Know Me (Truthful Lies Trilogy - Book One) (12 page)

Tolek had always been a little on
the
“rough” side—a real
tough guy—but this was the first time where his anger had flared up
like a volcano, as if he’d been playing Mr. Nice Guy all those
months just to get me to go all the way, and then, when I didn’t
let him, he snapped, and Face Number Two came out.

I’ve never been able to get that idea out
of my head: And he’s always been Tolek Two-Face to me since
then.

Xavier is similar, I guess, but the
two-facedness in him is not part of his essential nature. The way,
I believe, it is with Tolek. Xavier’s double-naturedness comes
about because of his
Mujer
(a certain white powder better known to most as Big C or,
Savva’s fave term for it,
California Corn Flakes
.)

While Tolek Two-
Face shouted and raged, I slid away from him and
answered the door. Mr. Bernstein scowled him down and asked,
“Everything OK, Blaze? This schmuck giving you drek?”

“
No, Mr. Bernstein. We’re good. I
think...Tolek...was just leaving?” I looked at Tolek.

“
We NOT OK!” Tolek said. He put his pointed
finger an inch from my noise, and said, “Is NOT over, Błażej!”
(Tolek, like many of the Polish Greenpointers who knew me before I
moved to Bushwick, knew me by my birth-name, the one before I
changed it.)

Then, before leaving, he glared Mr.
Bernstein down like he was a turd on the sidewalk, and then left in
a storm.

I never heard from him again. I guess he
must’ve found some other
tussy
who didn’t mind his feely-feeliness as much as I
did.

Since that day, Mr. Bernstein has always
equated Tolek with everything bad in the world, or everything bad
in my life for that matter. In some way, maybe even for Savva’s
death.

But he’s wrong on that l
ast count. That one was all me. I know
that to my very core.

And I have to live with it.

Annnnnnnd...we’re back.

I knock on
Deck’s window and startle him awake. He rolls it
down, rubs his eyes.

“
Did you think I was NYPD?” I
say.

“
I was thinking more on the lines of
Latin Kings
or
TBO Gang
.”

“
Nah, you don’t find those types here no
more. And besides, that’s more East New York side.”

“
That’s not too far from here.”

“
You sure sound like a wuss for someone
who’s lived in Brooklyn all his life.” I realize I don’t actually
know if this is true, I just assumed it because he has a light
Brooklyn twang to his speech. “That is true, isn’t it?”

“
Born and raised,” he says proudly,
exaggerating the accent.
Bohhwen an raised.

I take a guess where he comes
from
—a snide guess. “You
know Brooklyn Heights doesn’t count as Brooklyn. In a few years,
maybe even Williamsburg won’t.”

“
Nope, I’m all working class.
Canarsie.”

“
Damn, that’s even worse than East New
York!”

“
No, it’s not.”

“
I’m just kidding. I never been there so I
wouldn’t know. Is it really all working class?”

“
Some of it, yeah. We weren’t quite working
class though, more like ‘upper working class.’”

I laugh. “Sounds like us.” I lean my
elbows in his window, rest my chin on my wrist, look up at him. I
guess I must have a pretty dreamy look to my face, because that’s
how I feel right now.

Let me just say this here: This dude has
eyes that are unmatched in anyone I’ve ever seen. I mean, yeah,
I’ve seen that shit in movies and Photoshop pics and stuff, but not
up close. Not for
real
. You seen
Alexandra Daddario—the badass babe from those
Percy Jackson
flicks? Well, Deck’s eyes are
like hers. They’re so light, almost ghostly.

“
Where
you
from?” he asks.

“
Greenpoint.”

“
I thought only the Poles lived
there.”

“
Mm-hm...” I wait for the penny to
sink.

He looks confused. “Ryleigh is not a
Polish last name.”

“
I changed it. I didn’t want to be
stereotyped when people spoke to me. Because, I, like you”—I do my
best to exaggerate the Brooklyn—“am
bohhwen an raised
.”

Now he’s the one who laughs.
“I see.” He taps his steering
wheel, looks up ahead. “So what’s your real name then?”

“
Well, technically,
Blaze
is my first name. Only, in Polish, it’s
pronounced
Buwhazhay
.”

“
Boo—wahh—ssay
?”

“
Buwhazhay
.”

“
Booyah—shay
.”

I can’t help cracking up. “Let’s just
stick with Blaze.”

“
That I can pronounce. And at the risk of
sounding corny,
Booyah-shay
is
one helluva sexy name. No kidding.”

M
y cheeks prickle, and I look down to hide it. “Now, my last
name is a different story. That one I only tell people who I
know
really
well.”

“
Well, I hope that’s us soon.”

I’m stunned for a second
. “Uhm, yeah, me too.”

“
So? What is it?”

“
Huh?”

“
Your last name. Tell me.”

Aw, hell. Why not.
“Kieliszewski.”

His eyes bulge.
“Hell, I’m not even gonna
try
and pronounce that.” Silence for a second. “So,
that’s the reason you changed it—the stereotyping?”

“
Mostly. I’m American, born and raised.
Besides, I got tired of all the Ke$ha and Dorota comments when
people discovered I was Polish.”

“Who?”

“
Ke$ha—the singer? The one where the S in
her name is spelled with a dollar sign?”

“
Not her—although I had no idea she was a
Pole—the other one.”

“
Dorota? That’s Blaire Waldorf’s
housekeeper in
Gossip Girl
.”

“Oh. I never seen it.”

“
Me neither, I’m more of a
Breaking Bad
and
True Blood
fan. But one of the girls I went to school with
looked a little like her and, well, you know kids... It got outta
hand and so a few Dorota scenes from
Gossip Girl
went viral in the school. That’s how I got to know
about her.”

“
I see. And that was enough to have you
change your name?”

“
As I said, you know kids. They can be
pretty vicious little bastards.”
He looks at me, the question plain on his face.
“And, yes, I was also one of the people who teased the Dorota
chick!”

“
Thought so!” He laughs.

“
The Poles are just stereotyped here. You
ever see Sophie in
2 Broke Girls
?”

He shakes his head.

“
Yeah, well, I just felt like people would
equate me with all the freaking
moronic
characters on TV and movies.
The Big
Lebowski
?”

His lip twitches up, and he suppresses a
grin.

Me:
“Oh, you’re a Lebowski fan?”

“
It’s a classic.”

“
OK, I confess, it is.” I’m struggling to
suppress my own grin. Then, spontaneously and together:
“‘
Shut the
fuck up, Donny!
’”

“
So, why
Ryleigh
of all names?”

I look down a second.
“I never met my father. All I know is that
he was Irish. At least that’s what my mom says. I know Ryleigh
ain’t a true American last name either, but what is? This whole
country is made up of immigrants. But it’s sure more American than
freaking Kieliszewski!”

“
Yeah, I guess. I don’t know what the
origin of Cox is.” He looks at me. Waits. Then, “You’re not gonna
comment on Carl Cox?”

“Nope.”

“Oh. Surprising.”

“Why?”

“
Well, everyone I meet in this crowd always
feels the need to comment on me sharing a surname with Carl
Cox—like it freaking means something and, well, I just expected you
to do the same. You know, because you’re a DJ?”

“You see how stereotypes work?”

“Yeah, uhm, touché.”

“And if you must know, I figured that’s
exactly what people did to you, so I decided not to mention
it.”

His eyebrows go up. “Oh, cool.” He smiles.
“About your pops, why did you never meet him? If you don’t mind me
ask—”

“
I don’t mind. I hate it when people
don’t
ask. It’s quite simple
actually: He and Mamah fell madly in love, they had sex. I was
conceived. And he blew the scene. Never to be found
again.”

“Jeez. I’m sorry.”

“
What for? I’m not. If he was an asshole
then he was an asshole. Maybe Mamah coulda gone searching for him,
but I think she never bothered. She’s proud that way. Anyway”—I
stretch my arms—“whether he was a prick or not, I’m still half
Irish, and, like I said, it sure as heck beats
Kieliszewski
as a last name.”

“
Was
Ryleigh
your father’s last name?”

I lift my shoulders, drop them. “Dunno, my
mom never told me. She didn’t want me to go looking for him, I
guess.”

“Would you have? If you had the chance?”

“
Nah, I don’t think so. Like I said, if
he’s an asshole then he’s an asshole. I ain’t gonna go chasing
behind his ass if he decided to leave a kid behind. And what would
I do if I found him? ‘Oh, hi. I’m the kid you never
wanted.’”

“
Yeah, I hear you. Well...” He sighs.
“...fathers can be assholes sometimes. But Ryleigh’s a cool name.
That other one, well, forgive me if I don’t remember it. So how do
you do it? Change your name, I mean.”

“
Pay sixty-five bucks
or something, fill in a petition, attach a
birth certificate. Then they print it in the newspaper unless you
can prove your life is in danger. My mom took care of it for me,
’cause I was a minor when we did it.”

“And she didn’t mind?”

“
No. She appreciates that I consider myself
fully American. It’s different when you were born in a
country—it’ll always be your home. She’s real understanding that
way.”

He heaves in a breath. “Yeah, moms are
that way.” He presses two fingers into his eyes, then taps the
steering wheel. My ears start hurting from the cold.

“
Hey, um, I didn’t expect you to fall
asleep in your car, you know. If you wanna come and crash on my
sofa-bed it’s totally cool.”

“
Will you crash next to me?”

A
fist to the gut. But one which fills me with air instead of
taking it.

“
Uhm, sure. Why not? I also need to get to
sleep eventually.”

He answers me with a
deep kiss that gets my heart racing, a
kiss that makes me forget I still do need to sleep.

And
I do. I
so
do.

“
This is so crazy, you know?” I look down
at my feet.

“
What?”

“
This
! All this kissing and...I mean, we met at a club
for chrissake! And we’re acting like...”

“
Like we’ve known each other for
years.”

“
Something like that.”

“
It is crazy,” he confirms. “Now, are you
gonna let me get out my car, or should we continue kissing
here?”

“
Hmmmm, the conundrum.”

“
Oh, yeah, you’re definitely American. I
haven’t ever heard a Pole use the word
conundrum
.”

“
Do you actually
know
any Poles?”

“OK, busted.”

He gets out the car, intertwines his
fingers in mine. We swing our arm as we
walk to the elevator.

I’m thinking all sorts of things I
shouldn’t be. I tell myself I should get to know him. I tell myself
to get the hormones under control. I’m thinking of the sun going
down through my windows; of The Boom Circuits playing
Everything and
Nothing
on my speakers.
I’m thinking of my silhouetted body being undressed by his. I’m
thinking of his lips on my skin, my naked breasts. I’m thinking of
gasping for breath, his hand between my legs...

But
, when we enter my loft, the physical need for sleep takes
over me.

Declan
lies on my sofa-bed. I lie next to him and hold him. His
hand engulfs mine. I feel him doze off, breathing deeply. I kiss
his ear, then his neck. “Goodnight, or good afternoon, Declan Cox,”
I say. He’s already asleep, doesn’t answer. It doesn’t take long
before I join him.