What Nora Knew (22 page)

In seventh-grade dance class, boys wanted to dance with me because I’d developed early and ballroom dancing was a good excuse for a twelve-year-old boy to accidently smash against the budding breasts of a twelve-year-old girl; perhaps the first and only time I was truly popular. But after I trampled Artie Brodsky’s feet box-stepping and severely damaged Allan Greagsbey’s instep during a jitterbug (don’t ask me why they were still teaching the jitterbug in 1984; George Orwell couldn’t predict the Roslyn public school system would still be teaching the jitterbug in 1984), having established myself as a bona fide klutz, even the prepubescent boys decided my boobs weren’t worth it. My relationship with dancing became one of avoidance. School party? That was me in the parking lot, making out with my date to avoid dancing with my date. Live-band bar mitzvah? Meet me at the sweets table; I’ll be hanging out there.

I even tried ducking out of my own wedding dance. But as luck would have it, Evan considered himself a regular Arthur Murray. If Evan had married Lisa, the two of them could have spawned a superstrain of miniature Michael Jacksons and Twyla Tharps. I should have tossed my wedding veil over my sister’s face and made her go onto that dance floor, because no way was Evan going to miss his shot at showing off his footwork to all his litigator buddies. Unfortunately he was dragging along a white-laced lummox. Talk about getting off on the wrong foot! Some days I think the marriage headed downhill right after the band started “Wind Beneath My Wings.” I made the mistake of telling Deirdre that story one day, how my own flesh and blood booed me off the dance floor, tossing cocktail shrimp and lamb chops at me until I got out of Evan’s way and let him finish with his big one-knee slide into the cello player. Maybe I’m not remembering the details exactly right, but Deirdre thought there might be some humor opportunities in my learning to be a Rockette, and now I was sitting in my cubicle trying to register online.

Turns out Rockette experiences were in big demand, sold-out a month in advance with only one date still available, probably because it was a totally undesirable date, the Saturday of Labor Day weekend. I’d be dancing with out-of-towners. And hopefully the website didn’t really mean that part about the class’s only being offered to
advanced
dancers trained in tap, jazz, and ballet. I signed up anyway. By the time I got there, they’d already have my money; it would be
too late to send me to the principal’s office or wherever Rockette students are sent when caught lying.

About then’s when I stopped and felt a wave of Russell Withdrawal. If I threw out my back or kicked myself in the face, I couldn’t call Russell.
Hi! Remember me! We used to date up until two weeks ago when I decided I could do better than you, which I probably can’t, but I was wondering if you’d unfurl my spine?
I was more likely to die of humiliation than
die
die in a dance class, but I missed the comfort of having my own personal medical-type person at my disposal.

I also missed walls. Emily’s head appeared. “Everyone loves my Cameron Duncan interview,” she said. “Have you read it?” She was wearing snowman earrings.

“Who’s everyone?”

“Just everyone.”

“What’s with the Frosty the Snowman baubles?”

“A gift from Rory.”

“Summer sale?”

I asked if she’d read my skydiving piece.

“I’d love to, but I’m so busy with everyone calling to compliment my piece.” On cue, I heard her office phone ring. She must have been dialing herself on her cell phone. “See what I mean!” She slipped out of view.

I hadn’t spoken to Cameron since he showed up behind my back at Café Lalo. If you’ve ever given yourself a secret writing project, essays you haven’t shown to any other human on earth, the writing you consider your
real
writing, reflective of the
real
you, and then you finally, in a moment of
insane weakness, let a smooth-talking author talk you into sending those essays to his personal e-mail and you don’t hear anything back, you’re going to be pissed. At him for starters. But even more at yourself.

I pulled up Emily’s interview on my computer and read the opening sentence:
Last week I hung out with my friend author Cameron Duncan.
Already I wanted to barf. I heard Emily squealing, “Really? You love it!” I skimmed through the interview. I wanted to finish reading it before she finished her phone call so she wouldn’t catch me reading it. Emily was laughing. “Honest? The best interview ever!” Unless her caller had some serious hearing problems, she was raising her voice for my benefit.

The interview had nothing to do with Cameron the writer. Emily’s questions focused on sensitive, understanding Cameron, beloved by women readers who wanted to mother him or ravage him. Lay it on thick, why don’t you, Emily.

Men with limited experience with women—perhaps they married their high school sweetheart or originally studied for the priesthood—they are the men who later have affairs; they feel like they’ve never lived. But if you’ve been privileged to know many women, you’ll gain self-knowledge about what you want and who that special someone needs to be. After that, recognition comes swiftly. Almost instantaneously. There’s only one thing left to do.

I asked him, “What’s that, Cameron?”

He said, “You need to kiss her.”

“Oh my God, I could kiss you!” I heard Emily saying. “Thank you, Cameron! You’ve changed my life!”

I clicked off the article. Interesting, maybe. Life changing? I think not, Emily Lawler.

My phone rang.
Outside call,
the ID window said, about as useless a piece of information as you can get.
Inside call
in our office means someone standing up and calling across the cubicles. I picked up the receiver, said hello. My first few months at
EyeSpy
I’d answer the phone with
Molly Hallberg! Reporter!
or, when I was in the mood and had extra time,
Molly Hallberg! Entertainment reporter for online newsmagazine
EyeSpy
!
But after my mother complained and Kristine guffawed a few times, I just went with
Hello, Molly Hallberg
.

“Hello, Molly Hallberg,” the caller said. “Exemplary skydiving piece. Made me want to walk up to a third floor.”

What was this guy doing? Working his way through our cubicle jungle? Wait until he found out a guy named Keith came next. “Hello, Cameron,” I said. “Thank you for reading my article.” I wished I felt as cool and professional as I tried to sound. I wanted to ask him about my essays while at the same time I wanted to tell him he was a jerk.

“I was thinking about our coffee date,” he said.

“Coffee
date
? That wasn’t a coffee date, that was a coffee run-in.”

“What time can you run into me again? You owe me a lunch.”

“I don’t remember it quite that way. Aren’t you too busy getting interviewed?”

“Oh, did you read Emily’s piece?”

“Is there a pop quiz?”

“Let’s get back to us.”

“Us?”

“Your essays.”

“Oh. My essays.”

If anyone ever tells you they want feedback on their writing, substitute the word
feedback
with
praise
. No writer wants feedback. Asking for feedback is an invitation for constructive criticism or, worse, plain old criticism. My essays were still in my computer; they couldn’t seem to get any further than that, but I had nightmares of the
New York Times
reviewing my book, nightmares that usually ended with my flying to Brazil for plastic surgery to change my identity.

Mind-boggling mindlessness!

Insomniacs rejoice!

Trees died to print this shit?

Not meant for human consumption.

If Mr. Simon and Mr. Schuster were alive today—they’d wish they were dead.

The Rockettes were high-kicking on my computer screen. What did they care? Their reviews were always great.

“Can’t we talk now?” I said. “What’s wrong with over the phone?”

“Lunch is better.”

“Okay. A business lunch,” I said. “Just for feedback.” I meant praise.

“Our place?”

“We have a place?”

“Cafe Lalo.”

“That’s not our place and I’m no longer hanging out in that neighborhood.”

“Boyfriend trouble?”

“A short business lunch. That’s it.”

“I promised to stop in the Barnes and Noble on Eighty-Second Street Saturday afternoon,” he said. “To sign books.”

“Your books? Or just anyone’s?”

“Meet me there at noon?”

I agreed. In a loud voice. Loud enough to be heard over the wall. “Yes! Looking forward to seeing you, Cameron!”

Saturday, Angela was sitting on my bedroom chair, tweeting for her grocery-store client and eating a Twinkie for breakfast. She was wearing pajama bottoms and a tank top, her hair uncombed. Charlie hadn’t slept over the night before or she’d be in lingerie. “How’s this sound?” she asked, reading off her telephone screen. “ ‘Flo sez slice onions under cold water to avoid tears. Vidalias now 2.29 per lb.’ ”

“Compelling.” I was debating between flats or sandals for my lunch with Cameron. Flats said
business
. Sandals said
I don’t want you thinking I thought about this too much.

Angela began tapping again. “Flo’s also got a good one for burgers, how you shouldn’t put the grilled ones on the same plate you use for the raw meat, but I haven’t cut that one down to one hundred and forty characters yet.”

“I have faith in you. Does this work?” I held up a straw handbag. “Or this one?” Held up a canvas handbag.

“You’re thinking about this too much,” Angela said. She pointed to the canvas one. “Looks more bookstore-ish.”

“Fine. With the flats.”

“Why’d you never show me your essays?” she asked.

“You’d tweet them.”

“Not unless they’re short.”

I sat down on the bed. “He made me show them to him.”

“You like this man.” Angela sounded both accusatory and pleased.

“He’s trouble,” I said.

“Perfect! Sleep with him.”

“Sex doesn’t help me get over a man. Sex makes me think I love men I don’t. He’s a congenital dater.”

“Mike Bing’s not.”

“Angela, Mike Bing is not real.”

“Let’s see what he’s up to,” she said, tapping. “Ten thousand followers are standing by.” She made a face. “Oh.”

“Oh?” I hated her
oh
-face.

His tweet said,
Off to lunchtime obligation. Hoping somebody’s ego can handle it. Mike Bing says brace yourself. Could be uncomfortable.

*  *  *

He was late. Not technically late, but I arrived early. I waited for him at the crime table, reading the cover copy on Sarah Greer’s book. When he came hurrying up to me, he apologized,
explained he’d stopped in to say hello to the manager. “She’s a friend,” he said.

“I’m sure she is.”

“She’s young. Enthused. Very supportive.”

My idea of a bookstore manager is someone who walks around in a three-piece suit with a boutonniere, lovingly straightening books and making recommendations to little old ladies. “Did you ask your supportive, young friend why your books aren’t on the crime table?”

“They’re upstairs on their own table.”

“You have your own table? How about a sofa and chairs?”

“Follow me,” he said.

He was wearing his baseball cap and sunglasses. I didn’t ask,
What’s with the indoor shades, buddy?
Maybe he was afraid somebody would recognize him. What better place than a bookstore? Then again, maybe he was worried nobody would recognize him, and this way he could blame his sunglasses.
Can somebody’s ego handle it?

“Do escalators make you nervous?” I asked, half over my shoulder, as we rode to the second floor. I was two steps ahead of him.

“I look straight forward,” he said. That meant he was looking at my butt.

Cameron did have his own table, a big display of his three bestsellers stacked up, fanned out and faced forward on metal stands. “This will just take a moment,” he said.

I didn’t tell him I had never read his books. I’d decided to put off reading the one I’d bought until after he commented
on my essays. That way, if I didn’t like his feedback, I could read his book and decide he was a terrible writer, so what difference did his opinion matter anyway?

He checked his jeans pockets and asked to borrow a pen. I dug one out of my handbag and watched while he scribbled his name on the title pages of
Larceny among Lovers
. I kept waiting for a salesperson to come running over to scold the ball-capped man in sunglasses bent over a table defacing Barnes & Noble property, but nobody seemed to care; I wondered if I could go around signing a few books.
All my best, Willa Cather. Best wishes, Charlotte Brontë.

“Aren’t your other two books going to be jealous if you don’t sign them, too?” I asked, picking up a copy of
Felonies among Friends
and pointing to the pile of
Murder among Mistresses
.

“Shh,” Cameron said, midsignature, smiling. “Didn’t your mother teach you to keep your voice down in a bookstore?”

“What’s your next book going to be called?
Arson among Acquaintances
?”

“It’s about online dating. Not fires.”

While he signed, I suggested titles.
“Jury Tampering among JDaters? Misdemeanors among Match.comers?
”

He removed his sunglasses, looked up at me, and shook his head. “Would you like to wait for me in the children’s section?” He smiled that goofy, appealing smile of his that I refused to find appealing.

“Why’d we meet here anyway?” Was I supposed to stand there admiring him signing his three bestsellers before he trashed my essays and ego? “Are you trying to impress me?”

“Yes,” he said. “Is it working?” Then, more softly, whether for me or out of respect for those customers whose mothers did teach them not to disturb the other patrons in a bookstore: “Your being here makes me feel less self-conscious. I consider this an obligation, but it makes me uncomfortable.”