More Than A Maybe (30 page)

“Why did you come?” I ask.

Xavier opens his arms. “To catch you. When you fall.”

I glare at him for the briefest of moments, my eyes just barely flicking over his face. “And what makes you think,” I ask, never missing a beat, “that I’m going to fall?”

Xavier opens his mouth at that . . . but no sound escapes his lips. There is only the voice of Britney now, her song growing louder and more insistent than ever, and my dancing is gorgeous, stunning, perfect, and the room is full now, everyone is here, and the crowd explodes in a staggering roar of lust and desire and twenty-dollar bills . . .

* * *

And then I’m awake.

I’m awake on Jayla’s sofa, and I know what I have to do.

* * *

TO: Bob Sorrows
FROM: Alice White

Thank you for meeting with me the other day.

I regret to inform you that I am unable to accept employment with Rogers at this time. While I very much appreciate the generous job offer, I feel that I might benefit from additional work experience in a different capacity. I wish you the very best of luck in filling the position.

Sincerely,
Alice White

sent from my phone

I tap the SEND button on my new iPhone and send the email into the electronic ether.

That’s it.

No turning back now.

I take a look at myself in the mirror. The person looking back at me is familiar . . . and she isn’t, somehow.

My hair is an overflowing ringlet waterfall of raven-black tresses. My makeup is a stunning, confident composition that’s been applied by my very own fingers — an adventurous symphony in lip liner and artistically-applied mascara.

I’m back at Mirages for another try. And this time, I’m ready.

“You’re sure now?” Jayla asks, coming over to check on how I’m doing. Her beautiful brown eyes are full of concern, but I can see that there’s excitement for me there, too.

I look at her in the mirror, then give a stomach-full-of-butterflies smile and a nod. “Definitely,” I say, checking my face for the umpteenth time. “As sure as I’ll ever be.”

“Good to hear!” says Billy, poking his big bearded face around the corner. “I’ve got you on first, just like you wanted. You really sure about this, Veronica? One of the other girls can warm up the crowd if you like. I mean, this special routine you talked me into . . . we don’t usually do anything so
fancy,
you know? I just wanna make sure that . . . ”

I shake my head. “No thanks, Billy. I’m sure.”

Billy smiles and gives me a thumbs-up. “It’s all yours, then. And listen — I’m proud of you. It takes a whole lot of guts to get back up there! Most girls, if they have some kinda mishap their first night, they’re gone from this place for good. Something about all the public humiliation, and . . . ”

Jayla rolls her eyes and pushes Billy’s head back out the door. “You’re not helping!”

I laugh. It’s classic Billy — and I know he doesn’t mean to be mean. In reality, he’d been completely and totally sweet when I’d told him that I’d wanted another crack at the spotlight.

Except this time it would be on my own terms. I’d left Kiki and her kinky schoolgirl routine on her DVD. Instead, I’d planned out nothing less than a vintage burlesque for my comeback — my own loving tribute to the classic slinky moves of Zorita in the 40’s. It had taken hours and hours of practice in Jayla’s apartment; days of getting myself back on the 8-count, clomping around, and scratching up Jayla’s floor with my heels.

And now . . .

Here I am. Back for revenge.

It’s me and three other girls, the same as the first time. Two of them, Kayla and Jasmine, chat as if they already know each other — they’re friends from college, I gather, like me and Jayla. The other girl is a shy-looking Asian girl with a purple streak in her hair named Lauren, and when I introduce myself she whispers a small
Hello.

Nobody else seems to make the first move, so it’s up to me to suggest a group photo this time. Jayla takes the shot with the little digital point-and-shoot she’s brought for the occasion, and we all gather around to have a look. It’s another beautiful shot — but the woman I am tonight is so far removed from the girl that stood here a year ago.

“Um . . . Veronica, right?” says Lauren. She’d been sending sideways glares in my direction, like she’d been trying to get up the nerve to say something. Apparently her mind is finally made up.

“Yes?”

“I just . . . was wondering,” she says, and it’s like a floodgate opens — she suddenly blurts out exactly what’s on her mind. “Is this really your first night? Because this is Amateur Night, or whatever, and I’m really sorry, and I don’t mean to be rude, but you don’t really seem like an amateur to me. And your costume is different from the rest of us, so . . . uh, yeah. Just wondering.”

The look in her eyes couldn’t be more plain. She’s obviously sizing me up, and her words sound like an accusation. Part of me wants to say something cutting — give her a nice wilting dose of sarcasm, or . . .

And then I remember how I’d felt, on that night a year ago.

Lauren doesn’t need a dose of Bitch. She needs a dose of Baby.

Baby . . .

Or maybe just a dose of Veronica.

I look at her. She’s a little shorter than me. Her body language is closed-off. Guarded.

“Trust me, I’m an amateur,” I say. “I’m here tonight because last time I fell right off the stage.”

She looks up at me, surprised. “No way!”

“Yup. Right onto my ass.”

She gives a stunned little laugh. “Shit, really?”

I shrug. “So it’s still strictly amateur for me tonight. Same as you. If you want my advice — no matter what else you do up there,
just keep the count.
”

Lauren laughs at that. “You sound like that Kiki woman on that DVD they made us watch.”

I flash her a grin. “She’s a smart woman. Anyway, good luck out there,” I say.

She looks a bit . . . well, not relieved, exactly, but possibly a little less nervous.

Then it’s time. Billy’s head appears in the doorway, and he looks right at me, and before he can even open his mouth I’m already strutting on my platforms toward him, toward the stage, toward the lights and the music and the noise and the crowd . . . he doesn’t really even need to say it, I know what comes next —

But he does.

“Veronica, you’re up!”

* * *

1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8.

I realize that Perfection is a very strange thing.

At best it’s a fiction — a dream that you run after, arms outstretched, trying to grab before it slips through your fingers. And it’s always out there, always in front of you, and you never quite catch it . . . but you run after it anyway, you run, and no matter where you end up it’s taken you somewhere, and somehow you’re better for the journey.

1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8.

At worst, Perfection is a ghost. It curses your days, haunts your nights — laughs at you from your bedroom mirror, spits jokes at you from the mouths of people you love.

So — better to let it go. Leave Perfection alone. Let Perfection do its own thing. Learn to love yourself.

That’s what they say, anyway.

1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8.

Still . . . .

Sometimes you feel it, a little. You get just a little tiny taste. You’ll be doing something totally and utterly mundane. You’ll be cutting up veggies for a salad, maybe, and you’ll cut that one cucumber slice juuuuuuuust right, somehow. Or you’ll be singing along in the car to a song you love, and your voice will rise along with the one on the radio, and you’ll nail that one clear high note at the end of the key change, long and impossible and loud, and you’ll suddenly know just how damn good you can sound.

1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8.

Maybe if Kiki had seen me that night, she could have told you every tiny thing wrong with my routine. Maybe there was a little wobble in my step, maybe my hip went left first instead of right as I came around the pole.

Maybe.

Maybe if Rosco had seen me that night, he could have given me a nice sarcastic laundry list of style pointers — rolled his eyes at the pasties on my burlesque costume, asked to know at which truck stop gift shop I’d purchased my shoes.

Probably.

Maybe if Baby . . .

Well — come to think of it, Baby would have just had another shot of Jägermeister and screamed her head off the moment I came out onto the stage.

Anyway.

1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8.

My routine isn’t perfect that night. I’m not perfect that night. But my count . . . my count . . .

1, 2, 3, 4 . . .

My count is on.

. . . 5, 6, 7, 8.

My count is dead-on.

That is enough — and there, on that stage, in front of the noise and the lights and the desperate eyes of the desperate crowd, I finally make my peace with Perfection.

* * *

I don’t really want to drink much tonight, and normally I’d go straight for the Diet Dr. Pepper and a tall glass of crushed ice.

Still — traditions are traditions.

“Ladies,” says Jayla, looking at us like a mama bird with her chicks, “I would like to get a toast up in here: to the new graduates of Amateur School! Cheers, ladies!”

We raise our champagne flutes together in adrenaline-fueled celebration — me and Jayla, the girls of Amateur School, and some random guy calling himself
Hank.
He’s the one providing the bottle of not-too-bad champagne for our celebration, which means he gets the honor of hosting the after-dance party at his table. The look on his face tells me he thinks it’s a fair trade.

We did it. Every one of us.

“Oh my god — I messed up so bad out there!” says Kayla, obviously embarrassed.

“No way!” says Jasmine. “I saw you — you looked amazing. Anyway, that was a tough act to follow, Veronica.”

Hank, red-faced and more than halfway drunk, erupts with a sudden explosion of far-too-loud laughter. “WELL!” he booms, in a voice like a thunderclap. “I THOUGHT YOU ALL DID GRRRRREAT!”

We all look blankly at him, suddenly remembering that he’s there.

Awkward.
We all pause for a second, holding our champagne glasses frozen in mid-air.

“Uh — thanks, Hank!” I say, flashing him a quick forced smile. I cinch the sheer gown I pulled on after my routine a little tighter around me, then look at Lauren and roll my eyes.

She laughs. “Anyway, you
were
great!” she says.

“You too!” I say. “I saw you from the side of the stage. Nice moves up there.”

She blushes a bit. “Well . . . not too bad, I hope. I’m just glad it’s over and done with. Uh . . . by the way,” she says, moving closer so I can hear her, “how long do you think we have to hang out with Hank here? He smells like he took a bath in Axe Body Spray.”

I laugh, and lower my voice a bit. “No idea. I think we’re just supposed to work the room, try and make ourselves some tips. Or, you know, whatever. If you think you’d rather go home, one of the security guys can escort you to your car.” I point across the room at the bouncer near the door — he’s perched on a tall bar stool, checking IDs as people enter. The door swings open to let in a hammered-looking bachelor party, and . . .

What happens next happens quickly, and with the lights and the noise it’s hard to be sure of what I see. Still, as the newly-entered crush of tipsy bachelors fumbles goofily for their driver’s licenses, I notice another figure squeeze past them and slip out the door into the night.

My heart skips.

Jayla notices the look on my face. “Veronica? Everything okay?”

I can’t speak. I hand Lauren my glass of champagne.

I don’t want to go, but I can’t stop myself — my platforms are already clicking their way forward over the tile floor of the club, and I’m hurrying toward the door, ignoring everything,
everything
— the stares from the customers, the frown of concern on the bouncer’s face.

“You okay?” he asks. “You want me to walk you out there, miss?”

I shake my head, my hand already on the door handle. “I’ll be fine.”

“Holler if you need me,” he says, shrugging and turning his attention back to the customers. I push open the door and rush through, and I don’t stop until I’m outside . . .

And there, in the middle of the cold silence of the parking lot, is a solitary figure clad in black.

I’m a muddle. I don’t know what to do, what to say. I wish so much that I had some magic — something I could do that would make everything all right.

Something to make him disappear. Something to make him turn around — or, no,
no
— something to make him walk away, leave me for once and for all and forever, make him go back to his empty parade of temporary rooms and temporary women . . .

“Hey!” I shout.

It’s a greeting. An accusation of betrayal. A defense.

The figure stops . . . and then he turns, very slowly, like there’s some incredible weight pressing down on him, like he’s having to force himself to move. His gaze takes an eternity to meet mine. It slips around the quiet of the parking lot, up to the bright shock of icy stars in the chill night sky and finally comes down to land again . . . to look at me right in the eyes.

There can be no mistake now, and in the ghostly neon lighting of the Mirages parking sign, I once again see the face of Mr. Xavier Black.

“Hello,” he says, the sound of his voice distant, flat. It hasn’t really been that long at all, but I feel as if I haven’t looked at him in years. He’s the same, though . . . same face, same piercing eyes.

“Here we are again,” he says. “Déjà vu.”

I can only stare at him in disbelief, as the mounting anger inside me breaks into my voice.

“What are you
doing
here?” I ask.

He points a finger at the buzzing glow of the Mirages sign. “That sign said you have some kind of Amateur Night here. Thought I might stop in and see for myself.”