It Girl

by Nic Tatano

  "How much?"

  "A little over forty thousand. Just enough to pay for her last year. Anyway, Richie, our manager, started passing the hat among the regular customers, trying to raise money for me. I appreciated the gesture but I knew he'd never come close to getting that kind of cash. Until this morning."

  "What happened?"

  "I got a call from the university. It seems that some anonymous person paid her tuition, room and board, everything. Someone basically funded a full scholarship with the stipulation that my daughter receive it. And then when Richie opened the door to the restaurant, he found this." She pulled an envelope from a nearby table and held it up. "It had my name on it, and inside was a lot of money. Fourteen thousand dollars." She started to tear up, but this time they were tears of joy.

  "Wow. Fourteen thousand? That's a pretty odd amount."

  "I thought so too, until I found out there's a federal gift tax for anything over fourteen thousand. Whoever did this even knew the tax law. If they'd put one more dollar in the envelope the whole thing would be taxable. And that's why they set up the scholarship."

  "That's incredible. Do you have any idea who your benefactor might be?"

  "The University won't tell me. Apparently that was a stipulation." She shook her head as she wiped her eyes. "Our regular customers are pretty blue collar, they don't have that kind of money." Then she turned and looked directly into the camera. "I just wish I knew who it was so I could thank them."

  "Elizabeth, I think you did just that."

  And I had a pretty good idea about the identity of the guardian angel.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  In the game of "tit for tat" between me and Dexter (I'll let you guess who has what) I thought he'd successfully ended the game with my little comment about his perfect face and body. I mean, you can't un-ring that bell.

  And then Savannah came to the rescue.

  The game is on again.

  Monday is the recap/elimination half hour show, the moment of truth when one couple lives to dance again while the other is returned to the D-list. Or in my case, back to my coffin. Since the latter is definitely a possibility after our Saturday wearable food sampler, I wanted to play my card and assure myself of getting the last word.

  But first there was an unanswered question that had been bugging me.

  Was Dexter Bishop the "mystery tipper" who bailed out the waitress? He hadn't wanted any publicity on the swimming pool story … was he an old school philanthropist who did charitable works in private?

  Inquiring minds wanna know.

  But inquiring minds are confused. How could someone so totally obnoxious do something so nice? Was the part he played on television really the polar opposite of his real self?

  And had I lost the ability to determine if a man was truly a nice guy?

  Still, I was thinking the odds were good that he was the big tipper. I mean, my recollection of the clientele in that restaurant told me it was unlikely that it was anyone else, though it could be the owner of the place. But there weren't a lot of people in the category of those who can drop fifty-four thousand dollars as a tip for a twenty dollar breakfast.

  Dexter was shuffling through some note cards as I approached him. He looked up and forced a smile. "Well, you certainly look … clean."

  "Cute," I said. I gently took his forearm. "I need to ask you something personal." I nodded in the direction of his lapel microphone and he put his thumb over it.

  "Certainly."

  "Did you see my story about the waitress who served us on Saturday?"

  He nodded. "Yes, as a matter of fact I did. Quite a nice happy ending, if I don't say so myself."

  "Uh-huh. So let me ask you this … how many people who eat at that place have pockets deep enough to do that?"

  I was hoping for some hint, some change in facial expression, but got nothing. He shrugged. "It's a busy place with good food. Any number of well-to-do people could have been the benefactor. Just because the food is inexpensive doesn't mean it doesn't have wealthy patrons. I eat there all the time."

  Time for a reporter's trick. I leaned forward and dropped my voice. "I know it was you, Dexter. You left a clue in that envelope."

  His eyes widened.

  Gotcha.

  His expression quickly went back to normal. "Why, Miss Summer, you are obviously mistaken."

  "Uh-huh."

  He took his thumb off the microphone.

  "I'm not done," I said, as I put my finger over it. I looked around to make sure no one was in earshot. "It was nice to hear from Savannah you think I'm the most beautiful woman you've ever had on your show. And the smartest."

  ***

  I was going to spend the rest of the evening basking in the afterglow of getting the upper hand.

  But noooooo. Not thirty seconds had elapsed when the fingernails ran across the blackboard.

  "So, you're a prime time star now?"

  The voice that had been my Kryptonite growing up brought my joy to a screeching halt. I turned to see the smiling face of my evil-bitch-from-hell sister Selina in the front row of the audience.

  My eyes narrowed and jaw clenched as I practically spit my words at her in a guttural tone. "What are you doing here?"

  "Hey, my sister's a network anchor and on the hottest nighttime show. I came to watch."

  "Bull. You came because you wanted something."

  I have avoided mentioning my sister to this point because I didn't want to subject you to her story but I guess now that she's shown up it's inevitable.

  Selina is a year younger than me, and she's been nipping at my heels literally and figuratively since she was born. She has the same hair and eye color as I do, though she's a bit shorter and has more of a classic hourglass figure. Actually, you might say there's more sand in the top half, which she added to a few years ago with implants, making one wonder if said hourglass is in imminent danger of tipping over.

  She morphed from annoying little sister to full blown nemesis when she arrived in high school. Not content to simply find her own boyfriends, she took great pleasure in stealing mine, which she did with great ease since I was the proverbial "nice girl" in school. Selina, on the other hand, basically earned a letter from the football team in the form of kneepads as she was known as the "head cheerleader" even though she was a rookie on the pompom squad. You get the picture. And, of course, she had to attend the same college as I did, majoring in sex while continuing to target my dates. If there was a degree for being a party girl, she'd have a PhD.

  We went our separate ways after college. She ended up with a most appropriate career in a perfectly named town; as a massage therapist in Babylon, New York. She's highly sought after for her rubdowns, though I'm sure her definition of "trigger point" is a little different from that of the average masseuse.

  I had enjoyed three bliss filled years without even hearing from the little tramp. I wanted three more.

  "I don't want anything," she said. "I came to support my sister."

  "I don't suppose it has anything to do with the fact that I'm on a show with a bunch of great looking men."

  "Sweetie, I've grown up. I'm not like that anymore."

  "Uh-huh. So you're settled down with a husband and a bunch of kids?"

  She shook her head and wrinkled her face, as I'd hit her with the one thing that made her cringe: the thought of being pregnant, changing a diaper and sleeping with the same guy more than once. "Hell, no. I haven't changed that much."

  "So, who do we have here?" I heard Bradley's voice from behind me.

  "This is my sister, Selina," I said, folding my arms as he arrived at my side.

  "Well, I can certainly see good looks runs in the family," he said, his eyes running down her body and stopping about three quarters of the way up.

  "Why thank you," she said, giving him the once-over, same as she did in high school, stopping halfway up. "So, you're my sister's partner."

  He nodded. "Yep. She's doing really well. D
o you live in Manhattan?"

  "Long Island," she said, reaching into her purse and pulling out a business card. "I'm a massage therapist." She handed it to him. "I would imagine in your line of work those big muscles of yours get pretty tight and you need a way to relieve the tension."

  "Yeah," said Bradley. "I usually get a massage about once every two weeks."

  "Well, since you're helping my sister, I'd be happy to provide you with the first one free. My company has a franchise here in the city and I can use the facilities."

  "Hey, free massage," said Bradley. "Can't turn that down."

  "I promise not to rub you the wrong way," she said, running her tongue over her lips.

  I threw my arms up. "Okay, that's it, time to go!" I said, grabbing Bradley's arm and heading toward the dressing room. I looked over my shoulder to shoot a glare at her just in time to see her mouth "call me" at Bradley, who was walking backwards, eyes locked on her.

  "Good to meet you," he said, as I pulled him along. He turned and faced the direction in which I was headed. "She seems nice."

  "Throw a bucket of water on her, and she'll melt."

  ***

  After what seemed to be an endless recap of the previous week's dances, I was at the end of my rope. I couldn't believe I was so nervous about the outcome of the vote.

  But I really couldn't believe I cared.

  All of a sudden I wanted to stick around. And not necessarily because I wanted to avoid the vampire shift and spend more time with Bradley.

  As previously mentioned, the It Girl doesn't like to lose.

  I didn't expect to win the silver disco ball, but I didn't want to be the first person voted off. Unfortunately, it was out of my control as Bradley took my sweaty hand and led me out to the front of the stage during the last commercial break. We stopped about ten feet in front of the judges, standing alongside the ice skater and her partner.

  Bradley leaned over and whispered in my ear. "Relax. There's no way they're voting you off, right?"

  "I think," I said, as the commercial ended and we went live.

  The theme music played as Dexter welcomed the audience back. "And now, the moment of truth. Which couple will be headed home? Brian and Janice, or Bradley and Veronica? It's time to tally the votes!"

  A graphic filled the lower part of the monitor looking a great deal like the network's election system. Zeroes were next to our names, and then the numbers began to climb very fast.

  Then they stopped and my heart sank.

  A collective groan came from the audience as Dexter looked at me. "Oh, I'm sorry Bradley and Veronica, but it's time to say goodbye. The audience has spoken." He shot me a wicked grin. "Veronica, I trust you've had a good time."

  I forced a smile through my disappointment. "Absolutely, Dexter. Everyone has been wonderful, and I couldn't ask for a better partner than Bradley. It's been a unique experience. And I'm very happy to have raised a few bucks for the veterans."

  "Yes, very good. Glad you enjoyed it. So Brian and Janice, you two will—" Dexter stopped mid sentence and put his finger to his earpiece. "I'm sorry, my producer … hold on a moment … I'm being told that there's been a computer error. Oh, my! The vote totals were reversed! Bradley and Veronica, you're staying for another week! I do so apologize to both couples. And I'm sorry that we have to say goodbye to Brian and Janice. But we're out of time, so tune in tomorrow night for our next round!"

  My heart leaped as I saw the ice-skater's face drop like a stone. I turned and gave Bradley a big hug as the credits rolled.

  "And … we're clear!" said the floor director.

  I broke the embrace with Bradley and turned to face Dexter.

  Just as he shot me a wink.

  Sonofabitch.

  There was no computer error.

  He planned the whole thing just to torture me.

  The man is sure one confusing guardian angel.

  ***

  So here I was again having changed in a flash only to find out Dexter had bolted from the studio. I stormed out the back door of the studio, not wanting all the viewers who were camped out in front of the building to see me.

  "So. You do care about winning."

  I turned to find Dexter leaning up against the brick wall like Humphrey Bogart in an old movie, complete with steam rising up out of a manhole. All he needed was a cigarette, a fedora and a trench coat. I narrowed my eyes and marched toward him. "You sonofabitch!"

  "Well, that certainly translates well in both countries. No need for a primer with that one."

  I stopped a few inches from him. "How dare you do that … that…"

  "What? How dare I do what?"

  I slapped his chest with my palms, shoving him back a step. "Auuuugh! You're impossible!"

  "Actually, I'm quite predictable. I simply needed to know if you actually cared about the contest. And I got my answer."

  "You got nothing!"

  "Oh, let's go down the checklist … after you were voted off I got the quivering lips, the misty eyes, the little wobble in your voice. If I'm not mistaken that's not the way you usually act when you anchor the morning show. You looked like someone had run over your dog. The viewers were about to go through a box of tissues for poor little Veronica who had been wronged by that horrible Englishman. Made for quite a good bit of drama, yes?"

  "You played with my emotions on national television!"

  "Ah, so you did feel some emotion when you lost!"

  "I didn't say that! Stop putting words in my mouth!"

  "Don't like it when people play reporter's tricks on you, do you?"

  Damn, he had me. I exhaled audibly, having run out of gas. "I wouldn't have to if people would be honest with me. If you'd simply told me that you were the mystery tipper in the restaurant—"

  "What, you would have said that you cared about winning the contest?"

  Damn, he had me again. That's my job, talking people into a corner. "Maybe … I don't know … we should call a truce."

  “A truce? My dear, did you forget? We already tried that, and this is too much fun.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  The lambada went so well in episode two (gee, I wonder why) that we got good scores from the judges and escaped the dreaded elimination vote. After the two female judges gave us eights, Dexter gave us a six, eliciting groans from the audience but probably elevating my standing with the viewers should I end up in the bottom two again.

  Which I was determined not to do.

  Dexter Bishop was not going to beat me. Which meant one thing.

  I was gonna have to win the damn contest.

  But right now Dexter was not occupying my mind, Bradley was. And after a week doing the forbidden dance, I was hoping I was in his mind as well. Turns out I didn't have to wonder for long as he emerged from the dressing room. "Are you up for doing something?" he asked.

  "Sure, I'm still wired. What have you got in mind?"

  "Maybe something not involving a cat."

  I hooked my arm around his elbow, resting my hand on his forearm. "So, where do you live?"

  "Jersey shore, but the show provides us with a hotel room during the week so we don't have to commute. I'm over at the Briarwood."

  "Nice place. I'm surprised Dexter doesn't stick you at the YMCA."

  We decided to walk, as it was only two blocks. But, just to keep the gossip columnists at bay we split up after signing autographs for the fans who were waiting in front of the studio, making sure our "see you tomorrow" goodbyes left no doubt that we were not an item. I went left, he went right. Of course no sooner had he taken off than I got surrounded by another horde of autograph seekers, so I was going to be a few minutes behind.

  Ten minutes later I walked into the opulent hotel lobby. The Briarwood is classic old New York: gorgeous Italian marble floors, mahogany pillars and leather paneled walls. The bellhops are dressed in those old fashioned red uniforms with hats that in my opinion make them look like they're roadies for Devo, while the maids are a
ctually famous for being hot and wearing French maid costumes. Supposedly the girls make six figures in tips. Then there's the famous bar that sits opposite the front desk, which used to be a meeting place for actors back in the fifties.

  There was a definite spring in my step as I headed toward the elevators, Bradley's room number burned into my brain. Surely he was already tucked in, ready to go.

  And then I heard his voice from the bar. "Hey, look who I ran into."

  I turned to see him standing at the edge of the bar.

  Next to my sister.

  If I was a cartoon at that moment, steam would have been visible coming out of my ears. Selina was busy twirling a lock of her hair while sipping a glass of wine as I power-walked across the lobby. I glared at her as she swung around on her barstool to face me and flashed her phony smile. "Oh, hey sis."

  "Selina was at the bar when I got here," said Bradley, not looking at me since he was too preoccupied staring at her legs, which were accessorized by what had to be five inch platforms and a tight, short leather skirt.

  "Wow, what a coincidence," I said, trying to bore a hole through my sister with my glare.

  "I heard this was a nice place for a drink," she said. "Then who should walk up but your dance partner!" She playfully ran one long red fingernail down his chest. "And he's such a gentleman! I can certainly see why you wanted him for the contest."

  "Uh-huh," I said. Bradley's eyes had moved from her legs to her incredibly low cut top.

  "Anyhoo," she said, looking at me as she hopped off the stool and finished her wine. "I don't want to be a third wheel as I'm sure you two need to go over your dance routines. I'm sure he can move those hips in any number of ways." She turned back to Bradley, then gave him a pat on the side of his leg. "See you tomorrow."

  "Looking forward to it," he said, still obviously drooling over her.

  She leaned forward and gave me an air kiss, which was preferable to the usual, considering where that mouth of hers has been. "Take good care of him, sis." She spun on her heels and turned her walk to the door into a production number, Bradley following it the entire way.