Blue Rose In Chelsea (9 page)

     “Just Evan,” he says, with a bemused smile.  “Candelier is my last name.”

     Careen looks to me questioningly.

     “I just like to call him that,” I say, shrugging my shoulders.

     “So, you two have nicknames for one another.”  Careen squints at us, alerted to something.  “How quaint, and how revealing.”  Her glance is scorching.  She hooks arms with Dylan and hurries him ahead of us on the avenue, perhaps to give me some moments alone with Evan.

     “So, you’re in on this escapade?” he asks.

     “I had no idea you were coming,” I say effusively, turning to him, and he redirects me to the traffic light where we await the change, while Dylan and Careen have already jogged the crosswalk.

     “You wouldn’t have come, if you’d known?” he asks.

     I am momentarily stumped by his directness.  “I don’t think my activity of choice for the day would be to watch you flirting with some girl in a coffee shop.”

     The lopsided smile.  “Really?  What would have been your activity of choice for today?”  His eyes sweep my body and I battle a blush.

     “Something not strenuous,” I say, because it’s growing increasingly difficult to keep up with my gamboling cousin and brother.  There is a surprising amount of heat in the air suddenly, despite the cooling effects of the earlier sun-shower.  I brush back my long curls with one hand.

     “Something gentle?  Sort of slow and sustained?”  His glance seductively sweeps over my flimsy dress.  My knees weaken.

     “Do you ever miss the ballet company?” I segue awkwardly.

     Evan’s face registers incredulity, perhaps in reaction to this question coming out of nowhere.

     “I miss the money.”

     “You must have loved dancing, to have gotten so far, to have danced with one of the greatest companies in the world.  What does it feel like to be so young, and to have done something so amazing?”

     Again, the incredulous look, as if alien aircraft alighted on the avenue.  “Amazing?”  He shakes his head.  “I’m just as clueless as the rest.”

     “I don’t believe that.  A clueless person could not have come this far.  You must be very focused.”

     “My sister was taking ballet classes in my hometown, and they needed boys for one of the productions.  There’s always a shortage of guys in ballet—gee, I wonder why.”  He pulls a face.  “And so next thing I know I was getting free lessons, and then I was offered a scholarship, and before I knew it, I was on my way to New York.”

     I absorb this, trying to imprint it on my brain, so I can relate the exact phrasing back to Sinclair for analysis, when he says, “What about you?  What made you want to write?”
     “I’ve always loved books, from the time my mother used to take me to the Brooklyn Public Library as a little girl.  I remember that they had these stone lions in front, on each side of the entrance, as if you were entering some sacred dwelling, which you were, in a way.  Every book is like walking into a new world.”

     “You talk like a character in a book.”  He looks both ways before leading me across the avenue.

     “I do?  Meaning what?  I sound scripted?”

     “No,” he says, laughing.  “Actually, no one could ever accuse you of being scripted.  You kind of just blurt things out.  You don’t censor yourself.”

     “So, which is it?  I’m tactless, or just extemporaneous?”

     “Okay, I have no idea what that word means, and you’re doing it again.”  He holds up a hand playfully, as if in surrender.

     “I’ve been told that I’ve read too many books,” I say wearily.

     “I’ve been told that I haven’t read enough books, so maybe we even each other out,” he counters.  “The things you say sound complete, the way they do in books.  You always know exactly what you think about things, most people don’t know what they think, which is why maybe the things they say are forgettable.  With you, I never have to wonder what you mean.”

     “Perhaps you should.  They say a woman should always keep a man wondering.”

     “Keep the others wondering,” he says, in his tantalizing voice, “but not me.”

     “Well, you’re so elusive, always leaving and flying somewhere else to some audition, what choice do I have but to wield my one talent to set your brain on fire with some indelible image so you won’t forget me.”

     “There it is again.”  He grins.  “And it’s not my brain that you’ve set on fire.”

     I look away because now I feel a burning in my thighs that spreads like a brushfire quickly upward to my temples.

     “And it’s not your only talent, from what I hear,” he adds.

     “I beg your pardon?”  My eyes widen.

     He bursts out laughing.  “I didn’t mean it that way.  I meant I heard that you also dance and play piano.”

     “You make me sound like an organ grinder’s monkey.”

     He has to actually stop walking because he’s laughing so hard.  “I meant,” he says, recovering, “that I heard that you’re brilliant.”

     “I’m brilliant?  Who told you that?  Dylan and Brandon?  That’s hardly a recommendation.”  Although I am struck with curiosity as to who said this.  I wonder if Dylan says nice things about me, just not in my presence.

     “Dylan is very protective of you,” he says, which pretty much answers my question.

     “He likes to frighten off potential boyfriends.  It’s like a hobby for him.”

     “I don’t scare easily.”

     “Well, that’s the best news I’ve heard all day,” I say saucily.  “I’m a Gemini.  We’re known as the Jack-of-all-trades-Master-of-none.  I can do many things with moderate skill, but I don’t excel at anything.”

     “I was told by a psychic that I was going to meet a Gemini,” he says, intrigued.  “You excel at making me feel better.”  He looks away, as if he has revealed too much.

     There is something in the lost way that he looks out over the traffic that makes me yearn to reach for his hand and hold it, but I don’t dare.  I’m amazed that people on the street pass him without stopping to genuflect before this glorious Being In Black Jeans.  His green sweater has a striking orange piping on the collar.  His hair is tucked behind one perfect ear, and just touching the collar.

     “Romeo in black jeans!” Careen calls, lifting the edge of her fuchsia silk scarf that Mr. Palmer bought for her birthday.  She waves its fringe like a beacon to direct us to the subway station.

     “Must we take the subway?” I groan, as we catch up with them.

     “Yes, my dear, it’s a bit like descending into the bowels of the earth, but it has its merits, one of which is being bulleted to one’s destination at the speed of sound.  Ah, the pervading smell of pee; it just makes one want to snog.”  Careen wiggles her eyebrows as she trots down the smelly steps in her white Capezios spotted with rain.

     “You don’t like elevators, and you don’t like subways,” Evan observes without judgment.

     “Claustrophobic, fear of small spaces,” Careen clarifies in a whispery tone as we gather on the platform.  “A presence as large as our dear Sylvia’s is justified in feeling terror at being confined.”

     “It’s a fear of being trapped with no escape,” Dylan interjects.  “Subways, elevators, scholarships, relationships.”  Mercifully, a pretty blonde battling to collapse her umbrella captures Dylan’s attention.  He lights a cigarette--always my cue that Dylan’s trying to look cool--and exhales with a James Dean-like glance in the girl’s direction.

     The train roars past, blowing back our hair and grinding to a halt, spitting out crowds of commuters.  Dylan and Careen board, and Evan and I follow.  I step onto the train, spy the crush of crowds inside, and leap backward onto the platform.  Only Evan, the ex-ballet dancer, is nimble enough to follow my retreat.  When the subway doors squeeze shut, we are alone on the platform.

     “Sorry,” I say.

     “It’s twenty blocks away.  You shouldn’t be afraid of so many things.”  The moment he says this I feel humiliated, and then, steely with determination.  I pull myself up taller and button my sweater against the draft to give me some distraction.  I cross my arms, only to notice that his eyes rest there because I’ve buttoned the sweater incorrectly, like a four year old.

     He seizes upon this opportunity to touch me, re-buttoning the sweater for me, and I’m torn between desire at his intimate touch and devastation that he thinks I’m cowardly.

     “I’m not afraid of anything,” I say feebly, and when I see that a pair of doors remains open at the end car, I forge ahead of him onto it.

     “My brother didn’t like subways either,” he says with an intensity that makes me fear he’s angry, as he takes hold of the subway strap above him.  I am too embarrassed to look at him.  “Hmmph,” I say, with a glib shrug of my shoulders.  I look away at the full-sized silver vodka ad on the wall, only to lose my footing when the subway lurches forward.  I watch the people on the platform disintegrate into a soupy darkness, as the little capsule of subway car is shot forward into the belly of the city.  At the next stop I stumble again, flushing red, as I seem to lack proper subway skills even though I’ve got an entire shiny silver pole to hang onto, and years of ballet training.  I can balance the entire weight of my body on my big toe, but I can’t seem to remain vertical on this train.  I marvel at my fellow passengers ease at remaining firm in their footing, like surfers sailing whitecaps; clearly this is an acquired skill.  I’m facing away from him, but feel his arm loop gently around my waist, drawing me near, and steadying me against his body.

     I’m grateful that the misty rain has made my
Magie Noire
perfume stronger, and that I didn’t eat Enrico’s pizza, and so still have the taste of spearmint gum on my breath, and that I’ve used a strawberry-scented shampoo because I can feel his breath on my hair.  As more passengers board at each stop we are condensed closer to one another.  The car seems filled to capacity, but at each stop more people pile on, until I begin to feel the wave of panic growing deep within.  We are packed in so tightly there are no escape routes, no room to even lift my arms, nowhere to turn then but to Evan.

     “They can’t seriously think they are getting on this train,” I say in desperation, as we stop to pick up another batch of commuters.

     “Oh, trust me, they’re getting on,” he says, with irony.

     This new shift pushes their way in, so that now we’re practically vacuum-packed.  We fly into a tunnel, into inky blackness, with just the occasional flash of light, like a struck match or bolt of blue lightning, on the outer tracks.  I lean into Evan as a frightened child, and suddenly feel his lips find mine, and then I return his kisses with a hunger.  All fear melts away, and I am stunned that I feel so utterly at home, so blissful, in what otherwise would be my worst nightmare scenario—this dark, cramped, stale compartment of an overcrowded subway car.  His arm tightens around my waist and draws me nearer, and nothing is left to the imagination as I feel every part of him pressed against me through his clothing.  When we jettison into the light, it is whirling and terrifying and the last thing I remember is his grip tightening on me as I have the sensation of sinking under water.

     I awaken to find myself lying on a bench on the subway platform.  Careen twists the cap off a soda bottle and shoves it toward me.

     “What happened?” I ask weakly.

     “My poor dear girl, you fainted from the heat of the packed train.”

     “Yes, the heat was off the charts,” Evan reports from the edge of the bench, chin in hand, brushing away his damp hair, as he avoids my gaze.  I feel a thrill of satisfaction that I’ve made the imperturbable Evan Candelier sweat.

     “I don’t drink soda.”  I push away the bottle that Careen aims at my lips.  “That stuff is like battery acid.”

     “Dylan has gone to get you water.”

     “I need to eat something.  Get me a candy bar from the vendor, please.  I could use a jolt of sugar.”

     This is not really what I need.  What I need is to be alone with Evan.  When Careen lopes away, I long for him to slide up next to me on the bench and wrap his arms around me, but he bites at his knuckles and stares vaguely at the empty tracks.  When he speaks, it’s to say, “You might be happier in Texas, where there’s lots of open space.”

     This seems an unforgivably trite thing to say in light of what has just passed between us.  How could he even suggest that I move elsewhere, away from him?  I have the urge to shake the soda and douse his deliriously handsome figure with it.

     “Yes, a rugged, down-to-earth cowboy would be a welcome change from these pampered erudite urbanites,” I say coldly, grappling for words that I hope he won’t know the definition of, so as to double the blow.

     He looks at me as if I’ve just testified against him in court.  My heart pounds with fear at having gone too far.

     Careen returns and insists that Dylan and Evan go on ahead to the coffee shop and get the plan underway.  Evan seems almost relieved to be dismissed from my presence.

~ 9 ~

Sinclair’s Amazing Technicolor Dreamcoat

     “Most people don’t know what they think.”  Sinclair savors the statement, rolling it around on his tongue like fine wine.  “Well, I don’t know what I think of that pronouncement so, yes, the man is a prophet!”