Fanfare

by Renee Ahdieh

  Melissa Nash

  I called in “sick” the Monday after I returned. Honestly, I was sick . . . sick to death of feeling paranoid that someone would recognize my blurry face in the pictures and proceed to inform the salivating hyenas of my anticlimactic identity. The day was spent deleting every photo I could find of myself online. I subsequently shut down my MySpace page and placed every privacy restriction I could discern on my email and Facebook accounts.

  However much I wanted to punch Melissa in the kisser for just being . . . her . . . I had to be thankful for whatever magic she conjured that prevented people from gleaning any more knowledge about me or my affiliation with her client.

  After a week passed without any further incident, I began to breathe normally. It was just a flare in the world of blogsip . . . quickly lit and short-lived. As long as I followed Melissa’s directions and stayed out of the way, I wouldn’t have to worry about feeling . . . I don’t know . . . I was very surprised that the criticism of people possessing absolutely no information or credence to their claims would bother me so much. I guess when you read that people halfway around the world are calling you a “bitch” and a “slut” many times over it starts to have an effect. How original.

  What I wouldn’t give to take it all in stride. Tom’s cavalier attitude about the whole thing irked me as much as I envied him for possessing it.

  “How can you be so . . . cool about all of this?” I demanded one night.

  “Practice. Desensitization . . . and the realization that this is just how it is. It used to bother me a great deal. I would stay up at night reading all of this rubbish and obsessing over who thought I was a shit actor and needed to lose weight, gain weight, bulk up, cut my hair, whatever. It’s total crap, Cris. They love to hate you just as much as they love to love you.”

  “I just . . . You’re right. I guess I have to develop a thicker skin,” I mumbled.

  “What were you going to say?”

  “Uh, what do you mean?” The rising pitch of my voice only lent further credence to his query.

  “You were going to say something else . . . and you stopped yourself.”

  I exhaled loudly. “Tom . . . I stopped myself because what I was about to say wasn’t helpful.”

  He paused for a moment. “I’d like to hear it anyway.”

  “Stop being difficult!”

  “You’re being difficult. There’s no reason for you to edit yourself with me,” he said curtly.

  “Look, it’s not about editing. It’s about being constructive. What I wanted to say served no purpose, but if you have to hear it, then don’t bitch about what I say after the fact . . . I’m just pissed that I had to fall for someone whose life is an open book. This means that my life will eventually have to be an open book as well . . . and I hate it.” By the time I finished my rant, I was definitely on the brink of shouting. Yep, deflection of irritation rarely resulted in a positive outcome.

  Dead silence.

  I groaned loudly. This was the first time we had a noticeably harsh exchange, and the feeling of anxiety that came from poking a hole in the shining bubble of a new relationship began to creep into my throat.

  “See? Editing is necessary,” I cried.

  “No, it’s not.”

  “You’re pissed off at me . . . and I hate that, too,” I stated earnestly.

  “If I’m pissed off, it’s not at you. This is my reality. I want you to be a part of it. I think you’re strong enough to handle it.”

  “I wish you wouldn’t force me to say things that might upset you,” I said gently.

  “One of the things that attracted me to you was your honesty. Don’t hide it from me in a sad attempt to save my feelings. You hate my job. As long as you like me, then it doesn’t matter.” His tone was matter-of-fact.

  “I don’t hate your job . . . and you know it’s not that simple,” I murmured.

  “I want it to be. If and when it gets more difficult, we’ll deal with it then.”

  “That’s not my style, but I’ll go with it . . . for now,” I acquiesced.

  That conversation had left a bad taste in my mouth for several days. It seemed asinine to dismiss something that was becoming so increasingly troublesome, but thus far in our relationship it had not made a big difference, so I clung fast to the childish hope that ignoring the problem would eventually make it go away.

  Four weeks had passed since an angry Dominican man broke Tom’s nose and my blurry mug had made its way to blogs all over the world. Thank God I worked with people too engrossed in their own lives to recognize that their colleague was a “goldigging famewhore.” The blessings of working for the state of North Carolina definitely showcased their attributes from time to time.

  I stood in the kitchen with my mother and surveyed the spread. The pernil sat in the center of the table ready to be carved. The smell emitting from the plate filled the air with the scent of roasted pork stuffed with whole cloves of garlic and a seasoning rub that had infiltrated the meat over four long days marinating in the refrigerator. A mixture of traditional dishes from both Cuba and Puerto Rico surrounded the pernil, along with the requisite beans and rice. Tom had said that he wanted an authentic, home-cooked meal. It didn’t get any more authentic than this.

  Mami fidgeted for the fifteenth time with her outfit while waiting nervously for the doorbell to ring.

  “Stop! You look beautiful!” I murmured in Spanish.

  “I don’t know . . . maybe I should have worn the dress,” she mused.

  “No. That color is perfect on you.”

  She continued muttering to herself about her appearance and the “humble” state of our home. I had heard these comments for the last two weeks since telling my mom that Tom wanted to meet her. Our house was certainly not a Hollywood Hills McMansion, but it was cozy and filled with memories on every wall and in every corner. I grew tired of listening to my mother speak as though Tom were an overlord coming to visit the peasants living on his fief.

  “He’s just a boy,” I said again in irritation.

  She opened her mouth to retort, but the doorbell rang. I took a deep breath as she ran to check her makeup a final time in the mirror hanging in the foyer. It would have been nice to pick up Tom from the airport myself, but after the Preying Mantis’s email about the recent debacle in the hospital, we decided to play it safe and utilize taxis.

  I threw open the door with gusto.

  “Hello,” I breathed as a silly smile made its way onto my face at the sight of the lanky British man gracing our doorstep.

  “Hi.”

  My mother rushed over and nearly elbowed me aside in her attempt to get a good look at Tom.

  Apparently, the many conversations I had shared with Tom concerning my mother’s effulgence had made a lasting impression. He grinned and bent down to sweep her into a bear hug that caused her to turn bright red and giggle like a schoolgirl.

  Even I was rendered speechless by this simple gesture. I didn’t know how Tom instinctively came to the conclusion that my mom was a sucker for a good hug, but she was officially a stalwart fan after that. She rambled on and on at him in a mixture of English and Spanish that even I had troubled breaking down at times. In between piling his plate with a ridiculous amount of rice and telling him her entire life story, I saw her reach over to pat his hand indulgently and preen at his compliments with unabashed pride.

  “Mira, you need a haircut, Thomas,” Mami said sternly as she perused his appearance with a critiquing eye while we put away the dishes. She pronounced his name with the stress on the second syllable instead of the first.

  I tried not to smile knowingly. “Mami! I think he knows what he’s doing with his hair!”

  He barked a quick chortle of laughter as he winked at me. “I’ve heard this before. Maybe I should just shave it off.”

  “Noooo. Not too much, tu sabes . . . just a little. It’s too long,” Mami replied. “Oye, pero tu eres quapo. If you fix your hair, it’s perfect.”
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  “I’ll keep that in mind.” His eyes twinkled merrily as my mother launched into another tale without end. She was so happy that I couldn’t stop myself from watching her with a silly expression of contentment on my face.

  After my mother had exhausted herself and marched up the stairs to bed, I sat down at the table and stared silently at Tom until he took the seat near me with a look of quizzical amusement. I placed both palms under my chin, propped my head onto my elbows, and narrowed my eyes at the movie star sitting at my tiny dining room table as though he belonged there.

  He arched his left eyebrow at me and waited.

  “Why are you still single?” I demanded simply.

  He chuckled. “Why are you still single?”

  “Listen, Socrates . . . I asked you first.”

  He shrugged.

  I exhaled loudly. “Seriously. You were so amazing with my mother. I can’t tell you how much that meant to me. I haven’t met many men as thoughtful and aware as you are. Compounded by the fact that you’re incredibly easy on the eyes and a member of a profession most lay-folk can only aspire to be a part of, I just don’t get it. Why are you still single?”

  He continued studying me as I spoke. “Tell me why you’re asking me this, and I’ll answer the question.”

  This time, I shrugged in response.

  “You really don’t see yourself, do you, Cris?” he asked me softly.

  “This isn’t some pitiful fishing expedition for half-assed compliments. I see myself pretty well.”

  “I think if you saw what I see, you wouldn’t ask me this question.” The warm look in his eyes made me stare down at the table for a moment to collect my jumbled thoughts.

  “Fine then. I’m not going to insult your priorities by saying you can get a hotter girl. I just don’t understand why you would go through the trouble of taking on a relationship that has so many obstacles when you could have your pick of girls with much less baggage and far easier situations.” I felt ridiculous saying this, but the dubious seed of doubt in my heart needed to hear a response that made a semblance of sense.

  “I don’t want easy. I want you.”

  I flushed, but refused to back down. “That’s very poignant, but it isn’t a real answer.”

  He leaned over the table closer to me. “You’re right. I could probably find something easier . . . someone that doesn’t exasperate me as you often do. Honestly, I just want to be around someone who sees me as nothing more than a guy with a weird job and a strange sense of humor. Most girls I meet are nice enough, but they can’t get passed what I am and how it makes them feel about themselves. You didn’t care. That made you the sexiest girl I’d ever seen. You were also completely disinterested in me. Even as a kid, I loved a challenge.”

  “I was disinterested because I live in the real world!”

  “I live in the real world, too. Many of the girls who would love to date someone famous don’t realize that most of us are nothing special. I find myself insanely boring. It’s a lot of pressure to be someone’s dream. Is it too much to ask for me to have a girl who lives in the same world as I do?” he posited softly.

  I wanted to tell him that he didn’t live in the real world. I wanted to point out that he existed in a realm that made him virtually untouchable to 99.9% of the world, but I said nothing.

  “Plus, you’re incredibly smart and effing hilarious,” he added with a smile.

  I grinned reflexively. “Hah.”

  “I’ve come to realize how important it is to surround myself with people who don’t take the world too seriously and can always be counted on to see the humor in things. In my experience, there aren’t too many people like that. You don’t know how many times your humor has improved my day.”

  “Glad to give you a measure of what you’ve given me,” I murmured.

  “That’s the way it’s supposed to be. I’m supposed to make your day better, and vice versa.”

  “You succeed. You’ve also made my mother’s day better, and I can’t think of words strong enough to thank you for that. She’s not going to shut up about you. Your efforts were a slam dunk,” I stated appreciatively.

  “She has an amazing daughter . . . worthy of such efforts.”

  “God!” I cried.

  “What?” He was startled by my mini-outburst.

  “Now, I just want to jump your bones so that you stop making me feel so self-conscious!”

  He laughed loudly.

  I narrowed my eyes at him. “I’m serious.”

  He wrinkled his brow mischievously. “I’d let you.”

  “I’m sure you would, but we’re at my mother’s house. Simmer down now.”

  He reached his hand over to me and ran the back of his fingertips down the side of my face to my exposed collarbone. I released a shaky breath.

  “Watch yourself,” I murmured as I stood up and moved closer.

  Leaning down, I ran my hand through his hair before pressing my lips to his. He stood in one fluid motion to pull me into his arms without breaking the kiss. Soon, we were tugging at each other’s faces with a fire that threatened to burn caution into oblivion. He wrapped his arms around me and lifted my small frame off the ground so that he wouldn’t have to strain his neck. Thoughtlessly, my hands traced the taut muscles of his back. I had to stop my fingers from grabbing his shirt and yanking it over his head.

  “I want you,” he whispered hoarsely in my ear.

  I smiled impishly as my heart pounded in my throat. “I know you mentioned that you don’t want this kind of pressure, but I’m going to dream about you,” I teased.

  He chuckled. “Just tell me that dream can actually become reality sometime soon, and I’ll deal with the pressure.”

  I gazed at him for a moment with an expression of mock indecision. “Hmmm. There’s a good chance you might get lucky very soon.”

  “I’ll take it. Dream away.”

  Don’t worry. I will.

  Chapter Twelve

  In order to understand the events moving forward, it is necessary to take a small step back to the beginning . . . to the time of the Email Question Blitz. It was amazing how much insight I obtained about Tom and his life through these simple exchanges. Often, his questions alone would shed a great deal of light onto his personality. His responses to mine were always a quirky mix of humor and fact that drove me to laugh to myself in recollection. Honestly, I must have looked crazy as I pumped gas and chuckled about something he mentioned while answering my off-the-wall queries.

  The email below highlights my answer to a question he posited to me on a random Sunday in March. The question was: “What is something completely harmless that no amount of money could ever force you to do?”

  From: Cris Pereira <7crisp@gmail.com>

  Reply-To: 7crisp@gmail.com

  To: Tom A.

  Date: Sun, March 18, 2009 at 5:41 PM

  Subject: I wanna rock your gypsy soul

  Z:

  I’m listening to Into the Mystic as I write this. It makes me want to sit outside on a porch and watch the rain fall. Damn. I need a porch.

  There are quite a few harmless things that money could never entice me to do; the second that anyone offers to pay me for something stupid, my suspicious nature takes hold. It’s like when someone says, “Ew, this tastes gross! Try it!” Uh. No. WTF?

  When I first read the question, one thing in particular flew into my head, so I’ll just go with that. When in doubt, always answer a question with your gut instinct—or choice C.

  Camping.

  Yep. No amount of money could force me to go camping. I know, I know . . . you’re sitting there thinking to yourself, “What? I’ll bet she doesn’t like it when her hair gets wet, either! (I don’t.) What a boring little priss!” I like being outside. I like having the sunshine on my face. I’ve been hiking several times before, and I had a pretty good time.

  So, what it boils down to is this: I am not going to the bathroom outside. No
. Never. I’ll hold it until my bladder explodes . . . and don’t even talk to me about the deuce. NEVER GOING TO HAPPEN.

  Thus, money will not make me go camping as the demands of my bodily functions cannot be avoided in that scenario. I had a friend in Puerto Rico that I grew up with, and he went camping once with a bunch of his buddies. They probably didn’t cook their food properly, and he got sick . . . as in major gastrointestinal issues. He forgot to take toilet paper with him into the forest and used some leaves instead. Turns out . . . he used poison ivy. I still call him “Ass on Fire” when I see him.

  It’s Celebrity Deathmatch Sunday. Don’t forget, you must make a serious argument for your pick. Miss Piggy vs. Optimus Prime. Go.

  Chip

  The morning after Tom first met my mother, I woke up early and put on comfortable clothes and tennis shoes, as he directed the night before. Grabbing my packed overnight bag, I met him at the bottom of the stairs in my house and knew I sported a markedly suspicious look on my face.

  “I hate it when you won’t tell me what we’re doing,” I grumbled.

  “I know.” He flashed a close-lipped grin at me with unabashed smugness.

  “You’re sure I don’t need to bring anything except water?” I asked for the fifth time.

  He rolled his eyes exaggeratedly and gathered his things.

  “Are you going to play for me?” I teased as I took note of his guitar.

  “No. I don’t go anywhere without my guitar. It’s my version of Linus’s blanket,” he bit back smarmily.

  “Gotta love that British sarcasm. It just reeks of too many sunless days and secondhand smoke,” I retorted with a half-smile.

  After giving my mom promises to return safely, we walked out the front door to my car. He wordlessly handed me a piece of paper with an address on it, and I proceeded to type it into my Garmin GPS. Twenty minutes later, we pulled up to a car rental place in Raleigh. He stepped out of my tiny Civic after directing me to sit still (if possible) for a few moments, and then he carefully concealed himself behind large aviator sunglasses and a worn baseball cap. Soon, he came out with paperwork and a set of keys.

  “No. You’re wretchedly adorable, but I have nothing to say yet,” he stated flatly when he saw the look on my face.