Read 30 Guys in 30 Days Online

Authors: Micol Ostow

30 Guys in 30 Days (3 page)

BOOK: 30 Guys in 30 Days
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Sort of,
I thought, remembering. So I temporarily lost my capacity for speech. These things happen. There are some cultures in which that’s considered a certain kind of composure.

It wasn’t
that
bad. After a beat, I pulled myself together.

“Hi,” I said, so softly that he probably thought he was imagining things. But then he fixed those penetrating blue eyes on me and saw, no doubt, the thin trickle of drool running down my chin. There was to be no further misunderstanding that I was, indeed, talking to him.

“Hi, I’m Gabe,” he said, extending a hand.

I shook his hand and tried not to cling to it when it was time to let go.

“I was told you could hook up with me—I mean, that you could hook me up,” I stammered.

No matter, I’m told I look better with a little color in my cheeks.

“You wanna write for arts, right?” Gabe asked slowly, looking at me like I had seven heads. Which, I mean, who could fault him, what with the drool and the indecent
proposals flying right, left, and center. I wanted to focus on what he was saying, but I was distracted by his voice, which was low and smooth, like honey poured over gravel.

“Yeah, John told me you could assign something to me,” I said.

“Okay, well, I’ve got the latest Mary-Kate and Ashley movie,” he said, scooping up a pile of press releases from his desk, “and, um, some open-mic night at the local comedy club.”

He paused. I took the opportunity to appreciate his fine bone structure. After a beat, I pulled myself together. “Whatever you’ve got is fine. I mean, I have to pay my dues, right?”

Gabe shrugged his beautiful shoulders. “Nah, I mean, we need to fill the page.”

“Okay,” I said, trying to sound agreeable on all points. “What would you recommend?”

Gabe fished a sheet out of the clutter. “Here. This one is a concert. Rice and Beans. Latin-punk fusion. Have you heard of them?”

Urn, not so much.

I shook my head. It was safer than yielding to the Tourettes’s-like compulsion to open my mouth and confess a secret love of (or, at least, embarrassing familiarity with) Britney Spears. I mean, Latin-punk fusion? What is that? The Pixies meet Enrique Iglesias?

“And the Tin Room is a pretty reliable venue,” he continued. “I mean, I almost always like their lineup. There are two passes.” He frowned, and sort of squinted at me.

It was a weird kind of look and, to be honest, it made me slightly uncomfortable. This was all fun and games when I was drooling and vibing on my new friend the music-editor-slash-sex-god. But now, suddenly, it felt like he was checking
me
out. And, I mean, I’m not usually
totally
lacking in the self-esteem, but there I was in my Old Navy tank and my Gap jeans, lip gloss a faded memory and hair having seen better days, feeling very unhip and not my most sexy.

For a split second, however, I allowed myself a fleeting hope: Maybe Gabe wasn’t about image. Or maybe he’d had enough of the punk-fusion types and was looking for a pop-listening Gap girl. Who knew?
I mean, I couldn’t explain it, but there was something supercharged about the moment. Something meaningful in the way his eyes held mine. And for half a second, it seemed like my mad lust-hold was at least partially returned. Was he going to suggest accompanying me to the show?

“Ugh,
god, not the Tin Room again, Gabe. She’s just an innocent freshman. Leave her alone, please.”

Behold: Yet another Life-Altering Event.

As I explained, Ellen, I wasn’t completely convinced that our Moment was, in fact, mutual. Or even anything more than a figment of my own imagination. But I was willing to step back and see, to let things unfold and marinate in their own due time.

I was in love, you see (again, I’d refer you back to the first Life-Altering Event). My breakup with Drew had a newfound meaning. The Fates had smiled on me.

But the Fates, I was to learn, were a fickle bunch.

I sighed and leaned back in my chair, bathing in the glow of the computer
screen. What had happened next was far too humiliating—not to mention demoralizing—to recount.

Was
Gabe checking me out at the
Chronicle
office? I’ll never know. Because my little love-haze was suddenly broken by a light, airy voice.

A
female
voice.

Said female wafted into the room touching lightly onto the floor with gaminelike legs. The dulcet choir of angels that had erupted into chorus when Gabe first spoke to me? I think they were on loan from this chick. Because now they were pretty much circling her head like a crown of ethereal roses.

“She’s just an innocent freshman,” the voice said, wrapping one long, lithe arm around Gabe and sidling up to him cozily. “Leave her alone, please.”

She smiled at me and extended her free arm. “I’m Kyra. Kyra Hamilton.”

I mustered my last ounce of mental and physical energy to return the gesture. “Hi, I’m—”

“This is Claudia Clarkson,” Gabe said, cutting me off. “She’s our new staff writer.”

“I mean, I hope so,” I babbled.

Kyra beamed at me beatifically. “That’s awesome. I write for features.” She flipped a strand of long, wavy hair—so blond, it was almost white—over her slim, pale shoulders.

Features. Cats in trees,
I thought fleetingly, imploring myself not to be intimidated by her.

It wasn’t working.

“Kyra’s the Answer Goddess,” Gabe explained, gazing at her adoringly. I couldn’t blame him (though I did sort of want to puke). She was the cherubic, tow-headed love child of Gwyneth Paltrow and Helena Bonham Carter (with the wardrobe of Drew Barrymore). On my best day, I was the spirit of Christina Ricci (with the wardrobe of a refugee from the J.Crew catalog). If I hadn’t hated her for wrenching my one true love from me (and also being my complete and polar foil), I might have adored her myself.

“He’s not just being annoying,” she insisted. I resisted the urge to make a snarky comment. “I write an advice column, ‘Ask the Answer Goddess.’”

“Go ahead, ask her something,” Megan
chimed in, actually sounding earnest. “She’s like our den mother. Seriously, she gives great advice.”

Oh, Answer Goddess, wherefore did thou steal Gabe Flynn’s heart? And will I ever love another?

“Oh, hey—all I really need to know is how to get to the Tin Room,” I said, keeping my voice as low and steady as possible.

Gabe and Kyra both laughed maniacally as if this were the most hysterical joke anyone had ever told. Which would have been cool, except for the fact that I’d been totally serious. Any hope I’d held that Gabe might want to go to the show with me was completely and utterly dashed. Why had I even been fooling myself? Guys like Gabe didn’t want Gap girls.

They wanted girls like Kyra.

8/28,1:13 a.m.

from: [email protected]

to: [email protected]

re: Latin-punk what?

Heya, sister. Sorry to hear that Gabe is otherwise involved, romantically speaking. I think that buckling down and working on the review is a good plan. After all that’s why
you went down to the paper in the first place, right? Focus on yourself, your writing, your classes. You’ve got your whole first year of college ahead of you. No need to get all hung up on some guy. And I’m not just sayin’ that because, well… you know …

One question, though: Have you ever written a music review? I mean, you know, a review of Latin-punk fusion? I’m just wondering if there’s a certain familiarity with the genre that would be helpful….

Never mind. I’m not worried. You’ll ace it.

Luv ya, sis. And Daria does too.

8/28,2:11 a.m.

from: [email protected]

to: [email protected]

re: Latin-punk fusion

I am
sure
that I will be just fine at reviewing Rice and Beans. I will bring an objectivity to the piece that a more experienced writer might be lacking.

After all, how many critics would be able to compare Rice and Beans with the earlier works of Madonna?

—xx

8/28, 2:27 a.m.

from: [email protected]

to: [email protected]

re: re: Latin-punk fusion

Maybe I’ll just Google the band quickly.

Couldn’t hurt.

Right?

RICE AND BEANS LIVE AT THE TIN ROOM

A Tasty Treat

While the underground punk scene in Boston has, of course, garnered a loyal and lively following since its comeback in the late eighties, one could argue that it’s been at least that long since a band brought anything “new” to the genre. Emo, grunge, and even ska are little more than variations on a theme.

We should be grateful, then, for Rice and Beans, a group that dares to blend the strong, frantic bass of post-punk with a smooth samba rhythm. Never
heard of Latin-punk fusion? Well, good. This is probably the best introduction you’re going to get.

The five members of Rice and Beans were at the top of their game this past Saturday when they played the blessedly intimate Tin Room. “This is our first gig outside of New York or California,” lead singer Tim Hollander announced, before launching the band into a supercharged rendition of “Eat This,” the first single off of their cult hit album
Recipes from the Homeland.
“We’re hoping you’ll all help us in our mission to bring Latin-punk fusion to the mainstream.”

Rice and Beans’s sound can only be described as unique, but they cite their influences as varied and recognizable. “Yeah, we’re all over the map,” bass drummer Rick Warren told press. “I mean, The Descendents, The
Sex Pistols … and, you know, Enrique Iglesias….”

8/30, 4:38 p.m.

from: [email protected]

to: [email protected]

re: So?

Don’t hold back, babe—how was the show?! Daria is needy to know about the music.

8/30, 5:03 p.m.

from: [email protected]

to: [email protected]

re: re: So?

Yes, the show. Charlie, god bless her pretty little soul was more than happy to accompany me (we both felt
mucho
cool heading to a “show” on a random Tuesday night). So after a rigorous day of touring the campus, we cuted ourselves up and off we went.

The bouncer at the Tin Room spent about three seconds examining my press pass and let us in without carding us. The perks of being a bona fide member of the paparazzi.
It was a small venue, dark and dimly lit inside. Crowded, but not thick and oppressive. The floor was beer-stained but thankfully not sticky. In such an environment, I supposed, I could reinvent myself completely, just totally leave behind the whole Gap girl thing. Though, without Gabe around, it was hard to imagine the motivation.

“Oh, my. Did you
see
that guy?” Charlie hissed, grabbing at my arm and sucking all of her breath in at once.

Okay, so maybe
that
was the motivation. There were other fish in the sea, after all.

“Wh—,” I began, scanning the room curiously, but Charlie had already begun to shove me in the direction of the back room, where the bar was located.

“We need a drink,” she said decisively. And without further ado, she purchased one for each of us.

Apparently what we actually each needed was
three
drinks, which I was to learn over the course of the next hour.

Now, I know we’ve all seen the after-school special, but there was something to
that theory. Something about being drunk that made the music sound a little more sensible to my untrained ear. I mean, I’m not crediting the cheap beer to my stunningly well-rendered music review, but … okay, maybe I am. Maybe going out on a Tuesday night to be a cool music critic and hear a cool alternative band really is what college is all about. Or so I was starting to think. It sure made sense at the time.

“This is awesome,” Charlie shouted, echoing my thoughts and struggling to be heard above the noise (music—I mean music). “I’m so glad you decided not to take back the night.” Without warning, the corners of her mouth flipped up, exposing a vast expanse of gleaming white teeth.

For the life of me I couldn’t figure out what she was beaming at, so I followed her gaze. Once I’d done that, it was simple to catch her drift: She was blatantly ogling a random if adorable skater guy. And he was ogling her right back. I wouldn’t have thought Charlie would go for someone so counterculture, but I guess everyone
was looking to expand his or her horizon now that we were officially so …
collegiate
and all.

“I think we need another drink,” she said to me intently.

“Honestly? I really, really think we don’t,” I began to protest. At least the “me” part of “we” really didn’t. But she had already run off.

I found Charlie—unsurprisingly—at the bar, sucking down a light beer and fluttering her eyelashes at skater-pants, who had somehow beaten me over there. “This is Todd,” she said to me. “Todd, this is Claudia, my new best friend.”

BOOK: 30 Guys in 30 Days
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