“Work,” I said, trying to ignore the smoldering taking place at the other side of the table. “Success. You have to stay on top of things in my business.”
He shrugged and leaned back again. “In any business. No reason to stop enjoying life.”
“And you enjoy life?” It was a rhetorical question. He looked as if he enjoyed every second.
“Don’t you?” His eyebrows rose as his eyes did another slow inventory. I felt my nipples harden as his gaze locked on my breasts. Dios mío, I should have worn a different bra.
“Of course. I thought you wanted to be a poet and live by the sea. I always pictured you that way,” he said.
“My high school plans changed when I got to college, and my college plans changed when I hit the real world.” I shrugged. “Happens to everybody, I hear.”
He looked serious. “It certainly happened to me. So you came to what? Gloat?”
“Gloat? What an ugly word.” I squirmed a little. He was right, but it sounded wrong spoken aloud. “I mainly came to see Alma and Jen. I want to lay some ghosts to rest.”
His eyebrows rose.
I leaned forward and whispered conspiratorially. “I kind of hoped they’d gotten fat and ugly. Alma looks good, sort of. So I’m pinning my hopes on Jen.”
His expression suddenly changed, and I wondered what I’d said to cause it.
“Don’t tell me Jen’s in a wheelchair and that I’m going to regret my words.” I looked toward the bar area, but only a few of the crowd were visible from here. “Because I won’t. Regret it, I mean. They were responsible for the worst day of my life.”
He laughed shortly. “Mine, too. And no, she’s not in a wheelchair. You’ll probably run into her tonight.”
He didn’t explain further. I wondered what Jen had done to account for the bitterness in his voice. I wouldn’t put anything past her, the bitch.
“Don’t tell anyone who I am, okay, Rick? Please? This Kalucheck woman’s bound to show up, and I’ll leave then, or tell everyone who I am, but I’ve got something to prove to myself.”
“That you can still run away? Still hide?” He shook his head and sat back, lacing his fingers together behind his head. “You don’t need to do this, Cali. Remember when I told you that you were braver than you thought? Look at all you’ve accomplished. You’ve got nothing to prove to anyone. Remember that Dead Kennedy song, ‘California Uber Alles’? That’s still you.”
I groaned, remembering the anti–Governor Reagan political anthem. He would sing it to provoke me, and I’d always smile back, unfazed, more concerned by the punk band’s near-heretical name than the song. I mean, if I cringed every time anyone said California I’d look like a bobble head. It’s a state, for Pete’s sake. Rick was the only person that I had allowed to say my whole first name out loud, and he’d seldom abused the privilege.
I smiled and struck back, as I remembered something else. “Did you ever tell anyone that you read Kafka and Dickens for fun?”
“Nope. Did you ever tell anyone about your reams of poetry?”
I widened my eyes. “Are you kidding? They thought I was weird enough as it was. You were braver, though. You let everyone see exactly who you were. Except for the book reading part.”
“You did, too. But you just stayed in the library, like a little fairy in the forest.”
I laughed. “More like a little troll under a bridge.”
“You have a nice laugh, Cali. I don’t believe I remember that laugh.” He straightened and leaned forward to touch my hand. “You should have laughed more.”
“Not enough to laugh about, I’m afraid.” I smiled to take the edge off the words, not daring to look at his hand on mine. It felt great, all warm and comforting. “All that teenage angst. But things have changed for me. I’m not a famous documentary filmmaker, but I’m one of Kenneth MacBray’s lead designers.”
“The fashion guy?” He slapped the tabletop with his open palm. “That’s great. So half these women are wearing clothes designed by you?”
I rolled my eyes in mock horror. “Oh, I hope not. But in two years they’ll be wearing bargain store knockoffs of the clothes my clients wear.”
“All that, and humble, too,” he said, smiling. His fingertip circled a mark on the table. “So, did you ever marry?”
I watched his lightly tracing fingertip, thinking of how it would feel on my skin, caressing my breasts. I shivered and my nipples reacted, tightening again. He didn’t miss the show, but made a brave attempt to keep looking at my face.
It occurred to me that I was reacting like my high school self, a shy prude, the pride of my old-fashioned Cuban parents. Not allowed to date, not allowed to pluck my eyebrows until I was sixteen, and by then I was too embarrassed to admit to anyone that I didn’t know how. I spent four years in perpetual embarrassment.
Boy, had things changed in college.
So Rick was staring at my breasts. So what? I was here for a weekend. It was Friday night, the traditional party night. Why shouldn’t he enjoy himself? Why shouldn’t I? I sat up straight and threw my shoulders back. He reeled slightly, then recovered.
His finger continued to go round and round, and when his eyes met mine, the message was clear.
Somewhere in the Bronx, my girlfriends were going to scream.
Chapter Three
I’d been waiting for this moment for fifteen years—almost half my life. My heart was beating in time to Rick’s circling finger and I swallowed, mouth dry. My drink was empty and I clinked the ice, thought about sucking on a cube, then decided it would be either provocative or annoying, and I didn’t know which.
“Earth to Cali,” he said. He touched my left hand, stroking my bare ring finger. He raised his eyebrows in a silent question.
“Too busy,” I said. “It takes time and commitment to ramp up to marriage. I date occasionally.” I didn’t mention that my dates were male coworkers, mostly gay. We served as each other’s escorts as needed for business dinners, weddings, and other family occasions. It saved a lot of headaches. My little black book was full of numbers for fellow designers, fabric shops, pattern makers, and embroiderers.
Alma’s radar must have been set on high. She appeared at our table, fake smile pasted on, eyes switching from Rick to me.
“Rick, you’re hogging Dorothy. She hasn’t had time to circulate yet.”
Rick ignored her and smiled at me. “How about another drink?”
I’d planned to stop at one, but now my second drink was empty and my backbone still needed reinforcing. “Just Coke this time, really,” I said.
His smile was crooked, sardonic, and totally adorable. “Girly drink.” He stood and stretched backward a little. “Sorry,” he said. “I put a new head in a Tahoe this morning and I’m stiff all over.”
Stiff. I held back a vintage Lydia Stevens giggle, but it faded when I thought of what he’d just revealed. As he headed toward the bar, disappointment killed my burgeoning lust. He was still an auto mechanic. He’d worked in his dad’s car repair shop after school and during the summers, but he’d been headed to college and a teaching career. He wanted to teach in inner city Chicago. I was sure he’d left suburbia and the auto shop behind.
Just like me, he’d longed for escape. What happened to being a teacher, to making a difference? He’d played the rebel, but then bought into the Elmwood Park life. His black leather jacket, cool black sweater—his whole bad boy look, was all a disguise.
Despite being Dorothy Kalucheck for the night, I didn’t feel like a hypocrite. I was answering to a false name, but underneath, I was the real me, with real accomplishments.
That reminder freed me. I was here for two days, not a lifetime, so why not play? It didn’t matter what he was. I wanted him, and he seemed to want me. This opportunity would never come again. Of course, I could be fooling myself. In high school, we’d done little more than hold hands in the library until that moment just before graduation, and that episode might have been a fluke.
We’d both
been individualists, loners, although that word’s gained a bad reputation lately. We’d kept each other’s secrets. They were tame secrets, as high school lives go, but his literary bent would have labeled him a joke, a nerd ten years before the dotcoms made nerds cool. High school was tough enough without handicapping yourself, especially when you’re already different. Like being the only Cuban in a predominantly Italian high school.
Alma watched Rick leave, then turned to me. A little wrinkle between her eyes signaled her displeasure. No Botox here. “I’ve made a list of some of the people you need to speak with. This will give you a cross section of Elmwood Park High’s most interesting stories.” She handed me a sheet of paper.
“Thanks, Alma.” I took the sheet between thumb and forefinger, and read what looked like a who’s who of the popular kids in our class. Bland, white, and respectable. Not a single really interesting person had made the cut, and no one of color. Of course there had been few of those.
I wondered how much I could admit to knowing. Would Dorothy Kalucheck have researched the class? Would she know more than what Alma told her? I gave it a try. “I don’t see Jane Boskin, the chef, Or Evan Tiswell, the guy who was nominated for a Pulitzer in journalism.” Just because I didn’t come back to Elmwood Park didn’t mean I didn’t read the New York Times, and those two were nationally known.
“Oh, why—” Alma seemed flustered. “Of course, we’re very proud of them. Evan isn’t here, and Jane, well.” She leaned forward and whispered. “Jane’s not what you’re looking for.”
“She has her own cooking show on TV.” This was true. I’d watched it a couple of times. She was big into cooking meat, and I was a sometime vegetarian, not to mention totally cold on cooking, so I didn’t watch it much, but there were plenty of people who did. “Is she here?”
“Yes, but—” Alma pursed her lips. “She’s brought her significant other with her.”
“So?”
“She has a, oh, how can I say it?” Alma blinked rapidly. “She has a wife,” she finally said.
“Jane’s a lesbian?” She was more interesting than I’d thought.
“Yes,” Alma hissed, looking around as if I’d said a dirty word in front of the preacher.
“Here’s your rum and Coke, Cal—” Rick had turned the corner and held the drink aloft. “Calvin. Calvin’s at the bar and I think you should talk to him, too.”
I breathed again. For a second I thought he was going to give me away, but he was quick.
“Calvin,” Alma frowned. “I thought the bartender’s name was Zack.”
“If my name was Calvin, I’d change it to Zack, too,” Rick said.
I took the drink Rick was holding out and said, “Excuse me, I have to go to the ladies’ room. I’ll talk to, er, Calvin on the way back.” I dashed away before Alma could chirp that she was joining me, in that restroom-inspired solidarity women sometimes have. Behind me, I heard her chiding Rick because Calvin had not been in our graduating class.
“The focus here is on Elmwood Park,” she said behind me. As if anyone could forget.
Beyond the bar, carpeted stairs led up to the second floor. A huge illuminated sign read LADIES in pink neon, with a beribboned finger pointing up. I climbed, hoping for a roomy bathroom with a lounge. I needed to sit for a while and figure out what to do next. The evening was not turning out the way I’d hoped. There were no bald ex-crushes, no fat cheerleaders. And as far as I knew, the only fake in the room was me.
I would have said that things weren’t going the way I’d planned but there had been no planning for my impulsive trip back in time. My presence here was totally unlike the methodical woman I’d become, and it showed. I started to hope that Dorothy Kalucheck would show up soon. If I left now, Alma would follow me, asking why her pet filmmaker was leaving. The arrival of the real Dorothy would draw a lot of attention, and not the good sort of attention if I got caught, but I was a fast runner.
The music changed as I went upstairs, going from nostalgic to techno. At the top of the stairs I blinked as my eyesight was assaulted by dazzling colors and lights. I stared at the glass and mirrors that ringed a huge space filled with pool tables and whirring, pinging, singing video games. Totally different from downstairs, it was almost empty. The Elmwood Parkites hadn’t discovered it yet.
Not my style, but at least it was livelier than the pseudo-Irish pub look downstairs.
I found the bathroom at the far side of the room. A woman held the door for me as she exited. As I’d hoped, there were lounge chairs, a long counter with makeup mirrors, and a separate room with stalls. It smelled like lemon disinfectant.
My face and hair looked okay, or at least nothing was wrong that I could fix without an appointment. I went into the first stall, hung my Prada bag on the door hook, pulled up my dress, and was just sitting down when a nearby toilet flushed. I’d thought I was alone, not that it mattered.
A door creaked open and I briefly heard the music outside. Someone else coming in. The bathroom scene was picking up now that people’s drinks had percolated through their systems.
“Who’ve you seen?” a woman asked over the noise of water running in the sink.
“Oh, lord, everyone,” another woman answered. “Not that I don’t see them all the time. We could have saved a lot of money by holding the reunion at the PTA fish fry last week.” They both laughed.
Hidden in the stall, I shuddered. I wouldn’t put it past them. The sports bar suddenly seemed like a palace.
“You know who else I saw downstairs?” The first woman’s voice lowered. “Rick Capaldi came in. By himself.”
“I’m not surprised,” the other woman said. “Jen’s here somewhere. She came straight from work or at least that’s what she said.”
I froze. I don’t think I even breathed. Jen. How many could there be at this reunion? Maybe someone’s wife had the same name as my archenemy.
“Yeah? Well she probably doesn’t know that Rick’s down there schmoozing that documentary lady.”
I sat straight up.
“Jen probably wouldn’t care if Rick was screwing her on the bar,” the other woman said. “If I was married to a hunk like that, I’d pay attention to him.”
“She’s too busy putting the Peterson whammy on Chip Alstead.”
“Mmhmm. Yummy Chip.”
They both laughed again, and then moved toward the door. I heard music again.
And then I was alone.
Jen Petersen. Married to Rick.
I wanted to run away, back to New York. I wanted to kill Rick for not telling me. I wanted to kill him for marrying the bitch queen of Elmwood Park High.
For a second, I remembered her at the Homecoming Parade before the football game our senior year. She wore dark blue velvet with big sleeves, and a long, bouffant pleated skirt that made her waist look tiny. Her golden hair fell to her waist, held back from her face by a glittery tiara. It had started to snow, and she’d looked like something out of a fairy tale, a snow princess.
As unhappy as I was with my own appearance, she had seemed magical, and despite who she was, and how horribly she treated me, for a moment I had desperately wanted to be her. There was no escaping who I was, short and dark, nearsighted, scraggly-haired, and Latina. I hated her for being beautiful and popular and blond, for driving her own car and being allowed to go to parties. She was a star. I was the last lump of coal in the bin.
I’d come to rid myself of these memories, not to relive them. Now, ten years later, I hated her all over again, for bringing back that ugly time, and for taking away my hope. I couldn’t even confront her without admitting that I wasn’t Dorothy Kalucheck. Talk about getting off on the wrong foot—I’d have to first admit I’m a liar.
Rick was married to Jen, and I was in the bathroom, alone and feeling foolish, panties around my ankles, tears smearing my mascara. My triumphant return was so not following my fantasy script.
I pulled myself together, quickly rubbing the mascara from under my
eyes before anyone else came in. I threw my shoulders back and raised my chin. Fearless, and a little drunk, I stepped out of the bathroom, new plan in place.
I was going to confront Jen, slap Rick for leading me on, and teach Zack how to make a killer mojito. I needed one.
Chapter Four
I crossed the big room again, looking around in case Jen and Rick had come up here. I felt small and weak, but mostly I was mad. It was not fair that the life I’d built for myself had melted away so quickly when confronted by my past.
Remember who you are, I told myself. I recited my successes: improved appearance, ideal job, successful new fashion line. It didn’t seem like enough. It wasn’t easy to pump up my self-esteem with evil Jen lurking somewhere in the building. So far, my big Friday night sucked.
Maybe I could kill Alma, Jen, and Rick. Then I could sell my story to the Coen brothers and carve a new niche for myself with the fashionista Death Row crowd.
A blonde in sparkly Spandex rushed past me and slammed through the bathroom door. I didn’t recognize her, but she made me think that anyone could be Dorothy Kalucheck. She could already be here, observing me, and I’d end up as a surreal footnote in her documentary. Uneasy, I went down the stairs. The music changed as I descended the steps, morphing back to the ’90s. It was like going through a time tunnel to the past. I so didn’t want to go there.
Before I stepped on terra firma again, Sue Ann Lemke, the valedictorian of the class of 1989, started toward the stairs. I remembered her because although we never spoke much, she’d been nice to me. She’d changed very little. No nonsense and plain then, she was an older, more sophisticated version of her teenaged self. She glanced at me, and instead of a perfunctory smile as our eyes met, her eyes brightened and she stopped. Uh-oh.
“Cali, it’s great to see you,” she said.
I felt sick. How could these people recognize me? I looked nothing like I did in high school. Or did I? That made me feel worse. “Hi, Sue Ann. How’d you know it was me?”
“I saw you in New York during Fashion Week, and I kind of hoped you’d be here. I’ve been following your career.” She paused, face full of concern. “Are you all right? You look a little pale.”
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