Eye Candy

by R. L. Stine

  Shelly finished my leftover half. “Can’t let dogs like these go to waste.”

  “Shelly, I’ve never met anyone so intense about hot dogs.”

  He didn’t smile. “I’m intense about everything. I’m a real intense guy. It’s just . . . me.”

  “You know, I don’t know anything about you,” I said. “Where do you live? What do you do?”

  “Want my social security number?”

  I laughed. “Yes, and two forms of ID.”

  He waved to Paulo, who began rolling his cart down the middle of Central Park West. “I have an apartment across the street,” he said. “Just a studio, but it’s not too small. It has an extra little room where I can work.”

  “You work at home?”

  He crunched the Yoo-Hoo can in his hand. “Yeah.”

  “What do you do?” This was like pulling teeth. Why didn’t he just tell me?

  He stared across the street at the museum. “I’m a writer.”

  I laughed. “You sound so ashamed.”

  Again he didn’t smile. “I don’t like to talk about it much. I mean, if I was a published writer, I could talk about what I’d published. But since I’m not . . .”

  “What do you write?” I persisted. “If you write picture books, I could help you. I work at a children’s publisher.”

  He tossed the soda can toward the mesh trash basket on the corner. He missed and the can rolled onto the sidewalk. “I write . . . fiction,” he said finally. “Short pieces, actually.”

  “You mean short stories?”

  “Yeah. Kinda. Slice-of-life type stuff. Pieces.”

  “Literary stuff?” I asked. “Shelly, are you a secret intellectual?”

  He snickered. “What does that mean? Secret intellectual? Were you an English major or something?”

  That made me grin. “Actually, I was. And, I had a second major in business. It looked good on my résumé when I was applying for publishing jobs.”

  “I don’t have a résumé,” he muttered, still avoiding my eyes. “But I really enjoy writing. It’s the only time I feel . . . powerful.”

  Whoa. This was getting a little heavy. Wasn’t this just supposed to be a starter conversation? I could feel my cheeks turn hot.

  “So you’re not published yet? I don’t mean to get too personal, but how can you afford an apartment on Central Park West? Do you have another job?”

  He shook his head. “Good old Mom bought it for me.”

  “Nice,” I said. “She supports your writing?”

  He stared across the street. “She hasn’t seen any of it yet.”

  Time to change the subject, Lindy. “Where are we going next?” I asked. I started to stand up.

  “Do you write?” he asked at the same time. “I mean, at your job.”

  “Not really. I do a lot of re-writing. I think editing is fun. But it’s a whole different thing from writing.”

  “What made you decide to go into publishing?” he asked.

  I shrugged. “Beats me. It was something I thought about even in high school. I’ve always enjoyed hiding behind a good book, I guess.”

  His eyes flashed. “Hiding?”

  I could feel my cheeks burning again. “Well, yeah. Hiding. My dad . . . he was always pushing me to be a model or an actress or something like that. He wanted me to use my looks. He said I could make a fortune.”

  Shelly wiped chili off his chin. “But you didn’t buy it?”

  “No way. I mean, I didn’t really think I was . . . so great-looking. I thought he was just being a dad. You know, thinking I was prettier than I was. Modeling classes. Acting classes. I just felt I didn’t belong. And so I used to hide behind a book. I was always at the library. I always had my face in a book.”

  Shelly studied me for a long moment in silence. I couldn’t read his expression.

  “I’m sorry,” I said, jumping to my feet. “I don’t know where that came from. I didn’t mean to lay that all on you.”

  “And did you feel guilty?” he asked, his blue eyes locked on mine.

  “Excuse me?”

  He continued to stare. His expression was intense, needy somehow. “Did you feel guilty? Did you feel guilty for letting your father down?”

  Guilty? Change the subject, Lindy. This is getting weird.

  “I never thought about that,” I said. I turned away. I couldn’t stand that penetrating stare. What did he want? Why was he asking that? Just trying to understand?

  “Thanks for giving me something new to worry about!”

  It was a joke, but he didn’t even smile. “It’s not good to feel guilty,” he said softly. “I know where you’re coming from.”

  I grabbed his hands and pulled him to his feet. “Enough about that, Shelly. We’ve had an awesome gourmet dinner. Now what do you want to do?”

  I took him to Whale, the dance club downtown where Ann-Marie and Lou hang out. After all that talk, I felt like dancing. And I wanted Ann-Marie to check him out.

  Why did I open up to Shelly that way? Because he seemed nice and smart and I wanted to see if he was understanding, too? Because of that boyish, open face that seemed so trustworthy?

  Or was I lonelier than I knew?

  I could always tell my deepest thoughts to Ben. After he died, there really wasn’t anyone I could confide in. Of course, Ann-Marie is a good, close friend. But she is the one who confides in me, not the other way around. It’s just the way our relationship is. You know how it works. Everyone has her role.

  Whale was an old warehouse in the meat-packing district that had been converted to a dance club. It was a huge, high-ceilinged, windowless square room with balconies running along all four walls. The platform for the dj and all his equipment were plopped right in the middle of the dance floor. A long, red velvet bar and a row of low tables stretched along the back wall.

  The décor was all red and gold. A red neon sign with WHALE in a fancy script was suspended from the ceiling over the dj’s platform. There were no whales on the walls or ceiling balcony sides. No sea colors. No splashing waves. No photos of whales leaping out of the ocean. This was not a theme place.

  Ann-Marie had told me that the club owner’s nickname was Whale. She said he was a huge, blubbery guy—maybe four hundred pounds—who showed up mostly on weekends wearing enormous red and gold pajamas, and danced his guts out, taking up most of the dance floor.

  She said he was a real sleazy letch, always trashed, usually coked out of his gourd, who liked to trap girls against the wall with his big belly and feel them up.

  Nice.

  Why do Ann-Marie and Lou like this club? Lou and Whale went to the same high school in Larchmont— before Whale dropped out—so they get in free, and sometimes Whale comps them on the drinks.

  Anyway, there was no sign of Whale tonight, which helped the party atmosphere a lot. The dance floor was jammed and people were three-deep at the bar. I pulled Shelly through the crowd until I found Ann-Marie and Lou standing at a table near the bar, tall beer glasses in their hands.

  Ann-Marie looked awesome. She wore a tight, short black skirt and a shiny orange top that left about two inches of stomach showing. Very sexy.

  She mopped her forehead with a cocktail napkin. Her hair glistened with sweat. “Hey!” she raised her glass and smiled as Shelly and I approached.

  “You’ve been dancing!” I had to shout over the throbbing beat of the music and the roar of voices.

  She leaned close and shouted in my ear. “I twisted my ankle. We had to stop.” She tilted the beer glass to her mouth and gulped it all down. “Got to replenish.”

  I introduced Shelly. Lou went to the bar to get more beers. Ann-Marie talked about how lucky it was that Whale hadn’t showed up tonight. “He makes the dj play Cher over and over.”

  Shelly leaned over the table and grinned at Ann-Marie and me. “I love clubs like this. I think I’m really going to get my freak on tonight!”

  Get his freak on? He was joking, right? Where did he
get that line—VH1?

  Ann-Marie laughed. “This guy’s cute,” she whispered in my ear.

  Lou was returning with the beers, but Shelly pulled me away from the table, onto the dance floor. I bumped a girl with a tattoo of a grinning monkey on her shoulder. She turned away, her tight silver pants reflecting the bouncing lights, blond hair flying, and I glimpsed another monkey face on her other shoulder.

  Shelly and I found a space near the side of the dj’s platform and started to dance. After a few seconds, I realized that Shelly was a fabulous dancer.

  He had his eyes closed. His arms were sliding gracefully up and down. His knees were bent and his hips were bumping and swaying in perfect rhythm to the music.

  I tried to keep up with him, get in rhythm with him. But he was really good and totally into it.

  The beat changed as the dj mixed in a new song. I tried to pull Shelly back to the table, but he kept on dancing. He put his hands on my waist and guided me. He didn’t want to stop.

  When the dj mixed in a new track, Shelly opened his eyes. He took my hand. He had a sweet smile on his face. He leaned close. “Told you I was intense.” He was breathing hard. He seemed very pleased with himself.

  I pulled him back to the table. He picked up his beer and drained it. He lowered the glass, still breathing hard. He made no attempt to wipe the foam off his mouth.

  I laughed. “You look like a rabid dog.” I picked up a cocktail napkin and wiped the foam off his mouth and chin.

  Lou had his arm around Ann-Marie’s waist. “Hey, you’re a good dancer,” he told Shelly.

  Shelly’s dark hair fell over his forehead. “Thanks. I’ve just always been into music.”

  Ann-Marie brought her face close to mine and whispered. “Jesus. Think he’s like that in bed?”

  I slapped her hand. “Shut up.”

  “If he is, he’s a keeper!”

  “No, really. Shut up.”

  She laughed.

  We all chatted for a while. And danced some more. And I finally started to relax and have a good time.

  After a while, we’d danced so hard my legs were trembling. Ann-Marie and I made our way to the ladies’ room. “Shelly seems sweet,” she said. “Like him?”

  “I haven’t decided,” I said. “He’s cute enough and very funny. But then sometimes he’s kind of . . . disturbing.”

  When we returned, Lou and Shelly were watching a platinum blonde with enormous boobs dancing in what appeared to be a tiny, blue bikini top over matching blue short-shorts. The two guys were practically drooling.

  “What do you think she does during the day?” Ann-Marie asked me.

  “Supreme Court justice?”

  Ann-Marie grabbed the sides of Lou’s head and turned it away from the platinum blonde. “Time to go.”

  We said our goodbyes and nice-to-meet-yous. Ann-Marie led Lou across the dance floor.

  Shelly was still staring at the bouncing blonde.

  “Do you want to go, too?” I asked, shouting over the beat, beat, beat.

  He finished his beer. “No way. It’s still early.” He took my hand and led me back onto the dance floor. We danced a long time, drank a few beers, then danced some more.

  When we finally stepped out of the club, it was nearly two in the morning. A cold spring rain poured down hard. West Twelfth Street was shiny with water running in the curbs like rivers. Rain pattered the tin roofs of the meat-market warehouses.

  “It must have been raining a long time,” I said, grabbing his arm. “Maybe we can get a cab on Tenth.”

  Shelly laughed and raised his face to the rain. “Cab? Why do we need a cab?” He pulled me onto the sidewalk.

  “We don’t have umbrellas. I don’t have a raincoat or anything,” I complained. “What do you think you’re doing?”

  A taxi rolled up to the restaurant across the street, and a couple climbed into it.

  Shelly pulled off his blazer and wrapped it around my shoulders. “Don’t you love rain? It’s so fresh and . . . and . . . wet.”

  How many beers did he drink? I wasn’t counting, but . . .

  “Shelly, we’re getting drenched! Let’s jog to Tenth and find a cab.”

  “But, Lindy, doesn’t the rain make you want to sing?”

  “Sing? Hel-lo. We’re drowning here.”

  He began belting out “Singing in the Rain” at the top of his lungs.

  I heard laughter and saw a couple under a black umbrella, arms around each other, laughing as they hurried past.

  How lame is this? I thought, watching him do a splashy tap dance as he sang.

  Sorry, Shelly. You’re pushing it with the Gene Kelly act.

  “Hey, don’t you like that song?” Shelly asked, grabbing my arm. Water soaked through his shirt. His hair was matted to his forehead.

  “No way!” Laughing, I pulled him down the block, his blazer over my head.

  A taxi appeared at the corner, windshield wipers sending up a spray of water. It had its OFF-DUTY sign lit, but the driver pulled over and asked where we were going. When I told him Seventy-ninth and Amsterdam, he said, “Jump in.”

  I climbed in and slid across the seat. Shelly stood at the car door, shaking water off like a dog. Then he lowered himself into the cab. The driver grumbled something. I couldn’t hear him through the Plexiglas divider. The taxi took off, wheels whirring on the rain-slicked street.

  Breathing hard, raindrops clinging to his dark eyebrows, running down his cheeks, Shelly pretended to pout. “I didn’t get to finish the song.” He hummed a few more bars.

  “You’re totally crazy,” I said.

  He wiped water from his forehead. “Yeah. Tell me something I don’t know.”

  “You look normal, but you’re not,” I teased.

  “Sometimes I lose it a little,” he said solemnly, lowering his eyes. “Therapy doesn’t help. I’m thinking of joining an Ashram.”

  “Really?”

  “No.”

  I leaned close and kissed his cheek. It felt cold and wet, like a fish.

  He turned and pressed his lips against mine. A nice kiss.

  “Can I read your writing sometime?” I asked.

  “No,” he answered sharply.

  18

  Shelly was fun to be with. But he seemed to switch personalities in seconds. He had been so thoughtful when we were talking on the park bench. And then at the club he’d become a different person.

  Was I being too analytical?

  Was he just a thoughtful guy who also liked to have fun?

  Maybe I needed someone like Shelly to draw me out, to help me be less self-conscious.

  The elevator stopped on the eleventh floor. I was home. I stepped out into the long, green-carpeted hall. No one around this time of night, but as I passed by I could hear loud music from apartment 11-C and angry, arguing voices from 11-D across the hall.

  Our apartment, 11-J, is at the very end of the hall. The corner is dark because the bulb is out in the last ceiling fixture. We’ve complained to the super about it for weeks, but so far, no fresh bulb.

  I fumbled around in my bag, trying to find my key in the dark—when the door swung open and Lou stepped out. Startled, we both let out short cries. Lou lurched into me. I felt as if I’d been bumped by a truck.

  “Oh. S-Sorry,” he stammered. His s’s whistled.

  I backed into the corner. “Lou. Hi. You’re still here?”

  Duh.

  He grinned at me, a lopsided grin. Even in the dark, I could see that his eyes were glassy. He was breathing hard, his big chest heaving up and down. His furry eyebrows folded as he struggled to focus on me.

  “Lindy . . .”

  “Lou, back up. Are you totally trashed?”

  “Lindy, listen—” He shut his eyes. His sour breath made me cringe.

  “Hel-lo. Lou, you’ve got me cornered here. Back up a little, okay?”

  He didn’t move. Instead, he shot both arms out, blocking my escape. He smelled of sweat and beer and st
ale pot smoke. “I want to tell you . . .” He opened his eyes. He gazed at my breasts, then slowly raised his eyes to my face. “Lindy . . .”

  “Lou, we’ll have a nice chat some other time, okay? Can I help you downstairs? Let me get you a taxi.”

  “I want to tell you . . . you’re so awesome-looking.”

  “Thanks, Lou. But I’ve been dancing for hours. I’m kind of wiped. Could you let me—”

  “You’re so fucking bootiful, Lindy.” He let out a giggle, as if he’d said something funny.

  I tried to squeeze around him, but he moved quickly to block my path. “Lou, I don’t like this game. Let me go. I mean it.”

  “So fucking bootiful.”

  “You can hardly speak. Please, give me a break here. Just take a step back. You know what? Come back inside the apartment. You shouldn’t go home like this.”

  My heart started to pound. He was like a bear, and I was cornered. He blinked at me and giggled again.

  “Let’s go inside, okay?”

  “Bootiful.” Instead of backing up, he grabbed my waist with both hands and pressed his face against mine. His cheek felt burning hot, and moist.

  I felt panic sweep over me.

  I can’t breathe. He’s going to suffocate me.

  “So bootiful . . .”

  “Lou, get off me. Now! I mean it. Get off!”

  He wrapped his arms around me, pressing me against the wall. His wet lips brushed my ear. He lowered his hands to my breasts and started pawing them roughly. “Do you have any idea how fucking awessssome you are?”

  Should I stomp on his foot? Should I kick him in the balls? I don’t want to injure him. I just want to get him off me.

  Should I call for help?

  “Get off ! Get your hands off me!”

  Finally he let go of my breasts. He lifted his face from mine and squinted at me. “Do you know why I stay with Ann-Marie?” Sweat ran down his forehead, his cheeks.

  “I . . . don’t want to hear this. Please. You crossed a line here, Lou. You’re really scaring me.”

  “Just to be close to you, that’s why.”

  “Stop it, Lou. Just shut up, okay? I’m going to—”