by A. E. Cannon
Here’s the deal. Ali and his girlfriend, the Warrior Princess, throw a huge, very famous party every June 21. They invite everybody they know with the request that all guests bring someone. It’s supposed to be the best party ever. Even T. Monroe, who’s absolutely no fun at all, goes slack-jawed with joy whenever he remembers last year’s party.
So I’ve been invited to Ali’s costume ball because I’m a new employee here at Reel Life. Only I don’t really want to go. Here are my reasons.
First, Ali makes me nervous. I always feel like he’s testing me somehow, and while I don’t think I’ve exactly failed this mysterious test yet, I’m pretty sure I haven’t passed it, either.
Second, I don’t know what to do for a costume.
Third, I can see myself showing up with Quark and finding out that everybody else there really does have a date. Ha! Gotcha again, McIff, they’ll all say.
“Who did you invite, Scout?” I want to know.
“No one yet.” She shrugs, not worried.
“Too bad we can’t take each other to the party,” I joke.
Now here comes the weird part. Scout blushes.
“Sorry if I scared you,” I add in a hurry.
Scout waves this away but doesn’t say anything, which makes me feel even worse. You know things are bad when one of your best friends doesn’t want to be seen in public at a party with you.
I glance over at Ali, who is busy in the other checkout stand entertaining some customers—an older woman with two little girls in pink and orange dresses with paper flowers in their blue-black hair. Ali is full of secret smiles and shifty moves as he performs one of his many magic tricks. This time he asks for the woman’s driver’s license. She hands it over to him and he makes it disappear into thin air.
Poof!
And suddenly he pulls it out from behind one of the little girls’ ears.
The three of them squeal with delight and clap their hands.
“Ali,” Scout says with an admiring grin, “is just the greatest!”
Time flies on a busy summer night at Reel Life when you’re working with Scout. I’m surprised that it’s time for us to take our late-night dinner break.
“Wanna go across the street to Smith’s Marketplace with me?” I ask as we walk out the door together. “I need to buy a Barbie.”
A couple of skaters passing us on their way inside hear me. “Whoa! Did you just hear that?” they say to each other. “The freakin’ dude in the frilly shirt just said he needs to buy himself a freakin’ Barbie.”
Scout blurts out a laugh.
“Hey, losers,” I shout at them over my shoulder, “it’s for my sister, okay?”
Then I explain things to Scout. “I kind of scared the Lovely and Talented tonight before I left the house. The least I can do is buy her a freakin’ Barbie doll.”
Overhead the moon is high and bright.
“You’re a good big brother, Ed,” Scout says as we pick our way across the busy street. “You’re just like my big brother, Ben.”
Ben, who’s nineteen, lives somewhere in the jungles of northern Brazil, dodging big bugs and fish that eat people. He’s serving a two-year mission for the Mormon Church, and even though Scout gets to drive his very fine powder blue ’69 Mustang convertible while he’s gone, she misses him like crazy.
“Moons like this always make me think of Ben,” Scout says. “Sometimes when he sees the moon he repeats the last lines from a poem our mom used to read to us. ‘Hand in hand, on the edge of the sand, they danced by the light of the moon, the moon, the moon. They danced by the light of the moon.’ I wonder if Ben’s figured out how to say that in Portuguese yet.”
“I used to wish on the moon,” I tell Scout. “My dad told me I should wish on a star, but I liked the moon better because it was bigger. I figured that way my wishes had a better chance of coming true.”
Scout laughed. “Guys! Bigger is always better. So what are you wishing for tonight, Ed McIff?”
“Nothing. It doesn’t work, so I don’t bother anymore.”
This is only partially true. Wishing on the moon does NOT work, which I know from direct personal experience. But I do it anyway. Almost every single night. And what I wish for tonight as I set out to buy my sister another freakin’ Barbie doll is that my life weren’t so ordinary. And boring.
I wish that magic would strike and set everything on fire.
So anyway, Scout and I end up buying the Lovely and Talented a new NASCAR Barbie because Barbie is so very liberated these days, she can even drive her own hot pink race car, thank you very much. Then we return to Reel Life, where Ali tells us to shelve DVDs, which is precisely what I’m doing now.
I’m in the foreign film section, wondering why, in fact, anybody would want to sit through a movie they had to read. I put Diva on the shelf.
Someone taps me on the shoulder. “Excuse me. Do you work here?”
If I were braver, I would give this question the answer it so richly deserves: Of course not! I simply enjoy prancing around town in tuxedo pants and a cummerbund for the sheer thrill of it all!
One thing you learn real fast when you enter the work force and start dealing with the American public is just how many people there are who CANNOT WAIT TO ASK YOU A STUPID QUESTION.
“Yes,” I answer politely as I tuck another DVD back onto the shelf. Then I turn around to face the asker of the stupid question.
And discover standing before me a goddess on a seashell, just like in that old Italian painting.
Okay. Maybe she doesn’t look exactly like Aphrodite shooting the curl on a half shell. For one thing, the girl standing in front of me this very minute isn’t naked.
Trust me. I would notice if she were.
She is, however, the closest thing I have seen to a Greek goddess in the city of Salt Lake. Here is a short descriptive list:
Blond of hair.
Brown of eye.
Full of lip.
Smooth of skin.
Long of leg.
You just look at this girl and think she’s so much higher up on the food chain than you are that the two of you don’t even belong to the same species. And for the record, this is exactly the kind of girl who is never interested in dorks wearing red cummerbunds. Dorks like me, for example.
She flashes me a dazzling smile (her teeth, I’m sure you’ll be thrilled to learn, are white and even, not unlike a strand of fine pearls). Then, looking at my name tag, she says, “You’re Sergio? What a very cool name!”
My heart begins to pound beneath my frilly white shirt. Here it is. Magic striking. My big break. I’ve been discovered. YES!!
“Yes. Indeed,” I say, barely believing what I hear coming out of my own mouth. “That would be me. I am Sergio. Sergio Mendes.”
Behind me, Scout drops a load of DVDs, which clatter to the floor. Meanwhile, I wonder what tiny corner of my brain the name “Mendes” came from. I have to admit it does have a vaguely familiar ring.
“Wow!” the Amazingly Beautiful Girl says, and I can tell that she’s interested. In me! “Sergio Mendes. Are you from somewhere besides Salt Lake City originally?”
I can feel Scout’s eyeballs boring tiny little holes into my back.
“Yes,” I say muy brightly, marveling how easy it is to tell this girl lies. “I am from Brazil originally.”
Scout sounds the way my dad did that time he nearly choked on a pastrami Big H burger at Hires Restaurant, and Jim, the manager, had to perform the Heimlich maneuver on him.
The Beautiful Girl looks past me and focuses on Scout, concern written across her face. “Are you all right?” she asks Scout.
“I’m fine,” Scout says.
“You’re sure?”
Scout nods, her face still red.
“Well, okay then,” the Beautiful Girl says, still looking at Scout. She pauses, searching for something to say. “Isn’t it great that Sergio here is from Brazil? He’s all the way from Brazil, but he speaks English like a native!”
“Like a pure native,” Scout agrees. “I’ll bet he speaks Brazilian like a pure native, too.” Scout sounds a little too snide. Is she going to blow my cover?
“Brazilian?” The Beautiful Girl gives this some serious thought. “Well, you’re probably right.”
Scout snorts and starts picking up DVDs.
The Beautiful Girl turns her attention back to me and wraps her long arms around herself as she sighs dreamily. “I’ve never been anywhere. Just living here in Salt Lake with my aunt Mary this summer is such a huge big deal for me. And I really love it here, you guys. Honest! The mountains turn blue just before the sun goes down. At home the hills are red. Always red.”
“Where’s home?” I (the socially appropriate Sergio) ask.
“Santa Clara in southern Utah,” she answers. “Right next to St. George.”
“Hey, I’ve been to St. George!” I say excitedly. And then it occurs to me that I’m sounding just like that geek Ed McIff, who’s been to St. George, instead of Sergio, who has coolly frolicked with nude princesses in Monaco.
“Yes,” snipes Scout. “He stopped there for gas on his way home to Brazil once.”
“Brazil.” The Beautiful Girl breathes the word like it’s a magic spell. Then she says, “My name is Ellie, by the way. Ellie Fenn. Pleased to meet you both.”
“I’m Scout Arrington.” Scout sounds all grumpy, like she’s being forced against her will to hand over her name to the authorities.
“And I’m…Sergio,” I remind everyone. Including myself.
“Sergio and Scout. Scout and Sergio,” Ellie sings.
Is it just my imagination or does she linger (lovingly!) over the “o” part of my brand-new name?
“You’re my first friends in Salt Lake City.” Ellie smiles.
“Are my people helping you find everything you need?” Ali asks her. He has mysteriously materialized, casting a shadow over the three of us, not unlike one of those big balloons you see in the Macy’s Thanksgiving Day Parade on TV.
Ellie links her arms through mine and Scout’s. “Yes, thank you. The service here is excellent.” She shoots Ali a wink.
Possibly Ali winks back. It’s hard to tell because of the sunglasses. He does, however, give her a wide gleaming smile.
Scout’s Take
He stormed through the vicarage door just as she finished writing the letter. And in spite of the fact that she was seething with white-hot anger, Clarissa could not help but notice what a fine figure of a man Lord Devlin still cut in his riding breeches and mud-splattered Hessian boots.
I snap shut my book and fling it hard across my bedroom so that it crashes into the collection of dusty soccer trophies on my dresser.
As I flop back against my pillow, it occurs to me that I would have to do VERY serious harm to the person who discovered that I am sitting in bed in the middle of the night reading a (yikes!) Regency romance. I would have to blindfold and gag that person, then also interrogate him in a cheap motel room beneath a single naked lightbulb—just to see if he told anybody at school that I actually read books with titles like Lord Devlin Decides.
And then I would have to kill him anyway.
I would have to stuff his body in the trunk of my brother Ben’s Mustang and dump his body in the Great Salt Lake just to make sure that NO ONE ever found out that Scout Arrington (West High School literary magazine editor and all-state soccer player) is a closet romance reader.
So that’s my deep dark secret. Are you shocked?
I started reading Regencies during my Jane Austen phase in the eighth grade. I loved her novels so much that I started looking for similar books to satisfy my cravings between readings of Austen. And I found them.
Sort of.
I mean the stories are set in early nineteenth-century England, just like Pride and Prejudice. The heroes (who—please see the above quotation—wear Hessian boots) are proud and arrogant like Mr. Darcy. And the heroines (who wear muslin) are spirited and intelligent like Elizabeth Bennet.
But that’s pretty much where the similarities end.
Jane Austen was a genius, okay? Her prose is polished and precise, which isn’t really something you can say about the prose in Lord Devlin Decides.
There’s another difference, though. A very BIG difference.
When you read Pride and Prejudice, you understand Darcy and Elizabeth are probably lusting after each other in a very polite, well-bred sort of way. Their nostrils may even flare with white-hot emotion, but you don’t actually get to hear them pant.
This does NOT happen to be true of Regencies written nowadays, and if you want to know what I’m talking about THEN GO READ ONE FOR YOURSELF AND SHARE MY SECRET SHAME (suggested titles: The Devil’s Dues, Reforming the Rake, My Lady Lucifer, and The Bluestocking’s Ball).
“Scoutie?” My dad, who has obviously heard the clatter of random soccer trophies, calls sleepily down the hall to me. “Are you okay, sweetheart?”
“Sorry I woke you up,” I call back. “I’m fine.”
And I am fine. I am always fine. Fine, fine, fine, fine. I am Scout Arrington, who is levelheaded and practical and REALLY hardworking and always amazingly, reliably fine.
My only problem at the moment is that Clarissa, the heroine of Lord Devlin Decides, reminds me of this girl who came into work tonight, which is why I chucked the stupid book across my bedroom.
Let me tell you about this girl.
She had long, shining yellow hair like Clarissa’s (whereas my long, dark hair is coarse and naturally curly).
She had a softly rounded figure like Clarissa’s (whereas I am lean and muscular—and also flat).
She had a charming smile and a pleasing laugh (whereas I have to be honest here and say I have no idea if my smile is charming and if my laugh pleases).
Unlike Clarissa, however, this girl was as dumb as rocks! I know this because she didn’t even crack a smile when I made my stupid little joke about Ed (otherwise known as Sergio) speaking “Brazilian” like a native.
Brazilian? Give me a break!
Ed, however, did not seem to notice her lack of an intelligent response. Or maybe he just didn’t care. Girls like Ellie seem to have that effect on guys like Ed. On guys period.
Ed.
Ed McIff.
We’ve been pals since we met as freshmen at West High School. I thought he was funny and creative and nice, in spite of the fact he can be pretty sarcastic at times. Especially about himself. What I like best about him, though, is that he’s easy to be with. You can talk to him or not talk to him and it’s all good. He makes you feel comfortable in your skin.
So that’s the way it’s been with us, until last fall when he came to one of my soccer games. We were playing the number-one team in our region, and we surprised everybody by keeping the game tied until I scored a goal just before the final whistle.
Well, Ed just went crazy! He leaped out of the bleachers and raced onto the field where he hugged me hard. Then he lifted me off my feet, swung me around, looked me straight in the eyes, and said with another squeeze that took my breath away, “You are the greatest, Scout Arrington!”
So there we were—our faces inches apart, the October sun shining bright through his light brown hair—and suddenly I realized that I had a huge, big old thing for this guy, this friend who was holding me tight against his chest.
Later that night he showed up at my house with a bumper sticker for me: GIRLS RULE!
So. How do I love Ed? Let me count the ways.
I love the slow, lazy way he shuffles when he walks and the way he folds his arms across his chest when he listens (okay, technically counts as two ways).
I love the way he laughs. His eyes crinkle up—especially the left one—and it is just so CUTE.
I love how he comes up with goofy ideas about the movies he wants to make.
I love the way he takes something as ordinary as wishing on a star and turns it into something magic—like wishing on the moon.
I love how he smells. Is that weird? But I do. He smells like soap.
I love the way he smiles.
Especially the way he smiles.
I keep this information strictly confidential, however. He doesn’t like me the same way I like him. Obviously. And it would probably embarrass him to know how I really feel. He might start avoiding me even, which means we would stop talking and then we wouldn’t be friends anymore.
I would hate it if we couldn’t be friends.
I sigh, roll out of bed, walk across the moonlit floor to pick up my trophies and retrieve my novel, while wondering (in spite of myself) what Ed would look like in Lord Devlin’s mud-splattered Hessian boots.
The Letter Ellie Wrote
Dear Mom and Grandma,
Me here! Just a quick note to tell you how truly great things are going in Salt Lake City! My new voice teacher (Mr. Ballin) is the best, and I know I’ll be making more progress than we could have ever hoped for or even imagined! Thank you so so so so much for making this summer possible, Mom. I know how hard you work checking groceries at Lin’s. Thinking of you there, always smiling and hardly ever complaining no matter how much your feet hurt, makes me want to do my best.
I promise I will not disappoint you.
I’m practicing hard every day, but I’m having loads of fun, too! Your baby sister, Mary, spoils me rotten, and so does her boyfriend, Rick, who is this truly amazing cook. Last night he made us breadsticks with this yummy dipping sauce, and I ate until I made myself sick. (See? I even have my appetite back.)
I’ve made a couple friends, too. Their names are Scout (she’s a girl, actually) and Sergio! Get this: Sergio is all the way from Brazil, but he speaks English without a trace of an accent. Maybe he’s been here since he was a baby. I’ll have to ask him. Scout is really nice too, but maybe a little naïve. She told me that Sergio speaks “Brazilian” like a native.
Brazilian. Not Portuguese. See what I mean?
I didn’t correct her, because I didn’t want to embarrass her. I know how it feels to be embarrassed.
