The Illusionist (10 page)

“Who's she?”

“Melanie Saluggio.”

“Tell me,” he said.

“Well—Melanie's very beautiful, I guess.”

“Describe her,” he ordered.

I closed my eyes, tried to visualize Melanie. “Got beautiful hair. Fine, long, shiny, reddish-brown, little highlights. Small, everything about her kind of delicate. Melanie is—complex. She could be a model if she wanted. . . .” In some circles in Sparta, that was the highest compliment you could pay a person.

“Where's she at now?”

“I don't know what Melanie's doing. She's with Brian Perez
sometimes, but I don't know whether they're going out or what. She was County Schoolgirl Queen our year.”

He looked up. “Brian? She goes out with Brian?”

“Melanie's weird. She takes pity on people. The weaker, the sicker they are . . . Anyway, Brian's good-looking. I think she kind of looks on him as her brother. They've been friends since they were little. Melanie's always defended him.”

Dean said, “Fuck Brian.”

“Yeah. Brian's an asshole.”

“You got a picture of her or something?” he asked.

“In my yearbook.”

“Let's see.”

I stood up, took the yearbook down from the shelf. The yearbook was one of my few personal possessions, one of the few things I'd brought from my mother's house, that I carried with me. I opened it, leafed through it till I came to the pages that had the individual class photographs.

There I was. Too big. Not fat, but just big-boned. Big jaw, big nose. Nothing I could do would ever make me pretty.

“I hate my face,” I said.

Dane studied my picture. “You look good,” he said. “Don't put yourself down.”

“Yuck.”

He turned to me. “Why do you feel so bad about yourself?”

“I'm too—big,” I said. “Clunky.”

He scrunched up his eyes, studying me. “Y'know—when you smile—your face is just—sweet. You got the sweetest smile. You're not fat. Your eyes—they're beautiful. Real dark. Your skin's clear. There's nothing phony about you—and your smile's really special.”

It was a strange moment. I knew he meant it. Though it didn't mean he was interested in me, and I still thought I was plain. But it was if a little bit of truth—on his part—of genuineness, had beamed through all his bullshit. He really did think that.

“You're strong and steady and good, Chrissie,” he said. “Ten times smarter than all the assholes around here.”

I was embarrassed by the scrutiny. I slapped my palm down over my photograph. I hated photographs of myself. I wasn't even going to let them photograph me for the yearbook. I just wanted one of those blank spaces on the page, with only my name and my clubs under it, but then my mom made me have my photograph taken.

I kept on turning the pages of the yearbook till I came to Melanie Saluggio. There was the photograph from when Melanie was Schoolgirl Queen. In the photo, Melanie wore a peaked gold crown on her head and carried a bouquet of flowers. She had long, fine, shining hair, high cheekbones, large eyes with big, dark pupils, almost like straight vertical lines in her eyes. Eyes like a cat. As if she could see in the dark.

The photo was black and white, with deep contrasts and shadows. Melanie's eyes were lit up weirdly from the flash. In real life Melanie's skin was olive-colored. Her smile in the picture was shy, beautiful. She had a little chin, delicate, perfectly formed lips. A curved smile like one of those Greek statues. Everything about Melanie was delicate—her small breasts under the white, strapless gown, her thin arms. Melanie was just born lucky. She was everybody's honey. Don't know why she hung out with Brian.

You could never quite reach her. She was vague, you couldn't put your finger on her. Except she was so sweet and kind and she hated injustice. When someone was mean, or called another kid “nerd,” Melanie would always rush to the defense of the weaker person. She would use the strength of her popularity for justice.

“I gotta meet her,” Dean said. “How can I get to her?”

“What about Terry?”

“She'll understand,” he said, his eyes fixed on the photograph of Melanie.

“What do you mean—‘She'll understand'?”

“It's different with us,” he said, still studying the photograph.

“Like how?”

“Because of—what I am.”

“What does
that
mean?”

He didn't move his eyes from the yearbook. “Just—how I am. That's all.”

“Terry's going to freak,” I said.

“No.” His voice was distracted. “I know what!” He looked at me, smiled at his bright idea. “My birthday's coming up. You can give me a party!”

“A party?”

“Yeah. A twenty-first birthday party. I'm a Christmas baby. Invite her.”

“Invite Melanie?”

“Call her up.”

“Who's going to pay for this party?” I asked.

“I'll chip in. We'll have a party, man!” he said, taken up with it now.

“What about Terry?”

“Say you can only do it on Fridays. She's working Friday nights because of the differential.” Terry had to make the money for both of them because he wasn't earning any.

“Terry'll take the night off for it, if it's a birthday party for you,” I said.

“I'll tell her we'll have our own party—me and her together.”

I sat there quietly, thinking. I owed nothing to Terry. Terry made my life tough. Terry was on their side. Terry . . . so good . . . so pure.

I felt mean tonight. I guess I was jealous a little, too, that they were a unit, that she had him in a way I never could. Even though I didn't ever expect him to be my lover.

While he was still there, I dialed Melanie's mother's house and asked for Melanie and told her about the party.

“Think you can make it?” I asked. Over on the futon, Dean listened carefully.

There was silence on the other end. “You know Dean?” I said. “Dean Lily? He was working at the Laundercenter?”

Still silence. Melanie often answered questions with silence, I remembered. This had the effect of making you concentrate on her answer.

After a pause, she said, “I'll try and get there.” And then she gave that soft little laugh, that laugh that told you nothing.

I hung up. And now I was excited. It was the excitement you feel when you are going to cause a big change, alter the course of events, disrupt things, and you are sitting back to watch it all unfold in front of you.

On the night of the party, Dean arrived early, at nine o'clock. And what do you know—who should walk in with him but Terry? “What happened?” I asked Terry. “I thought you were working.”

“Couldn't miss this,” Terry said.

She looked completely different tonight. I'd never seen Terry like this. She was wearing a black lace top and tight black jeans, spike heels, long silver earrings. And makeup. And it was like she wasn't used to wearing makeup—the lipstick was dark red, and painted in a harsh, jagged line over the lip line. Her eyeliner was too thick. I liked plain old Terry better. What was she doing to herself? Just for
him?

Dean's face was pale from his shower, he had his hair all slicked down, he looked punk. He was wearing his usual two torn flannel shirts, and a black t-shirt underneath, and his cowboy boots. There was a tiny gold hoop earring in his ear—as if he were daring everyone—What am I, he was saying, take your pick—boy or girl?

I'd decorated the apartment for him, put up a Happy Birthday banner across the wall, and balloons, and I'd taped red gel over the windows, and screwed red lightbulbs into the fixtures. The room had a deep, red glow, and it was dark enough so people could misbehave without feeling observed.

Around nine thirty, the guests began arriving. B.J. came, from
work. B.J. was black, a little older than us, maybe thirty-five or forty. He was a Vet. He had a soft, southern voice, and though his skin was black, he had blue eyes. B.J. was kind and private. I believed he had a past. I didn't even know if he had a family, if he were married, or had kids.

There were people from down the block. Latasha came from down the street, bright faced, caramel-skinned, eyes laughing; one of Dean's ex-girlfriends. And some kids from our high school class that never seemed to leave Sparta, that seemed to show up at every party, whether or not they were invited, even though we'd left school long ago.

The arriving guests stood around, drank paper cups of wine and beer, pretended not to be scrutinizing one another.

I found the Salt n' Pepa tape, slid it into the deck, turned up the volume, and it blasted through the room.

As the night wore on, the apartment door kept opening and closing, more people arriving. The room was filled near to capacity now. People were cramped together in the tiny kitchen area. Some had drifted into my bedroom. The more people in a small space at a party, the better.

The sound of Salt n' Pepa pumped through our bodies. The beat of the music was like a heartbeat, and you could feel the blood pump through your body like the tide sweeping in, out, in, out.

Dean stood near the door, eyes riveted on it, drawing on his roach in short little bursts. I sensed the tension in him. Everything about him was directed toward that door, all his senses were strained toward it, to where he knew Melanie would have to enter.

Someone put another tape on. I heard Terry ask Dean, “Want to dance?” But he shook his head. Terry looked at B.J. as if to extend an invitation, and together they moved into the center of the room. The icebreakers! Terry was so tall in high heels, like a tree. A different woman today, released . . . She jiggled her shoulders to the music, twisted her hips, knees together.
My guy makes me crazy . . . crazy . . . O crazy . . . does it to me . . . does it . . . does it . . .

Terry and B.J. were really getting it on. B.J. was dancing like he was experienced, watching Terry's crotch as he moved his body in rhythm with hers. B.J.'s age made me shy, he could be our father.

I'd never seen Terry this loose before. I knew she was really dancing for Dean, she wanted him to pay attention to her. But Dean wasn't looking at Terry. He was watching the door.

He was sitting on the futon with his legs out in front of him and he seemed unhappy. He wouldn't look at Terry, though every now and then while she was dancing, Terry glanced over her shoulder at him to see if he was watching her.

Now Terry moved toward Dean, gate-legged, pelvis tilted, knees apart, in rhythm to the music. She stood right above him, moving her hips at him, looking down at him. Terry babee! It was an invitation. She wanted him to dance with her.

But Dean avoided looking at her, wouldn't look at her. Wouldn't meet her eyes. I knew—and maybe Terry knew too—one reason Dean wouldn't dance. If he got up and danced he might show those very few people in the world who didn't know, what he really was. If he moved his body around, somebody might notice the little swellings on his chest—his breasts—they might notice the roundness of his hips—which were almost like a real boy's, but not quite—it helped he always wore the baggy jeans.

Oh, Dean was so unhappy waiting there! Oh boy . . .
D-o-o-o me, do me . . . Go right throoough me . . . Inside . . . Upside . . .
And Terry had that bright look on her face, like glass that could shatter. Terry wasn't drunk enough. Dean was going to break her heart. He was! He was! Terry had lost him. I knew this was going to be like dying for Terry. Terry didn't quite realize it yet. But it would be like dying.

Melanie hadn't arrived. Wasn't coming. Just like Melanie. Made you want her by being scarce. Only, I didn't think this habit of Melanie's was deliberate. This tendency of hers toward scarcity just came naturally, out of some complexity, out of her guilt, from something difficult inside her.

By eleven, the apartment was packed. People dancing close together. The room had a hellish red glow. There was a nice pungent smell of dope now, hanging in the air. Groups of people locked in the bathroom doing lines. People dancing by themselves, stoned out of their minds, absorbed in themselves. The music so loud my throat was sore from shouting over it. A stack of empty beer cans was piled high in the garbage pail, empty boxes of Uncle Dom's. The room was all smoky, and the smell of reefer hung in the air, so warm, comforting, like food. Most delicious smell in the world, I thought.

Then suddenly a draft of cold air swept through the room. Cold, cold December air. The cigarette smoke in the air roiled. And I knew she had arrived. I knew it from Dean, from his face. He was transfixed.

Melanie stands in the doorway. Small and delicate, her thin, wispy brown-red hair gleaming. Gold eyes like a cat's, fragile smile, little pointed chin.

And I can't believe it. She's with Brian. There is Brian, standing right behind her.

Melanie is wearing a black leather jacket that hangs to her knees. The jacket is open. She wears a black leotard underneath it, which is tight over her small breasts. Melanie's skin has a rubbed look, as if she has just made love. There are soft brown shadows around her eyes, cat's eyes. So delicate.

Brian Perez is standing behind her, much taller, towering over her. Brian's long, blond hair is beautiful tonight—hair so pale it's almost white, like burned ashes, fluffy around his face as if he's shampooed and blow-dried it just for this occasion. But his slanty blue eyes give away nothing. His thin mouth is tight. His face is wide, flat, with high cheekbones. He is wearing only a denim jacket though it's cold—Brian never seems to feel the cold. And underneath the jacket, he wears a white Indian-cotton shirt across his broad chest.

Behind Brian stands Jimmy Vladeck. Big lump of stupidity Jimmy, slouch-shouldered, pot-bellied, brown hair tied back in a
ponytail, bits of hair hanging in greasy strands around his puffy face. Wearing a huge dirty dark blue parka.