Perfect Ten

by L. Philips

  I grimace at the comparison, even though it’s a compliment. Dad is kind of handsome. But I don’t need my mom daydreaming about him when I’m trying to get ready to meet the hottest boy I’ve ever seen. That’s just weird.

  I ignore it and try to tame my overgrown curls into something presentable with a metric ton of product.

  “No, no,” Meg says, finally setting aside her bowl and rushing to my (unsolicited) assistance. She bats my hands away from my hair. “Leave it messy. Trust me.”

  “But . . .” I start to protest, but Mom joins Meg, both of them fussing over my hair until it’s messy again, this time purposefully and casually chic. I look at myself in the mirror, then at the two of them, and sigh. They’re right. I don’t know why, but I look better when my hair is crazy. It defies all logic.

  Mom giggles. “Ooh la la. Ze Frenchman will swoon.”

  I see Meg grinning at me in the mirror and smile back. She leans her head on Mom’s shoulder. “Oui. Wait until you see him, Gina. Gus is très merveilleux, and he just might be perfect for Sam.”

  “Good. It’s about time. He’s been moping around the house far too much lately.”

  “When, exactly, have I been moping around the house?” I ask, turning to face my mother. “I’ve been out every weekend since school started.”

  My mother blinks at me. “Yes. With Meg. And as much as I love her, she’s not exactly boyfriend material.”

  Meg bats her eyelashes at me and I snort. “Point taken. It’s not my fault, though. I ran out of options.”

  “Until now,” Meg says.

  “Until now,” I agree, and turn to look at myself in the mirror again. To my relief and surprise, I don’t look half bad. “So . . . dinner at Toscanos and then seeing the university’s jazz trio at Casa. Good plan?”

  “Oh, Toscanos. Their breadsticks, and the ravioli . . .” Meg breathes, and I can almost hear her mouth watering. Mom will probably feed her cookies after I leave (Meg is avoiding home again because she was out past curfew the night I cast the spell, and she’s in the proverbial doghouse), but still. Meg’s first love is not Michael, it’s food, and Toscanos ranks up there with Seven Sauces for her. “Great choice. And you can’t beat the candlelight.”

  I flush a bit. “Exactly what I was thinking.”

  My mother’s right eyebrow shoots up. “Uh-huh. Well. A gorgeous French boy and candlelight? You should probably be home by eleven.”

  “Mom . . .”

  She laughs. “One. Like usual. And call if you’ll be later. But be careful, Samson. With your heart and otherwise.”

  I catch her drift. Though she’s never said as much, I wouldn’t doubt that she knows what happened between me and Landon. She’s got superhuman powers of detection, not that she would have needed them with the way Landon and I acted. It was probably more than a little obvious. “Don’t worry, Mom. I’ll be careful.”

  “Good.” She stands and kisses my temple before making her way out of my room, leaving me with Meg. Meg stands too, gathering her empty bowl.

  “I should go too. Michael’s taking me to a movie tonight.”

  “The one about the bachelorette party?”

  “Hell no. But not one where everything blows up either. We compromised on a horror flick.” She grins. “Something about an old spell gone awry on ancient Indian burial ground.”

  I feel the blood drain from my face. “Do spells go awry often?”

  Meg steps close to me, a sinister smile on her lips. “All the time. Some people just can’t handle the power.” She cackles as my eyes widen, giving me a slight shove. “Kidding. Geez, Sam. You did a love spell. It’s not like you’re conjuring up the soul of a serial killer.”

  “Well, how should I know? It’s not like I’ve done this before.”

  “Relax, grasshopper. You’ll learn.” Meg wrinkles her nose at me. “I agree with your mom, just so you know.”

  “About moping around the house?”

  “About being careful,” Meg clarifies. “I’m really happy Gus is here for you, but just . . . go slow, okay? And if he’s truly the Perfect Ten, he’ll want to be careful too.”

  “You do sound like my mother.”

  “I sound like my mother,” Meg says, snorting. “Seriously. I don’t want this to be Landon two-point-oh.”

  “Me either.” I pull Meg in for a hug, planting a small kiss on her forehead. “I just really like him, Meg.”

  “I know you do. Which is exactly why I’m worried.” She squeezes me hard.

  “Well, that’s exactly why I’m not. I don’t want to screw this up, literally and figuratively. I’ll go slow, heart and otherwise,” I promise, though I know it will be easier said than done. Gus is tempting, to say the very least. “Have fun tonight. Make him pay for once.”

  Meg’s rolling her eyes as I let go of her. “He’s saving for college, you know.”

  “Yeah, well, so are you.”

  Meg glares. “Go on. Go to your French boy before I get even more annoyed with you.”

  “You love me.”

  “Unfortunately, yes. Go.” She literally shoves me until I’m out the front door, and stands there waving at me and grinning like a goon until I’ve driven halfway down the street.

  I wonder if there’s some kind of hex I can put on Michael to make him see how lucky he is, something where he gets a stabbing pain every time he takes her for granted. That delicious thought keeps me smiling all the way to Gus’s house.

  Dinner is perfect. Beyond perfect. Gus loves the food, and it stirs up memories of a trip he took to Tuscany only a year ago, so I spend most of dinner laughing as he regales me with tales of getting lost in the countryside with his friends and having far too much to drink on several occasions. I somehow manage not to spill anything or say anything stupid. A pianist plays a baby grand in the corner of the restaurant, and Meg was totally right about Toscanos’ candlelight. Gus’s handsome face glows, warm and fluttering, making him appear even more like something out of a fairy tale than before.

  It’s a short walk to Casa Nueva to see the jazz trio next, but I haven’t told him about that yet. We just take our time, enjoying the weather, the sights and sounds of the campus and surrounding town, and each other. Gus holds my hand as we walk, and I point out various buildings to him, either from Athens’s history or mine.

  “That’s Ellis Hall,” I say, waving toward a large brick building dating back to when the college was first founded. “College of English. That’s where my dad works, though he doesn’t teach much anymore.”

  “Ah, yes. I am told ’e ees a famous man.”

  I shrug, suddenly self-conscious. “I don’t know if he’s famous. Not like Stephen King or something. But his work seems to impress people.”

  Gus is quiet for a moment, and then he says, “And does ’is work impress you, Samson?”

  “Of course,” I say quickly. “My father is a fantastic writer.”

  “But . . . ?” Gus prods, and I feel his eyes on me as we walk, studying me.

  “But,” I start. “I guess everyone expects me to write like him, you know? I’m applying for creative writing schools and I’m afraid of putting my name on my college applications, like they’ll expect the great Allen Raines’s son to be so much more than I actually am.”

  Gus considers that, then squeezes my hand. “You ’ave a way wiz words, Samson, even when you speak. I ’ave no doubt zat you are a great writer.”

  “I’m good. I’m just not my dad. I don’t write like him. Hell, I don’t even write the same kind of fiction.”

  “No?” Gus asks me, and I shake my head.

  “My dad writes these beautiful, meaningful stories,” I say. “Things that students will study a hundred years from now. Me, on the other hand . . . I write science fiction. Sometimes even fantasy. I like stuff like aliens and magic and worlds that don’t ac
tually exist.” I feel my face burn, and look back to Gus bravely. He’s smiling at me.

  “I see. And Star Wars? ’Arry Potter? Lord of ze Rings? Are zey not meaningful?” He squeezes my hand again. “Zey are art, Samson. All art ’as meaning. Especially stories zat are in ozer worlds. I am sure your writing ees beautiful.”

  That makes me lose my breath, and all I can do is gaze into Gus’s eyes as my lungs refuse to work and my heart goes thumpity-thump inside my chest. The sun has just dipped below the horizon and now the sky is a masterpiece of neons and pastels, all mirrored in the dark brown of Gus’s eyes.

  “Thank you,” I manage to squeak out, then clear my throat. “Speaking of art . . . A jazz trio from the university is playing at a little brewery tonight—the saxophone professor and two grad students. I thought you might be interested. If not, we can find something else to do.”

  My qualifier is moot, though, because now we’re close enough to the restaurant that the strains of fusion are leaking out every time the front door opens, and Gus’s face has relaxed into that same, nearly ecstatic look I saw when he was playing his saxophone. I squeeze his hand and laugh. “Okay. Jazz trio it is!”

  Gus holds open the door for me, and we enter the restaurant. The place is packed with college students and older people alike, all bobbing their heads or tapping their feet in time with the plucking and slapping of the string bass. A bar made out of rich walnut curves around a half dozen giant copper tanks where, I assume, their hand-crafted beers ferment. The tables, the floor, the shelves, and even parts of the ceiling are made of the same walnut, all whimsically carved in abstract shapes. Gus stares openly, taking it all in, clearly impressed.

  I speak to him, and he leans his ear close to my mouth to hear me over the music. “When my parents brought me here when I was little, I used to pretend I was a hobbit and this was my house in the Shire. Is it any wonder I write fantasy?”

  Gus laughs a deep, melodious laugh, and suddenly the place seems even more magical (magickal?) than when I was a kid. I lead him to a small table at the side of the room, one with a perfect view of the small stage, and order us each a Diet Coke. Gus is already gone, lost in a musical reverie, eyes glazed over as he watches the trio perform. I push his drink toward him and let him enjoy, taking in the sax’s reedy melody.

  We sit like that for nearly an hour, Gus watching the players, me watching Gus. He’s different when he listens to the musicians. Enraptured, for sure, but also observant. It’s like he’s studying the sax player’s every riff and improvisation, memorizing it, logging it away for later. Maybe just to remember, maybe to try to play himself. It’s fascinating, and I feel a little drunk watching him, as if his passion for music is going straight to my head.

  I rub my foot against his under the table and his gaze snaps to mine, a smile curling up his lips almost guiltily, like he’s been caught doing something forbidden.

  “Is this what you want to do?” I ask him, and he tilts his head, straining to hear me over the jazz.

  “No,” he says, frowning just a touch. “I mean, yes, zis ees what I want to do. Zis ees my passion, but eet ees ’ard to make a living playing jazz. Which I am sure you understand if you want to write.”

  I smile. “Yeah, but who needs food?”

  Gus laughs. “We will ’ave to be . . . eh, what ees ze word?”

  “Skinny?” I guess.

  He laughs again. “Not ze word I was looking for, but oui. We will be like skeletons. I was zinking somezing different . . . maybe about commitment?”

  I give it a try. “Dedicated?”

  “Oui!” Gus proclaims. “Profondément engagé. Eet ees like marriage to our passion. We must be dedicated. We must dream and create all ze time, ozerwise eet ees not art.”

  I understand what he’s saying, completely, and I see it then: the two of us in some dump of a flat in Paris, me with my words and him with his music, struggling to make ends meet but in love and in love with life all the same. It’s wonderful, it’s perfect, and I’m lost in the fantasy when Gus jumps in his seat. He reaches behind him, pulls a vibrating cell phone from his back pocket, and glances at the screen.

  “I am sorry, Samson. Eet ees a call from ’ome. I must take eet.”

  I shrug it off as he starts toward the exit, headed toward the peace and quiet outside. “I’ll be here. Go talk.”

  Just then the bassist announces into a microphone that the trio’s going to take a short break to get more beer, which causes a rousing chorus of shouts from around the bar. Most people get out of their seats to do exactly that, and as the crowd migrates, I notice a familiar face on the other side of the room.

  As I raise a brow, Landon gives me a sheepish look and heads in my direction.

  “Where’s Frenchie?”

  “Call from home,” I say, waving toward the outside. “Didn’t know you’d be here.”

  “Yeah, sorry, kind of a last-minute thing.” Landon shoves his hands into his pockets, staring in the direction of the group he was with. “A friend called and asked me to meet him. Jeff. You remember Jeff?”

  I vaguely remember Jeff, or at least the mention of his name. He’d been in the all-state band two summers in a row with Landon. Of course, I’d mostly been annoyed at the time because Landon in Dayton for a week meant that I wouldn’t get laid for a week.

  “Yeah, kind of.” I flick a glance across the room, where a boy watches us with unease. Must be Jeff. “All-state band?”

  Landon nods. “That and the debate finals last summer. Remember when I had to go to Cleveland? Jeff’s on the debate team at his school too, so he was there. And he takes lessons with Professor Benson and was coming down to watch him play, and called me to meet him. He wants to major in music, I guess. You know, trying to get his foot in the door and stuff like that.”

  Landon’s rambling, which isn’t normal for him. At all. And then it all comes together, slamming inside my brain like two freight trains coming head to head in a tunnel. Jeff is the reason why Landon hasn’t been lonely for the last two years. Jeff, this weird kid from the northern part of the state, who plays in the all-state band and qualified for the debate finals—an obvious geek—is the reason why Landon doesn’t feel the need to do stupid voodoo spells at midnight.

  “Gus is here to see Professor Benson too,” I say, and Landon nods. I think maybe he was still talking and I cut him off, but I’m not sure. I keep talking because I can’t seem to be able to stop. “He’s perfect, you know?”

  “Professor Benson?” Landon guesses, confused.

  “No. Gus. He just talked about my writing like he really understood. He’s as passionate as I am, just about music. He really gets me, Landon.”

  Landon’s gaze travels back over to Jeff across the room, who hasn’t stopped watching us. “I’m glad.” His eyes then come back to mine, big and soft, and he laughs uneasily. “Just don’t become a Wiccan, okay? Meg’s the only one allowed to be that batshit.”

  I chuckle because that’s what’s expected of me. Landon clears his throat. The musicians are gathering on the little stage.

  “I guess I should get back,” Landon says, nodding his head in the direction of Jeff the Debate Geek and his all-state friends.

  “Yeah. I need to find Gus. See you later?”

  “Sure,” Landon answers, gives me a half smile, then leaves me. For just a second I stand there awkwardly while everyone else is talking and laughing all around me. It’s a strange feeling, being alone while not being alone. I nearly bolt out the door but force myself to walk. The night breeze lifts my hair at the roots as I step out; the temperature has fallen but it feels good against my skin. Oddly calming.

  Gus is leaning against the glass window of an antique store next door to Casa. He has his phone against his ear, a finger plugging his other to block out the noise of passing cars and drunk college students, and he’s talking fast and excited in Fr
ench. When he sees me, the wide smile on his face gets even wider and he stands up straight.

  He says something low into the phone, something that I can tell is apologetic even if I don’t understand the words.

  “Oui. Je t’aime. A la prochaine . . .”

  Gus takes his phone away from his ear and tucks it into his pocket. “I apologize, Samson. I am yours for ze rest of ze night, I promise.”

  “Mine, huh? That’s a dangerous promise.” I wiggle my eyebrows at him and Gus laughs. “Want to listen to more jazz?”

  Gus turns his head in the direction of Casa’s entrance. The door opens and a couple tumbles out, along with the strains of a saxophone. When he turns back, his cheeks are pink. “I don’t zink I want to listen to jazz anymore.”

  “No?” I ask, and he shakes his head, then closes the distance between us with one step, wrapping his arms around me. The press of his warm body against mine makes my brain go all unfocused and scrambled, until he says, “Know a place a little more . . . private, mon ami?”

  “I know a place,” I say, and Gus makes a noise that is a mixture of a sigh and a groan, and I take his hand and lead him out of uptown Athens, toward a secret place where we can be totally and completely alone.

  Six

  I watch from across the table as Meg’s eyes move back and forth over the menu, like she’s watching a Ping-Pong match instead of deciding what to eat.

  “Order both.”

  “Oh my god, Sam. I’d gain twenty pounds.”

  “I’ll help you eat them.”

  Meg slams the menu shut with a crack and lays it on top of her bread plate. “Scallops. I cannot resist their scallops.”

  I grin at her. My menu sits on the table, unopened. I always know what I want at Seven Sauces. Their lamb might just be my favorite meal of all time. “And dessert?”