The Fine Art of Truth or Dare

by Melissa Jensen

  “Yup.” I sat down and propped the postcard upright against my books. “Thanks.”

  “Whatever for?”

  “Being real, I guess. I’m pretty sure this paper about your life will get me into NYU. Which, when you think about it, is a pretty great gift from a guy I’ve never met who’s been dead for a hundred years.”

  Edward smiled. It was nice to see. “My pleasure, darling girl. I must say, I like this spark of confidence in you.”

  “About time, huh?”

  “Yes, well. Have you forgiven the Bainbridge boy?”

  “For . . . ?”

  “For hiding you.”

  “He wasn’t. I was hiding me.” I gave Edward a look before he could gloat. “Yeah, yeah. You’ve always been very wise. But this isn’t really about my forgiving Alex, is it?”

  He had the grace to look a little embarrassed. “I suppose not. So?”

  “So. I think you were a good guy, Edward. I think you probably would have told everyone exactly how you felt about Marina if you could have. If she hadn’t been married, maybe, or if you’d lived longer. I think maybe all the pictures you did of her were your public declaration. Whaddya think? Can I write that? Is it the truth?”

  “Oh, Ella.” His face was sad again, just the way he’d cast it in bronze. But it was kinda bittersweet now, not as heartbroken. “I would give my right arm to be able to answer that for you. You know I would.”

  “You don’t have a right arm, Mr. Willing. Left, either.” I picked up the card again. “Fuhgeddaboudit,” I said to it. “I got this one covered.”

  I tucked my Ravaged Man inside Collected Works. It would be there if I wanted it. Who knows. Maybe Edward Willing will come back into fashion someday, and maybe I’ll fall for him all over again.

  In the meantime, I had another guy to deal with. I sat down in front of my computer. It took me thirty seconds to write the e-mail to Alex. Then it took a couple of hours—some staring, some pacing, an endless rehearsal dinner at Ralph’s, and a TiVo’d Christmas special produced by Simon Cowell and Nigel Lythgoe with Nonna and popcorn—for me to hit Send.

  34

  THE RECEPTION

  The band was playing the “Chicken Dance Song.” At least seventy-five assorted Marinos, Palladinettis, and Farneses, not to mention a few Grecos, Nguyens, Giordanos, and Ryans, were on the dance floor, shaking their booties for all they were worth. In the middle of them, gorgeous and glowing in a big white dress, the new Mrs. Thomas Farnese was flapping with abandon. I was sitting this one out. I plan on dying without anyone ever having gotten video of me emulating fowl.

  It was only nine o’clock, and I was already exhausted. The first half of the day with Bridezilla hadn’t helped, but by two, I think Nonna had slipped her a Xanax (who knows where she got it, although I suspect collusion with Sam Nguyen), and by the time we climbed into the limo at three, Sienna was channeling Grace Kelly in a big way.

  The mass was fine, if you like that kinda thing. The photo session was a nightmare, since the flower girl and ring bearer kept kicking each other with their new, hard shoes, and the photographer didn’t quite get that, no, I wasn’t going to push my hair back so we could see my pretty face, so get over it. Dinner was pretty good.

  Now the party was in full swing. The “Chicken Dance” somehow segued into “It’s Not Easy Being Green,” a nod to Kermit and Mr. Ryan, who sings it every chance he gets, especially on Columbus Day. Something about claiming to be the only Irishman in the vicinity, although the Connellys, Donnellys, and Martinezes (she’s from Galway) might disagree.

  Nearby, entwined and swaying to the music, were my parents. I catch them like that every so often, dancing together in the restaurant office to whatever’s on the radio. Mom had spent the day alternating between beaming and sobbing. Aunt Gina kept whisking her into the bathroom for concealer touch-ups. Dad looked proud and relieved. There’s no question that he loves Sienna more than life, but I think a little less of her will be good for his blood pressure.

  “So. Leo will be next.” Nonna plopped herself down next to me. She was wearing black, as usual, but it had a ruffle at the neck. “Just I hope not this one.”

  Leo’s latest girlfriend is a preschool teacher, which should have the entire family over the moon, right? But it’s the sort of preschool where the kids get to wear paint, and the teachers sport incredible ink. I think the Venus de Milo on Julie’s forearm is pretty fabulous. I like Julie. Nonna is convinced that the ink from tattoos gets way inside and, like the mercury in tinned tuna, causes brain damage. She doesn’t know that Leo has a lip print tattooed on his left butt cheek. Now, maybe Leo’s not the best argument against ink as brain damager, but heaven help him when someone lets that secret out to Nonna.

  She was giving the moderately tattooed band the evil eye at the moment. They were actually Julie’s friends; the bassist works with her, teaching small children to make loud noises. So far, I hadn’t paid too much attention. They knew their Sinatra and Dino, did a mean Kermit, and had good-naturedly performed their only slightly funky version of the Chicken.

  Nonna and I sat in amicable silence for a few minutes. I wished Sadie and Frankie were there, but she, of course, was in London, and Frankie refuses to go to any weddings on principle.

  “Make poverty, sickness, and death central issues in the contract,” he says, “it’s no wonder the divorce rate is fifty percent.”

  I wouldn’t have minded having Alex around, either, but the less I thought about him, the better. He’d said he would call. And even if that was a cliché, a convenient lie, I had two weeks until we were back in school. Maybe I would figure it all out by then.

  I actually jumped when the band started the next song. It was fast, fierce, and pretty catchy. It wasn’t Sinatra. The lead singer was bouncing behind his mic. Then the guy at the keyboards did a quick spoken section. I paid attention, not because of what he was saying, but because I knew that voice. He had his back to me and was partly hidden by one of the light-studded topiaries that Sienna insisted were absolutely required for any stylish wedding these days. But I knew that voice.

  I left Nonna to my cousin Alyssa and more champagne and crept around to the other side of the floor. It took a while. Lots of people wanted to admire my dress or pinch my cheek. By the time I got a clear view of the guy’s face, the song had ended. “Thank you. We’ll be back in ten,” the lead singer informed the crowd. One of Leo’s buddies stepped in to man the DJ-in-a-box. I went after the keyboardist.

  I found him outside, smoking behind the limo. “Daniel.”

  He looked up. “El-la. I was wondering if you’d catch me.” He offered me a cigarette. I gave him a shame-on-you look; he grinned.

  “This is your band?” I asked. Visible piercings aside, no one looked like they went by the name Ax.

  “Nope, but I go to school with the lead’s sister. Regular guy got food poisoning at a Christmas party last night. I’ve played with them before.”

  “Weddings?” It wasn’t quite how I’d pictured him performing.

  “Usually clubs, but the last one was a bar mitzvah. Musicians have to eat, too,” he added, a little sharply.

  “Sorry.” I wanted to wave the smoke away, but figured that might be adding insult to injury. “I thought you played the guitar.”

  “Guitar, piano, a little violin, but badly, and I’ll have to garrote you with one of the strings if you tell anyone.”

  That’s the thing about Daniel. Obviously—the violin being a case in point—I don’t know him very well, but he seems to hold a grudge for even less time than Frankie. “Secret’s safe with me.”

  He shrugged, telling me he didn’t really care. Then, “Nice dress.”

  “Just when I start liking you a little . . .”

  He made his vampire-boy face. I could see why it usually worked. “You like me, Ella. Wanna do something when this is over?”

  “Tempting,” I said. “No, I mean that. But no, thanks. I’m not at my best these days.”
>
  “You’re good,” he said quietly, blowing out a stream of smoke. “You’ll be fine.”

  “Yeah.” I shivered. It was bitter outside. “I should go in.”

  “You should.” The cold didn’t seem to be bothering him at all, and he wasn’t even wearing a jacket over his white dress shirt.

  I turned to go. “Oh, I think I figured it out, by the way.”

  “Figured out what?”

  “The question. The one everyone should ask before getting involved with someone. Not ‘Will he-slash-she make me happy?’ but ‘Does it bring out the best in me, being with him?’”

  “Him-slash-her,” Daniel corrected, clearly amused. Then, “Nope. No way. Wasn’t me who posed the question to you, Marino. I would never be so Emo.”

  “Of course not. But it was one smart boy.” I waved. “Hug Frankie for me.”

  “Will do. Hey. Any requests for the band?”

  “‘Don’t Stop Believin’,’” I shot back. He rolled his eyes. “I’m curious, in that last song—are the words really ‘I cut my chest wide open’?”

  “Yup. Followed by, ‘They come and watch us bleed. Is it art like I was hoping now?’ Avett Brothers. Too gruesome for you?”

  “You have no idea,” I told him. How much I get it.

  I missed the cake cutting. I got back in to find everyone with loaded plates and Sienna with frosting in her eyebrows. Never my favorite part of the night, the bride and groom smearing cake on each other’s face. I’m with Frankie; it can’t be an auspicious start.

  I got myself a piece without any purple on it and found a seat at the edge of the crowd. Great-Aunt Jo was dozing in her chair. The band wasn’t back yet. Celine Dion came up on the speakers. I cringed and gave my full attention to my cake.

  “Would you like to dance?”

  I knew I had frosting on my nose.

  Alex leaned over and wiped it off with his thumb. “Well?”

  I could only nod. I had a full mouth, too. I stood up, swallowed, and accepted the napkin he was holding. “You’re here.”

  “I’m here,” he agreed, like it hadn’t been a ridiculous thing to say. “I am crashing your sister’s wedding. Hope she won’t mind.”

  “She won’t mind.”

  He was wearing a tux. A real tux, complete with bow tie and silk lapels. I stroked one. “I’m guessing this isn’t a rental.”

  He squirmed a little. “No, it’s mine. Nice dress.”

  I looked down at the snug purple monstrosity my sister had chosen. At least it had a mandarin collar and some sleeves. “It’s a cheongsam,” she’d announced proudly. “It’s Eggplant Ho Lee Mess” was Frankie’s take. My pear-shaped cousin Vanessa got strapless. Now she looked like an eggplant.

  “You look beautiful,” Alex said, but the corner of his mouth was twitching.

  “Well, you look like . . . like . . .” I sighed. “Okay, you look really really good.” Then, again, “You’re here.”

  “I’m here.”

  “Why?”

  “I missed you,” he said simply.

  “It’s only been four days.”

  “A very, very long four days. But your e-mail helped.” He reached for my hand. “Now, are we dancing or not?”

  We did, and it wasn’t as complicated as I’d thought it might be. I stood on my toes, he bent down a little, and we fit together pretty well. The song ended way too soon.

  “So,” Alex said.

  “So.”

  “We can stay here if you want to . . . or if you have to. But I have another suggestion. Let’s go watch the sun rise.”

  It sounded like a good idea to me. Except . . . “It’s ten o’clock. And it’s freezing out there.”

  “Trust me,” he said.

  “Okay.”

  I went to tell my father. He was alone at the front table, leaning back in his chair, vest unbuttoned and a spot that I was pretty sure was lobster butter on his tie. There was a glass of amber liquid in front of him. Dad drinks scotch only at weddings and funerals. The rest of the time, he’s strictly a one-beer kinda guy. He looked happy and a little glazed.

  “Dad, I’m going.”

  “Yeah? Got your own party?”

  “Something like that. I might be really late home, okay? We’re thinking of finding someplace to watch the sunrise.”

  He didn’t even blink. “You got your phone?”

  “It’s here.” I waved the little purple bag that was Sienna’s bridesmaids’ gift. Apparently, Tommy’s sister knows someone who’s dating someone at Kate Spade.

  “Good. Here. You’ll need some money.” He wiggled until he could reach his wallet. He handed me forty dollars. “Enough?”

  “More than. Thanks, Dad.”

  “Ella.” He held on to my hand, pulled me down for a whiskey-scented kiss on my forehead. “You have a good time. Be careful. I won’t wait up.”

  For once, he probably wouldn’t.

  Alex gave me his jacket as we were walking to the parking lot. It wasn’t much warmer inside the car. “Give it a few minutes,” he said, fiddling with the vents.

  We pulled away from the hotel. “How did you find me?” I asked.

  “Easy. I looked in the school directory and called Frankie Hobbes this morning.”

  “You what?”

  “He was okay, only called me ‘Dickhead’ twice.”

  I winced. “Sorry.”

  “Not a problem. From his viewpoint I deserve it.” He shrugged. “He’ll come around. We’ll be down to one negative nickname per conversation by summer.”

  I noticed then that we weren’t heading back toward the city, but driving deeper into New Jersey. “Where are we going?”

  “East. To where the sun rises.”

  “Seriously?”

  He thumped the dash—not too hard—and I actually felt a little burst of warm air. “You’ve been to Long Beach Island, right? You told me that in an e-mail.”

  “Yeah, Surf City.”

  “We have a house in Barnegat Light. I thought we’d go there. We’ll have breakfast somewhere and come back. You okay with that?”

  The beach. In late December. At night. “I’m absolutely fine with it.”

  “So,” he said.

  “So.”

  “We okay?”

  “I think so,” I answered. “I hope we’ll be a lot better than that.”

  “Yeah, me, too.”

  Here’s the thing about the road to the island. A lot of it is one long, straight stretch through the Pine Barrens. Alex didn’t have to shift gears nearly as much. Here’s the thing about bench seats. There’s a seat belt in the middle, too. I spent most of the drive tucked against his side, his arm around my shoulders.

  LBI is a totally different place in the winter. There were almost no cars, very few lights in the windows of the houses. I recognized a few places we went to: the little market, the pizza place, the miniature golf-course, all closed for the season. Alex pointed to Scojo’s Restaurant. “They open early. We can have breakfast there.”

  We kept driving. The higher-rent district, I thought. The houses were bigger, with fewer on a block. When it seemed like we were almost out of island, Alex turned down a small street. He drove to the very end and pulled into the drive. He reached in back, grabbed what looked like his schoolbag, and then climbed out of the car.

  A single light burned on the porch. I’d expected huge, modern, lots of plate glass and pale exterior walls. Instead, we walked up a stone path toward weathered shingles and a gabled copper roof, oxidized green. It wasn’t exactly a small house; I saw a second story and a dormer room, but it was quirky and cool. The floorboards in the entryway groaned when we walked over them.

  “I wouldn’t have expected this,” I told Alex. He’d stopped to turn on the thermostat. I heard the boom and whoosh of a furnace igniting.

  “It was built around 1890 by a ship captain. My grandparents bought it when my dad was a kid. Mom hates it. She keeps begging Dad to tear it down and build something n
ew.”

  He led the way into a big living room. I could smell cedar and leather, and just a hint of damp. “He won’t, will he?”

  “Never.” He turned on a leaded-glass lamp that looked as old as the house. “I don’t know about you, but I have to get out of this suit.”

  I stood, in the middle of the floor in my purple dress and stupid shoes and his coat, and froze.

  “Come on.” He held out his hand. I waited a long moment. Then I took it. This was Alex. I trusted him.

  I counted six doors on the second floor, all open onto dark rooms. Alex pointed to one. “Mine.” Then he gave me a little shove toward another. “Mom keeps a bunch of stuff in the closet for guests. Help yourself.”

  He flicked a switch, illuminating a modern bed with an old patchwork quilt and a few pieces of mismatched but pretty furniture. When I turned back, he was halfway down the hall, whistling. So I headed for the closet.

  A “bunch of stuff,” it turned out, was T-shirts, shorts, flip-flops, sweatshirts, and even a small stack of cashmere cardigans. I looked at one closely. It didn’t have a single moth hole. It was just . . . a spare. No-brainer, I was going to wear it.

  “Come back downstairs when you’re ready,” Alex called a minute later.

  I took a peek in the freestanding mirror. The sweats were a size too big, the shirt (a Menemsha bluefish, I’d been happy to read the front) more than that. But the sweater was heaven, and I was comfy.

  I found Alex crouched in front of the stone fireplace, playing with sticks and matches. He glanced around and grinned. “Excellent.” He had MENEMSHA BLUES written across the back of his sweatshirt. “Now for some fye-ore.” He gave a caveman thump on his chest and plied what looked like a miniature blowtorch. “Hey. Harrison’s having a New Year’s party. You have plans already?”

  “Nope,” I said, feeling a little thrill at the question. I wondered if Sienna had left anything interesting in her closet.

  “Good.”

  I wandered over to the new-looking glass door. It was all black beyond. Alex reached past me for the handle. “Just for a sec,” he said.