Infatuate

by Aimee Agresti

  Two staircases beckoned from either side of the entranceway, each leading up to the balcony level. We climbed the stairs on the right side to a green-shellacked door, and knocked. Strands of my shoulder-length caramel hair were matted to my hot neck and slick temples, and I prayed I wouldn’t be forced to meet a whole house full of people looking this way. Lance leaned to peek into a window just a few feet away and shook his head to confirm there were no signs of life. I tried the door and it was open, so in we went.

  We instantly entered a hall of mirrors—a short walkway lined floor to ceiling with square mirrored panels the size of pizza boxes. “Kind of fun-house chic,” Dante muttered, as we walked through into a sprawling living room. It looked like a carnival come to life. The walls were painted slate gray, but that was the only subtle thing about the décor. One wall was dominated by a giant mask, crafted of some sort of shiny lacquer, in a riot of eggplant, gold, and emerald shades. It wore a smirking expression and had almond-shaped slits where enormous eyes would have gone. A tufted purple velvet sectional sat curved around one corner of the room near windows that looked out onto Royal Street. Elsewhere, distressed gold leaf side tables and a matching coffee table caught my eye. Expertly mismatched low-slung chairs and a love seat in the hue of the walls and speckled with cushy, oversize pillows echoing the mask’s colors gave the whole place the feel of some very modern—bordering on psychedelic—lounge. Two golden scepters the length of golf clubs hung in an X above a mammoth mounted flat-screen TV.

  “This sort of feels too cool for us, don’tcha think?” I had to ask softly. But it wasn’t just us. Now I noticed the murmur of voices in the distance, the thump of music, and the clomp of shoes, jogging . . . toward us. A pair of guys talking to each other walked down the hallway off the living room, one of them spinning a basketball on his fingers. From the other direction, a scarlet-haired girl carried a box that looked too heavy for her.

  “Thought I heard the door!” came a deep, cheery, panting voice attached to the running feet. “Sorry for the delayed welcome but . . . welcome!” Connor approached us with his hand extended. He wore an olive green Tulane T-shirt and jeans and had a bright, toothy smile. He had a clipboard and pen and his eye seemed perfectly healed and entirely scar-free. “Hey, I’m Connor. How’s it going?” he said to Lance and Dante, shaking their hands. “And, Haven, good to see ya again. And I mean, really see ya this time.” He pointed to his eye.

  “Hey. Looking good. I’m glad it’s all better.”

  “Thanks to my good friends at Evanston General.”

  “So you’re the poker guy with the busted eye,” Lance said, and pushed his glasses up. He looked at me as if I had failed to impart some vital bit of information.

  “Yep, guilty as charged. So, hello, Chicago. Let’s getcha settled in.” Connor waved us to follow him as he led us down a narrow hallway adorned with framed frayed-edged maps of old New Orleans, black-and-white pictures of men dressed as kings, shots of the city streets at night, and abstract interpretations of the fleur-de-lis.

  “He’s just, you know, heartier than I expected for a guy who gets knocked out playing basketball,” Lance whispered as he wheeled my suitcase.

  “Oh?” I said, not sure what to make of it. Then: “Ohhh.” I tried to stifle a grin at the thought of him being protective.

  “You didn’t mention he was so cute, Hav,” Dante, being no help, said under his breath, before speeding ahead to catch up with Connor.

  “He didn’t need stitches but he was pretty beat-up,” I offered to Lance, matter-of-factly.

  “Good,” he said. “Or, I mean . . . you know.” I felt his free hand on the small of my back as we walked on.

  I peeked into the open doorways we passed—a kitchen here, a dining room there—but we were going too fast to take much in. Connor had that slight bounce to his quick step that implied friendliness; there was something comforting about him. “So, I’m gonna be sort of the resident advisor here. I’ll keep everything running smoothly, answer all your questions, make sure everyone plays nice, that kinda thing,” he explained as he walked. “I go to Tulane. You guys should totally tour the place while you’re here—great school. Still time to apply. You’re seniors, right?”

  “Just graduated,” Dante said.

  “Of course, I knew that. Well, just so y’all know, wherever you go to school, this will spoil you for dorm life—college doesn’t really look like this.” He laughed as we turned a corner. Now the doors had plastic street signs posted on them. “This is a rich donor’s pad. He lets us use the place for events and prospective student visits and stuff. Okay—” He stopped in front of a door marked DECATUR STREET and consulted his clipboard. “Lance and Dante, looks like we’ve got you guys in here. Get settled. New Year’s bash and welcome party tonight at eight. We’ll leave here at seven thirty if you wanna go as a group.” He slapped Lance on the back. “Enjoy. And Haven, you’re a few doors down at the end of the hall. Here, I’ll take that.” He grabbed the bag from my shoulder and my suitcase from Lance and wheeled it himself, whistling as he walked.

  “Southern gentlemen, gotta love ’em.” Dante shrugged, like it was no big deal, as if sensing the ripple pass between Lance and me. He pushed past Lance into their room.

  “I’m gonna unpack,” Lance announced. He kissed me on the cheek, then followed Dante as I rushed ahead. Connor had stopped outside a door with a sign reading TCHOUPITOULAS, which I had seen in my guidebook but hoped to avoid ever having to pronounce. He opened the door.

  “Just out of curiosity . . .” I pointed to the sign.

  He smiled. “The T is silent.”

  “Good to know, thanks.”

  The room looked like it belonged in a dollhouse: eggplant-hued, with a tall, skinny window looking out onto the courtyard, one long silver desk, two chairs, a closet running the length of one wall . . . and one bed. I breathed a sigh of relief. It looked like I would be rooming solo.

  “So, these rooms are all a little bit quirky,” Connor started as he set my suitcase beside the bed. He walked over to a gauzy curtain hanging along the wall. He whipped it open to reveal a ladder and a loft carved into the wall with a mattress inside and a small night table. The ceilings were high and airy enough, but even so, you wouldn’t be able to stand up in this nook. It was a cozy little spot—and a nice bit of privacy—but I knew what it meant. “A bunch of the rooms have this loft situation. I’ll let you and Sabine decide who’s bunkin’ where.”

  “Sabine?”

  “She got here a little while ago and went out. She’s from”—he consulted his clipboard once more—“Boston, looks like.”

  “Sabine from Boston,” I repeated, starting to feel nervous.

  “Right, so seven thirty in the common room,” he said, pointing at me. “There’s a welcome kit for each of you in the dressers.”

  “Got it.” He opened up the closet to reveal two identical silver dressers, the size of filing cabinets, and a suitcase and matching bag. “Thanks.”

  He let himself out and said, “Need anything, lemme know.” I smiled and thanked him.

  I poked around the room. Sabine had claimed one of the dressers and unpacked already, her clothes folded in precise rows. I hopped onto the bed to survey the room and heard a crunch. I gazed at the crisp sheet of paper that had been left:

  Hi!

  I’m Sabine. Nice to meet you! A few of us went to get some beignets. Here’s my number if you want to join up. Otherwise, look forward to meeting you tonight!

  Yours, Sabine

  Her handwriting was pretty and full of uniformly round, bubble-shaped letters. I thought of calling the number she’d left, but something—nerves?—held me back. Instead, I simply set to work unpacking.

  3. You’ll Be One of Us Soon

  At 7:25 p.m. Dante and I emerged simultaneously from our rooms ready to make our way to that color-splashed living room, my stomach a little queasy at the thought of meeting so many new people, and just the newness of it all, of lea
rning to navigate this town, period. I felt like I was standing in a field waiting to be struck by lightning—again—with nowhere to go for cover, and I just wasn’t sure I was ready to dodge and outrun it yet again.

  Dante, as usual, helped shake me out of it as soon as he saw me. “You’re welcome,” he said, preemptively, staring at my outfit.

  “Thank you, Dante,” I said flatly, embarrassed, fanning out the gauzy layers of my knee-length plum chiffon dress to curtsy my appreciation. It was the sort of thing I never would have chosen myself—nipped in at the waist, it had jeweled straps and a sprinkling of clear crystals that made it shimmer all over. But, girly as it was, when I put it on, I actually liked it.

  “You know you didn’t really want to wear that old homecoming dress.” He turned up his nose at the thought. He was forever calling me out for my sartorial choices; when our information packets had arrived in Chicago labeling these New Year’s festivities as “semiformal,” he had forced me out to the mall. He was now wearing the satin violet tie from that shopping trip.

  “Please, being your stylist is the best distraction from, like, real life, you know?” he said lightly, but with a twinge that showed there was some dread beneath the surface. He fluffed my hair, as the door to his room opened.

  “Hey,” Lance said. He fished for something in his pocket. Like Dante, he wore a dark suit, but his tie was a muted gray.

  “Well, I picked out the shoes on my own. A little credit please? I’m wearing heels at least.” I gestured to my metallic sandals.

  “I had to convince you to go silver. Partial credit,” Dante joked.

  “I thought you seemed taller. Two and a quarter inches?” Lance calculated, as was his way. Then he stepped in, pulling me by the arm just enough so his lips were level with my eyes. He tilted up his chin so it rested on the top of my head. “Yeah, usually it’s easier to do this.” I playfully swatted him away.

  “It’s just a matter of time before I’m kicked out of my room by you lovebirds, I know it.” Dante sighed. “Ugh. See, birds are trouble. I’m beginning to understand why Hitchcock made a horror movie about them.”

  “Dan!” I rolled my eyes. Lance didn’t seem to be listening. He had already dug out his new monogrammed phone, testing it once more, with a furrowed brow that said it still wasn’t working.

  There were voices up ahead. I could sense a wave of anxiety pass through the three of us, our posture collectively stiffening.

  “Still no sign of the roommate?” Dante asked. Lance had popped out the battery in the back of the phone and some other piece and held them up to his eye. He saw me looking and just shook his head, slipping the components back into the pocket of his slightly wrinkled suit jacket.

  “Nope, not yet,” I replied. “Is it weird that I’m nervous to meet her?” Sabine hadn’t come back all day and I felt slight pangs of guilt now that I hadn’t called her to at least say hello and thank her for the invitation to roam the city—her note had been so welcoming. But, really, the day had flown by, consumed by all the usual mundanities of christening a new place home, followed by a lengthy primping session with Dante.

  “Honestly, nothing’s weird anymore,” Lance offered. He had a point.

  “Loosen up, Hav!” Dante kneaded my shoulders and slapped me on the back, just as we reached the living room.

  Our fellow housemates were already gathered. The basketball players from earlier chatted easily—I assumed they had come from the same school, like we had. Others—like that redhead, who now wore a jade halter-top dress—sat perched with stiff backs on the sleek furniture, looking like they hoped to blend in with the décor. They glanced side to side, debating, it seemed, whether to strike up a conversation or wait for someone else to make the first move. The three of us took our places standing along the periphery, against the wall with the TV. Before we could get too social, we were startled by a few loud claps from the side hallway.

  “Hey, team!” Connor called, standing in the center of the room. He was dressed in a suit and tie, but he held his jacket and his rolled-up shirt sleeves exposed his tan forearms. “The other folks’ll have to meet us there. Let’s roll out!”

  The St. Charles streetcar rattled along the center of the tree-lined avenue. Here and there, a few strands of shiny beads, no doubt remnants of last year’s Mardi Gras, still hung entwined in the branches of the trees above. They reminded me of my phone call with Joan earlier, when I confirmed we had arrived safely in New Orleans. “Promise you won’t do anything nutty just to get someone to throw those plastic beads at you?” she said. I laughed and assured her I hadn’t gotten too wild yet.

  Dante slid into me on the wooden bench seat, angling to get a better view of the mansions dotting the way. No two were alike, each with special touches like ornate gates out front, bay windows, delicately crafted balconies and porticos, and charming little detached pool houses nestled in back. “The Garden District totally rocks,” he said.

  “Kind of awesome that this was all one huge estate back in the day,” Lance said, eyes trained outside, his fingers drumming on my leg.

  “Good to know,” I said. “I feel like the trivia gauntlet is being thrown down.” Lance and I liked to get competitive about our facts—it was just our thing. This constituted flirting for us.

  “Just sharing,” he said, with a mocking faux innocence.

  “Ugh, have we forgotten we’re outta school?” Dante groaned. “Here, this one!” He pointed out the window at what looked like a small castle. “Let’s move here, Hav.”

  “I’m in,” I joked. Lance suddenly pulled out his phone again, as if an idea had just struck him. Dante shook his head and continued surveying.

  “Check this out.” Dante, ever the gossip, flicked his head toward the front of the streetcar where Connor sat chatting with the driver. The redhead beside him quietly looked on, nodding at something he was saying, hanging on his every word.

  “It seems this streetcar may indeed be named Desire,” I whispered back.

  “I know, right? Looks like someone is already trying to line up that midnight kiss. Good for her,” he declared in a sincere, even serious tone. I thought I could feel a trace of loneliness creeping out from beneath that confident armor of his.

  From the corner of my eye I watched Lance fiddling with his phone. There were plenty of dark clouds obscuring our thoughts. But tonight, I wanted to be like everyone else. For the first time ever, I had someone to make midnight matter.

  As if on cue, Lance gave up on the phone and emerged from his interior world to rejoin us. “Anyone want to check out Tennessee Williams’s old pad tomorrow?” he piped up as he cleaned the lenses of his glasses on his sleeve. “It’s near our place. And William Faulkner’s too.”

  “Faulk yeah!” said Dante. I gave him a playful slap on the shoulder.

  The streetcar stopped and Connor called for us all to jump out.

  After we walked a few of the leafiest, quietest streets I’d ever seen, Connor turned a corner and we were greeted by a pristine white mansion with sprawling, manicured grounds of lush hedges and sweet white rosebushes that spanned the full block. A porch wrapped around the entire first floor of the place and even from where we stood, we could hear the strains of a jazz band playing. Darkness had fallen, a chill settling in the air, reminding us that even here in the South, it was still winter. But a warm, buttery glow from the black-shuttered windows beckoned us in. A banner reading WELCOME, VOLUNTEERS! had been unfurled over the pillars. We crossed beneath an archway of greenery and went up the steep front steps.

  “Whoa, pretty nice digs,” Lance said under his breath as we entered, our senses enveloped by the festivities. Jaunty music and the scent of spicy food filled the air. Scores and scores of other high school students, college types, and well-dressed adults milled around, chatting, holding aloft tiny plates of towering fried foods and sipping from delicate stemware. Our group dispersed, everyone heading off in separate directions. Dante, Lance, and I wound our way to the back of t
he great hall, taking it all in, and continued on to a mahogany-outfitted grand living room complete with a buffet and white-coated chefs in crisp, cylindrical hats. A long line of people waited patiently to be served all manner of southern comfort food.

  “I’m dying for that gumbo,” Dante said, his eyes glued on the buffet tables. “Did I tell you I’ve almost perfected my roux? I’ll have to make it for you guys.” He seemed to be thinking, then he grabbed Lance and me by the arm. “That’s it, come ’ere.” He tugged us toward a less populated corner of the packed room. As we followed him, weaving through the clusters of people snacking, I caught the slightest glimpse of . . . no, I mean, what was wrong with me? My heart stopped for a moment, and then he was gone. That golden hair, the suit, a drink in his hand. I blinked my eyes, shook out my jumbled head. There were a ton of people here. I was seeing things.

  Dante huddled us up, his back to the crowd as he dug a small tin of mints out of his pocket. “Got something for you guys,” he said. “You’ll thank me.”

  “Should we be offended?” I checked my breath in my palm. It was still pepperminty from brushing my teeth before we left. Lance turned around and did the same thing over his shoulder.

  “No, no, no.” Dante rolled his eyes and opened up the case: three tiny brown leaves, each no bigger than a postage stamp, were nestled inside. “I only have a few of these left from, you know, the Lex. Let them dissolve on your tongue and you can eat whatever you want for the next twenty-four hours and you should be immune to any toxins.” His eyes darted past us, hoping no one heard. He didn’t have to explain. Before the hotel had been destroyed, Dante had pilfered all sorts of mysterious ingredients from the Lexington’s pantry—powerful plants and herbs harvested straight from the underworld.

  “Thanks, man. But, I don’t know, isn’t it a little reckless to use them so soon?” Lance asked what I’d been thinking.