Mafia Girl

by Deborah Blumenthal

  School goes by in agonizingly slow motion the next day as if the hands on the clock have been weighted down and time is playing a sadistic game of torturing me because it refuses to pass. When it’s finally lunch, I turn to Clive.

  “Can I borrow Thomas tonight?”

  “What for?”

  I dread telling him, but I do.

  “Are you sure that’s a smart move, Gia?”

  Smart? It’s a pathetic, desperate move. “I have no cards to play, and it’s the only one I can come up with since he hasn’t called.” And my hormones are like…

  “You can have Thomas, but be careful, Gia. And what about your parents? Are they really going to believe that you’re coming over to my place again for the math?”

  “They take Ambien.”

  After dinner I help my mom with the dishes, then go up to my room. I do homework, shower, wash my hair, and put on pj’s. I make a show of kissing my parents good night before I climb into bed. I hear them come upstairs and I wait while they take turns in their bathroom, watching under my door until the hall is dark.

  I wait to give them a chance to fall asleep, and then I get up and quietly dress in jeans with a red tank top, low enough to show serious cleavage. I toss sling backs into my bag and slip into ballet flats that will not ratt-a-tat-tat on the wooden floor. I creep down the stairs and go out through the basement so they won’t hear the front door.

  Thomas is parked down the block from my house in a dark cul-de-sac where the streetlight is broken. I’m now convinced that before he worked for Clive’s family, he must have trained with Scotland Yard because he’s good and blind when he needs to be. I walk down the street slinking away from the streetlamps.

  I get in the car and Thomas winks at me. No rant about me leaving the house at eleven or the idiocy of going to uptown Manhattan alone. I can only imagine what a loser he’d think I am if he knew I’m headed for a bar filled with lowlifes because I’m blind with longing for the cop who busted me.

  “Thank you, Thomas.”

  He looks at me through the rearview mirror. “My pleasure, Gia,” he says, a small smile on his face that makes me wonder whether he did stuff like this when he was my age.

  “Do you think I’m crazy?”

  “In a good way,” he says finally.

  I cross my arms over my chest, a wordless hug.

  To fill the silence, Thomas puts on Jefferson Airplane, which Clive says is Thomas’s favorite oldies group.

  Don’t you want somebody to love?

  Don’t you need somebody to love?

  Is this particular song at this particular moment a coincidence? Or are there no such things as coincidences?

  When we get there, he parks at the end of the street.

  “I’ll wait here for you,” he says, giving me a compassionate—or maybe a pitying—smile.

  “Thank you, Thomas.” I make my way to the front door and check my watch. Eleven thirty. Do you know where your arresting officer is?

  The blasting music hits me like a slap. Some group I’ve never heard of. I immediately case the bar. The lineup this evening is even more depressing than last time. Half the place seems hung over and the other half would look better if they were. And there is no one who remotely resembles gorgeous Michael. I detour to the unisex bathroom with the gag-worthy urinal and apply more sparkly pink lip gloss before leaning over the sink and staring at myself in the mirror to use up an entire sixty seconds.

  I unlatch the squeaky door and head for an empty spot. And then stop. Cardiac alert. He’s leaning against the bar, a glass of something like scotch on the rocks in front of him. Panic wells up in me because it never occurred to me to come armed with a smart, edgy, übercool conversation opener. I brace myself against the wall and study him.

  Perfect profile.

  Straight nose.

  Sharp jawline.

  Strong mouth.

  His body is cut under a charcoal T-shirt. No cutesy message on it. Michael Cross does not buy souvenir T-shirts or wear clothes to show the world where he’s been. It’s none of your goddamn business.

  I keep staring. Does he know he’s one of the most beautiful men on the planet? No. He’s too troubled. I doubt that he spends much time admiring himself in the mirror. The only thing I can’t envision is where I fit in. Maybe because I don’t. He won’t let me. I wonder about the kind of people he would open up to and draw a blank.

  As if he hears me thinking he turns and our eyes lock. He tilts his head slightly, an almost unconscious show of surprise. I lick my lips and swallow, unable to hold back the slightest smile.

  What do I do now? Crap. What was I thinking? Why am I here? My brain flatlines.

  Out of nowhere, someone drunk and annoying comes up to me, cutting off my clear view of Michael.

  “Can I buy you a drink?”

  “No, thanks,” I say, shaking my head. That must be all Michael needs because he walks over just as Mr. Inebriated is saying, “C’mon, just one drink.”

  “She doesn’t drink,” Michael says, staring icily at the guy before turning his back on him and stepping between us, a human barricade. The guy looks back at Michael and eventually shrugs and walks away.

  Michael and I stare at each other hungrily and the air between us becomes charged and I am suddenly more pumped and alive and energized and over-oxygenated and in someplace above earth I’ve never been to. He does that to me.

  Every. Time. He’s. Near. Me.

  Does he feel it too?

  “Why are you back here?” he asks, a trace of annoyance in his voice.

  “The beautiful people.”

  A smirky smile. It disappears as fast as it appeared.

  “You never called,” I say.

  “Right.”

  “You didn’t want to?”

  His eyes meet mine and he looks away first. “I didn’t want to,” he says robotically, looking back at me with a steady stare.

  “Liar.”

  It’s like someone else is using my mouth to talk—only it’s not someone else, it’s me. Only it’s me on steroids or truth serum or a talking drug, and I don’t know how it happens but it does whenever I’m around him, because his refusal to say what’s on his mind forces me to compensate, if that makes sense. But it probably doesn’t because nothing happening between us makes sense or is logical or normal and I am clearly out of my safety zone.

  “What is it with you?” he says, shaking his head, his face softening slightly.

  Always the guarded cop talk with the subtext.

  “I wake up at night thinking about you, Michael.”

  Shut up, Gia, just shut up, I tell myself. But my mouth refuses to listen.

  He narrows his eyes, his guarded stare saying he’s trying to figure out where to go with this, but I don’t need cop talk to tell me I’ve struck a nerve. He can’t hide the look in his eyes that tells me what I want to know.

  “So you do too.”

  “This is fucked up, Gia,” he hisses. “Can’t you see that?”

  I feel like when I’m at school watching a fencing match. All the swordplay, the maneuvers, the delicate dance of back and forth, advance, retreat, advance, retreat, until finally—zap—one player scores a direct hit and the air reverberates with the electric buzz of the scoreboard as it lights up.

  I feel it inside when he says my name, everything shifting into overdrive. I’m not the “you” in the car anymore. I’m a flesh-and-blood girl with a name, a name that plays in his head like a song you keep singing over and over and can’t get free of, at least that’s what I’m thinking is happening unless I’m blind and all wrong.

  “It’s not, Michael. It’s real.”

  He closes his eyes and shakes his head. “It’s wrong.”

  Out of nowhere someone comes up behind Michael and gives him a friendly punch in the shoulder. “Hey, Cross. So this is where you’re hiding out,” he says, giving me the once over. I let out a breath I didn’t know I was holding.

  “Jim
,” Michael says.

  “Did you get moved or what? I never see you anymore.”

  “Alternate nights, man,” Michael says.

  “Who did you piss off?”

  Michael smiles and shakes his head.

  “Intro?”

  “She’s just leaving,” Michael says.

  “Need a ride?”

  “She has one,” Michael answers, not missing a beat.

  “Catch you later, Miguel.” Jim smiles and moves on.

  “Let’s go,” Michael says, his hand closing around my arm.

  “How did you know I have a ride?”

  “You want low profile, don’t arrive in a Bentley.”

  Does he miss anything? I follow him to the door and out onto the street where it’s so quiet it feels like we’ve landed on a desert landscape. I can’t help sliding up the edge of his sleeve to look at the tattoo. Semper Fi. Always faithful. The marine corps motto.

  “No wonder you’re such a hard-ass.”

  A hint of a smile.

  “Admit it,” I say, tracing my finger along the outlines of the tattoo. “You think about me too.”

  He bites the corner of his bottom lip and shakes his head. I take a step closer to him. I can smell his shampoo, something woodsy and clean.

  “Don’t come back here, Gia,” he whispers. “Please.”

  I lean forward so my lips touch lightly against his. I expect him to push away again, but, like before, for a fraction of a second he stands still, eyes closed. Then as if a different part of his brain trips an alarm, his warm hands close over my upper arms and he eases away, closing his eyes for a moment.

  “Good-bye, Michael,” I whisper then turn and bolt down the street. Thomas is waiting exactly where I left him. I climb into the backseat of the car, disappearing behind the tinted windows. I pull the door and it closes with a loud thud, like the lid on a coffin. Thomas and I look at each other through the rearview mirror. He starts the car and pulls into the street.

  “I’m a good listener,” he says, staring ahead.

  Only I don’t have words to explain how I feel. I stare out the window, trying to make sense of what just happened and the jumble of emotions inside as tears run down my cheeks because it feels like I have to fight so hard for everything in my life and nothing is easy and normal and straightforward. And I go around pretending and pretending and praying for what could be, but I can’t escape who I am and it’s so clear that Michael doesn’t want to get involved with the radioactive Don’s daughter. He can’t see past that. Or won’t. And it’s so unfair.

  “Shut up about fair,” Anthony always says. “Life’s not fair, Gia. Grow up.”

  Only I can’t accept that. I won’t.

  Before I can make any sense of it, someone is gently shaking my shoulder. I open my eyes and look up.

  “Gia,” Thomas says softly. “You’re home.”

  I stare back at him, unaware that I fell asleep. “Thanks, Thomas, for everything.”

  “You’re welcome,” he says gently. “Any time.”

  Half asleep I stumble down the street. I look both ways. All quiet. I stare up at the house. My parents’ bedroom light is off. Very gently, I slide the key into the basement door lock. It opens with the softest creak. I walk in and close the door behind me, relieved to be inside. The door sticks a little because the frame is warped so I push it, gritting my teeth as it creaks into place. It takes me a few seconds to find the light. I flick it on, then think better of lighting up the whole basement and turn it off, feeling my way in the darkness.

  Thump! A hand from out of nowhere comes down hard, slamming my shoulder.

  “Ow!” I scream as I get dragged into the basement.

  A beam of light from above suddenly illuminates my face.

  “Gia,” my dad says.

  I stare at him in his pajamas. He’s glaring at me, enraged, shaking, his hand wrapped tightly around the end of a baseball bat.

  “I could have killed you,” he yells, out of breath, squeezing my shoulder. He’s shaking so hard that the first thought I have is that he’s going to have a heart attack and drop to the ground dead. I stare back at him, his eyes wide and hard.

  He throws the bat down hard behind him and it lands with a loud smack and bounces and rolls across the concrete floor and hits the side of a metal cabinet with a clank.

  “What’s wrong with you?” he says, catching his breath. His voice becomes so quiet and intense that it scares me more than when he was yelling. “I thought you were somebody breaking in. You were supposed to be asleep. Where were you? What the hell were you doing outside at this time of night?”

  “I…I…”

  Before I can come up with an answer, footsteps stomp down the staircase.

  “What’s going on?” Anthony shouts, a gun in his hand.

  “Oh Jesus,” I say, ducking.

  “Go back upstairs!” my dad yells. “It’s just Gia, and put that fuckin’ gun away.”

  “What the fuck?” Anthony says.

  I don’t know who my dad is madder at.

  “And you go up,” he says to me. “Now!” he yells. I walk up the stairs to the living room. He points to a chair. “Sit. Sit there.” A vein is throbbing at the side of his eye. “Where were you?

  “Out with friends.”

  “Friends. What friends?”

  “You don’t know them. From school, okay?”

  “No, not okay.” He stares through me and then looks away. I’ve never been caught before, at least not until the car thing with Ro. “You don’t listen anymore! You get into trouble!” he yells. He shakes his head. He doesn’t know what to do now. He looks around the room, as if he’s hoping to find answers.

  “Your mother will handle this tomorrow,” he says. “But now…you’re staying home…you’re staying in the house at night. You’re not going out. Not for math. Not for pizza. Not for nothing. If you have so much time to run around, you work. You get a job at the bakery.”

  “What? The bakery?”

  “To pay Mario, to pay for the bills—the bills from cutting school and drinking and—”

  “Daddy, I— ”

  “Go to bed now. No more.”

  If it wasn’t bad enough that Michael dissed me, now I have to sell cookies and probably earn less than Mario spent on ink for his pen.

  Welcome to my charmed life.

  My so-called job isn’t starting for a week, so instead of boning up on baking and packing cookies, I decide to concentrate on being serious, and making myself school president although lately it’s hard to focus.

  “Prioritize,” Clive says, morphing into my life coach. We’re sitting at lunch together the next day and I’m telling him what happened. There’s no way I’m going to go to his apartment after school, so I tell him everything, talking as fast as I can before the bell rings.

  “Prioritize,” I say, parroting his words. I try that and rather than dwelling on being grounded for life and forced into menial labor, I focus on my campaign because the election is only a month away. We have the posters, but we haven’t put them up yet. What we want to do is get into the school at night, put them everywhere, and surprise everyone the next day when it’s wall-to-wall Gia.

  Only that plan doesn’t cut it with Mr. Wright, the principal.

  “I’m sorry, folks. We can’t have students putting up posters in the school at night by themselves,” he says.

  So we’re on to plan B.

  “There are no classes on election day,” Clive says. “Let see if they’ll let us put them up then. At least there will be people in school.”

  “We’re not talking about the election for president of the United States,” I tell the office. It’s just a local city election. “The turnout will be light and all we have to do is quickly tack up the posters. We won’t be in anyone’s way.”

  We get the okay and Ro, Clive, Candy, and I get together early in the morning and, like Santa’s elves, we parade from room to room and along the hallways. If ot
her candidates plan to put up their own posters, I don’t know where they’ll go because when we’re done the only space left will be on the ceiling or the floor where their faces will be stepped on, which is fine with me.

  By noon half the posters are up and we stand back and view our work. Most of them are white with the writing in one major color group to keep it clean looking. We did a lot of them in grass-green lettering because how fresh is that? And we did some in dark purple and a few in script to look artsy. The idea was to keep the look crisp like the message, no matter how people would tease us.

  We take a break before we head to the gym where the voting is going on. I carry a stack of posters and a folding ladder over my arm as I walk around surveying the space. The gym has high ceilings and I’m not sure whether our ladder is tall enough. It probably wasn’t the smartest move to arrive at school in a pencil skirt and heels, but at six that morning, I wasn’t thinking clearly.

  Clive climbs up the ladder for me and puts up the posters and I stand back and check his work, yelling out obnoxious orders like “a little higher on the right,” and “no, a little lower. More. Keep going, Clive. No, Clive, no. Too much, too much. Up again on the right.” And even Clive who has the patience of a saint is starting to get a trifle sick of it and me, I think, because I see him stop and take a deep breath and shoot me a look before he makes the adjustments and all the fine tuning so that everything looks perfect.

  I step back to look at the posters from a distance and walk backward farther until—whack—I slam into someone and lose my balance, and all I remember as I’m on the ground is seeing a crowd of people around me.

  “Gia, Gia, can you hear me?”

  Their voices fade and get lower and lower and lower until everything goes still and an eerie silence fills my head, and in the last few seconds of consciousness I’m thinking that, you know, maybe I’m not going to live to be the class president after all.

  ELEVEN

  They called a stupid ambulance. I find out when I come to because I must have been down on the floor unconscious for a while, which is totally embarrassing. I guess I didn’t wake up as fast as I should have. Then the stupid ambulance takes me to the stupid Lenox Hill Hospital emergency room like I might need life support, and anyway I totally hate being in those kind of places because who do they put you next to except people dying of cardiac arrest or paralyzed by strokes or burning up with fever from pneumonia or some other raging contagious Ebola-like infection or what have you? And is that what you need on top of what you already came in with?