This mall was unlike any I was accustomed to growing up. In the city, our malls were always the same: several stories high, signs of only the top chains and retailers occupying the store windows, and escalators and glass elevators following in the pace of the constant commotion of the crowds. Instead, New Haven was sanctuary to small business owners and customers who appreciated the small-town atmosphere. The mall was built into the side of a hill, so it looked to be only one story high from the parking lot, but that was really just the ground floor for the large shops, food court, and cinema. Several enclosed staircases sloped down to the open multilevel shop grounds below containing everything from boutiques, galleries, eateries, and music stores.
Gwen was in another flirtatious pursuit to find Jeff in the main level at either McDonald’s or The Gap, so we happily parted ways since I wanted to venture to the lower stories. As I trotted down the cobblestone streets to Crescent Square, the third story down, I breathed in the fresh autumn air, along with the remains of the floral and garden arrangements that had suffered from the dropping temperatures. In two weeks time, every piece of greenery would be reduced to charcoaled leaves and burnt stems, so I soaked in the splendor of its remnants, whose lasting impression would have to get me through the dreaded wintry months ahead in the long anticipation for spring.
At the end of the stretch rested my home away from home, Gate House Records. Pulling the front door open, I was met with the sounds of sinister rock music roaring through the speaker system as the bell placed above the entryway rang.
Ian came out of the backroom with the intention to greet a run-of-the-mill customer, so he breathed a sigh of relief when he saw it was me.
“I take it you don’t welcome all your customers with such affability?” I teased.
“I can put on a good game face, but if I’m asked again about another boy band or pop singer, I’m gonna go postal,” he replied, dragging out a small step ladder and propping it up beneath a partially fallen Halloween banner.
“Here, let me give you a hand,” I said, motioning him out of the way.
I climbed up and readjusted the tack in the wall so that the banner hung evenly.
“Thanks,” he said, helping me down. “You know us men are hopeless when it comes to décor.”
“Hence why I had to readjust all the posters in your bedroom,” I said. “I think you suffer from the same cockeyed syndrome as my dad. You guys hang everything with a slant. You should have seen our house just after we moved in. Not a frame or mirror was hanging level.”
This place went hand in hand with Ian. Its Steampunk nature, oval archways, gold filigree wallpaper, and antique display cases lining the register, not to mention the spirited decorations for the season, made it unlike anything else you’d come across in this town.
“I see you got the fog machine working,” I said, looking down at the gray cloud that engulfed the floor up to my ankles.
“You should see it from the outside at full blast,” said Ian merrily. “The fog actually seeps through the front cracks of the doorframe. Very John Carpenter. Unfortunately, that means there’s zero visibility inside here, so obviously it wouldn’t make much for good business.”
“I can imagine,” I laughed, heading over to the music racks. “I know it probably sounds a bit satanic to say this, but Halloween’s actually my favorite holiday.”
“Really? I know you like a good scare every now and again, but I would’ve taken you to be more of a Christmas girl.”
“You’d think so, but it’s the whole façade that goes along with seeing my extended family that kind of kills my merriment. It was always tradition that on Christmas Eve we’d come visit my grandma here, which I loved. But then on Christmas Day we’d have to go see my mom’s side of the family.”
“Have to?” Ian queried amusingly.
“Yes, at least it was forced on my dad and me. My mom and sister loved going to see my mom’s side, but that’s only because they were treated as equals.”
“And you weren’t?”
“That’s the thing you have to understand about the Cossacks. They come from money, which means every holiday consists of the same narrow-minded and worthless chatter about all of my cousins’ accomplishments or the new addition that my aunt and uncle just put onto their already-enormous house. Having believed that my mother married beneath her, the Cossacks treat my dad like a primitive outsider. What irks them more than anything is the fact that my dad has never been bothered by their mistreatment, and more often than not is throwing quips out at their expense in regard to their own snobbery. As for my sister and me, Nikki was always proper, well-dressed, an overachiever and whatnot, so there was still hope for her to be one of the elite. But as you know, I am most certainly my father’s daughter, so I’ve always been about one wisecrack away from them throwing me into a barred cage with a banana for dinner.”
“I’d say you’d be better off not seeing them, but I’ve never had an extended family to visit, so...”
“No one?”
“Just my mom and me,” he said. “Okay, I know this really isn’t any of my business, but can I ask you something?”
I nodded uncomfortably as my mind conjured up far too many possible topics of discussion he could mention.
“How many guys have you actually dated?”
My nerves unclenched, but my eyes still bulged a little. “Didn’t we already have this conversation?”
“Yeah, but I know better than Meyer when you’re lying.”
“So, what are you now, a human lie detector?”
“No, you just have a terrible poker face,” he replied as I inadvertently ran my fingers through my hair. “Like that. You play with your hair anytime you’re nervous.”
I immediately pinned my arms down to my sides. “I do not.”
“Yeah, you do. One of your biggest tells though is when you bite the bottom of your lip, but only on the right side. When you do that, I know you’re lying like a wool rug.”
“Any other giveaways I should work on?” I asked, rather crossly.
“Yeah, but I’m not going to tell you what they are,” he said. “I like knowing more than what you’re telling me.”
I directed my interest to the tops of my shoes before I replied, “None.”
“What?”
“That’s how many guys I’ve dated.”
When I looked up again, I found myself unable to tell by Ian’s expression if he was more pleased or baffled by my response.
“What’s the shame in just admitting that?” he asked.
“Because you know Gwen. If I told her that, she’d have an online dating profile set up for me by the end of the school day. And it’s not that I’m anti-dating or anything. I’ve gone out on dates; I just wasn’t ever impressed enough by any of those guys to want to keep seeing them.”
“Have you at least kissed someone?”
I refocused my attention again to the ground.
“Seriously?”
I smiled guiltily. “Once, when I was thirteen. Danny Burner. It was during a game of Spin the Bottle. After I kissed him, I sat back watching everyone else play. When my turn was about to come up again, I excused myself to go get something to drink and never came back. I’m not sure if I just had some romantic notion about how my first kiss was supposed to go, but seeing everyone exchange kisses with everyone else like it was nothing just made the whole experience...”
“Impersonal.”
“Yeah. I guess I never really got over that, because anytime I was with a guy that seemed nice but I still wasn’t over the moon about, I’d think about that game and I’d immediately recoil at their advances. I guess it’s the tragic romantic in me.”
“Looking for a deeper connection isn’t tragic,” affirmed Ian. “Certainly not an easy thing to come by in this day and age, but not tragic.”
Gate House Records still had several of those sampler speakers throughout the shop, ones I hadn’t seen since I was little.
“Don
’t you dare,” said Ian, watching me about to scan a CD.
“What? This is a fantastic album.”
“You know your father would be ashamed of you for such an act. Listening to that, not to mention implementing its sounds on others, is a harmonious offense.”
“What is your guys’ affliction with Nickelback?” I asked.
“Other than the fact that their music is massively derivative and their songs are overplayed to the point of sheer and utter agony? Nothing.”
“I still love them.”
He simply chuckled. “I’m pretty sure that’s the first and last time I’ll ever hear someone admit to that.”
“I don’t get it. Everyone listens to their music, and their albums sell out in mass numbers, yet it’s somehow uncool to admit that you like them. Why? If it’s good, it’s good. If it’s not, it’s not. That’s it. Whether you or Gwen wants to mock my taste, then by all means, feel free. It’s not going to deter my likings. I’m not going to shy away from being public about what I love just because it’s been unfairly deemed as unpopular. And you can play the hack card all you want, but you know in all honesty that whether your opinion of them is unfavorable or not, their music is still better than 95 percent of the songs on the Top 40 stations.”
“Don’t get me wrong. I find your uncompromising love truly refreshing.”
“You’re making fun of me.” I said it almost as if it was a question, eying Ian as he returned his own gaze with a playfully wide smile.
He laid his palms flat and swiftly swung his legs over the register counter, meeting me. “I wouldn’t dare.”
Standing face-to-face with me, he continued to stare with his fixated grin as he drew in closer until there were no more than a few inches between us. “Last copy.”
Before I knew it, the album slid right out of my grasp and ever so effortlessly fell into Ian’s possession. Despite my quick response, he managed to be just a millisecond faster and raised it over his head.
“Damn you and your height,” I said in jest, still trying to wrestle his arm down.
“I think you’re gonna have to make a new artist selection,” he teased.
“Callaghan!” called out a voice from the entrance of the backroom.
We bashfully turned to be met with Ian’s boss, Jerry.
“Do you always antagonize our customers when I’m not around?” he said wryly.
“Only the ones deserving of it,” Ian remarked.
I jabbed him in the stomach, and he finally surrendered the CD.
“Okay, missy,” Jerry said, pointing at me lightly. “Who was the rock guitarist responsible for creating the drum beat in Stevie Wonder’s ‘Superstition’?”
Without hesitation, I replied, “Jeff Beck, sir.”
“Damn, you’re good. Your dad certainly raised you well. Say ‘hi’ to him for me,” he replied. “Ian, you’ve got a keeper here. Don’t let her out of your sight.”
Ian and I both exchanged awkward glances.
“Oh, we’re not together,” I confirmed.
Jerry looked at the two of us disbelievingly. “Are you kidding? You’re gonna leave her on the market? If I was twenty years younger and not married to Sheila, I’d be on one knee right now.”
I could feel my cheeks blushing with embarrassment as Ian shook his head with an uncomfortable snicker.
“Seriously, what’s wrong with you?” Jerry insisted.
“Oh, where do I even begin?” said Gwen, sauntering through the shop doors. “I mean, just look at him. There’s a whole variety of possibilities. I’ll take CLOTHES for 200, Alex.”
“Here we go.” Ian and I both deflated.
“Let’s start with why Ian always looks like he raided the costume department on a Tim Burton set?”
“Hey, I like it,” I said. “He’s well kempt, doesn’t blend in with everybody, and the look is iconically his. It’s rare to see someone marching to the beat of their own drum without looking like they’re trying too hard. It’s plainly evident to anyone paying attention when a person is doing all they can to stand out, verses someone like Ian who is perfectly and effortlessly unique.”
“Well put,” Jerry complimented. He motioned to me as he looked at Ian again, mouthing the word, “Keeper.”
“Okay, then justify his taste in music. Listen to this,” Gwen said, cringing at the sounds of Nick Cave’s “Red Right Hand.”
“What’s wrong with it? It’s Halloween,” said Ian defensively.
“Oh, please. This time of year only gives you an excuse. How much do you want to bet that this song is on your TOP 25 MOST PLAYED list? It’s creepy,” Gwen countered.
“I love this song,” I equally protested.
“Because you’re weird, too. Listen to your ringtone. It oozes creepiness,” she said.
Ian, Jerry, and I all went up in arms.
“Don’t you dare speak such things against Led Zeppelin!” I cautioned. “‘Kashmir’ is one of the greatest instrumental achievements in the history of rock music and its abstract lyrics make it one of the best songs of all time.”
“Bull, I’ve heard better sounds coming out of my cat when it’s hocking up a hairball,” said Gwen.
Just as I was about to unleash hell on her, she smiled ever so slightly. There it was.
“You really enjoy getting a rise out of people, don’t you?”
“You know it,” Gwen replied, flipping through some albums near the register.
“What exactly is that?” asked Jerry, eying Gwen warily as if she were an extraterrestrial life form.
“You know how they say everyone has baggage they bring into a relationship? Well, with Cassie came that,” Ian said, cocking his head in Gwen’s direction. “Louis Vuitton’s entire luggage department.”
“I heard that,” Gwen remarked.
“You were supposed to,” Ian chirped back.
“I must say, I’m surprised you actually know the name of a designer,” she countered.
“Well, you only talk about garbage like that all day long, in between your crush of the week and the next tactical plan of action to attack Stacy. I was bound to pick up something through your yammering.”
“Hey, my yammering is going to prove useful to you one day, when you finally decide to let me give you a makeover.”
“Yeah, because it’s my dream for you to dress me like a Ken doll. Then after my IQ drops about twenty points, I’ll finally fit in with my peers by saying, ‘Seriously, dude,’ every other sentence,” said Ian.
“It wouldn’t kill you to be normal.”
“Maybe, maybe not. I’ve never tried.”
“You know, you’re not a bad lookin’ guy,” said Gwen. “With a little help, you just might be dating material.”
“A little help?”
“Okay, a lot. I was trying to be nice, but still.”
“Leave him be,” I finally said. “The world is better off with one less humdrum wannabe trying to submit to the imposed hierarchy of high school.”
“Thank you,” said Ian cheerfully. “At least some people actually value individuality.”
“Coming from a magician who looks like he stepped out of a Vaudeville show? Yeah, you lose all credibility to us humdrums,” remarked Gwen.
“You just don’t appreciate our art,” said Ian.
“The art of what? Dressing in fashions that outstayed their welcome by a good century and pulling coins out from behind people’s ears? Oh, yes, you’re comparable to Van Gough,” mocked Gwen.
“Spoken like a true, over-worldly individual,” Ian responded, grabbing a red linen cloth off the counter. “As children, our virtue grants us the ability to have faith in the supernatural. As we get older though, and the secrets of Santa Claus and the tooth fairy are revealed, our innocence is lost and we find ourselves less captivated by life’s wonders. It is our pleasure as magicians to grant skeptics the chance to be fascinated, even if just for a moment.”
Ian rolled up his sleeves and draped the cloth over
his bare left hand. He slowly lifted the fabric and then whisked it away in a swift motion, revealing the unexpected appearance of a single, long-stemmed red rose in his grasp.
Handing it to me with a beaming smile, he said, “It’s in those moments that we return one’s virtue, and hopefully leave them with the rare occasion of true enchantment.”
“How did you-” I started.
Ian covered his mouth with his pointer finger.
“A good magician never gives up his secrets,” said Jerry, equally spellbound.
“Seriously, where did the flower come from?” said Gwen, going up to Ian and inconclusively patting down his arms and torso. “Did you say you’re a magician, or a wizard?”
“Despite your surly demeanor, I’ve made you into a believer,” said Ian satisfyingly.
“Yeah, into believing that your dark powers really may have killed Archibald.”
“I thought you were supposed to be on a hot-manhunt,” I said to Gwen.
“Jeff isn’t gonna be here until after five. He’s playing a pick-up game with some of the other basketball players at the park.”
“What time do you want to head back to school?” I asked.
“Party starts at six,” Gwen replied. “We’ll leave around a half past five so that we can swing by our houses to grab our stuff.”
“How on earth you convinced Cassie to go to a girls’ lock-in is beyond me,” chuckled Ian.
“What? It’ll be fun,” said Gwen.
“Yeah, because I can’t think of anything better than to be held prisoner all night inside the hellhole that I can only wait to get out of during normal hours every other day of the week,” remarked Ian. “And I’m not sure if you’ve noticed or not, but Cassie’s not exactly your run-of-the-mill material girl who loves hanging out with a bunch of giddy cheerleaders obsessing over hair, makeup, and guys.”
Divine Vices Page 5
