Oh Yeah, Audrey! Page 11

  It’s after ten. I need to text Bryan and Trina, so I write: You won’t believe where I am. I tap the camera button and try to frame a shot of the room, but I can’t capture it all in one frame.

  Derek Blackbird taps me on the shoulder. He’s shaking his finger at me. “No phones. And especially no pictures!”

  “Sorry,” I say, putting my phone into my bag.

  “Did you erase it?”

  “What?”

  “I need to see you erase it. I’m sorry.”

  I take my phone out and erase the photo. I’m half-embarrassed, half-annoyed. Maybe a little bit more embarrassed than annoyed.

  Dusty skips over to me. He picks up my glass, takes a sip, and hands it to me. I sip, too, finishing it. He takes my hands and backs his way to the center of the ring, bringing me along with him.

  And we dance.

  10:30 P.M.

  I climb back down the ladder out of the water tower, carefully hiking my skirt over my knees and balancing on the rungs in my strappy slingbacks. The ten thousand dollars’ worth of jersey squeezes my chest, pressing the air out of my lungs. I can’t fall. I can’t tear this dress. But I need to hurry.

  The ladder rungs feel sturdy, except for the second to last, which wobbles under my foot. I make it down safely, and so does the dress. I smooth out the skirt and exhale, relieved.

  Dusty sticks his head out of the opening at the top of the ladder. “I’ll be right there. I just need to tip the music guys.”

  I walk to the edge of the roof and look down onto the traffic below. Yellow taxis and black town cars crawl by on the street in bursts of speed, then abrupt halts. I wonder where they’re all going.

  A breeze blows through the buildings and across my shoulders. I shiver and I inhale, and it feels good. This is what it’s like to be in New York. To belong in New York. This is how Holly felt.

  My phone vibrates. It’s a text from my father: Where are you? You said you’d call.

  I’m not sure how to answer, so I don’t.

  Instead, I send a text to Bryan. New York is so magical.

  We miss you.

  I’m sorry. I promise I’ll be there soon.

  OK, Gemma. We are going to leave here at 11. Do you want to meet us at the Ziegfeld?

  No, I’ll meet you at the hotel.

  Back down at the car, I slide into the seat next to Dusty. He leans over, like he might kiss me, but I turn my head and look out the window, pretending not to see.

  “Mind if we make one more stop before I take you back?” he asks, leaning back into his seat. “There’s a place you just have to see.”

  I’m so tempted. Everything he’s shown me tonight has been so magical. Unlike anything I’ve ever experienced before.

  “I wish there was more time, but I promised my friends I’d be back right after dinner.”

  “You’ve already broken that promise,” Dusty says, pointing at his watch. I don’t like the way it sounds, like he’s accusing me.

  “But that’s because—”

  “Besides, how close friends are they really? Didn’t you just meet them, like, today?”

  I just look out the window.

  “Aren’t you having fun?” he says.

  “Of course I am,” I say, and I mean it. Dusty’s completely charming. New York is dazzling. I’m in a dress that belonged to Audrey Hepburn, out on the town with an impossibly handsome, ridiculously rich guy. The kind of guy everyone in the world tells you is perfect. But I feel conflicted.

  “You won’t believe this place,” Dusty says. “You’re going to love it.”

  “Can you take me to the Ziegfeld right afterward?”

  “This is the last stop, I promise,” he says. He takes my hand, palm up, and kisses the inside of my wrist. His gray eyes crinkle into a smile and bore into mine. He is irresistible. “Say yes?”

  I don’t say yes. I don’t say anything, but we both know that doesn’t mean no.

  Dusty takes out his phone.

  “Hey, Franco! It’s Dusty.”

  11:00 P.M.

  Are you sure this is it?” I say when the cab stops. We’ve pulled up to what looks like a dingy warehouse, with no streetlights or businesses anywhere around.

  “Yes,” he says. “It’s right around the corner.” He takes my hand and helps me out of the cab. He hands the driver a twenty and we walk. There’s a doorway with a single lightbulb hanging over it and a tall, bald doorman in platform shoes and huge fake eyelashes standing out front. At least I think it’s a man. A line of people is pressed up against the building waiting to get in. It snakes all the way down the street, with cigarette smoke hanging over it like a fog.

  Dusty leads me to the front of the line and whispers something to the doorman. The doorman steps aside and Dusty nudges me forward. “Franco, this is Holly,” he says.

  “Charmed,” Franco says dully. He pushes open the door, and loud, thumping music spills out into the street. Dusty leads me inside.

  “Where are we?” I yell over the loud music.

  “Boîte!”

  “What?” I yell back.

  “Boîte! It means ‘box’ in French! As in, look at all these people stuffed into this box! Can you believe it’s in this neighborhood?”

  Actually, I have no idea what neighborhood we’re in. And it’s hardly a box. It’s a large room with a big square dance floor in the middle, surrounded by high walls with balconies overlooking the floor. The balconies are filled with people hanging their feet over the edge, swinging to the loud, throbbing dance music. A small stage stands at the front of the room, with a spotlight on it but no one there. As my eyes adjust to the light, flashing with colors and strobes, I can only see heads and shoulders and torsos bouncing up and down throughout the room.

  I feel awkward. This dress does not belong in this club.

  “Come on, Holly!” Dusty yells. “Don’t you like to dance?”

  That’s all the warning I have before he drags me into the middle of the dance floor, bouncing as he goes. It’s uncomfortable in the middle of the crowd, and I keep getting bumped and jostled as I look around, spinning gawkily in my slingbacks.

  There must be hundreds of people here, so many more than at the last party, and they’re spinning and swaying and posing. A huge mirror ball hangs directly above Dusty and me, sending beams of glittery light in every direction. There’s no room to actually dance, of course, but I try to keep moving with Dusty while I stare at the people around me. There are guys in full makeup and platform shoes. Girls in tight jeans and tank tops. A guy in a top hat and tails. A pair of girls in matching satin bubble skirts with slick spit curls of hair pasted to their foreheads. Someone wearing a lizard mask. A woman with a feather boa around her head. Or is it his head?

  The song morphs into another song, and Dusty stops dancing. “Let’s get a drink!” he yells, and we bounce over to the bar.

  We have a moment to breathe. Dusty orders himself a vodka tonic and one for me, too. I hate the taste of it, so I pretend to drink. Dusty downs his and orders another. I can’t believe how easy it is to get a drink. I can’t believe we’re here in the first place. No one even asked us for ID.

  I check my phone. There’s a text from Telly. We’re heading to the Ziegfeld.

  My stomach jumps. They’re on their way to the main event, the whole point of this weekend, this weekend I’ve been looking forward to forever, and they’re going without me. The flashing lights and the crushing crowd and the music swirl around me, but all I can think of is my friends waiting for me.

  I show Dusty the text.

  “Don’t worry,” he says. “I’ll get you to the theater in time. I promise.”

  I believe him.

  I text Telly back. I’ll be there.

  I hope it’s true.

  11:20 P.M.

  The man in the top hat and tails steps into the spotlight. “Ladies and gentlemen!” he announces.

  “Showtime!” Dusty says. “Come on.” He grabs my wrist and pushes
through the crowd to the back of the room, where a velvet rope hangs in front of a doorway. A large, muscular man in a sailor hat stands next to it.

  “Is this VIP?” Dusty asks the man.

  “You are . . . ?”

  “Are you kidding?” Dusty says.

  “No,” the burly man says.

  “Dusty Sant’Angelo,” Dusty says.

  The man unclips the velvet rope.

  “Idiot,” Dusty mutters.

  “Huh?” I say.

  “Not you,” he says. “You’re perfect.” We slip through past the bouncer and up the stairs.

  We sit on the edge of the balcony that surrounds the dance floor, our arms draped over the lower rung of the railing. I take off my shoes so they don’t land on someone underneath us. We have a perfect view of the stage from up here. Dusty puts his arm around my shoulder and says the magic words: “You’re enchanting.”

  His slate-gray eyes are smiling at the same time, and I am amazed, again, by his beauty.

  Enchanted.

  I inhale but don’t answer. I look down onto the crowd.

  He leans toward me, his lips so close I can feel them graze my ear. “Gem,” he whispers.

  I turn to him, thinking he’ll pull his head back. But he doesn’t. He’s so close I have to dart my eyes from one of his eyes to the other. Each beautiful, slate-gray eye.

  “Can I kiss you?” he says, or breathes, and I feel his voice on my face.

  I don’t have time to answer. He reaches up, stroking my cheek with his hand.

  “I’ve been thinking about this since I first saw you today,” he whispers. His breath is sweet and warm. “No, even longer than that. I’ve wanted to kiss you since that first night on the phone, Gem.”

  I close my eyes and let myself be swept away.

  11:25 PM

  Please welcome . . . the Licorice Twins!” the man in the top hat booms.

  The pair of women in the bubble skirts emerge from behind the curtain. A ragtime piano song starts, and one woman raises her leg straight up past her shoulder and puts her heel on the other’s shoulder. Then her partner does the same, flashing a wicked look at the audience as she does it. They stand, each on one leg, facing each other, and wiggle their toes, shimmying closer to each other until they look like one long vertical line. Then they both blow huge bubbles with gum, pressing the bubbles into each other so that they distort and move but don’t pop. They bend and contort without breaking their giant bubbles, and the crowd applauds. I’ve never seen anything like it. It’s creepy and beautiful all at the same time.

  I lean over to Dusty. “Do you think they’re handsomely paid?”

  It’s paraphrasing a line that Holly Golightly said to Paul Varjak in Breakfast at Tiffany’s, but Dusty doesn’t get it. Instead he just winks.

  The crowd cheers again. And Dusty whistles.

  I cheer, too.

  11:30 P.M.

  The show ends as quickly as it began.

  I check my phone. There’s a text from Bryan. We’re in row M. Are you coming? it says.

  “I have to go,” I say. I point to my watch. “I have to go now.”

  Dusty turns toward me. “Are you sure?” he says. He leans over and kisses me again.

  11:45 P.M.

  Telly texts. Are you OK? We are worried.

  I don’t answer.

  12:00 MIDNIGHT

  Trina texts. Where the hell are you?

  I don’t answer.

  12:05 A.M.

  My stomach crawls up underneath my throat when I realize that I’ve missed the start of the movie. It’s not a surprise, exactly. Of course I’ve seen this moment coming for a while now. But now it’s here, and I can’t believe it. I can’t believe where I am.

  I’m in the middle of the most exciting date of my life, and I’m furious with myself at the same time. I think of Bryan and Trina snuggled into their chairs at the Ziegfeld, an empty seat between them. It’s a bewildering mixture of feelings, and having them makes me feel dizzy.

  “Let’s get a drink,” Dusty says, and I follow him downstairs to the bar. I’ve already broken my promise to my friends.

  I’ve chosen Dusty.

  2:35 A.M.

  Dusty and I are standing on Fifty-seventh Street, just down from the Four Seasons, and Dusty is saying good night. He hugs me, and just as my chin finds his shoulder, Bryan, Trina, and Telly walk by, and my heart drops to the sidewalk.

  I know they see me, and I know they hear when I say, “Hey, you guys,” but they keep walking. Bryan nods as he goes, and Telly looks at me and then looks down. Trina doesn’t even look up.

  “What is it?” Dusty says, releasing me.

  I point to my friends, walking up the steps into the hotel.

  Neither of us says anything for a minute.

  Dusty offers, “You can stay at my place, Gemma.” He takes one of my hands between his, holding it gently, trying to find my eyes with his.

  I look away.

  “If you don’t want to go back to the Four Seasons, I mean.”

  But I do want to go back to the Four Seasons. I want to run up the stairs and take off this dress and sit with my friends in the hotel room. I want to sip coffee with them and stay up late and tell one another about our evening. I want everything to be just like it was before.

  But everything is different now. And it’s my fault.

  I know I should go after Bryan and Trina and Telly right now. I know I should thank Dusty for my magical evening, promise to return the dress in the morning, and run after them. And ask them to forgive me. That’s what Gemma Beasley from Philadelphia, Pennsylvania, would do.

  Or would she?

  Maybe I’m just scared of what they’ll say to me, of what they think of me now.

  I talk myself into believing that if I give them a couple of hours to sleep it off, they’ll have an easier time forgiving me. I talk myself into believing that they are the mean ones, for ignoring me just now. I would never do that. Would I?

  What would Holly Golightly do?

  What would Audrey Hepburn do?

  What would Gemma Beasley do?

  I don’t know who’s who anymore.

  I watch my three friends walk up the steps to the Four Seasons. I wonder if one of them will turn around and look for me. If just one of them does, I’ll break free from Dusty’s hands and follow them. I swear I will.

  But they don’t turn around. It’s like I don’t even exist.

  “I’ll take care of you,” Dusty says softly, leaning into my ear. He takes my cheek in one hand, his fingers surrounding my chin, his other arm around my waist, like a life raft. “Don’t worry. They’ll get over it in the morning.”

  “All right,” I say, to Dusty and to myself. I wonder if my room at the Malcolm is still empty, waiting for me. Shouldn’t I just go there? But then I look into Dusty’s eyes.

  “I’ll stay with you tonight.”

  3:05 A.M.

  Shh!” I say when Dusty slams the door behind us.

  “Oh, don’t worry,” he says. “No one’s home. Even if they were, they wouldn’t care.”

  “They don’t care if you bring home a girl from a nightclub at two o’clock in the morning?”

  “Three o’clock,” he says. “And, no.”

  “You mean it happens all the time?”

  “No. I mean, they’d probably just assume it’s one of my buddies from school or something. I don’t know. I’ve never brought anyone home in the middle of the night before.”

  “Sure,” I say skeptically.

  He takes my hand and kisses it. “Really.”

  I take my hand back and fiddle with my purse.

  “Come to my room,” he says and leads me down a wide hallway. We pass by a couple of closed doors and a wide entrance to a large living room with a fireplace. We pass a bathroom. “Excuse me,” I say. I duck into it and close the door.

  I turn on the water and look around the huge, white-tiled room. Behind me is a massive bathtub with fe
et that look like lions’ paws. The toilet is in a separate little closet beyond that. I rinse my hands under the water and smooth down my ponytail. I take a white towel off the huge stack and wipe my hands dry, then hang it from the silver rack to my right.

  I didn’t think places like this existed in New York City. But Dusty’s family is, of course, rich. Very rich.

  Dusty’s standing in the hallway when I open the door.

  “Do you have a guest room or something?” I say.

  “You can stay in my room,” he says.

  “No, that’s OK. I’d really rather—I mean, I could stay on the couch or something.”

  “No way,” he says. “You’re staying with me.” He takes my hand again and we walk to the far end of the hallway. “In here.”

  He pushes the door open into a big room, very big. Much bigger than any bedroom I’ve ever been in before, with a row of windows looking out onto the flickering city.

  The room doesn’t have that much stuff in it. Just a couple of dressers and a big easy chair and a flat-screen television on the wall. And a bed.

  It’s a big bed, really high off the ground like the kind rich people have, at least in my imagination. Like one of those huge beds where, if you wanted to, you could have the whole family lying on it and all the dogs and everything, too. Not like the thin mattress Dad sleeps on, the one he shared with Mom before she died.

  There are piles of clothes on the floor. I wonder if some of them are clean, and if some of them are dirty, and whether he has some kind of system to tell which is which. The clothes are like leaf piles on a lawn during the autumn, and I wonder what it would be like to take a flying leap off the tall four-poster bed and land in one of them. I wonder if these are all the clothes he has or if the dressers and closets (I can count two) are full of clothes, too.

  He sits down on the easy chair. “Hey,” he says.