She heard my staggering footsteps and turned her face toward me, still keeping her head down. In her sober black pants and jacket, she didn’t look like the drunk-off-your-ass type. Her shoulder-length hair fell partly across her face, but I could tell she was in her early fifties, and she was looking at me, although her eyes didn’t seem to be focused on anything.
“I’m sick,” she whispered, as I walked past, trying not to show I was staring.
Damn. Now I had to help her.
“Are you okay?” I asked. Duh. Of course she wasn’t.
“Flu,” she said. “Fever. Can you help me get to my room?”
“Sure,” I answered. Torn between relief that she was just sick and not blasted, and fear that she had some contagious, apocalyptic virus, I took her elbow and helped her to stand. She leaned on me as we walked down the hall. Her skin was the color of bad asparagus.
“You look awful,” I added helpfully.
“I was okay this afternoon,” she said. “Then suddenly I couldn’t even think straight.” Her words were slurred.
We stopped, and she fished for her key in an oversized black tote bag.
“Is this your room?” She ignored my question as she rummaged, leaning crazily toward the left. I put a hand at her waist to level her.
I took the key card from her and shoved it into the door lock, then pushed the door open.
“Thanks,” she said hoarsely. “I’ll take it from here.” She pushed her hair out of her flushed face. Her eyes were feverishly bright.
“I’m okay. Just need sleep,” she said wearily. She squinted up at me. “Thanks, neighbor.” She smiled a little. It made her look more human and less like the Cryptkeeper.
“Hey, no problem. Want me to call a doctor?”
She shook her head and started to close the door. “Sleep,” she said. “Everything hurts.”
I went back to the elevators, and this time I made it to the lobby without being accosted by any more desperately ill women. I stopped to buy hand sanitizer from the gift shop. Whatever bug the woman had, she could keep.
The doorman hailed a Checker cab for me. I watched the cabbie’s face in the rearview mirror as I told him the address of Scooters. No shock, no leer, just a grunt of recognition as he pulled away from the curb. I figured this was a good sign, although it would have been better if he’d been impressed.
Imagine my surprise when we pulled into the parking lot of a three-story entertainment megaplex with an oversized blue neon sign plastered across the front. Scooters. Not just a sports bar. It was a sports bar on steroids. The parking lot was super lleno, full to bursting.
I sat in the cab, speechless, then paid the fare and stepped out into the cold night. I don’t know why I expected a nicer venue for the Friday night mixer, but I’m prejudiced against sports bars. I hate talking to people when their eyes are glued to a TV screen above my head. Not that I expected to do much talking.
I wasn’t sure what my expectations were, aside from seeing what had become of Rick, and the girls who had caused me so much grief fifteen years before. I hoped they’d turned into hefty heifers. Maybe I just wanted to prove to myself that I’d made it, that I’d moved beyond my anxiety-driven teenage self.
The cab had dropped me off near the door, but far enough away that I could pull out my compact mirror and freshen my lipstick, which didn’t need freshening. It was just an excuse to look at my face again, making sure I hadn’t sprouted a unibrow, frizzy hair, and thick glasses. My sleek, razored black hair was the same as before, and my makeup looked just as it had when I’d left my room. I practiced a nonchalant look to replace the wild-eyed apprehension.
Game face on, I pushed through a knot of smokers huddled miserably by the front door, hoping the smoke wouldn’t stick to my clothes. The place was huge, and though part of it was indeed a sports bar, the rest was a jumble of cozy booths, pub tables, and dance floors. A deafening mix of ’80s dance music blasted through the crowded, dim interior. I stopped just inside the door, letting my eyes adjust enough to recognize faces. Above me, “Frankie Goes to Hollywood” boomed out, “Relax, don’t do it, when you want to come to it…”
I didn’t recognize anybody right away, and I was pretty sure no one would recognize me. I was counting on it.
A couple of guys looked at me curiously as I walked down the long bar. I stared straight ahead, and it was hard to keep a triumphant smile off my face. No guys ever looked at me in high school the way I was being looked at now. Okay, so they weren’t exactly chulo-caliber, but they were men, and guys think they’re hot even when they’re bald and paunchy like my Tío Miguel.
Three women and one man were busy behind the bar. The lone male bartender was at the far end, and I headed toward him. I needed a drink to hold onto. I wanted another mojito but when I caught his eye I ordered a rum and Coke. A mentirita, as my Mom would call it. A Little Lie, a bitter joke on the drink’s original name, Cuba Libre, since there was no longer a free Cuba. It was a great business occasion drink since I could later shift to straight Coke and no one would know my glass was alcohol-free.
A pink-cheeked, matronly woman approached me. “Hi, I’m Lydia Stevens, and I know who you are,” she said slyly.
“You do?”
Lydia Stevens. I mulled the name, trying to come up with its twelfth-grade equivalent. Finally, I remembered a chubby girl in striped, homemade sweaters, who giggled her way though chemistry class. I’d never figured out what was so funny about atoms, but she’d had a lot of friends who giggled along with her.
“I sure do. We’ve been wondering when you’d show up.” She turned and waved to a group of Lydia clones, who all delivered identical finger waves back to us. I lifted a hand, and then dropped it. Good to see her posse was intact, although there was a Twilight Zone quality to their sameness.
“So you’re expecting me?” I wondered what fresh hell awaited me. Had Jen Peterson and Alma Marino planned to restage the most humiliating moment of my life? I felt fifteen years’ worth of social polish slip away. Panic filled the void. I tried not to show it, keeping my face cool, a small smile pasted to my lips, reminding myself that I wasn’t a timid high school geek anymore.
“Hey, is this her?” The chipper, ungrammatical voice behind me hadn’t changed at all. My spine hadn’t needed Cuban courage after all. It was stiffened by fear. I swallowed, reminding myself that I was thirty-three, not eighteen. My old tormentors were probably all about PTA meetings and amateur tennis now. I turned, and came face to face with Alma Marino, former editor of the school newspaper, the Elmwood Park Sentinal, and bully extraordinaire.
She looked terrific, darn it, although the former Miss Perfect’s hair showed signs of color and heat damage. She smiled brightly and extended her hand. One inch airbrushed gel claws tipped each finger. The novelty of the moment was lost as I tried not to stare at her garish manicure.
“Welcome to the Elmwood Park Reunion. We’ve got a great reunion planned. I’m Alma Steuben, the committee chair. I love your work.”
“You do?” I was a minor ready-to-wear designer for Kenneth MacBray, and my personal line didn’t seem her thing at all. I tried to picture her in one of my skimpy layered-gauze frocks. The effort was too great. She was a Target girl, or maybe Wal-Mart. And what was with the happy smile? Was she on drugs, or had I been wrong all those years ago?
I had a sudden flashback of standing in line at the cafeteria, her cruel words ringing through the room, all eyes on me. And then her friend Jen’s hand smacking the bottom of my tray so that salad dressing, milk, and soggy broccoli dripped from my T-shirt, making me as dirty as they’d made me feel. Everyone had laughed, just as they were laughing now.
Whoa. I backed away from that totally Stephen King moment and tucked my inner Carrie away.
Lydia’s friends were crowded around, and Alma looked at them triumphantly. “Girls, I am so proud to introduce you to this brave woman. Few people make a difference in the world, but she has.” She waved her hand dramati
cally.
My bewilderment must have shown on my face, because Lydia smiled understandingly and squeezed my arm.
“Girls, I want you to meet Dorothy Kalucheck.”
Chapter Two
Dorothy Kalucheck? Who the hell was that? My fear turned to puzzlement, then glee. They had mistaken me for someone else. I smiled and returned the handshakes that suddenly surrounded me, maybe a little more firmly than I should have, squelching the little devil of disappointment that they had not recognized me, that the smiles weren’t really for me.
Alma beamed with pride. She must have thought this Kalucheck woman’s presence was a real coup. Alma’s girlish prettiness had matured, and she was now handsome, although she could have done better than the suede skirt and boots she had on, which made her look clunky. And that hair—who had the frizzed ends now?
Of course, I didn’t need to pick on Alma. The whole room was full of people in need of extreme makeovers.
Off the hook, I felt like taking the offensive and announcing their mistake. Instead I asked a safe question, since they obviously expected me to serve some purpose. I hoped this Kalucheck woman was not a foodie. I totally suck at cooking.
“So, where do I start?” I sounded no-nonsense and official.
Alma and Lydia looked at each other. Still the alpha bitch, Alma took the lead.
“I think you should meet absolutely everybody,” she said. “We’re all here.”
“Everyone?” How about Cali Montalvo? Oh wait, she’s right here, and she’s made a huge success of her life despite what you did to her.
“Some of us have become hugely successful,” Alma continued, startling me into thinking that maybe she could read minds. But no, if she could read mine, her brain would be blistered.
I followed her, drink in hand, through the room as she reintroduced me to faces vaguely familiar from the yearbook of the class of 1989. As we walked and made small talk with a succession of accountants, life insurance salesmen, secretaries, teachers, and lawyers, I became aware of my supposed mission.
The documentary filmmaker they’d mistaken me for was checking out the reunion mixer, and maybe returning tomorrow to film the reunion itself. I played along, but as soon as the real Dorothy Kalucheck showed up, pa’ fuera. I was out of here. And as soon as I saw Rick, I’d declare my mission over, even if I didn’t have my dream confrontation with Jen Peterson. And Alma. I owed Alma an invitation to the Guilty Party. Meanwhile, I played the documentary filmmaker.
“Sometimes I like to focus on issues,” I said to Alma after talking to a bowling alley manager who had been one of the football team’s stars. “Did you have any experience with bullying in high school?”
“No,” she said, shaking her retro perm. “That’s more an elementary school issue, isn’t it?”
“You’d be surprised,” I answered, feeling a pang as the old Cali reshaped herself from the ashes. “It takes different forms.”
I was about to get more specific when her face darkened. “Here’s another success story, but you might not want to meet him.” Her eyes were on the bar’s front door. “He can be a real booger.”
Had she really said booger? It was so high school. Or so mommy. If she excused herself to go to the potty, I’d laugh out loud. I turned to look for this booger person.
I spotted him a second later, and this time my spine melted. Even my fingers felt hot. The ice in my glass clinked softly as my hand shook. Dark hair, chiseled profile, broad shoulders. Rick hadn’t changed, not one bit. One hundred percent guapo.
“Hm,” I said. “Must have gotten a chill. So, who is this guy?” As if I didn’t know. It wasn’t fear that made my hand shake, it was desire.
“Rick Capaldi. He was one of those really mysterious guys in high school. Dangerous-looking, too. He was into punk rock, and his friends were just as odd. He had a Mohawk one summer. A blue one.”
“But grew back his hair before September,” I said, then realized I’d spoken aloud.
Alma nodded. “He sure did. They wouldn’t have let him through the school doors otherwise.” She looked at me. “Perceptive of you. Or did you have a Rick Capaldi at your school, too?”
“Don’t we all?” I spoke lightly, but thought of Rick, hair falling into his dangerous brown eyes, always angry, and so sexy. My one high school friend, if you could call a one-sided crush a friendship. One-sided until just before school ended, when he’d made his surprising confession. My face grew warm as I wondered if he remembered what he’d said, if he remembered me.
Alma led me toward him, and I followed, confident that my disguise was foolproof, although it was disconcerting that I thought of my current appearance as a disguise. This was the real me—confident, put-together, and smart.
Confident, put-together, smart, I repeated to myself, as if it were a mantra. I fought the urge to cross myself.
Rick’s eyebrows rose as Alma cut off his progress toward the bar. She pulled me forward. “Rick, so glad you made it,” she chirped, sounding as fake as I felt. “This is Dorothy Kalucheck, the filmmaker. She’s thinking of doing a documentary about our reunion.”
He put his hand out automatically, and my fingers disappeared into his warm, firm grip. He’d held my hand before, and my heart almost broke remembering it. He looked up, about to speak, and instead his gaze stuck to my face as if we were in a staring contest. His mouth closed, and one side twitched. I knew that look. Busted.
Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Alma look from him to me and back again.
“Rick. I’ve heard so much about you,” I finally said. I pulled on my hand, which was trapped in his. His grip tightened; not enough to hurt, but I wasn’t getting away until he let me go.
“Nice to meet you, too. Dorothy.” There was a slight delay before he said the name; then he turned to Alma. “I’d like to speak to Dorothy in private, Alma. Mind?”
“No, of course not.” She looked bewildered. “Do you two know each other?”
“No,” I said quickly.
“We’ve met,” Rick said, simultaneously.
I stared at him, horrified. I was losing control of the moment. I’d wanted to meet him on my terms.
In my nebulous fantasy I’d imagined that I’d watch him from the other side of the room, and he wouldn’t recognize me until I introduced myself. Then I’d bask in his shock and dazzled admiration, allowing myself a little bit of time to gloat before leaving with a nonchalant little wave. Off to be famous, leaving little Elmwood Park behind.
“Well, I didn’t know you were a film buff,” Alma said. “I’ll leave you kids to get reacquainted.” She looked at me again, as if maybe I was more famous than she’d thought, then waved at someone across the bar and hurried off.
“Dorothy Kandychuck? What kind of lame name is that?” Rick grabbed my elbow and pulled me into the sports bar. A hockey game was playing in sensurround on twelve different screens. My heart hammered, thrilled that he’d recognized me, worried that he’d rat me out.
“I think the name is Kalucheck, and she’s a real person. Alma thinks I’m her. I thought it would be a great way to meet everyone again, incognito.”
“That’s insane, Cali.” He slowed down as we approached the back, a darker area with no TVs. The carpet underfoot was still sticky from spilled beers past. A couple of viejitos in their sixties or older were talking, heads together, over beers at a table by the door. They looked like they were about to smooch. Ack.
Rick stopped at an empty booth, motioned me in, and sat across from me. He was gorgeous. Under his leather jacket he wore a collarless black sweater, very in, very spare, that clung to his narrow waist. I approved. As if it mattered.
“You look nice Rick,” I said, trying not to sound hungry. My girlfriends’ voices sang a Greek chorus in my head. “Him,” they chanted. “Pick him, Cali.”
“You look—” he looked me up and down, breasts to hairline “—amazing.”
“Thanks,” I said, and shivered. It’s always a boost to the ego
to be told you’re hot, and I needed every boost I could get tonight. Bonus points that the piropo came from Rick. “I didn’t introduce myself as Cali. No one’s recognized me.”
“Not surprised,” he said. His words, though true, stung and made me redden. His next sentence soothed the burn. “They all started drinking around six. Why’d you co-opt this Kaluchick’s persona to do it?”
“Kalucheck. It was a mistake, but I didn’t want to admit who I really was.”
“Why, Cali? You weren’t infamous in high school. There are probably some guys here that should have stayed home, but not you.” He turned his head sideways, stretching out his neck, then repeated to the other side, popping his vertebrae. It was a nervous habit I remembered, and it made me feel oddly comfortable.
“Because I wanted to see Alma and Jen again.”
“Not me?” His eyes twinkled. “Man, that hurts.”
“And you, of course.”
“Too late,” he said. “My feelings are crushed.” His smile didn’t change, but something in his eyes made me wonder if maybe he really was hurt.
The waitress came by and he ordered a beer and pointed at my glass.
“Coke,” I said, preempting his order.
He picked up my glass and sniffed it. “Make that a rum and Coke.”
“Are you always this rude?” I snatched my glass back.
“Relax, Cali. You used to be so laid back. What happened to stress you out?” He leaned forward, his eyes warm, and getting hotter.
Friday Night Chicas Page 12