Lucid (16 page)

Jade didn’t sign up for skating lessons. She is being taught this afternoon by her new friend Andrew. Who drove her there in his GEM. And who never even bothered to mention any of this to me yesterday. Amazing. And I actually was beginning to like this guy.

I run up the West Side Highway, covering the mile in record time. Low and behold, here they are in the Sky Rink, a young man teaching a little girl to ice-skate. Why am I so angry?

Jade sees me and waves like crazy, and for some reason I don’t wave back. Andrew smiles at me, as if he’s done absolutely nothing wrong, and when I very definitely don’t smile back, he simply goes back to work with Jade and ignores me for twenty minutes. He is, maddeningly but predictably, fabulous with her. She’s laughing, flirting, and sort of learning to ice-skate.

I sit down on the hard bench and wonder what my deal is. Never mind wanting to control Sloane’s world. I’m irritated beyond belief that no one in my own life is doing things the way they should be
doing them. Why wouldn’t anyone think to let me know this after-school date was taking place so that I wouldn’t worry? After a bit, Andrew leaves her to practice on her own and skates up to sit beside me.

“Okay, what happened? Did you lose the role or your boyfriend?”

“Neither. More like my faith in humanity.”

“How come you’re looking at me when you say that?”

I blink. “Oh, I don’t know. Maybe because we spent an entire day together and you never mentioned this.”

“Why would I?”

There is nothing worse than a question like that. Because any honest answer would reveal that I’m angry because I feel left out and insanely jealous of my seven-year-old sister’s friendship with some guy who I’m completely platonic with anyway. Like it would matter. It is so unfair to have those humiliating feelings exposed as the result of a question so unassuming and innocent that I can’t credibly blame the guy for asking it.

“Well, for one thing, I’ve told you that Nicole is brain-dead and negligent, so you should have assumed that she wouldn’t tell me about this, and I’d be a little concerned when my sister went missing.”

“I did think of that. Which is why I told Jade to make sure you knew. And if she didn’t, I’m very disappointed in her. As to your mom, she is forgetful. However, she is also incredibly hot.”

“How would you know that?”

“Jade showed me a picture on her phone.”

“Why are we talking about this?”

“We’re trying to distract you so you’ll stop being angry with me. And start cheering for Jade so she has enough confidence in her skating to go to Ashley’s party. She asked me to come up with a lie for her to use to get out of the party because she’s embarrassed she doesn’t ice-skate. So I offered my services, which is the least I can do for a friend who invited me on a sleepover with three of her girlfriends. Don’t worry, I declined for obvious reasons. Much as I might have enjoyed the event.”

So I start cheering for Jade. And I stop being angry at him.

Maybe I am so pissed because I feel like Jade and I have become his kid sisters, who are fun passing time with until he can go home to his smoking-hot girlfriend.

I ask if he wants to grab dinner. He asks Jade what she’s in the mood for, and I remind her that she has a sushi date with Nicole. It’d be easy to get Jade out of it, but even if I’m no longer feeling angry about it, I certainly don’t want to be grouped in the little sister category. And besides, I tell him, I need his advice on a certain matter. “Sadly, however, I don’t have two friends who would include you in our sleepover.”

He laughs and says, “If there’s no pillow fight in it for me, I’m not sure I can render my services. We’ll work out payment over dinner.”

Jade and I go to the locker room so she can get changed to meet Nicole at Nobu. She confides the following things to me. Andrew really, really likes her. And she knows this because he bought the pale blue sparkly skates she was wearing so that she wouldn’t be the loser kid with the ugly rental skates at the party. And she could keep them forever and ever. And then she asks how old Andrew will be
when she turns sixteen. I tell her that he will be twenty-eight and will seem really old and boring to her at that point. But will still be her friend.

I take him to a place with super-comfort food, especially the home-baked pie, especially the blueberry. I tell him that dinner is on me, and he tries to order two pounds of caviar.

I keep to small talk during the matzo ball soup and hush puppies. Before the meat loaf, I hesitantly bring up my main conversational course. I want to talk to Andrew about Thomas mainly because I don’t have anyone else to talk to, but also, as a man, he will be able to think like Thomas thinks (girls think we can do that, but we are kidding ourselves). As a friend, he will tell me the truth.

“How did you feel about the kiss? Not the one in the car, the one at the door.”

I’m taken aback a little. But it’s a fair question.

“I was pretty excited. And I guess I was relieved to be honestly excited.”

“Because you were afraid you might be using him?”

“Yes.”

He sighs. And looks at me in a very tender and wonderful way that paradoxically makes me afraid of what he’s about to say.

“Don’t be. You can’t use somebody who’s using you.”

“Is that what you really think, or are you just…”

I stop myself. I was about to use the word
jealous
. And I realize in this one instant that this was, of course, exactly why I asked him to dinner, exactly why I’m telling him all of this. I want him to be jealous. The truth of that shocks me so that it takes me a beat before I can come up with a lie to cover…

“Or are you just a guy who thinks that all guys are the same and all girls need to be protected from them.”

He stares at me evenly. No smile at all.

“No, I’m not that guy. I’m the guy who knows that this particular guy is a flunky to an important casting director, and yes, I checked him out and he is a flunky, is not looking to cast you in anything. Because he doesn’t have the power to do so.”

“Fine. I’d like it better if he just really liked me.”

He says nothing. Takes a bite of meat loaf and annoyingly starts to hum a tune I sort of recognize. As if our conversation is over.

“What makes you so sure,” I say, “that he doesn’t?”

“That’s not it at all. I think he wants you and likes you. A lot. He’s going to a lot of trouble, sticking his neck out even at the risk of rejection, which I’d bet this guy doesn’t do all that often.”

So now I’m really confused.

“So now I’m really confused,” I say. “If I want him to like me, and he really likes me, are you telling me not to date him just because he’s a flunky?”

He looks at me as if I were rather slow.

“Nobody told you not to date this guy. Actually, my advice, for what it’s worth, is that this sounds like exactly the kind of situation you should pursue.”

Why does this feel like the last thing I want to hear?

“You said the guy is trying to use me.”

“Bad choice of words on my part. The guy is dangling career stuff, thinking that’s what it takes to get you interested. But actually, you’re relieved that this isn’t about a role, and you guys can date simply because you’re hot for each other. As long as you’re clear on
who he is and what he can or can’t do for your career, you’re smart and careful and you’ll do what’s best for you.”

“But you don’t like the guy. I mean, you don’t like him for me.”

“I’ve never even seen the guy, and this is only about what
you
like. Look. It’s hard to tell the difference between how we want someone to feel about us and how we actually feel about them. If the person is attractive, we always want them to want us, and sometimes we get so busy trying to make that happen, we forget to keep track of whether we actually want them or not. Plus, we always want what we’re afraid we can’t get…”

“But you’re telling me I can get him.”

“Sure. But the important thing is what you’re telling me: that you actually want to get him.”

This throws me into a tornado of mixed emotions. On the one hand, do I really want Thomas or just want him to want me? On the other hand, it does explain my confusion over Andrew because, as he so wisely says, we want every reasonable candidate to want us. The truth is that I meet very few guys who I could ever even see myself wanting to be with, and this one comes complete with the world’s sexiest and most possessive girlfriend, so of course I want him standing in line for me, somewhere just behind Thomas.

“How did you know you really wanted Carmen, instead of just wanting her to want you?”

“I still don’t know. She fascinates me; I know that much.”

Of course, I’m overwhelmed by a desire to learn absolutely everything about their relationship.

“Well, I won’t comment,” I comment, “because you haven’t really asked me for advice on that.”

“Thank you.”

This kind of cools me off on the whole Andrew thing. We finish our dinner pleasantly enough. More talk about French and Italian movies. Make up a few of our funny stories about the waiters, the other diners, and particularly the stunningly put-together hostess.

Out on the street, I offer, “I’ll just grab a cab; you probably have to get home.”

“I’ve got time to drop you.” Meaning, he indeed does have to get home.

At which point, a cab pulls over, dropping off a woman who proves that you can at least be too thin, if not too rich. I give him a friendly wave and just jump in the cab and take off without really saying anything.

On the way home, I feel kind of bad. Almost as if I’ve broken up with a boyfriend or something. This shows how limited my experience is with actual boyfriends. I’ll call Andrew tomorrow and be all friendly and everything.

I enter the apartment to encounter a beaming Nicole. I don’t think I’ve ever seen her so darn happy. She is positively bursting to ask…

“Who. Is. Thomas?”

Oh boy.

“Thomas who?”

“Thomas who sent you no fewer than fifty yellow roses. With an incredibly romantic note.”

As I draw a breath to kill her with the poison boiling in my tongue…

“Which of course I haven’t opened or read. I’m just getting back at you because you’ve been holding out on me.”

The flowers are beautiful beyond belief and come in a crystal vase that shames our whole apartment. The note says,
Thinking of you
. And then it says,
Instead of working, sleeping, or doing anything else
.

Should I call him? No. Of course I should. It would be smarter not to. But also rude not to. Was he staring out his apartment window at the city, wondering which twinkling light was mine? I’ve never had a boy do anything like this for me before. Andrew is right: Thomas really does like me. And thinking about it, Thomas is pretty close to perfect. Lying there in bed, I can’t come up with any real imperfection. And he may be a flunky now, but we all have to start somewhere. He certainly has entrée to a world full of exciting introductions and premieres and dinner reservations. What’s wrong with falling for a guy who also might be able to help me reach my dreams?

I grab my phone. And before I can talk myself out of it, I’m dialing his number. He picks it up on the first ring.

“Hi.” And his voice is silk and everything soft and warm and excited to hear from me. All in that one simple word. And before I can say anything, he says…

“You’re going to need your beauty rest.” And before I can ask why, he says, “Because you’re reading tomorrow for Robin.”

My heart pounds and stops all at once. Andrew was wrong. Thomas is anything but a flunky. My man delivered for me.

“Rosalie is going to be there. And hang on to your flannel jammies, so will our director. He’s back from Africa. I’d sent him your
reel. I don’t want to oversell this, but he’s absolutely open to you. It’s a shot, a real one.”

“God bless you.”

“Believe me, I’m happier than you are.”

Not possible. I do Jade’s booty dance alone in my room because I can’t contain my excitement. We talk for twenty more minutes while I get ready for bed. He listens to me brush my teeth. And then, when I turn out the light and crawl under the covers, he says…

“Good night, beautiful. I hope I’m in your dreams.”

And I’m reckless enough to say, “In a funny way, you already are.”

I
wake up with James’s copy of
Siddhartha
between me and my pillow. I spent all day yesterday reading
Siddhartha
through two and half times, apparently falling asleep in the process. I love his underlinings and notes in the margins. And I love the way his lower lip is like a shelf someone carved out of something I’d like to touch.

In the bathroom, I decide to put on some makeup, trying to do it so that none of the girls will notice and James won’t notice but will just find me attractive and not know why. I’m obsessing over some mascara, making sure there are no telltale clumps, when Max stumbles into the bathroom without knocking.

“Sorry!” he says, and closes his eyes quickly. But he doesn’t shut the door. He just stands there with his eyes closed.

“I’m dressed, Max. You can open your eyes,” I assure him. He opens one slightly. Thus reassured, he comes in and elbows me away
from the sink so he can brush his teeth. In the mirror, he studies my reflection as I try to perfect my “natural” look.

I want to say something to him about his birthday note but don’t want to make him feel awkward or even more repulsed by my feminine presence. And then as if he’s reading my mind, which I really wouldn’t be surprised if Max has the ability to do, he says…

“I borrowed Bill’s words for your card. He said them. That day we climbed the tree.” He stares at me directly in the mirror. I’m afraid I’ll cry if I look at him, so I keep working on my eyelashes.

“It is a beautiful card. They are beautiful words, Max.”

He nods. He knows. That’s why he used them.

He spits and begins to rinse. I look down at his head and want to burrow my face in it for comfort but am afraid of ruining the moment. As he slurps water straight from the faucet, which is a new “guy” habit of his, he confesses, “I found Bill in the sky. In the stars. Like on your ceiling.”