by Susan Amesse
“Want some orange juice?” Georgina asks. I’d like to know why she’s here, babysitting my brother, and not dancing. She should be dancing with a professional troupe. She’s that good.
“Sure, I’d love some.”
She brings the OJ to the table. “I’m pooped. I’ve walked your brother all over the neighborhood for an hour. He’s napping now.”
She fills two glasses and hands me one. She sits on one of the chairs, her legs crossed under her. Could I learn to be this graceful?
“Oh, I almost forgot.” She goes into the other room and comes back with a large expandable folder. “Here,” she says. “Your mum told me to give this to you. It’s the entries for the contest.”
I take the folder. It is heavy and bulky.
“Are you entering one of your stories?” asks Georgina.
“No,” I say. “I’m not allowed.”
“Too bad.” She leans in. “I sense a lot of drama going on upstairs. Pity for it to go to waste.”
Does she know I’m writing something secretly? She’s always popping into my room, looking over my shoulder. Sometimes I get the impression she’s spying on me.
I go upstairs and open the folder. The contents spill onto my bed. There are twenty-two entries with two days left before the deadline. Anne Marie’s is on the top of the pile. Her play is called For the Love of Alice. Hmmm. Nice title. I skim the first scene. It’s about Alice Austen, the photographer who lived around the turn of the last century and became famous for her awesome photos. I went to her museum just a few days ago. Why didn’t I think of writing about Alice? No one will know Captain Anderson and his family. How can my characters compete with Alice Austen?
I look up at the clock. It’s getting late. I can’t start another play. I have to finish this one. Without looking at the other plays, I put them all back into the folder. I will finish. Please, God.
I turn on my laptop and slide into my window seat. I work on Scene Four. In this scene, Suzanne goes off to meet her love, Richard. He tells her that he has enlisted to fight against the Confederacy. Tomorrow morning, he will leave for training camp. Suzanne begs him not to go. Richard takes her into his arms and kisses her. It is their first kiss. It is wonderful. Richard asks her to marry him before he leaves. Suzanne agrees, even though her mother has forbidden it. Her mother thinks Richard is a silly and irresponsible person.
Suzanne hears footsteps behind her and she worries. Could it be the beautiful and graceful Gabriella spying on her? Will Gabriella tell her mother what Suzanne is about to do and ruin everything?
TWELVE
I want to wear something special for my first meeting with Antonia. Something that screams out I’m a writer, a talented and passionate writer. I settle for a long blue skirt, which flows when I move. To go with it, I choose a purple T-shirt—the color gradually changes hue as it descends to the bottom. Lynn thinks this shirt is totally cool. I hope Antonia does, too.
My hair is a mess. The humidity has made it frizz. I try combing it, but it doesn’t look any better.
I practice my cool look. I invented this look last night. I tilt my head to the side and give a small, uneven smile as I look at the person I’m trying to impress from the corner of my eye. It suggests that I’m giving them my attention, but not all of it, because I have other things going on in my head. I hope it works.
At the last moment, I decide to wear the Suzanne hat.
I head to Granneli’s Supermarket. The cool air inside Granneli’s invigorates me. I rush around the store until I find cat food in aisle four. I never realized there were so many kinds of cat food. Fortunately, they carry Fancy Feast, but it takes me a while to locate salmon. I grab the only two undented cans on the shelf and run to the express checkout line, hoping Antonia will be satisfied with only two cans. The line moves slowly. I focus on the checkout girl, willing her to move faster. Finally, I pay for the two cans of cat food, which are unbelievably expensive, and head out into the hot afternoon.
I arrive at Barrett Books at 12:05. There is a display of Antonia’s books on the center table. Quite a crowd is milling around. I don’t see Antonia. Mr. Barrett, who is all decked out in a beige suit and a pale peach tie, leans against the front counter, staring nervously at the door. I walk over to him.
“Hi. Where’s Antonia DeMarco?”
“That’s what I’d like to know,” he says in a snippy voice. “She’s late and I have twenty customers lined up waiting for her to autograph their books.” He turns to the girl at the register. “Did you call her, Marge?”
“Yes,” she says, nodding. “There was no answer.”
Mr. Barrett flutters about, greeting customers. “Just a little delay,” he says. “Ms. DeMarco will be here momentarily.”
I meander over to the fiction section and pretend to be looking at books, but I study the customers waiting. Anne Marie Valgetti is second in line, wearing a miniskirt that exposes her long, bony legs. She waves to me, her red hair springing all over the place. “Isn’t this exciting,” she says. “Imagine, Antonia DeMarco judging our little local contest. I entered.”
“Yes, I know,” I say. “I’m Antonia DeMarco’s personal assistant for the contest.”
“Really?” Anne Marie looks surprised. “I didn’t know.”
I practice my cool look on Anne Marie. I tilt my head and give her the small, uneven smile. “Her personal assistant. It’s a very important job.”
Her eyes narrow into tiny slits. “I hope Antonia comes soon. I have to get back to the newspaper, you know.” She begins playing with her STAFF badge. “Is there something wrong with your neck?”
“No,” I say, walking away from her.
“All right, everyone,” says Mr. Barrett. “Antonia has arrived.”
We all turn. Antonia DeMarco rushes in, wearing her floppy hat, and it makes me glad that I’m wearing mine. I’m mesmerized by the pattern in her long, flowing skirt. It has swirls of blue and purple, with dancing half moons and stars that match her earrings, which are dangling moon slivers. She looks like a movie star again. We’re wearing the same colors. This must be fate.
Mr. Barrett leads Antonia to the table he has set up in the middle of the store. “These are for you.” He gestures to a glass vase filled with beautiful yellow roses.
“Thank you.” Antonia looks around at the crowd and then sits, like she’s used to having all these people stare at her. I move closer, but Mr. Barrett stops me.
“Sarah, no cutting in the line. People have been waiting longer than you.”
“I’m here as Antonia’s assistant for the playwriting contest.” He rolls his eyes and escorts the first customer to Antonia. Couldn’t he have been a little impressed?
“I’m parched,” Antonia says to Mr. Barrett. “I need some water, please.” He nods and goes into the back room. I try to get Antonia’s attention, but she’s talking with the first customer, so I stand off to the side. It’s unbelievable enough that I’m in the same room with her. I like the way she talks—her voice bounces along. Mr. Barrett comes back with a glass and a pitcher of water. He smiles at the customers while he fills the glass and hands it to Antonia, placing the pitcher on the table.
Antonia wrinkles her nose. “I’m so sorry. I should have been more explicit. I never drink tap water. Would you be a dear and find me some bottled water? I prefer Pelton Springs.”
His smile fades. “Yes, of course.”
Anne Marie is next. She straightens her STAFF badge and puts on that phony smile. “Antonia DeMarco,” she says, gushing, “I’m your number one fan. I’m a writer, too, and I’ve just written a play, all about Alice Austen.”
I won’t let her charm Antonia into choosing her play. I march over to Antonia and stick out my hand. “I’m Sarah.”
Antonia looks at me. “Who?”
Anne Marie shoots me an exasperated look. “You’re cutting in.”
I reach into the bag I’m carrying and take out a can of cat food and hold it up.
�
�Oh, yes.” Antonia’s face is all smiles. “Ophelia will be so happy. You are a dear.”
I beam and hold up the accordion folder. “Here are the plays.”
“Keep them for me,” she says, rising. “I need to stretch my legs.” She walks to the nonfiction section and beckons me with her index finger. I hurry over. “I hate book signings,” she whispers. “They tire me considerably. A writer needs solitude, but my agent makes me do this. Honestly, they ask me the same question over and over again. It drives me mad.” She affects a silly voice. “How do you come up with the ideas for your books?” She elbows me. “I’m glad you’re to be my assistant. You seem a cut above the rest.”
I’ve died and gone to heaven.
“Lovely hat,” she says.
Mr. Barrett clears his throat and holds out a bottle of mineral water. “Ms. DeMarco, your fans are waiting.”
Antonia smiles and strolls to the table. She inspects the bottle. “I suppose this will do. Thank you.” She sits and turns back to me. “Wait for me, won’t you? We must talk drama.”
I almost fall over. She wants me to wait for her. We’re going to talk drama. “Of course,” I say. I would wait forever.
“How do you ever come up with those wonderful story ideas?” says Anne Marie, gushing.
Antonia and I exchange a knowing look. Wow! I glide around the store, dizzy with happiness. I enter a conversation with two older ladies who are trying to decide which of Antonia’s books to buy. I recommend Love Hath No Fury. They thank me.
“I’m a friend of the author,” I slip in, tilting my head. I’m getting a handle on acting cool. I wander over to the register and talk to Marge. I tell her I’m assisting Antonia.
“You’ll have to tell me what she’s really like,” she says. “I’m a fan myself.”
“Of course,” I say, tilting, tilting, tilting.
“Is there something wrong with your neck?” she asks.
Perhaps my new look needs a little work.
Mr. Barrett buzzes around the store like a nervous fly. He slips copies of Antonia’s books into customers’ hands and guides them to the book-signing line. Every few minutes, Antonia waves him over and whispers something in his ear. He brings her different pens, tissues, more bottled water.
I stand to the side and watch Antonia. I love the way she leans forward to talk to the customers like she really cares about them. You’d never know from the way she’s acting that she isn’t enjoying this. Mr. Barrett looks thrilled with all the books he’s selling.
I imagine that I am Antonia and all these people are here to see me. “How do you ever come up with such clever ideas for your stories?” they’d ask over and over again.
“Inspiration is everywhere,” I answer.
Someone bumps into me from behind.
“Talking to yourself again?”
I turn. It’s Brendan.
THIRTEEN
Brendan’s eyes bore into me. Is he thinking about my running away yesterday? Say something. Anything. I can’t. I look down at his shirt, which is covered with drawings of toads and says “Toad-al Chaos.”
Beth steps between us, carrying a copy of Enraptured Thorns in My Heart. “Isn’t this exciting? I love Antonia DeMarco.” She elbows me and smiles shyly. “Maybe you shouldn’t mention this to your mother.”
This is too funny. “I won’t tell her,” I say.
Brendan starts to walk away, but Beth grabs his arm. “Hey, you two,” she says. “Look at all these customers. Great opportunity to sell raffles!”
“I told you I’m not going to sell them anymore,” he says. “I’m tired of annoying people with them.”
“Nonsense. People love to buy raffle tickets. Right, Sarah?”
Brendan turns to me and our eyes lock. They really do. I thought that was just an expression, but I couldn’t look away if I tried. I see the challenge in his stare: Stand up for us!
“Brendan’s right. It’s a tough job and we’ve been doing it a long time,” I say, not looking away from his eyes. “Ask some of the younger kids.”
I’ve never stood up to her before. There’s a hint of a smile on Brendan’s face.
“Well,” Beth says, looking uncomfortable. “I suppose I should get in line.” She walks away.
“You see, strength in numbers works,” Brendan says.
“Strength in numbers,” I repeat. I fidget with the folder I’m holding. “I’m sorry I ran away yesterday.”
“You made me feel like a jerk,” he says.
“No,” I say, looking up. “It was stupid of me to run. Meeting Antonia made me nervous.”
“Yeah, right.” He puts his hand in his pocket. “Don’t worry.” He takes his hand out. He crosses his arms. “It won’t happen again.”
“Right,” I say, trying to sound like I don’t care. “Of course not.”
“Oh, Sally.” Antonia DeMarco waves her hand. I look around for a Sally but don’t see anyone. She points to me.
“Excuse me, Brendan.” I walk over.
“Sally, dear. I’m beginning to get hungry. Would you be a love and run to the nearest deli to get me a sandwich?”
“Of course. But my name is Sarah.”
“How silly of me,” she says, smiling. “I’d like tuna salad on rye bread. But without seeds. And make sure the mayonnaise is fresh. Have them add lettuce, but it must be romaine. And tomatoes, but I don’t like the outside slices.”
“Is that all?” I ask.
“Yes,” she says. “I hate to be a bother.”
“Oh, you’re not,” I say. “I’m your personal assistant. Anything you want.”
I turn, trying to think of the closest deli.
“Oh, and one more thing, dear.”
I turn back. “A diet root beer. A&W, of course.”
“Of course.”
I wave at Brendan. “Have to go.” He nods. I find the closest deli, but they don’t have rye bread without seeds. The next deli doesn’t have romaine lettuce. I end up having to go to three different delis to complete her order, putting the sandwich together myself. I’ve taken a long time and I hope she isn’t mad.
When I get back to the bookstore, Mr. Barrett is standing over Antonia, whispering in her ear. Antonia looks pale and is massaging her temples.
“I’m developing quite a headache,” she says. “I don’t know if I can continue.”
Mr. Barrett looks around and smiles at the customers. “Just a brief delay,” he says. “Ms. DeMarco will be back to signing her books in a moment.”
“I have your sandwich,” I say, offering it to her.
“Yes, have something to eat,” says Mr. Barrett.
“Thank you,” she says, opening her lunch.
I look around for Brendan. He’s near the door and Anne Marie is next to him, talking and smiling, talking and smiling. I move closer. Not to make it obvious that I’m listening in on their conversation, I reach out and pull a book off the shelf. It’s about golf.
I watch Brendan from the corner of my eye. I’m not trying to be cool. I’m checking to see if he’s gazing lovingly into her eyes, only it’s hard to tell from this distance. He laughs at something she says. I move closer. This time picking up a book on curling—whatever that is.
They are talking about some concert. “I just love the Electric Shockers,” Anne Marie gushes. “Are you a fan?” Another smile.
“Yup.” Brendan nods.
Yet another smile. “They’re playing at the Garden on Saturday,” she says.
“Wow,” says Brendan. “I wouldn’t mind going to that!”
I walk away because I couldn’t bear to hear him ask her out. Why is it that Anne Marie always seems to be hovering around my life, taking things that belong to me? I walk back to the register, trying to recall all the things I’ve always hated about Brendan. Like the way he rides his bike like a maniac and his rudeness and his silly jokes. But they don’t seem as real as the kiss.
Turning back, I catch Brendan and Anne Marie walking outside to
gether, and my heart crumbles like a cookie that’s been sat on.
FOURTEEN
I have a long wait for Antonia. Instead of driving myself crazy, wondering if Brendan and Anne Marie are out there kissing, I take notes. I don’t want to forget this scene with its long line of adoring fans who can’t keep their eyes off Antonia. I love the queenly way she sits and welcomes them and the look on their faces when they finally get to talk to her. I eavesdrop and jot down bits and pieces of conversations.
“Ladies and gentleman,” says Mr. Barrett. “I must interrupt the signing for a few minutes so that Ms. DeMarco can give a short interview.”
A nervous-looking woman steps forward. She studies the notes she’s written on a crumpled piece of paper and clears her throat. “Hi, Ms. DeMarco,” she says. “I’m from Staten Island College and I’d like to ask you a few questions for the readers of our newsletter.”
“Certainly,” says Antonia.
The woman smiles. “How do you come up with the ideas for your books?”
Antonia throws her head back and gives me a look. I nod understandingly. The woman rattles off questions like, “Did you always want to be a writer? Who is your favorite author?”
“Myself, of course,” she answers with a laugh. “But seriously, I adore Shakespeare. I encourage everyone to read all of his plays.”
During the interview, I learn a few things about Antonia that I didn’t know, and I record them in my notebook. She was an orphan, raised by her aunt in Vermont; she’s been married three times but still believes in love; and she’s had lots of odd jobs all over the country.
About fifteen minutes later, Mr. Barrett says, “Unfortunately, we must stop the interview because Antonia has a lot more books to sign.” The lady asks if Antonia will pose for the newsletter photographer, and she agrees. Mr. Barrett rushes to Antonia’s side in time to be photographed with her.
Antonia signs books for another hour. About three-thirty, the line finally ends. She rises and stretches. “Where is Sally?”
