Magic Hands (6 page)

It’s natural. ‘Night.”

“‘Night.” Something about tonight, seeing Miss Chachi vehemently talking into the phone, stuck with him and he couldn’t figure out why.

Turning his thoughts to something less confusing, he went for it and typed in Rachel’s name, waiting for her to accept his friend request. It seemed to take forever. Final y, the IM window popped up. His stomach fluttered.

RACHEL: yes, we can IM. Cool

CORT: can’t sleep, like i figured. you? what are you looking at?

RACHEL: stuff

He rubbed his face with both hands, letting out a groan.

Was she purposeful y evasive? She drove him deliciously crazy.

RACHEL: i could spend hours just looking at the live web cams of times square. The streaming video is awesome.

Here’s the link. Turn up your volume and you can hear horns honking. It’s the coolest, hits me like a drug Cort found the website but kept the instant messaging box open in the lower left corner of his screen. He turned up the volume. Sure enough, people and cars cruised at two a.m.

in downtown Manhattan. The far-off sound of life bustling was exciting.

RACHEL: cool, right?

At that moment, with his insomnia, it was great to open the front door and step out into a stream of life, rather than the stil ness of a town like Pleasant View. He could walk with mil ions of others unable to sleep, and not feel alone.

CORT: it’s awesome, especial y tonight

RACHEL: but then we wouldn’t be here

CORT: what if we were there?

RACHEL: then i’d show you my favorite places, like the borders that stays open al night on 79th we could drown ourselves in lattes and books.

CORT: how about we go find the web cams? climb the buildings and stuff?

Rachel laughed out loud. Wasn’t he ful of surprises? She expected him to be online tonight. She expected him to try to get her. What she hadn’t expected was how much she’d enjoy this little back and forth messaging.

She’d been checking out options for housing at NYU, her col ege of choice, when the friend request box had popped onto the screen from Facebook.

RACHEL: fancy yourself spideyman, do you?

CORT: doesn’t every guy? what about you? got a complex?

RACHEL: no. i don’t see myself in a tight suit jumping around buildings. i’d rather take the subway CORT: you’d be a limo girl RACHEL: that’s how much you stil don’t know about me CORT: that’s going to change

A pleasant shudder streamed through Rachel. He was just aggressive enough to be interesting and not be a turn-off.

RACHEL: i’l expect good things then. later, Cort CORT: bye, Rache

Then Cort had the sinking feeling he’d made a huge mistake by cal ing her Rache instead of Rachel. It was something he did, nicknaming friends.

Was she mad? Had anyone else ever cal ed her Rache?

“Crud.” He’d feel that out later, if he hadn’t cracked the delicate steps he’d already taken to get to her.

When the instant message box closed, he stared at the live video stream of New York City alive and thriving, lights gleaming and pulsing. In the hum of distant sound he heard brakes screeching, horns honking. Music. He smiled.

Cort didn’t smel the toxic fumes of acetone and nail product anymore when he was at Miss Chachi’s and was glad for it. He didn’t want to think what that meant—that his nose or brain or both were being eaten away by the caustic stuff.

He needed the money, so he ignored the hazards.

He’d made a hundred and seventy-five dol ars in tips the first week, and brought Miss Chachi and her girls dozens of clients who spread the word to their mothers. Now, the place wasn’t empty anymore when he reported to work in the afternoon.

He planned to ask Rachel to the dance Friday night, hoped she would come in for a nail fil but she didn’t. He’d not been able to corner her at school, surrounded as she always was by her posse.

He worked, and kept glancing toward the door, hoping to see her. But everybody except her seemed to need their nails done for the dance.

He’d never ask her any other way but in person. Of course she might have already been asked, al the hot girls had been this close to deadline.

Even if she had, he wanted her to know he wanted to go with her.

He was fil ing Bree’s nails, wondering why she was there again. She hadn’t had any noticeable outgrowth. Megan and Shaylee were there as wel , both having their toes painted coordinating colors to match their dresses for the dance.

“He’s going to die when he sees it,” Bree said, clacking on a piece of gum. “It’s the prettiest dress ever.”

Megan nodded from her perch in the pedicure chair. “For sure. I wish I’d seen it first.”

“You wouldn’t look good in the color anyway,” Bree said.

“You’re not the only one who can wear white.”

“It fits me,” Bree said.

“Yeah right,” Shaylee snickered. “Red would be more like it.”

“Shut up.” Bree watched Cort paint the sparkly pink nail polish on her nails. “So, you going, Cortie?”

“Not yet.”

The girls exchanged sly glances of disbelief. “I’d ditch my date if you want,” Megan told him.

“Get in line, ho,” Shaylee shot before softening her tone for Cort. “How come? Who are you going to ask?”

After hearing the way they talked, knowing the way they spread things, Cort only shrugged. Again the girls looked at each other.

“Who is she? Come on, you can tel us.”

And it’ll be all over the place like regurgitated food. Not to
mention what they might say about Rachel.
Stil , he was curious what girls thought of her. Most of the guys he knew saw Rachel as this elite, untouchable idol.

“Do you know Rachel Baxter?” he asked. He kept his eyes on Bree’s nails, so as to not appear too interested.

Bree tugged her hand and brought his eyes to hers. “Is that who you want to ask?”

“What do you know about her?”

“First tel me if she’s the one you want to ask.”

“Yeah, tel us,” Megan piped.

Bree pul ed her hand away from him. “Answer me, Cort.”

“I did answer you.” He snatched her hand back and started painting again. “Hold stil or it wil wreck.”

“You did not. You were annoyingly vague,” Bree snapped.

“But two can play that game.” She didn’t say anything more, just clacked on her gum.

“I’m not playing any game.” Cort was frustrated. Why couldn’t these girls be real?

“Right.” Bree hissed out a laugh. “I’ve seen you in action.

You play just like the rest of us.”

Shame heated his face and kept his eyes on her nails as he brushed the final coat of pink. Is that what everybody thought? He wanted to smear the plastic-pink nail polish he’d painstakingly applied and kick her out the door but his wal et depended on the job.

“You’re done,” he told her with bite in his tone.

Bree surveyed her nails critical y then slid him a snotty glare, her gum clacking like a gun-shot. “I guess they’l do.”

She stood. “Oops. I forgot to get your tip out of my purse and my nails are wet. Guess you’l have to wait til next time.”

Shaylee and Megan exchanged looks of shock. Shaylee whispered, “Way harsh, Bree.”

Frustrated, Cort felt his jaw start to ache as he worked to keep from yel ing at her. He stood. “Look. I’m sorry if I pissed you off.”

Miss Chachi was suddenly there, like a hound dog on the scent of something. “Everything al right?” she asked.

“Just trying to decide if I like this fil or not.” Bree held her hands up, fingers spread for Miss Chachi to examine.

“Bree—” The last thing Cort needed was Miss Chachi’s disapproval.

Miss Chachi took Bree’s hands and examined them. “If you not satisfied, he do it again.”

Cort glanced at the clock, then at the waiting area where a half-dozen more girls sat, waiting. If he’d been an octopus he couldn’t have finished al of their nails. He began to sweat.

“No.” Bree tilted her head, hair swinging like a pendulum. “I think they’re fine, thanks.”

With that, Miss Chachi went back to the front desk.

Bree leaned into Cort. “I just saved your butt.” She pushed her hip, with her purse dangling next to it, his direction. “Now get me my wal et.”

Cort rol ed his eyes before digging into her purse. He’d never seen so much junk; lipsticks, compacts, perfume and—

jeez, a tampon. Final y he found the raspberry wal et with bright cherries and Juicy written al over it.

“Hmm.” Bree tapped her finger to her chin in thought.

Cort started to burn.

“Forget it,” he said and turned.

Quickly, Bree shoved a ten dol ar bil in his hand. “Your customer relations needs some work.” She waited at the front of the salon while Shaylee and Megan’s pedicures finished up.

Cort didn’t look at her when she gossiped with the other girls waiting. He could only wonder what Bree was tel ing them. And the snarling looks he got from Miss Chachi bothered him.

Before he took his next client, he strode to the front of the salon. The girls quieted. Bree tilted her head with a smile meant to be mean.

Cort ignored her. “I know most of you are waiting for me but,” he smiled in the way he knew most girls responded to, big and with his eyes wide. “I only have two hands. I think you’l find Misu, Tiaki, Jasmine and Abby are great at this.

Give them a try. Seriously.”

Some of the girls checked their watches and reluctantly sat at Tiaki, Jasmine and Misu’s tables.

Cort hoped the effort would go a ways in appeasing Miss Chachi and proving to witchy Bree he control ed girls better than she did.

Bree waved her newly done nails Cort’s direction as she got ready to leave the salon. “Bye Cortie.”

He rubbed his fingers, glanced at the clock on the wal —

a photo of some place in Vietnam, he presumed, with its lush hil s and muddy waters, set in a clock face. Nine o’clock and Rachel stil had not come in.

The other girls cleaned their work stations and Miss Chachi counted money at the front desk, looking over at him every now and then.

He straightened his table, turned off the bright work light and stretched as he went to the front. “Wow,” he started in an effort to be friendly. “What a day, huh?”

Miss Chachi closed the register. Her dark eyes pinned him. “We stil not make enough for me to pay rent. If more customer don’t come, I take tips to pay.”

“What?”

“You heard me. If I can’t pay, there no job. No job, you no money.”

“But what about the girls I’ve brought in?”

She nodded. “Very good, yes. But not enough. We need more. This place cost money to run. I have overhead.”

“Maybe it’s that you’re in over your head,” he muttered.

She came around to the front of the desk. “You a nice boy, Cort. You work hard. You want to keep job, yes?”

“Yeah.”

She patted his arm but her hand was icy. “See? We need each other.”

“I’m doing what I can,” he said, exasperated.

“You can do more. Now.” She went to the schedule and pul ed it out, laying it in front of him on the counter.

“Tomorrow I need you until close.”

“What? I can’t. I have a dance tomorrow night. In fact, I won’t be here at al tomorrow.”

Her black brows hardened. “That not possible. You have eleven appointments.”

“Tiaki and Misu and the girls can take them.”

“They come for you.” She pounded her fist on the schedule and he jumped. The girls stared for a moment, before going back to cleaning as if they had seen nothing.

Cort was speechless. Something in his gut didn’t feel right. Miss Chachi’s hard face softened. She laid her icy hand on his arm. “We work something out. You come in for a little while, eh?”

Drawing his lower lip between his teeth, he stared at her, trying to figure her out. She was hot, then cold. He didn’t want either extreme. “Uh, sure.

Okay.”

“See you tomorrow. You go home. Rest your hands.” She took them in hers, studying them. She shook her head with a tsk-tsk. “Soak in warm water and peanut oil with a little fresh ginger. Then they feel better.”

He didn’t have any peanut oil or fresh ginger, though he considered that his mother may have some on hand—with her weird new eating jag.

At home, he went to his computer instead of soaking his fingers.

He wanted Rachel.

It was insultingly late now to ask a girl to a dance, no respectable guy did that—or they looked like a loser. He hoped she’d come online so he could fish for whether or not anybody else had asked her. Maybe he could explain why he hadn’t—because he hadn’t been able to. Maybe she wouldn’t think he was just scrounging for a last minute date, like it looked.

When she didn’t respond and the little box indicated that she was “off line”, he sighed. Maybe he’d be working al night at Miss Chachi’s after al .

Countryside Manor used to give her the shivers with its funky smel of stale air, body oil, medicine and cafeteria food and howling voices echoing down empty hal s. Rachel forced herself not to let those things keep her from doing what she had to do.

People depended on her.

Countryside Manor looked like a poor man’s Tara from Gone with the Wind, with white columns and black shutters set against vinyl clapboard siding—falsely inviting when its occupants would move in and never move out.

The air was always stuffy inside and Rachel quickly took off her black coat, gloves and scrappy scarf, hanging them on a brass peg near the front desk. She smiled at Charity, the elderly receptionist with a grey beehive of hair.

“They’re waiting for you.” Charity nodded toward the gathering room.

“Great. Thanks.”

“Mr. Fowler’s in a foul mood. Ignore him.”

Rachel knew better than to let the old man get under her skin. She passed rooms with open doors and didn’t glance inside—it hurt seeing those stuck in their beds from neglect or whatever reason.

She’d been coming to Countryside for months, reading passages from plays to the older people who cal ed the rest home, home. It helped her feel like she was making a contribution somehow, and helped her learn to change her voice and fine-tune her acting talent.