Authors: Ellen Hopkins
And by the time Andrea gets back
to her seat, I’m pretty sure her choice will be “kill” rather than “kiss” me.
She has bloomed scarlet, cleavage
to scalp. She plops into her seat,
finishes half a watered-down drink
in one large swallow.
Thanks a lot!
Oh my God. How embarrassing!
“Are you kidding? That was excellent!” I signal to the cocktail waitress to bring another round. “What I want
to know is … how big is his bulge?” Andrea sputters, but Sahara answers,
Pretty damn big. Take it from me.
She returns her attention to the action, now a chorus line of firemen.
These guys aren’t the best dancers
in the world, but they’re definitely entertaining. Almost as much as
some of the people in the crowd.
In addition to the women, not all
of whom are what you’d call young,
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there are a few single men who keep yelling for the Aussies to
take it
all
off.
Now a total stud takes hold
of a silver-haired woman’s hand,
all the encouragement she needs
to follow him up onstage. He plops
her down into a chair—worried
about the state of her knees?—
and proceeds with a performance
much the same as the one Andrea
was treated to. The older lady
seems much more in her element,
totally getting into the whole
simulated oral sex thing. Wow,
interesting mental picture. Hope
her dentures don’t fall out! Drinks finally arrive just about the time
the big finale begins. I have to admit ninety minutes is more than enough of hot dudes dancing. The lights come
up.
Do you want pictures with them?
asks Sahara.
Twenty bucks each.
Andrea and I both decline.
Well,
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the guys will be out for photos.
That will probably take a while.
We can head up to the suite to wait.
ANOTHER FIRST
Who knew high rollers had it so good?
This penthouse suite is amazing—marble and wood and polished chrome. The only thing more gorgeous than the room itself is the view across the city to the Sierra.
You can’t really see the mountain’s features at night, but neither can you miss its presence in the distance. At the moment, it’s just the three of us here. If we talk, our voices will probably echo in all this hugeness.
Make yourselves at home,
says Sahara.
I’ll call down to have them bring up
the food. There’s booze on the sidebar.
She goes to the phone. I go for alcohol.
“I don’t know how to make a mai tai.
How about a mojito? They’re easy.”
Andrea’s still standing at the window.
She shrugs.
I really don’t need a drink.
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“Who does?” I make two, anyway.
“Where’s Harley tonight? With her dad?”
No. She’s still too pissed about Chad.
My parents took her to see Bob Dylan.
“That should be interesting. He’s kind of getting up there, isn’t he?” I offer the mojito and she accepts it.
Uh, yeah,
he is. So, how does Sahara know these
guys? And is she the one who rented
this suite? Kind of pricey for a party.
Sahara comes back into the room,
all freshened up and lipstick reapplied.
I used to be a dancer.
Sounds like she heard Andrea’s questions.
So I’ve known the show’s
producer for years. As for the suite, you’d
be surprised how reasonable it is.
Her tone is curt, and some uneasy current
flows between her and Andrea.
A loud knock interrupts, diverting
the strange energy.
Coming!
calls Sahara.
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She goes to let in the food. Andrea sips her drink in silence. Some party.
AS THE WAITER LEAVES
The real party arrives. Seven
Aussie dancers—two with girls,
two obviously with each other—
plus another guy, obviously not
a male stripper. He’s kind of cute, but built more like an accountant.
The suite shrinks as it fills with
mostly beautiful bodies and faces.
And it gets loud with voices.
Big voice:
Check out this spread!
Deep voice:
You talking food or pussy?
Squeaky voice:
Make me a drink, baby.
Taunting voice:
You can drink this, darlin’.
Gentle voice:
Look at the view, hon.
Tandem voice:
I’d rather look at you.
Too many people to bother
with introductions all around,
Sahara leaves it to us to connect.
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One of the dancers corners her,
so I go over to keep Andrea company, hoping a guy or two joins us.
It doesn’t take long for Mitch—
the one who danced for dentures—
and the accountant to come over.
The latter directs his attention
to Andrea.
Hi. I’m Robin.
Turns out he’s Sahara’s producer friend.
Andrea manages a smile. Good
sign. And now Mitch says to me,
You were sitting in front tonight.
He has long, sable hair and
black coffee eyes, and they’re
scoping me out. “You noticed.”
I’d have to be blind not to notice
legs like those. You’re a runner.
And we’re off. He’s an actor,
of course. But he’s making me
feel like a starlet. I realize he’s had lots of practice. But I don’t let that bother me. I glance over at Andrea, 417/881
who is enmeshed in conversation
with Robin. Wonder what about.
Oh well. I’ve got more important
things to worry about, like Mitch.
“Do you want to sit for a few?”
We do, on a small loveseat. He begins a downstream flirtation—easy ride,
no demands. No real work.
I’m pretty
good at massage,
he says in a honeyed Down Under accent.
Kick off your
shoes and I’ll show you.
He pulls my feet into his lap, works the high arches with his thumbs. Oh, yeah.
“Ever do this for old ladies?”
He smiles.
Once or twice. Mostly
the old birds just want company.
He adds a few matter-of-fact details.
I’m pretty sure I could go with him to his room. But I won’t. He is fine,
and no doubt well practiced in bed.
Too practiced. I want to feel special.
Andrea shoots me a disapproving
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look. God, what would she say if
I told her about Sahara, and why
she seems so proprietary? But no,
Andrea would never understand that.
It comes to me that there are different degrees of infidelity. And while an extramarital foot rub isn’t exactly right, it really isn’t so wrong.
DEGREES OF INFIDELITY
Even lust isn’t black
and white.
Would it be wrong
to scan an unfamiliar room, and
when
your lover’s back is turned,
lock eyes
with a stranger? What if
you carried the rush home
to warm your tepid bed?
Is it
faithless to let someone new
kiss you,
soft as a drift of eiderdown,
knowing that kiss
is a solitary tick of
time,
never to be repeated?
Should you
bump into a once-upon-a-time
flame, still an ember,
would you call it betrayal
to say,
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I will never stop loving you?
Would the gesture
hold deeper meaning
if you had already
decided to tell your lover
goodbye?
Marissa
SAYING GOODBYE
To Mom and Dad has never
been quite as difficult as it
was today. For one thing, I’d
always assumed their riding
off into the sunset together
was a mutually satisfying
experience. Learning their
relationship is like lukewarm
bathwater opened my eyes
to some things I had chosen
to ignore. Or to be honest,
I’ve been so mired in my own
personal pile of misery, every-
body else’s problems seemed
insignificant. I hope Mom’s
decision to stay with Dad was
the right one. Either way, it
was great spending time with
the two of them. Having them
here helped me realize how
much of a hermit I’ve become.
Not good for Shelby. Not good
for Shane. Not good for me.
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It was really Dad who made me
see that, and Dad who made
damn sure to introduce Alex
into our midst, make him feel
accepted. Dad and Shane had
the heart-to-heart that Christian
refuses to have with him. Ever.
TO SAY
Christian has been unsupportive
of Shane would be an understatement.
He was hoping his boy would be
a quarterback, not queer. Pop Warner was a disaster, especially since Christian was coaching. Two years was all Shane could take. Little League wasn’t much better. When it comes to sports, Shane prefers boards—skateboards, snowboards, wakeboards. Christian used to ski but doesn’t so much anymore. Too busy. Shane
boards with his buddies, not his dad, who is not exactly homophobic, but
neither has he totally accepted the fact that his only son is gay. Shane knew in sixth grade but didn’t find the courage to tell us until his freshman year.
I suspected by then, and so I’d had some time to process the idea. Christian, though, looked like he’d been smacked across the face. He didn’t say a word. But beneath 424/881
his diamond-jawed exterior, one emotion was clear—anger. He has tempered some.
But he still won’t talk about it. To anyone.
HE BARELY TALKS
To Shane at all. So it surprises me when, post Shelby’s morning CPT,
I start toward the kitchen and overhear the two of them, attempting communication.
But I’ve been old enough to get
my license for over a month …
Wait. His license? Shane’s birthday.
Oh my God. I forgot all about it.
Why didn’t he say anything?
How could I not remember?
I didn’t say you couldn’t have it.
Just not this week. I don’t have time.
You never have time for me. For any
of us. You pretty much suck as a dad.
Yeah, well, you’re not exactly
my idea of a noteworthy son, either.
Going downhill, and fast. Time
to interrupt. “Shane! I’m so sorry
I forgot your birthday. I must have …
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I don’t know. No excuse, really.”
It’s okay, Mom. Not like you don’t
have enough stuff on your mind.
Oh, and I don’t? Christian snaps.
You have no fucking idea—
“Stop it. Just stop it. Look, maybe I can take you to the DMV this week.
Only problem is the van is not the best vehicle for a driving test. It’s huge.”
I’d just need you to sign the papers.
Alex will let me use his car.
Alex. Perfect. Christian creaks out of
his chair, goes to the counter, pours a cup of coffee. Then he opens a high cupboard, reaches for a large bottle that turns out to be Irish whiskey.
I glance at the clock. Not even ten.
Shane pounces.
No wonder you
don’t want to take me to the DMV.
You’d get busted for drunk driving.
Do you drink at work too, Dad?
VALID QUESTION
But probably not one Shane should
ask. Christian turns slowly, razor-eyed.
Do you screw your boyfriend at school?
Whoa. “Just wait a minute. This
conversation doesn’t need to get
any uglier. Mellow out, Christian.”
Me? You want me to mellow out?
I did not start this. He pokes the air
between him and Shane.
He did.
All I did was ask for your help, but
obviously my sexuality precludes that.
What is it about “gay” that upsets you?
Christian sips his coffee.
I’m sure it
doesn’t concern you in the least,
but homosexuality is a sin.
A sin ? That’s what you’re worried
about? My qualifying for heaven?