The Thrill of It (9 page)

“
Guess her age,” my mom said, thrusting me forward, taking the cotton candy out of my hands before he even saw it, in case it made me look too young. I wore low-rise jean shorts and a cami-tank. My hair was down, falling past my shoulders. I stood there for a moment before him, holding my ground, holding his gaze, like a cat staring down her prey before she pounced. Then I did what I knew mom wanted me to do. I tossed my hair ever so gently, ever so casually, but completely seductively. Like she’d taught me all those times when we prepped for our parties.

The Guess Your Age guy was young. He was a teenager, probably a high school guy working the carnival after school.

He appraised me up and down, his big, brown eyes on me, liking what he saw. He flashed his smile to my mom.“Write down her age.” He handed her a pen and piece of paper from a notebook in his back pocket. She dutifully wrote down my age, folded up the paper and handed it back to him. He took the paper but didn’t open it.

“
She’s sixteen,” the carnival man declared.

Triumphant, my mom shook her head. “Thirteen,” she said proudly as he opened the paper to see my age. She ran a hand over my hair, petting her prize racehorse, and we walked away. She didn’t bother to get the blue bear she’d won. She got what she wanted. A thirteen-year-old who looked sixteen.

“
He’s cute, don’t you think?”

“
Mom,” I chided.

“
He’s adorable, Harley,” she said in a teacherly tone. As if she were instructing me in the ways of taste and attraction. “He’s probably fourteen, maybe fifteen. You guys would be cute together.”

“
You think so?”

“
Absolutely.” Then she lowered her voice. “We’re going on the Ferris Wheel. Go back and see him.”

Butterflies filled my belly. But she’d given the go-ahead. She’d encouraged me. This had to be the way the world worked.

When my mom and Pierre were up in the sky, I returned to the carnival guy. He leaned against the Guess Your Age sign, searching for his next customer. I tapped him on the shoulder.

“
You were right,” I whispered near his ear.

His lips curled up. “You really are sixteen.”

“
I really am sixteen.”

“
Me too,” he said. “Good thing I didn’t give her a bear.”

“
Good thing,” I echoed back.

He licked his lips slightly, tasting what I imagined was the salty heat on them from a muggy summer night. Then I gestured with my eyes to the nearby whack-a-mole and toss-the-ring games. Behind the games was a little hideaway spot, a private corner of the carnival world. There, against the dirty once-white concrete wall I reached out to him, my hand linking through his, bringing him closer to me. I lifted my other hand to his face, brushing my fingertips against his cheek.

I’d never kissed, I’d never been kissed, but somehow I was a natural. I was all instinct.

Later, when we were home, my mom asked me how it went.

I told her everything. Because, that’s what we did. That’s normal, right? She squealed and clapped. “Your first kiss!”

Then she gave me kissing tips for the next time. A lesson in seduction from my mother.

Chapter Seven

Harley

I sink into my pillow, practicing deep, calming breaths.

Reciting mantras Joanne taught me at SLAA.

This too shall pass.

The three-second rule.

Let the past be the past.

I lie flat and picture calm waters. Blue seas. Shining sun. A warm breeze. The beach I want to run off to. The ocean I want to carry me away from New York. The sand between my toes. Everything is peaceful in the world. My life is serene. Each day flows into the next and I go through life with a smile, a nod and a feeling of good will towards humankind.

There are no sirens, no email demands, no mothers who set you up, no fathers who leave you, no boys who run away from you when you throw yourself at them.

But that life is a lie. A pathetic, bald-faced fabrication and I don’t believe me for a second. There is no peace, there is no serenity, there is no happiness in love, and it’s as if someone or something cranked me up a notch, turned the timer on a once-dormant, now-ticking bomb inside me. I try to ignore the noise and the sound and the tightness in my body.

I pull the covers over my head and close my eyes, but I can’t sleep. Classes are nearly over, I have no more homework, I have no summer plans, I need something to do. I kick the sheets around a few times, flip on my back, then my stomach, even toss off the bedspread. I feel itchy, antsy. I clench and unclench my hands. I glance at my phone. It’s alive, calling out to me, whispering sweet nothings.
Touch me. Put your fingers on me. Use me to deal.

I can’t deal by going back. I want to deal by going back.

I can’t. I want. I won’t. I want.

Like enemies in tug of war, the two sides of me pull, they yank, they jerk.

I close my eyes, trying to push away the flashing images of my messages, of Cam, of going back, back, back. They’re like bumper cars knocking, clanging.

I flip over and bang my fist into the pillow.

I can’t believe I did that to Trey. I can’t believe I jumped him like that when I know he wants to be good. When he’s trying so hard to heal. He’s not like me. He’s better, he’s healthier, he’s closer to moving on.

Trey doesn’t want to be a recidivist. He doesn’t want to slide back into the old skin.

And I was the call girl. The temptress. The little vixen school girl who uses charms and wiles to get what she wants.

I smash my hand once more into the pillow.

That’s who I am though. Why fight it. Why fight Layla?

I grab my phone, open my messages, read it again.

Missing things? Missing me? That can be fixed in an instant, sweetheart. Tomorrow night. Bliss Bar. 7 p.m. Be there.

I run my finger across the note, gasping for breath. My mind is drowning in a sea, crashing upside down under the waves. I let them carry me, toss me back into the waters. Before I even think about it for more than a fleeting second — because I don’t think at times like this, I act, I do, I operate on impulse — I reply.

Can’t wait.

Trey

The second I flop down onto my Michele’s couch, I blurt it out. “We fooled around last night.”

She doesn’t raise an eyebrow or give me a haughty look. She simply waits for me to say more. Her dark hair is pulled back in a low ponytail and she’s decked out in standard shrink garb. Gray pants, a white blouse, pearl earrings. I don’t know much about her. It’s not as if we talk about her or her family or why she became a shrink. All I know is she specializes in this kind of stuff. In my kind of problem. She was on the list of recommended shrinks from SLAA.

I heave a sigh. “It was at the coffee shop. We went into the back, and one thing led to another.”

“Stop right there.” She holds up her hand, then points her index finger. “That’s not how the world works. One thing doesn’t lead to another. There are actions and choices. Now, you know I don’t judge you for any of them. But by the same token, if you want to have an honest discussion here, let’s not say one thing led to another. Take responsibility for your actions, Trey.”

I narrow my eyes. “Fine. She kissed me. I kissed her back,” I say in a huff. “Okay? That better?”

She nods. “And how do you feel about it?”

“I fucking want her like crazy.” I roll my eyes, pushing my hands in my hair. “Like that’s a surprise? But it will never happen.”

“Why? And what is
it
? Is it sex you want? Or a relationship with Harley?”

“She doesn’t want either.”

She arches an eyebrow. “I find that hard to believe since you said she kissed you. But that’s not what I asked. I want to know what you want with her. Sex or a relationship?”

“It doesn’t matter. Neither will happen.”

“Maybe that’s for the best. Maybe you’re not ready for a relationship.”

“Obviously,” I say sarcastically. I hold my hands out wide, stretching across her beige couch. The window is open slightly, and the horns and the honking of midtown traffic bleat in the distance. “Not as if I know how to have one. Not as if I know anything.”

“That’s not what I’m saying. What I’m saying is maybe other things should come first with her.”

“Like?”

“Like working on being honest with her. Practicing honesty.”

“I’m not dishonest.” I cross my arms over my chest.

“I know,” she says calmly. “But you also know you could take your friendship a step further. And it will be good for your healing if you tell her about your family.”

My heart skitters at the thought. I shake my head. “I can’t.”

“You can. You want her to know you, right?”

“I don’t even know how to say it.”

“You just say it. That’s how you say something that’s hard. You put one foot in front of the other. You take it step by step. You say the words. There is no magic formula. There is no secret sauce. But there are words,” she says emphatically, as if she’s delivering an impassioned speech. As if she’s saying something that matters deeply to her. “And words are all we have. That’s all there really is between people. At the end of the day, we have our actions, and we have our words. And you simply say them.”

I try them on for size, as if I’m talking about what I did today. Casual, cool, offhand, like we’re walking to the subway and I’m making a random observation. “Oh hey, Harley. I thought you should know. One night when I was fifteen, my brother –“ but I choke on the rest of the words.

Chapter Eight

Harley

I touch up my makeup, outline my lips and apply Cam’s favorite color lipstick, then some shimmery gloss. I press my lips together, smacking them lightly, and appraise my appearance. He’ll be pleased, but he’s always been pleased. Fact is, I’m pleased. I like the way I look. My faux school uniform is like a power suit, my armor, a super hero’s costume that makes me feel on top of the world. Short skirt, white blouse, knee-highs and Mary Janes. When I wear this, I make the rules. My phone buzzes as I open my bedroom door. Trey’s calling. I’m supposed to go to the meeting with him.

I ignore the call.

Then a text message flashes by.
Hey. Hope you’re OK. Sorry about last night. See you in fifteen minutes?

But I don’t want to go to the meeting.

I don’t want to be a recovered addict.

I want to be addicted. I want to take a hit. I want to inhale all this control.

I turn the phone on silent. I feel a strange mix of guilt and thrill from ignoring Trey for the first time ever. Guilt because I have no lies with him. Thrill because the rush of the game is starting and now I am toying with Trey—something I’ve never done with him. Even last night when I practically attacked him, I was all honesty and guts, laying it on the line for him, letting him know how I felt. Where did it get me? Rejected.

I look at the phone one more time, scrolling over the missed call, my fingers hovering over his name. I could call him back. I could text him. I could be honest. I could confess. I could stop what I’m going to do. This is like my lifeline. The universe giving me one more way out.

But I am beyond repair. He deserves more than me.

I hide the phone at the bottom of my purse.

Fuck lifelines.

I sail down the stairs in the apartment building, feeling the rush of anticipation, of flirtation, of sparks about to be ignited. I feel bubbly and alive in a way I haven’t felt in six months. It’s like someone hit a tuning fork against me and I am now vibrating at the perfect frequency again.

My frequency.

I hail a cab and though it’s still rush hour, one comes squealing by in a heartbeat. I’ve never had a problem catching taxis. I give the driver the address of Bliss on Sixtieth and Lexington, far enough away that I might as well be in another world.

Even Miranda isn’t an East Side gal.

When she had me followed, it was all West side operations.

The time Miranda confronted me I was walking to my mom’s for dinner and talking to Cam on my cell phone. I’d given him the rundown on one of his top-paying clients, and he was laughing deeply, then lining up another gig for me. I turned south on Central Park West and spotted Miranda marching toward me, her slightly pouchy chin the identifying mark along with her customary skirt that sat high on her waist, a sartorial attempt to mask the few extra pounds. She was chubby then. The next thing I noticed were those laser-like eyes, like an assassin’s zeroed in on a target.

Me. In her crosshairs.

I didn’t even have time to say goodbye to Cam. The next thing I knew, she’d slapped me, like in the movies, her palm smacking my cheek, my head careening to the right at impact. I dropped the cell phone, the battery spitting itself out onto the sidewalk of New York City.

“I bet you thought you were going to get away with screwing my husband,” she said.

“No,” I squeezed out, as I pressed my hand against my stinging cheek. That was true. I didn’t think I’d get away with it. I bent down to grab the phone and she kicked it farther away with her brown leather boot.

That pissed me off. I looked up at her. “Really? Did you have to do that?”

She laughed, but the sound was cold and hurt, so much hurt, rage and shame mashed together in her tangled voice as she tried to keep some semblance of control while I scrambled to pick up the phone parts. “That,” she said, hissing out the word, “is nothing compared to what I am going to do next. And you will be wishing for a broken cell phone for months, Harley Coleman. Months. Because you’re more than just a cheater. You’re a whore.”