by Liz Braswell
She went to the bar first, leaning against it and surveying the scene. A few people were dancing and dressed badly, but otherwise it was a pretty hot crowd. What looked like an entire fraternity was loudly but good-naturedly arguing about sports, waving their beers, making an out-of-place businessman and his model very uncomfortable. There was one particularly hot guy across the floor, hanging around in the back, drinking quietly and people watching, just like her. He had black hair, dark skin, and light, light eyes. Exotic. She ducked her head to follow his movements as he ordered a beer, talked to a friend, and wandered into the crowd, but soon she lost him.
She waited patiently, but he didn’t return. No one took his place, either; there were a few runners-up, but the hottest guy in the club had disappeared.
“Buy you a drink?”
He appeared at her side, smiling at her surprise and embarrassment. Up close he was even better looking, with full lips and a light spattering of darker brown freckles across his nose.
Chloe was just about to say No, thank you, like she did every time some twenty-something tried to pick up her fifteen-year-old self. But, “Absolutely!” was what came out instead.
“What’ll it be?”
“Red Bull and vodka.”
He nodded his approval and clinked her drink with his beer glass when the bartender handed it over.
“It’s my birthday in two hours!” she shouted into his ear.
“Really? Cheers!” He sounded British. They toasted each other again and drank. “Happy birthday!” He kissed her delicately on her cheek. Chloe felt her stomach roll over and her mind play dead. An enormous grin spread over her face, completely destroying her cool. She had gotten into the club with no hassle, a dropdead gorgeous guy just bought her a drink—this was turning out to be a pretty great birthday after all.
After another drink they started dancing. He moved in small sways and tiny circles perfect for avoiding other dancers in the tightly packed space. For one song he just put his hands around her waist and let her move, the center of his attention. When they walked through the crowd for a drink or a break, he would very lightly touch his hand to her back or shoulder, leading her protectively but not possessively.
“I’m Chloe!” she shouted at one point.
“I’m Xavier!” he shouted back.
At twelve thirty Chloe decided she was turning into a pumpkin. Near-death experience or no, her mother was going to kill Chloe herself if she stayed out all night. Xavier walked her out.
“Let me be the first to wish you a happy birthday,” he said, kissing her gently on the lips in the dark parking lot. His mouth was warm and moist but not wet, and he was a hell of a lot more delicate than the few guys her own age Chloe had kissed. He pulled a card out of his wallet. It was actually engraved: Xavier Akouri, 453 Mason St., #5A, 011-30-210-567-3981. It took her a moment to realize that it was an international cell phone number she was looking at.
“Aren’t you going to ask for mine?” Chloe asked.
He smiled and lowered his head so their noses were almost touching, looking directly into her eyes. “And would you have given me your real number? You call me if you want.”
Her stomach did another flip-flop. Before she knew what she was doing, Chloe grabbed him around the back of the neck and held his head still while she kissed him. He actually let out a little moan. It drove her wild. His hands came up around her hips. Chloe reached around up and under his shirt to feel the skin on his back, kneading his muscles and clawing him with her fingernails. He moaned again, from pleasure or pain, it was hard to tell. But he took one of her legs and wrapped it up around his waist. Chloe felt herself sliding in closer and closer—
What the hell am I doing?
She opened her eyes and saw a handsome Euro kissing her, which might have been fine, wonderful, even—but she was inches from having sex with him in the middle of the parking lot.
“I’m sorry.” She disentangled herself from him and backed off, breathing heavily. She ached and throbbed with want.
Xavier looked confused. His eyes were heavy lidded, and little beads of sweat held on like silver around his brow. His hair was tousled.
“I—I can’t do this right now,” she said.
To his credit, Xavier nodded, albeit reluctantly. “Do you—do you want to come back to my place?”
Chloe opened her mouth to say something. She realized it was very close to, Yes, I do—but managed to choke out, “I’m sorry,” again, quickly turning and walking away. She ran all the way home and then once around the block for good measure, hoping to work the desire out of her body. Would her mom notice a look in her eye, a flush on her cheek? She could say it was from running.
When Chloe came in, her mother was reading on the couch, shoes off, glass of red wine on the table near her. Untouched. She was trying to make it look like she was just staying up late, not staying up for Chloe. Their eyes met.
“I’ll be up in a little while,” Mrs. King finally said. “I just want to finish this chapter.”
She’s actually going to be cool about this. Chloe couldn’t believe it. And from her tone, it was like the late night out hadn’t even happened—like maybe it would never be brought up again.
“Okay. G’night,” Chloe said as gratefully as she could.
She staggered upstairs tiredly, taking her clothes off as she went. She could smell parts of Xavier on her shirt, his hands dangerously close to her breasts when they rested on her waist, his lips on her collar when he was kissing her neck.
She put on boxers and her oversized Invader Zim T-shirt and fell into bed, holding her stuffed pig, still wondering what had happened. Teenage hormones, as they always said, or had it been an up-with-life reaction to her near-death experience? She thought she had heard of such a thing. … She clutched Wilbur more tightly and fell asleep.
Four
It was several hours into the next day, during first-period American civilization, when it suddenly hit Chloe: what she had done—or almost done—the night before, never mind the part about not dying. She had forgotten it all for a short, happy while.
This wasn’t surprising; her brain barely began working before nine. The hours between being woken by her crappy old clock radio and second bell usually passed in a painless, mindless blur. Her mother, once upon a time playing the happy single mom, used to make her pancakes with syrup smiley faces and ask her about what she was doing that day. Eventually she gave up trying to communicate with her justawake, mumbling daughter, filling the coffeemaker and setting the timer the night before instead. Chloe always tried to remember to grumble “bye” on her way out as Mrs. King did her morning yoga in front of the TV.
Holy crap. I almost had sex with a stranger in a parking lot last night.
Chloe felt tingles when she thought of Xavier; she could remember wanting him that badly but not the feeling itself. She idly tried to sketch his lips in the margin of her notebook. Where had she put his card?
“… the same boot, for either foot. I don’t think any of you kids today with your Florsheims or your tennis shoes could possibly imagine the suffering those soldiers marched in. …”
Neither Paul nor Amy was in this class, so it was triply boring. What the heck is a Florsheim? Chloe tried to cover a yawn, but it was so huge that it felt like her jaw had opened up wider than it was supposed to, like in Alien. Her teeth snapped back together when it was done, way too loudly. She looked around to see if anyone had noticed—no one except for Alyec, who was watching with raised eyebrows. She blushed but grinned back, actually looking him in his beautiful ice blue eyes. He smiled and made a “sleepy” gesture with his hands on the side of his face. Chloe nodded, and they each went back to note taking or doodling before Ms. Barker took notice.
When the bell rang, Chloe gathered her stuff and prepared to go to the library—it was such a bitch: she had second period free. Last year Amy had had first period free and often slept till eight before bothering to come in. As Chloe passed by the po
pular lockers, she saw Alyec and waved. He was, of course, surrounded by the beautiful people.
Chloe thought about their little interaction in class and her success with the bouncer the night before and walked right up to him, ignoring the others.
“Didn’t Am civ suck today?” Once again there she was, doing something she could not believe. First there was falling off a tower, then making out with a stranger, and now going directly up to the most-wanted guy in the junior class and talking to him. She could feel the vicious glares of his coterie impaling her backside, but somehow she wasn’t the least bit nervous. Not even a heartbeat.
This is great. I should almost die every day.
“Oh, man,” Alyec said in an accent that was fading but still had foreign overtones. “Watching you—how do you say—moan? Yes? That was the most exciting part of the hour.”
“I wasn’t moaning, I was yawning,” Chloe said with a shy smile. “But if you find a way to make me moan, I’ll let you watch all day.” Did I just say that? She could see a whole bunch of jaws drop in her peripheral vision.
“You’re hilarious, King, you know that?” He said it with a genuine laugh.
The second bell rang. “I’ve got to get to the library—but we should hang sometime.”
Keira looked like she was actually going to growl; her lips were pulled back over her teeth.
“Absolutely,” Alyec agreed. “Catch you later, King.”
“See ya.” She strolled past the other girls, trying not to look too smug but unable to keep from smiling a little.
Chloe thought about Xavier for most of her time in the library, staring out the windows and dreaming a little. She did the same during math and lunch. She thought about him more than her fall. It was kind of like her mom said—she fell, she survived, here she was. She was staring into space, pizza halfway to her mouth, when a familiarly annoying clap on her shoulder jolted her back to reality. Gobbets of bright orange oil flew across the table.
“Oh my God, is it true?” Amy threw herself into a seat next to her. “I mean, happy birthday, but ohmygod, is it really true, did you really flirt with Alyec right in front of Halley and Keira and—and everyone?”
“Yeah, I guess I did,” Chloe said with a smile.
“How are you feeling?”
Chloe shrugged. “Fine, I think. A little weird. Last night—”
“Look, we gotta talk,” Amy interrupted, leaning in close and looking her right in the eyes. “Something big is going down with me. I want to discuss. Dinner?”
Bigger than a near-death and near-sex experience? But Chloe bit back a sarcastic response; Amy really did look worried. And more intense than usual.
“Okay—”
“Cool! See you in English!”
Chloe watched her friend leap up and run off, safety pins and chains jangling as she went, unkempt chestnut hair bouncing. She turned back to her pizza and wondered when life would get back to normal. The grease had congealed into little solid pools of something like orange plastic. Chloe sighed and pushed it away.
Normality seemed to reassert itself at Pateena. As much as she hated sorting the clothes when they came back from the cleaner, there was a soothing familiarity in the folding and the straightening, the random tirades of the manager, the trendy customers. Nothing sexy or supernatural. Just a lot of jeans and overpriced old basketball shoes.
Chloe couldn’t help noticing one customer who came in, though—just when she thought she had finally beaten her hormones down. He wore black cords, a ribbed black tee, and a black leather jacket, straight cut, like a regular suit jacket. But there were no hints of the über-goth about him: no tattoos or jewelry or fangs or anything. The outfit, which would have made anyone else look like a wanna-be Johnny Cash, worked perfectly on him; he had very dark brown hair, very slightly tanned, healthy skin, and deep brown eyes with beautiful long lashes.
The kicker, though, was his handmade black knitted cap with kitty cat ears.
Here was a handsome guy with a sense of humor. He thumbed through the polo shirts, frowning.
“Looking for a Halloween costume?” Lania asked him nastily. Chloe groaned, still unable to believe that the little alterna-bitch was allowed to operate the cash register and she wasn’t. Just because the other girl was two years older. If Chloe had a dollar for every customer Lania insulted, she would finally be able to afford a new mountain bike. A nice one.
But he just chuckled. “No, I’m afraid it’s for an actual meeting with actual executive types.” He looked pretty young to be in business, but this was San Francisco, after all. He was probably a programmer or graphics designer or something.
Chloe went back to her work, wondering what Xavier looked like in the daylight. How many drinks did she have? Just two or three. She could have been beer goggling. Maybe those sexy freckles were actually bad acne. …
“Excuse me.” The guy in the kitty hat carefully stepped around her, his purchases clutched to his chest. Apparently Lania had decided to let him pay.
“I like your hat,” Chloe said.
“Really? Thanks!” He took it off and looked at it, as if he was surprised she’d noticed.
“Did your girlfriend make it?”
He grinned. “No, I did.”
Chloe couldn’t help being impressed. Besides Amy, almost no one she knew—not counting her mother’s trend-happy friends—knitted, and those who did never really finished anything. Except for some of the stitching, it looked pretty professional.
“I found the pattern on the Web,” he continued. “If you knit, I’ll give you the URL.”
“No thanks, I can’t. My friend Amy can, but I’m a complete spaz with my hands.”
“Oh, you should totally take it up. It’s kind of fun,” he said, only a little embarrassed.
Chloe steeled herself for the usual touchy-feely sensitive guy discourse that was sure to follow, about how the movements were soothing, about how he felt in touch with people from long ago, about how some native culture or other did something spiritual with knitting needles, how he might want to open a shop someday, how it was good for teaching underprivileged kids self-esteem. …
But he had already turned to go.
“Well, see you,” he said with a cute little half smile as he reached for the door. His eyes crinkled the upper part of his cheek, the skin pulled taut by a sexy scar that ran from the outside of his eye to just below his cheekbone.
Chloe waved and watched him go. Part of her was a little insulted; was she not a hot young girl who had attracted the notice of two hot guys in the last twenty-four hours? And Mr. Kitty Cat Man didn’t even care. It was her birthday, for Christ’s sake. Before her imminent grounding, didn’t fate owe her something?
Then her butt vibrated.
She had to carefully dig her phone out of the back pocket of her own vintage jeans, which were men’s and had a pre-worn white rectangle in the back where someone had once carried his wallet. Once in, her phone fit fine. Getting it out when she was any position but vertical was almost impossible.
Text message: carluccis @ 7—a.
Carlucci’s was the place she and Amy had first met when the Scotkins had moved into the neighborhood. Maybe she’d get some decent pizza today after all. The best part of her job was that Pateena paid her in cash under the counter at the end of every day. She’d have a whole twenty to blow on a Make Me One with Everything pie.
The rest of the afternoon passed without incident, except when Chloe had to hide a pair of faded purple velvet pants she just knew Amy would love. Usually the owner didn’t have a problem with employees “saving” items for themselves. Marisol was the coolest boss she’d ever had. She even let Chloe use the shop’s machine to hem her own jeans and stuff. But if Lania saw the pants—or liked them herself—she was bound to make trouble. Chloe stashed them under a pile of polyester bowling shirts when she left.
As she approached the restaurant in the damp fog, the windows of Carlucci’s glowed like they were lit with gas
carriage lanterns, a restaurant out of time. Really, it was just a little Italian pasta place with candles set in old Chianti bottles like every other little Italian pasta place in the world, but it was hers and Amy’s, and it was cozy, and sometimes the insane old owner even remembered them.
When she opened the door, there seemed to be even more candles than usual.
“Happy birthday to you …,” Amy sang, wisely giving up after one cracked phrase. Her eager face was lit manically by the glow of seventeen candles around the crust of a Make Me One with Everything pie. “Blow quickly,” she added. “Carlucci thinks I’m going to burn the place down.”
Chloe laughed with delight, something she couldn’t remember doing for days. She took a deep breath.
I wish …
I wish …
It used to come to her easily: world peace, an end to all of the environmental disasters in the world, the ability to fly, a dog. Wishes seemed to get more complicated as she grew older: for her father to come back. To know who her biological parents were. For a brother or sister. Come to think of it, maybe her recent jonesing was some sort of replacement-male-love sort of thing. Ewww …
“Chloe?”
She broke out of her reverie.
I wish for a new mountain bike.
No, wait, world peace.
She blew, trying not to get spit on their pizza. Chloe saw with amusement that Amy had also pre-ordered the requisite three cans of Nehi grape each.
“You’re the best, Amy.”
“Hey, no problem.” They didn’t hug; Amy hated things like that. Instead they sat down and began the serious business of shoveling sausage-onion-pepper-tomato-pepperoni-caper-black-olive slices into their mouths as fast as humanly possible. Chloe groaned with pleasure.
“This pizza is the best thing that’s happened to me all week. Well, except for last night.” She swallowed and looked at Amy, but her friend wasn’t biting.
