Vixen (33 page)

She stormed out of the dining hall and down the corridor, away from all those wretched girls. She couldn’t stay in this school another second.

But there’d be no getting out of the engagement party tonight. She had already successfully apologized to her mother, convincing her it had all just been a common case of cold feet. And she had apologized to Bastian, reassuring him that she would never sing in that “den of sin” again. One sickeningly phony “I’m
so
sorry” after another.

But she would never, for the life of her, apologize to—

“Gloria!” Lorraine was standing in the hallway, right in front of her locker.

Gloria tensed up. “May I please get to my locker?”

Lorraine looked like a haggard scarecrow, her cheeks gaunt, dark purple shadows beneath her eyes. “Please, will you just listen to me, so I can explain that I never—”

“There’s nothing to explain!” Gloria snapped.

“But if you’ll just let me talk to you, before your party tonight—”

“My
party
?” Gloria glared in disbelief. “I hope to God you know better than to show up to my party tonight. For your own sake,” she said, reaching behind Lorraine’s back. “Now, please get out of my way.” She shoved Lorraine hard to the right.

Gloria grabbed her coat, slammed her locker shut, and charged down the hallway and out of the building, not caring whether the headmistress or anyone else saw her break the school rule. She didn’t stop until she had hopped into a taxi and was speeding uptown toward the only person she wanted, needed, to see right now.

She was chilled to the bone when she stepped out onto North Broadway. The night before, there had been a brief rain, and then the temperature had plummeted, coating the streets in slick sheets of treacherous ice.

Gloria didn’t realize how nervous she was until the taxi rolled up in front of the club. She knew he would be there—Friday-afternoon rehearsals were mandatory—but she hadn’t been back to the Green Mill since that fateful night when Bastian had exposed her as a liar, a sham, a spoiled brat playing dress-up.

And now she had returned. She took a deep breath and knocked on the unmarked entrance.

The familiar slit slid open, revealing a brown eye. “It’s Gloria, the—the ex-torch?”

“What do you want?”

“I … I’ve come to see”—she was about to say Jerome, then realized that might not be such a good idea—“to see about something I left in the club. The last night I sang here?”

The Eye squinted at her for a second; then its owner said gruffly, “Don’t go anywhere.”

The slit closed. Which gave her just enough time to remove her engagement ring. Taking it off had once been the first step of her costume change—when she was in the throes of rehearsals. Now, sliding it off and tucking it into her school satchel, she felt like the fake that she always had been.

The door opened, and Gloria stepped into the familiar darkness.

The music was a magnetic force, pulling her toward it. She stood quietly in a back corner, enraptured, soaking in the sound that had been filtering through her dreams at
night. Jerome’s body swayed with the slinky syncopated rhythms, his eyes closed, as if the notes transported him to a place unknown to anyone but him. She could watch him play forever.

His eyes flickered open and he caught sight of her.

At first she couldn’t tell whether he was smiling at her or it was a trick of the light. But no, he
was
smiling at her. The band wasn’t yet dressed for tonight’s performance; they looked as if they’d just stepped in off the street. Jerome and the bass player were wearing tweed caps, and everyone wore khaki pants or dungarees and wrinkled linen shirts that looked as if they’d been slept in.

The song ended. Jerome stood up from the piano bench and was about to step off the stage when the bass player stopped him and whispered something in his ear. Jerome looked back at Gloria, but this time, the smile was gone.

Gloria hung back. Suddenly she felt awkward, standing there still in the gray and white of her school uniform. She didn’t belong here. And then it dawned on her:
She had no place
. She didn’t belong anywhere. Not here, not in school, not back on Astor Street. Nowhere.

Jerome came over, his hands casually tucked into his trouser pockets. “Hey,” he greeted her coolly. No kiss, no touch. “I’m surprised to see you.”

“I know I should have told you, but—”

“Surprised,”
he continued, cutting her off, “because I thought your big party was tonight. I saw it in the paper.”

Gloria felt her body go cold. “It is,” she said flatly. “But I wanted to see you. If that’s all right. I can leave if you—”

“No.” He took a step closer, and she could see something in his dark eyes, like a secret unsaid between the two of them. Then he whispered, “I’ve missed you.”

Gloria barely had time to let this sink in—even though his words were exactly what she needed to hear—because Evan, the trumpet player, stomped over.

“We gotta wrap this up before they start getting ready for tonight,” Evan said to Jerome, without so much as a glance toward Gloria.

“Hey, Evan,” she said. “You sounded really good up there just now.”

Evan rocked back on his heels. “Why is she here?” he said to Jerome.

“Beats me,” Jerome said, crossing his arms. “But I’m thinking the same question.”

“I lost one of my grandmother’s earrings that night,” Gloria explained, touching her bare earlobe. It was the truth: She hadn’t realized it until she got home, after she’d managed to stop crying and look in the mirror at her distorted face. “It was my good-luck charm,” she added, which was also true. Until now.

“Yeah, well, good luck finding it.” Evan smirked, then lightly punched Jerome’s arm. “Remember, first set’s early tonight—Carlito’s trouble boys are coming for dinner. Be here at seven.”

“Got it.” Jerome tipped his tweed newsboy cap as Evan walked out of the club. Jerome eyed the stage, where the bass player and drummer were still dawdling. “This way,” he said to Gloria.

She followed Jerome to the stage. “Hey, Chuck. Hey, Tommy,” she said sweetly.

“Hey,” they both mumbled back.

“Gloria lost her earring,” Jerome explained. “So we’re just gonna take a quick peek backstage, see if she dropped it back there. All right?”

Chuck raised his eyebrows.

“Come on,” Jerome said to her, walking to the backstage door.

Gloria hung her head as she passed the stage, embarrassed. She knew she owed them all an apology—and an explanation—but this was not the time or place.

Jerome held the door open, and Gloria, eyes still fixed on the floor, stepped into the pitch-black, narrow hallway. The door slammed behind them. For a split second, she was reminded of her first voice lesson with Jerome. The first time they had ever been alone. The first time Jerome had ever touched her—

Something touched her waist, and she jumped, gasping loudly.

“Shhhhh,” came Jerome’s voice, at a rock-bottom register, as she realized it was his hand. Then both hands, pushing her gently against the wall. She wrapped her arms around
him, clutching the broad muscles of his back. His body radiated a soothing warmth, and Gloria felt something expand deep within her.

She felt his lips, gentle against her cheek. She couldn’t stop herself from meeting his lips with her own.

She broke off at last and whispered, “What are we doing?” She opened her eyes and tried to make out his face in the dark.

“Looking for your earring,” he said, tugging at her earlobe with his teeth.

Gloria squirmed, letting him linger there for a second longer before taking hold of his biceps and pushing him back. “I’m serious,” she said. “What are we doing, Jerome?”

It was all too much for her, these extremes. To go from her prep school dining hall to
this
—when she didn’t even know what
this
was—and then off to the engagement party tonight. And Jerome, from cold to hot in the snap of a finger.

Jerome sighed in frustration. She felt his body next to her, leaning against the brick wall. “What would you say if I took you on a date? A hot date.”

“Now?” She couldn’t tell whether he was serious or kidding.

“Don’t worry, I’ll get you home before you turn back into a pumpkin.”

“Are you sure this is all right with you?” he asked, holding her numb fingers.

Gloria gazed out at the frozen pond filled with skaters. “I—I—” she stuttered, unable to get the words out of her mouth. “What happened to the ‘hot’ part of the date?”

“Pond froze up early this year. We ain’t even had a proper snow yet.”

When Jerome had whisked her away from the Green Mill, Gloria hadn’t been imagining anything in particular for their date. But an ice-skating rink had been the furthest thing from her mind. Not that she minded, of course—the important thing was that they were spending time together. After three weeks apart, she was finally in his presence, in his arms. It didn’t matter what they did.

She checked her watch, making sure she could return home in time to play the role of dutiful daughter and soon-to-be-wife. It was early yet—not quite four.

“No, is it all right with
you
that … you know what I mean.” Jerome lifted her cupped hands to his lips and filled them with his warm breath.

She paused, her eyes still glued to the frozen pond. “I haven’t skated in years.”

Gloria hadn’t ice-skated since she was twelve and her father had taken her to a private gala in the Chicago Arena. But she knew this was not what Jerome was hinting at.

“You know what, why don’t we go somewhere else that’s less—”

“No!” She stopped him, tugging at his arm. “If you can teach me how to sing, then I’m sure skating will be a cinch.”

“Yeah, I’m sure you’ll fit right in,” he said, pulling her in the direction of the skate shack. Not one white person was skating on that ice. In fact, not one white person was anywhere in sight.

Jerome had taken her to the South Side. But after all, where were they supposed to go and be together—high tea at the Blackstone? It was absolutely out of the question to be with him anyplace where white people predominated. Being around Jerome at the Green Mill was one thing. He’d been a musician, she’d been a singer—sort of. But being with him in public was another story entirely: holding hands, touching, kissing … It simply couldn’t happen. A black boy and a white girl would draw a whole lot of attention—and not the good kind.

Boys and girls whizzed past them, running and laughing with each other but pausing to notice her. She felt their gaze, but in a much different way than when she’d performed.

She looked at Jerome. Was this what life was like for him every day in places that were mostly white? How did one deal with it—with standing out when all one wanted to do was blend in?

They sat on a bench, and Jerome tied her skates for her. He must have sensed her unease, because he leaned in and whispered, “I’ve seen you face much tougher crowds than this before. And they loved you, remember?”

“It seems as if all that never happened now, doesn’t it?” she said, grasping his arm as they wobbled toward the pond. Twice she almost fell flat on her face, and they weren’t even on the ice yet. “As if it was part of some dream.”

“How about now? This doesn’t feel real to you?”

“I don’t know what is real anymore.”

Jerome took her hand. “Then let’s see if we can change that.”

Holding hands, they stood at the edge of the pond. As the skaters circled past, she could feel their eyes—couples, parents, kids—all, all of them, homing in on her and Jerome. She could hear the whispers, too, not so different from the first day she’d gone back to school after the Green Mill Incident.

What was she doing here? If she could barely survive being stared at during a fun activity like ice-skating, how could she possibly consider life with Jerome beyond the rink? She didn’t know any mixed-race couples—did they even exist?

Without another word, he led her onto the ice.

Jerome pulled on her arm and slingshotted her past him. She couldn’t help herself: She shrieked.

Behind her, he hooted and scrambled to catch up while she struggled to keep her balance. And then she had it—she was upright, and it wasn’t all
that
hard, was it?—and he was beside her, still laughing. “What’s so funny?” she asked, but he only laughed harder.