Eye Candy (8 page)

15

Where are you going?” Ann-Marie appeared at my bedroom door. She was chewing on one of those energy bars with about twice as many calories as a Snickers bar. She eats about five of them a day. She thinks they're okay because she buys them in a health food store.

“Out,” I replied, fixing my hair in the mirror. I was trying out a new lipstick color. Bubblegum pink. Kind of kicky.

“Who with?” Ann-Marie stepped into the room and sat down on the edge of my bed.

“A guy.”

I pulled a white, Triple 5 Soul baseball cap down over my hair and scrunched the bill down on the sides. Cute.

Luisa stepped up beside the bed. “You're going out with one of those Internet guys, aren't you.”

I turned to her. “No, I'm not.
Mom
.”

Luisa raised both hands, like for a truce. “Whoa. We're not in a bitchy mood tonight,
are we
?”

“Sorry,” I said. “Maybe I'm a little stressed. I don't know.”

“So you
are
going out with one of those guys,” Ann-Marie accused. She finished the energy bar and crumpled the wrapper in her hand.

“Why do you eat those things? Do you really think they give you energy?”

She tossed the wrapper at me. “Sure, if I drink a lot of coffee with them. Don't change the subject, Lindy.”

“I like your hat,” Luisa said. “Where'd you get the T-shirt?”

“Banana Republic, I think. It's pretty old.”

“It matches your lipstick.”

“I'm not sure about the lipstick,” I said, turning back to the mirror. “Too teeny-bopper. Shelly is going to take me out for a milkshake and a pony ride.”

Ann-Marie narrowed her eyes at me. “Shelly, huh?”

“Which one is he?” Luisa asked.

“The one I
didn't
meet on the Internet,” I said.

Ann-Marie picked up one of my hair scrunchies and twisted it around in her hands. “He's the one you met by accident.”

“Yeah. A lucky accident,” I said. “He's nice. Sweet. Baby-faced.”

“Baby-faced.” Ann-Marie snickered. “What makes you think Baby Face is okay?”

I shrugged. “Just a hunch.” I turned to her. “Hey, don't worry, okay? It's just dinner.”

“Have any of those other guys called?” Luisa asked.

“Well . . . Brad emailed me.”

“He's the reporter?”

“Yeah. He wanted to take me to Belmont to watch horse races. And of course Jack emailed and called.”

“The freebie guy.”

“Yeah. He keeps trying. I haven't called him back once. But he doesn't give up.”

Ann-Marie slid the scrunchie around her wrist and twirled it. “Is he, like, a stalker? Think he's the one who made that creepy call?”

I shrugged. “I don't think so.”

“So what did you tell these guys?” Luisa asked.

“I told them I was busy, that's all.”

“You'll just keep telling them you're busy till they get the idea?”

“That's the plan.”

Luisa fiddled with one of her dangling red earrings. “But Shelly is okay?”

I jumped up and headed to the door. “I'll let you know after tonight.”

16

Shelly was waiting for me in the lobby downstairs. He wore faded jeans and a pale blue Polo shirt under a blue blazer. He flashed me a warm smile as I stepped out of the elevator.

“Hi,” I said. “Are you Shelly? Am I sure you're the right guy?”

His eyes flashed. “You've got the right guy this time,” he said.

I followed him out the door. It was muggy out, hot with a wet wind blowing. “Where are we going?” I grabbed my cap in time to stop a gust of wind from lifting it off my head.

“How was that Colin guy?” he asked, grinning at me. “Gay, right? I knew I had his number.”

I laughed. “No. He was nice. Stop talking about him.”

“Nice, but gay. Not that there's anything wrong with that.”

We both laughed. I guess he watches
Seinfeld
reruns, too. I took his arm. “Where are you taking me?”

He stared at me. “I thought
you
were taking
me
! Didn't you promise me dinner at The Four Seasons and then a show?”

I squeezed his shoulder. “You're very funny tonight.”

“Funny-looking?”

“No. I like the way you look,” I said. “Sort of a dark-haired Huck Finn in yuppie clothes.”

He pretended to be offended. “I look like a hick?”

“Yeah.” I laughed.

Now he looked
really
offended.

“I'm joking.”

“I hate women with a sense of humor.”

“I'll remember that,” I said.

We were walking east on Seventy-ninth Street. When we came to the Museum of Natural History, we turned uptown, then continued east on Eighty-first. The museum, a pale-brick, gothic-like structure, turrets and all, stretches for blocks. Someone told me it's in the
Guinness Book
—the biggest museum in the world.

We walked past the newly built planetarium. The giant sphere inside the Rose Observatory sent its blue glow out into the night. Very romantic. But I was hungry, and we seemed to be walking
away
from all the restaurants.

It was a little after eight-thirty. The museum was closed, but several people—couples mostly—sat on the front steps, talking, smoking, hanging out.

A bus rolled by, then Shelly pulled me across Central Park West. “Lindy, I hope you're into gourmet food.”

“Excuse me?” I glanced around. “Where are we going? Into the park?”

I felt a sudden stab of fear. This part of the park would be deserted this time of night. I pictured Shelly dragging me into the playground . . . forcing me to the ground . . .
forcing
me.

God, how awful. I came out for a nice time, a pleasant evening, and here I was thinking the most horrible things. It's so frightening how one call, one thirty-second phone message, can change the way you think.

Did he notice my fear? It was too dark here. He couldn't see my face.

He grabbed my arm firmly. I glanced up and saw that his eyes were narrowed, his features set.

He pulled me toward the park entrance. I didn't see anyone around, except for a hot dog vendor, bending over his cart, his back turned.

My throat tightened. I tried to pull free of his grasp.

Why didn't Shelly speak? Why didn't he say anything?

He
was
dragging me into the park!

17

Shelly? What are we doing? Where are we going?” My voice came out high and shrill.

“Here we are.” He let go of my arm.

The hot dog vendor turned. He was a short, dark-haired man in a stained white apron. He smiled when he saw Shelly. “Mr. Shelly, here you are.
Buenas
noches, señor
.”

My heartbeat began to slow to normal. I whispered to Shelly, “He knows you?”

“I made a reservation,” Shelly said. “Sometimes it gets very crowded.” Then he introduced us. The hot dog guy's name was Paulo.
“Qué bonita,”
he said, eyeing me up and down.

“What's good tonight?” Shelly asked him. “Hot dogs?”

“I'm just closing up shop, Mr. Shelly,” Paulo said. “When the museum closes, I close, too.” He stared up at me and smiled. “But I saved a few of the best for you. What do you want on them? Everything?”

“Four with everything,” Shelly said before I could answer.

Paulo opened the lid on his cart and began fishing around in the boiling water. I pulled Shelly to the front of the cart. “Gourmet food, huh?”

“They're the best dogs in New York,” he said seriously. “I don't know what he does to them, but trust me.”

“Very cute,” I said.

“What's cute?”

“This whole thing. Buying me hot dogs. Being on a first-name basis with the cart guy. Very cute. I feel like I'm in a Reese Witherspoon movie.”

“You're cute, too,” he replied. “Everyone's cute tonight.”

I laughed. I felt terribly relieved. And angry at myself for thinking such sick thoughts about Shelly.

We sat down on a park bench across from the museum, ate the hot dogs, and shared a can of Yoo-Hoo. I finished the first dog and half of the second. That was all I could manage, especially since they were loaded down with chili and relish and sauerkraut and mustard. Shelly forced me to agree they were the best hot dogs in New York. Actually, they were a real treat. I don't eat hot dogs very often—a girl has to watch her calories, right?

Shelly finished my leftover half. “Can't let dogs like these go to waste.”

“Shelly, I've never met anyone so intense about hot dogs.”

He didn't smile. “I'm intense about everything. I'm a real intense guy. It's just . . . me.”

“You know, I don't know anything about you,” I said. “Where do you live? What do you do?”

“Want my social security number?”

I laughed. “Yes, and two forms of ID.”

He waved to Paulo, who began rolling his cart down the middle of Central Park West. “I have an apartment across the street,” he said. “Just a studio, but it's not too small. It has an extra little room where I can work.”

“You work at home?”

He crunched the Yoo-Hoo can in his hand. “Yeah.”

“What do you do?” This was like pulling teeth. Why didn't he just tell me?

He stared across the street at the museum. “I'm a writer.”

I laughed. “You sound so ashamed.”

Again he didn't smile. “I don't like to talk about it much. I mean, if I was a
published
writer, I could talk about what I'd published. But since I'm not . . .”

“What do you write?” I persisted. “If you write picture books, I could help you. I work at a children's publisher.”

He tossed the soda can toward the mesh trash basket on the corner. He missed and the can rolled onto the sidewalk. “I write . . . fiction,” he said finally. “Short pieces, actually.”

“You mean short stories?”

“Yeah. Kinda. Slice-of-life type stuff. Pieces.”

“Literary stuff?” I asked. “Shelly, are you a secret intellectual?”

He snickered. “What does that mean?
Secret intellectual?
Were you an English major or something?”

That made me grin. “Actually, I was. And, I had a second major in business. It looked good on my résumé when I was applying for publishing jobs.”

“I don't have a résumé,” he muttered, still avoiding my eyes. “But I really enjoy writing. It's the only time I feel . . . powerful.”

Whoa. This was getting a little heavy. Wasn't this just supposed to be a starter conversation? I could feel my cheeks turn hot.

“So you're not published yet? I don't mean to get too personal, but how can you afford an apartment on Central Park West? Do you have another job?”

He shook his head. “Good old Mom bought it for me.”

“Nice,” I said. “She supports your writing?”

He stared across the street. “She hasn't seen any of it yet.”

Time to change the subject, Lindy. “Where are we going next?” I asked. I started to stand up.

“Do you write?” he asked at the same time. “I mean, at your job.”

“Not really. I do a lot of
re
-writing. I think editing is fun. But it's a whole different thing from writing.”

“What made you decide to go into publishing?” he asked.

I shrugged. “Beats me. It was something I thought about even in high school. I've always enjoyed hiding behind a good book, I guess.”

His eyes flashed. “Hiding?”

I could feel my cheeks burning again. “Well, yeah. Hiding. My dad . . . he was always pushing me to be a model or an actress or something like that. He wanted me to use my looks. He said I could make a fortune.”

Shelly wiped chili off his chin. “But you didn't buy it?”

“No way. I mean, I didn't really think I was . . . so great-looking. I thought he was just being a dad. You know, thinking I was prettier than I was. Modeling classes. Acting classes. I just felt I didn't belong. And so I used to hide behind a book. I was always at the library. I always had my face in a book.”

Shelly studied me for a long moment in silence. I couldn't read his expression.

“I'm sorry,” I said, jumping to my feet. “I don't know where that came from. I didn't mean to lay that all on you.”

“And did you feel guilty?” he asked, his blue eyes locked on mine.

“Excuse me?”

He continued to stare. His expression was intense, needy somehow. “Did you feel guilty? Did you feel guilty for letting your father down?”

Guilty? Change the subject, Lindy. This is getting weird.

“I never thought about that,” I said. I turned away. I couldn't stand that penetrating stare. What did he want? Why was he asking that? Just trying to understand?

“Thanks for giving me something new to worry about!”

It was a joke, but he didn't even smile. “It's not good to feel guilty,” he said softly. “I know where you're coming from.”

I grabbed his hands and pulled him to his feet. “Enough about that, Shelly. We've had an awesome gourmet dinner. Now what do you want to do?”

I took him to Whale, the dance club downtown where Ann-Marie and Lou hang out. After all that talk, I felt like dancing. And I wanted Ann-Marie to check him out.

Why did I open up to Shelly that way? Because he seemed nice and smart and I wanted to see if he was understanding, too? Because of that boyish, open face that seemed so trustworthy?

Or was I lonelier than I knew?

I could always tell my deepest thoughts to Ben. After he died, there really wasn't anyone I could confide in. Of course, Ann-Marie is a good, close friend. But she is the one who confides in me, not the other way around. It's just the way our relationship is. You know how it works. Everyone has her role.

Whale was an old warehouse in the meat-packing district that had been converted to a dance club. It was a huge, high-ceilinged, windowless square room with balconies running along all four walls. The platform for the dj and all his equipment were plopped right in the middle of the dance floor. A long, red velvet bar and a row of low tables stretched along the back wall.

The décor was all red and gold. A red neon sign with WHALE in a fancy script was suspended from the ceiling over the dj's platform. There were no whales on the walls or ceiling balcony sides. No sea colors. No splashing waves. No photos of whales leaping out of the ocean. This was not a theme place.

Ann-Marie had told me that the club owner's nickname was Whale. She said he was a huge, blubbery guy—maybe four hundred pounds—who showed up mostly on weekends wearing enormous red and gold pajamas, and danced his guts out, taking up most of the dance floor.

She said he was a real sleazy letch, always trashed, usually coked out of his gourd, who liked to trap girls against the wall with his big belly and feel them up.

Nice.

Why do Ann-Marie and Lou like this club? Lou and Whale went to the same high school in Larchmont— before Whale dropped out—so they get in free, and sometimes Whale comps them on the drinks.

Anyway, there was no sign of Whale tonight, which helped the party atmosphere a
lot
. The dance floor was jammed and people were three-deep at the bar. I pulled Shelly through the crowd until I found Ann-Marie and Lou standing at a table near the bar, tall beer glasses in their hands.

Ann-Marie looked awesome. She wore a tight, short black skirt and a shiny orange top that left about two inches of stomach showing. Very sexy.

She mopped her forehead with a cocktail napkin. Her hair glistened with sweat. “Hey!” she raised her glass and smiled as Shelly and I approached.

“You've been dancing!” I had to shout over the throbbing beat of the music and the roar of voices.

She leaned close and shouted in my ear. “I twisted my ankle. We had to stop.” She tilted the beer glass to her mouth and gulped it all down. “Got to replenish.”

I introduced Shelly. Lou went to the bar to get more beers. Ann-Marie talked about how lucky it was that Whale hadn't showed up tonight. “He makes the dj play Cher over and over.”

Shelly leaned over the table and grinned at Ann-Marie and me. “I love clubs like this. I think I'm really going to get my freak on tonight!”

Get his freak on? He was joking, right? Where did he get that line—VH1?

Ann-Marie laughed. “This guy's cute,” she whispered in my ear.

Lou was returning with the beers, but Shelly pulled me away from the table, onto the dance floor. I bumped a girl with a tattoo of a grinning monkey on her shoulder. She turned away, her tight silver pants reflecting the bouncing lights, blond hair flying, and I glimpsed another monkey face on her other shoulder.

Shelly and I found a space near the side of the dj's platform and started to dance. After a few seconds, I realized that Shelly was a fabulous dancer.

He had his eyes closed. His arms were sliding gracefully up and down. His knees were bent and his hips were bumping and swaying in perfect rhythm to the music.

I tried to keep up with him, get in rhythm with him. But he was really good and totally into it.

The beat changed as the dj mixed in a new song. I tried to pull Shelly back to the table, but he kept on dancing. He put his hands on my waist and guided me. He didn't want to stop.

When the dj mixed in a new track, Shelly opened his eyes. He took my hand. He had a sweet smile on his face. He leaned close. “Told you I was intense.” He was breathing hard. He seemed very pleased with himself.

I pulled him back to the table. He picked up his beer and drained it. He lowered the glass, still breathing hard. He made no attempt to wipe the foam off his mouth.

I laughed. “You look like a rabid dog.” I picked up a cocktail napkin and wiped the foam off his mouth and chin.

Lou had his arm around Ann-Marie's waist. “Hey, you're a good dancer,” he told Shelly.

Shelly's dark hair fell over his forehead. “Thanks. I've just always been into music.”

Ann-Marie brought her face close to mine and whispered. “Jesus. Think he's like that in bed?”

I slapped her hand. “Shut up.”

“If he is, he's a keeper!”

“No, really. Shut up.”

She laughed.

We all chatted for a while. And danced some more. And I finally started to relax and have a good time.

After a while, we'd danced so hard my legs were trembling. Ann-Marie and I made our way to the ladies' room. “Shelly seems sweet,” she said. “Like him?”

“I haven't decided,” I said. “He's cute enough and very funny. But then sometimes he's kind of . . . disturbing.”

When we returned, Lou and Shelly were watching a platinum blonde with enormous boobs dancing in what appeared to be a tiny, blue bikini top over matching blue short-shorts. The two guys were practically drooling.

“What do you think she does during the day?” Ann-Marie asked me.

“Supreme Court justice?”

Ann-Marie grabbed the sides of Lou's head and turned it away from the platinum blonde. “Time to go.”

We said our goodbyes and nice-to-meet-yous. Ann-Marie led Lou across the dance floor.

Shelly was still staring at the bouncing blonde.

“Do you want to go, too?” I asked, shouting over the beat, beat, beat.

He finished his beer. “No way. It's still early.” He took my hand and led me back onto the dance floor. We danced a long time, drank a few beers, then danced some more.

When we finally stepped out of the club, it was nearly two in the morning. A cold spring rain poured down hard. West Twelfth Street was shiny with water running in the curbs like rivers. Rain pattered the tin roofs of the meat-market warehouses.

“It must have been raining a long time,” I said, grabbing his arm. “Maybe we can get a cab on Tenth.”

Shelly laughed and raised his face to the rain. “Cab? Why do we need a cab?” He pulled me onto the sidewalk.

“We don't have umbrellas. I don't have a raincoat or anything,” I complained. “What do you think you're doing?”

A taxi rolled up to the restaurant across the street, and a couple climbed into it.