Fearless (6 page)

WHAT IN THE WORLD WAS SHE doing? Gaia walked extra fast along Seventh Avenue, past Bleecker, past the duplex psychic shop blazing with neon, past the shop (one of many) that pierced you anyplace you could think of, past the bustling gay bars on Christopher Street.

As much as she despised getting railroaded into a stupid party full of people she was sure to hate, there was a small but unsquashable part of her that was happy to be out on a Saturday night with someplace to go.

She was going because she wasn’t afraid of Heather and because she really didn’t have anything else to do.

But she was mostly going because Ed had asked her. He was the first person in her entire high school career who’d cut through her defenses long enough to ask her to a party. He was the first person she hadn’t succeeded in scaring off, in spite of her usual efforts.

The party was at 25 West Fifteenth Street. West meant west of Fifth Avenue, but not by much, so she hung a right at Fifteenth. Weeks ago, before she’d even moved here, she had committed a map of lower Manhattan to her near perfect visual memory.

She glanced down at her dark jeans and trashed sneakers. It would be impossible to tell from looking at her that she had spent over an hour getting dressed. She’d put on some mascara, then washed it off. She’d tried on three pairs of nearly identical jeans before finally closing her eyes and grabbing a pair randomly. She’d even changed her socks. Her one lasting concession to beauty was buried under shoes and (carefully chosen) socks-toenail polish in a hue called Cockroach.

As the address grew near, she spied one of the things she most disliked about New York residential life: a doorman. How much did you have to pay a guy to dress up in a butt-ugly polyester suit and embarrassing hat and open your damn door? And where were

the
doorwomen,
anyway? She hadn’t seen a single one since she’d been here. Maybe she’d change her life’s ambition from waitress to doorwoman. “Doorwoman.” It sounded like some postmodern urban superhero.

Of course, this particular doorman wanted to know her name and whose apartment she felt privileged enough to visit. “Ed Fargo,” she told him. “Visiting Allison Rovitz in apartment 12C.”

The doorfellow gave her a once-over. “You don’t look like an Ed.”

“Tell my parents that. It’s a real burden,” she told him.

He shook his head, as though wishing he never had to speak to another scruffy, attitude-wielding seventeen-year-old as long as he lived.

He consulted his list, then waved a hand toward the inner lobby. “Go ahead.”

“Why aren’t there any doorwomen?” she nearly shouted after him as the elevator door closed.

The party in 12C could be heard throughout 12, from what Gaia could tell. She felt her muscles tense at the shrieks of laughter and loud buzz of conversation spilling into the hallway. This was kind of a momentous event. Although her capacity for nervousness was nil, her capacity for insecurity was all there. She tucked some hair behind her ear. She took a deep breath and pushed open the unlocked door.

What was she expecting exactly? Some deeply

narcissistic part of her thought everybody in the place would know that even though she was a junior, she had never been to a real high school party before. They would fall silent and turn to stare at her.

In fact, the only difference between before she had come and after was that there was one more beating heart in a very crowded apartment.

Okeydoke. Yes, here she was. Suddenly she was sure she’d been born with an extra gene for social awkwardness. Time to find the real Ed Fargo and hope he still thought she was entertaining.

She squeezed past a knot of people in the foyer who didn’t care about her at all. In the living room she recognized a girl from her history class, a couple of guys who had lockers near hers. Every flat surface was covered with soda cans and beer cans in about equal number. A lot of people were smoking—mostly girls. On a table in the corner were raw carrots and dip and some unappealing chips and salsa. The meager food table was quickly being taken over by cans and cans and cans and makeshift ashtrays. Were anybody’s parents here? She’d heard that New York City parents let their kids drink at parties because nobody drove anywhere afterward.

The sweet, suffocating smell of marijuana made its way over. She zeroed in on the little clutch of people passing around the joint before she turned and walked

in the opposite direction. She had less than no time for that. Were those kids really so confident in their sanity, they could tempt fate?

When she finally caught sight of Ed’s wheelchair in the dining room, she stifled the strong urge to sprint over to him and give him a hug. She walked toward him as slowly as she could manage, as though expecting to encounter hordes of friends and acquaintances along the way.

Gaia was shy. She’d forgotten that about herself, but she was. She was more comfortable beating the crap out of somebody than chatting about the weather. She could be sullen and obnoxious and irritable all day long, but she couldn’t think of a single way to start a friendly conversation.

“Hi, Ed,” she said lamely, once she was near.

“Gaia! Holy shit!” He smiled big. “You actually came.”

“I never miss a party,” she said wryly.

“Wow. You look great,” he said.

“No, I don’t.”

“Okay, you don’t. Hey, this is Claire.” He pointed at a long-haired Asian girl he’d been talking to. “Claire, this is Gaia.”

Claire waved and smiled. She was smoking a cigarette.

“And this is Mary. Mary, Gaia, et cetera.”

Mary was tall, with wavy red hair. She waved in a

perfunctory way and took a swig of beer.

“You’re new, right?” Claire asked.

“Yes,” Gaia answered.

“Where are you from?” Claire wanted to know.

Ed shifted in his chair.

Gaia cleared her throat. “Uh. Memphis.” It was a lie. She didn’t want to play the “oh, really, do you know …?” game about anyplace she had actually lived.

“Really? I have a cousin in Tennessee,” Claire responded predictably. “In Johnson City.”

“Oh?” Gaia nodded blankly.

Suddenly there was a swell of noise from the direction of the front door. All eyes turned.

“Hey, Gaia, check it out,” Ed said. “It’s your best friend.”

Gaia gave him a mean look. It was Heather and friends—the same group from the cafe plus a couple of Hollywood extras. Heather really was beautiful when she wasn’t snarling. Judging from the energy she and her crowd brought into the apartment with them, the party had only started at that moment.

Claire studied the group carefully. “I guess Heather didn’t bring her boyfriend. Too bad. That guy is altogether hot.”

Mary looked unimpressed. “He’s a big college man. He goes to NYU. What’s his name again? Carrie says

he doesn’t like coming to high school parties.”

Of course Heather would have a gorgeous, snotty boyfriend who was in college. Of course. Gaia could only imagine what kind of asshole the guy must be to choose Heather as a girlfriend.

“I guess we’re blessed even to have Heather,” Gaia mumbled, instantly cursing herself for being snide.

Mary glanced at Gaia appreciatively. “Yes. I mean, who better to make the rest of us feel fat and friendless?”

Gaia laughed and felt a surge of … something. Optimism, was it? Hope? Social acceptance? She wasn’t sure exactly—it was so unfamiliar. But here she was, maladjusted freak-thing Gaia Moore, gabbing with people who could very easily have been her friends. It was utterly alien, but not in a bad way. Only now she had to try to think of something else to say.

Heather led the wave of party energy through the living room toward the dining room and, no doubt, the kitchen, where the beers were waiting. Gaia wondered a bit warily if Heather would recognize her.

As it turned out, she did.

“Oh, my God!” Heather shrieked, wheeling around to face Gaia straight on. “It’s Klutz Girl! What are you doing here?”

Suddenly all eyes really were on Gaia. Her social success was evaporating quickly.

“I would watch out for this girl,” Heather warned loudly. “Don’t give her anything to eat or drink, or you’ll end up with it on your shirt.”

Heather’s friends tittered loyally.

“Who let you in here?” Heather demanded.

Gaia studied the small place on the girl’s neck just below her chin. She could deliver one swift blow to that spot and put her out.

“I invited her,” Ed said, filling the awkward silence at least momentarily.

“Excuse me,
Ed
,” Heather said nastily. “I didn’t realize it was your party.”

“I didn’t realize it was yours,” Ed responded.

Allison, the actual party giver, was watching the scene unfold with the rest of them. Heather turned to her.

“Al, did you realize this bitch was coming to your party?”

Poor Allison looked frightened.

“Don’t worry about it, Allison. I’m going,” Gaia said. She strode through the apartment without looking back.

It didn’t matter so much that she was back on the outside, Gaia consoled herself as she opened the front door and passed through it. This was Heather’s time. Let her have it. Ten years from now Heather’s awfulness would have caught up with her, and she’d

be a disgruntled wretch pining for the glory days. Let her have high school. Gaia was holding out for something better.

Gaia stood sullenly at the elevator bank and punched the down arrow. Mercifully the elevator doors opened right away.

At least she was back in her comfort zone.

Some
things I like:
Chess
Slurpees
Road Runner cartoons
Eye boogers
W. B. Yeats
Ed

Some things I don’t like:
Heather
Ella
Skim milk
Butterflies
Baking soda toothpaste
Myself

A thing I hate:
My dad

Rain plastered thick dark cords of hair to his forehead. Now that it was no longer perfect, she could see it was beautiful.

“HI, ZOLOV.”

The old man squinted at Gaia for a few seconds before he recognized her, then he smiled.

“Hey, Curtis,” she said to Zolov’s opponent. “Where’s Renny?”

The fifteen-year-old chess fixture shrugged. “He hasn’t been coming around anymore.”

Gaia nodded and looked for a free table. She was happy to be there, even without Renny. She was glad that the bleak sky threatened rain and that the air was finally turning cold. All that warm sunshine seemed to demand perkiness and pastel-colored clothing.

She watched Curtis leaning far over the board, studying Zolov’s sequence. She almost laughed to herself. She couldn’t believe she was watching an ancient Jewish man in a threadbare wool overcoat teaching the Ruy Lopez opening to a black kid dressed head to toe in Tommy.

She turned her affectionate gaze to the right, and suddenly her mood went into free fall.

Him.

What the hell was
he
doing here?

God, he was good-looking. He was wearing that same gray jacket, this time with a pair of jeans and just the right shade of dark, perfectly scuffed leather shoes.

Go away, she ordered him silently. Go back to where you belong.

He didn’t go away. Instead he came very close, and her mouth felt dry. Why did she all of a sudden care that she hadn’t run a brush through her hair that morning? So she looked like a homeless person. What was it to him?

Oh, shit. He was looking at the board set in front of her. His eyes glanced over the empty chair across from her.

He was stopping!

He was sitting down!

He was staring right at her!

Then she felt mad. What, was he on some kind of field trip from normal-people land? Was he the Jane Goodall of the popular set, here to take notes?

It didn’t help that just a few days before he’d appeared
uninvited
in her romantic fantasy and
kissed
her, for God’s sake. “Do you want to play?” he asked, just like that.

He wanted to play her! What! Didn’t he know that it was illegal in a cosmic sense for a guy who looked like him even to get near a board? The gods of social stratification would zap him but good.

Fine. If he insisted on turning the world upside down, what could she do? She’d play him. She’d point out to him which pieces moved which way as though she’d only recently learned herself, and then she’d hustle

as much money out of him as possible. She could probably get two or three fast games out of him before the rain began to fall.

“Hello?” He scrunched down a little in his chair to try to gain eye contact.

“What?” she blurted out irritably.

“Do you want to play?”

She was so flustered, she couldn’t pluck one arrow from her quiver of hustling tricks. “Fine.”

“Don’t feel like you have to.”

Oh, wasn’t he just honorable.

“No, it’s fine. I only just started playing myself.” God, she sounded wooden. Her acting really needed some work.

“Okay. You start, right?”

“No, I mean, I think. Well, we usually—” Dammit. She took a black pawn and a white one and mixed them up behind her back. She enclosed each in a fist and stuck them out toward him. “You pick.”

He pointed to her left hand, and she produced a white pawn.

“You go first,” she said.

He looked tentative. “It’s kind of a custom to play for money here, isn’t it?”

Custom?
Yes, it is, 0 Great Doctor of Losers.

“Usually,” was what she said.

“How much?”

“I dunno. Twenty?”

He blew out his breath. “Wow. Okay.”

“Okay.”

What was it about him that bothered her so? That he was the kind of guy who’d never look twice at a girl like her? Okay, well, there was that.

She couldn’t find major fault with his wardrobe. It wasn’t like he was wearing a Rolex or anything.

She didn’t hate him just because he looked like … that. Even she wasn’t quite that shallow or rabidly judgmental.

What was it, then?

He was so … confident. That was the big problem. Here, in her place, where he had no right to be, he was so goddamned sure of himself. He probably had no sense of humor, least of all about himself.

She couldn’t wait to kick his ass.