She looked at Gid, who had put his Coke to his mouth and was drinking as fast as he could. “I…I think actually I tried a leetle too hard.”
Gid burst out laughing and spit a little of his Coke onto the tablecloth.
“Whoo,” he said. “Sorry!”
The waiter appeared with a sponge. He dabbed at the spot. “How is your Coca-Cola, sir?” he said, giving Gid a sly look.
“Absolutely amazing,” Gid said.
“Why were you just laughing?” Pilar demanded. Madison probably told him all about that night. How embarrassing.
“I don’t know,” Gid said. “I guess it’s just cute, the idea of you trying too hard. I just got an image of that, and it seemed funny.”
That’s cute. Oh. Wow. I think that’s really cute.
Oh, great.
But Mrs. Benitez-Jones didn’t think it was funny at all. “Whatever does that mean, Pilar? Trying too hard…I just can’t believe that Madison, of all people—”
“Excuse me,” Gideon said. “I feel I have to interject. Madison can be horrible, but she’s not entirely without…well…It’s not like Pilar did anything wrong.”
Mrs. Benitez-Jones held up her glass and tapped on it with one finger. “Well, yes,” she said. “You may well think that, but I think it’s up to me to say whether she did something wrong or not.”
“But you weren’t there,” Gid countered.
All I could think about was how he’d used the word interject in front of Mrs. Benitez-Jones, and he’d never even met my parents.
“Gideon,” Pilar said, “please just let’s talk about something else.”
“I’m just saying that these things are competitive,” Gid said. He finished his drink, and as the waiter brought over another for Mrs. Benitez-Jones, he gestured that he too would like another, and the waiter nodded.
Mrs. Benitez-Jones once again went at her drink with gusto. No one said anything for a moment.
Good. That’s over. It was sort of cute for Gid to stand up for me. But that better be eet. He doesn’t know how my mother can get.
What? It could get worse?
“Gideon,” Mrs. Benitez-Jones said, “what do your parents do?”
“Well,” Gid said, “my mother manages a candle store.”
Mrs. Benitez-Jones’s eyebrows arched with barely restrained revulsion.
“And my father is the chief financial officer for Summer’s Eve.”
“Ay dios mio,” Pilar said.
Gid was laughing so hard he had to put his napkin over his face. “I’m sorry,” he said to Pilar quietly. “I’m just so stoned.”
“That is a very juvenile joke,” Mrs. Benitez-Jones said.
“That’s exactly why it’s funny,” Gid said. He was choking laughing, taking in big gulps of air.
Mrs. Benitez-Jones didn’t even hear him, and she continued, “Particularly since I was trying to make a point, that perhaps your family doesn’t have the same expectations for you that we have for Pilar.”
Gid stopped laughing. He looked Mrs. Benitez-Jones square in the eye. “Look, Mrs. Benitez-Jones,” he began.
“Oh, no, Geedeon,” Pilar pleaded. Oh no, the people at the next table are looking at us. Pilar tucked her hair behind her ears and gave them a big smile. “Let’s talk about something—”
“Pilar,” Gideon said, puzzled, “who are you smiling at?”
“The people next to us,” she answered.
“Why?”
“Because…because they’re watching us.”
“Who cares?” Gid asked.
“I do. I am embarrassed.”
Gid gave Pilar a really sweet smile, and she actually blushed. I felt her face get warm. Then he squeezed her arm. I felt that too.
Gideon looks cute right now. Like, really cute.
“Pilar,” Gid said softly to her, “you don’t have to worry about what those people think. You don’t have to worry about what anyone thinks.”
Gid had no idea he was doing this, but he hit some deep place in Pilar. An image of Elias Ganz came into her head, and of Madison scolding her in the car. Then she looked up and saw her mother, her hard eyes, her stiff haircut.
Pilar stood up. I’m so hungry, and I think that salad probably has some cheese in it, but I just want to get out of here. “I want to go,” she said.
Gid jumped up. “All right,” he said. “I would love to go.”
Mrs. Benitez-Jones waved her drink in an arc above her head. Mr. Benitez-Jones sat up in his chair an inch. “Oh, Pilar,” Mrs. Benitez-Jones said. “Don’t be so dramatic.”
“If you want to know, I didn’t get the job because I think about my looks too much.” Pilar’s voice wavered. “And I think we know whose fault that ees.”
“Well,�
� Mrs. Benitez-Jones said crossly, “I’m certainly not going to sit here and be taken to task for encouraging basic grooming.”
Pilar gave her mother a very stiff hug. “Good-bye,” she said.
Mrs. Benitez-Jones was pretty drunk by now. Her eyes were hostile, and she turned whatever focus was left in them on Gideon. “So,” she said, “you were saying something to me.”
“Oh yes,” Gid said. “I was saying that you don’t know shit about me or my parents, and, if you’ll excuse me for saying so, you probably don’t know shit about Pilar.” The waiter appeared with his drink. “Thanks, Buddy.” Gid said. He drank it in one gulp. “Ready?” he said to Pilar.
“Ready,” she said. They walked through the dining room, and several times their arms grazed. Pilar’s fingers brushed his, then his hers. He grabbed her hand. She squeezed, and he squeezed back.
I know that when a boy and a girl get into the back of a car together, and it is night, and they have had a little bit to drink, what happens next is pretty obvious.
I kept hoping the obvious wouldn’t happen. They sat close. I thought, maybe they’re just cold. Pilar let her knee rest against his. I thought, maybe her knee is tired from running. Then Gid said, you can lie down and put your head on my lap if you want. She did that, and I thought, Well, OK, not many people do that without making out, but some of them do. When she started to cry I knew it was over.
In situations like this, chicks start crying only because they don’t want to be the one who makes the pass.
“What’s wrong?” Gid asked, not just falling for the bait but swimming after it.
“My mother ees so fucked up,” she said.
“Well,” he said, “just because she is doesn’t mean you are. You don’t have to be like her.”
“I am like her,” Pilar said, bringing on a fresh round of sobbing.
“You’re nothing like her,” Gid said. “I mean, your mother isn’t fun. You’re fun. Remember the night we talked at Fiona’s in the chair?”
I remember that you had a boner the whole time.
I was in Gid’s head that night, but I didn’t know that. I was sorry to know now.