Boy Shopping (10 page)

Kiki heard the back door of the club swing open with a screech, and then somebody plopped down onto the hood of Lyman's car. Kiki squeaked in surprise, a sound almost completely muffled by Lyman's mouth. They jolted apart and laughed silently, watching Jennifer T. light up a cigarette and puff away, completely unaware that the car she was sitting on was occupied. Kiki knocked on the windshield, scaring Jennifer back to her feet.

“Hey, girly girl,” she said, hugging Kiki when she got out of the car. “What're you doing skulking back here?”

“Just hanging out. Jennifer T., this is my friend Alex Lyman. Lyman, this is Jennifer T.”

“Salutations.” He took her fishnet-gloved hand with black-tipped fingers and kissed it. Jennifer rolled her eyes at Kiki, but Kiki could see a blush underneath her thick, bone-white foundation.

“Watch it, kiddo. I don't usually let boys I don't know kiss me.”

“We're almost family, though,” Lyman said. “I study with Jascha Kent.”

Jennifer smiled warmly. “Oh! You know Uncle Jascha? How's he doing? I haven't seen him since he got back from Prague.”

“He's all right. I think his new drugs are helping a lot—I mean, he played Rachmaninoff last night.”

“Yeah, Mom told me he was playing the Schermerhorn. We were in Atlanta for Test Fest. We didn't get home until six o'clock this morning. I wish I could have been there, though. Was he great?”

“He was great.” Kiki and Lyman said it at the same time, like twins. Once again, Kiki found herself holding his hand.

“Well, hey, it's nice to meet you, Lyman. Tell Jascha Jenn says hi. I don't think I'll make it to his place before we hit the road tomorrow. And here, why don't you come in the back way? No reason for you to wait in line. Good seeing you, Kiki. Let's try to have coffee sometime.”

“Yeah, let's.” Jennifer T. let them into the green room, where Jennifer C. and the other members of the Jennifers (the ones who weren't named Jennifer, whose names Kiki could never remember) were drinking beer and bottled water, listening to the fourth and last opening band.

Kiki led Lyman to the upper level of the club, where there were a few tables, but no dancing, unlike the jammed dance floor below. They sat down at the first free table they saw and he leaned close to her and whispered, “Kiki de Montparnasse.”

“What?” She thought she misunderstood him.

“Kiki de Montparnasse. That's who you're named after. The muse who inspired a generation of French painters. The first truly independent woman of the century.”

“How on earth did you figure it out?” As far as Kiki knew, her mother was the only person in Nashville who knew who Kiki de Montparnasse was, and she only knew because de Montparnasse was supposed to have been a friend of Josephine Baker, who in turn was supposedly somebody's third cousin once removed. Because Kiki was hard to boss around even as a little kid, her mother had nicknamed her after the notoriously independent Kiki. When she was getting ready to sign her record deal, she hadn't wanted to be mistaken for a certain other young black woman in the industry whose name was Katrina, so Kiki went public with the family nickname.

“What can I say? I've got mad skills,” Lyman answered, crossing his arms over his chest like a rap star. “Research skills, but they do come in handy.”

“You have got to be the strangest guy I've ever dated.”

“Also the hottest?”

“Also the hottest.”

“Good.” He kissed her, then whispered, “Research isn't the only thing I'm good at.”

“Isn't that bad grammar? You can't end a sentence with a preposition.”

He stared at her for a second, then burst out laughing. “That sounds like something I would say. It's like we're psychically linked or something.”

“Oh, really?” Kiki raised an eyebrow. “What am I thinking right now?” Lyman grinned seductively, but before he could say anything, Kiki said, “No, that's not what I was thinking.”

“But you knew exactly what I was thinking. Maybe we
are
soul mates.”

She rolled her eyes. “You're a guy. Knitter or not, guys usually are thinking about just one thing.”

“But some of us can think about it creatively,” he promised. She laughed, and he showed that he really did know what was on her mind: they headed down toward the front of the stage where the Jennifers were already plugging into their amps.

“This first song is dedicated to Miss Kiki Kelvin and her handsome boytoy, Master Alex Lyman,” said Jennifer T. from behind her keyboard. “One, two, three, four!”

They launched into a cover of “One Way or Another,” and Kiki and Lyman joined the crowd moshing by the stage. It had been a few weeks since Kiki had been on the other side of a stage during a show, and she was loving it. As much as she loved drumming, it was still a performance, something she did for the crowd as well as for herself. But dancing with Lyman was pure pleasure.

After a thirty-minute set and two encores, Lyman and Kiki snuck out the back, declining an offer to go clubbing with Jennifer C. and her drummer in favor of coffee and doughnuts at Krispy Kreme.

“Better let Mom know where we're headed first,” Lyman told her, typing out a quick text message as they walked down Elliston Place.

“Does that mean she won't be calling?”

“Hopefully.”

When they got to Krispy Kreme, they had to watch the doughnut conveyer for ten minutes while they waited for a table. The restaurant was crammed with urban cowboys and dixie chicks fresh from the honky-tonks on Second Avenue, goths who had just left the Maze, hip-hop fans, ravers, and everyone else who needed a snack at 1:00
AM
. Kiki and Lyman killed time by having thumb wars.

After they finally got a table and a cup of coffee and two plain, glazed doughnuts each, still hot enough to burn Kiki's mouth, Kiki saw Lyman's face turn absolutely gray as he stared at something or someone behind her.

“Is it Mark?” she asked, turning to face the door. But it wasn't Mark. It was a small, thin, middle-aged woman with mad, curly brown hair. Kiki had never seen her before, but Kiki had a pretty good idea who she was.

“Alex!” the woman called, marching over to their table.

“Hi, Mom.” He slid over, and his mother wedged herself into the booth next to him. “Kiki, this is my mom. Mom, this is Kiki Kelvin.”

“Nice to meet you,” Kiki lied.

“Likewise,” said Mrs. Lyman. Her eyes were a poisonous green, like a squashed caterpillar. Otherwise, she looked a lot like her son.

“So . . . come here often?” Kiki asked, trying to sound innocent while she kicked Lyman savagely in the ankle.

“All the time,” said Mrs. Lyman, looking around. She was so thin the bones of her wrist looked like they pressed through the skin—and no one that thin spent a lot of time at Krispy Kreme.

“So you just happened to be in the neighborhood?” Kiki asked, wondering why Lyman's mother would have driven all the way to Krispy Kreme in the middle of the night. Her parents were paranoid, but even they had never shown up while she was on a date.

“Exactly.”

“Okay.” Kiki bit her tongue so that she didn't add, “If you say so.” Kiki wasn't much of a liar, but she was a lot better than Mrs. Lyman. Still, she smiled at the older woman as sweetly as she could. She had never met a mother she couldn't charm. Not once.

“So, tell me, Kiki, are your parents employed?”

Kiki had to grit her teeth to keep her jaw from dropping. What kind of question was that? A racist question, whispered a voice in the back of Kiki's mind. She couldn't help thinking that if she were white, Mrs. Lyman would have asked, “What do your parents do?” instead of “Do your parents do anything?”

“Dad's a doctor of neurology and Mom's a judge,” she said quietly, watching carefully for Mrs. Lyman's reaction. She didn't look surprised, which was a relief. But her questions continued.

“Family court?”

“Juvenile.”

“Which district?”

“Why?”

“Excuse me?”

“I said, ‘Why?' What difference does it make which district Mom represents?”

Mrs. Lyman sniffed huffily. “I was just making conversation.”

Kiki took a deep breath and let it out slowly. Then she cranked up the wattage on her smile and said, “What about you? What do you do?”

“I'm a mother.” She said it as if it was the only possible job a woman should have.

While Kiki quietly seethed, Mrs. Lyman went on, “I also help manage Alex's musical career. He's very talented, you know. I understand that you're also interested in music?”

“I'm working on my second album with RGB Records.” Kiki almost mentioned the sales figures on their first album, the fact that they were on the cover of
Billboard
, and the rumors at RGB that Temporary Insanity would be on
David Letterman
two months after the new record came out—but she didn't get a chance.

“Oh, yes. I hear you were on the road for three months with two boys. Did you have a hotel room, or did you all sleep together on the bus?”

Kiki couldn't take it a moment longer. She faced Lyman directly. “Can I talk to you a second?”

“Sure.”

Rather than try to budge his mother, he ducked under the table and followed Kiki outside.

“What is your mother doing here?” Kiki demanded.

“What do you think she's doing?”

“I think she's trying to decide whether I'm worthy to date her son, which is maybe just a little premature, since this is our second date.”

“My mom worries a lot. I told you that before.”

“You didn't say she'd be joining us, though.”

“I didn't know! I didn't think she'd actually show up!”

“Well, are you going to tell her to get lost?”

He looked shocked, and more than a little sick. “I can't tell her that.”

“Yes, you can. It's very easy. ‘Mom, I love you, but go away.' Simple.”

“I could say it, I guess, but I can't make her do anything.” He shook his head sadly and added, “She's more than a little nuts.”

“Either your mother goes home, or I do. Right now.”

“Whatever you say.” He stomped back into the restaurant where his mother was still sitting quietly with their cooling coffee and doughnuts. He came back with his jacket and keys.

Kiki stared at him, stunned that he chose ending his date with her over saying something to his mother. She climbed into his car without a word, and didn't say anything on the long drive back to her house. Every now and then Lyman would say, “What you've got to understand is . . .” or, “The thing about Mom is . . .” but he couldn't quite finish a sentence.

He pulled up half a block from her driveway, obviously hoping they could have another make-out session out of sight of her house. That's when Kiki found her voice, though it was shaking with anger.

“My house is up there, Lyman.”

He just sighed again and drove up to her driveway.

“Kiki, I'm sorry, but there's a lot you don't understand about me and my mom,” he said miserably, unable to meet her eyes.

“Yeah, I hear home-school boys have really close relationships with their mothers. So why don't you go hook up with her?”

Lyman looked shocked, and then winced. He started to answer her, but she slammed out of his car before she could hear one whiny word.

 

“Have a nice time?” her mother called as she stalked past the master bedroom.

“Spectacular!” Kiki answered. She didn't know if her mother realized she was being sarcastic or not—her mom was probably half-asleep anyway, too tired to care.

“Psychically linked,” Kiki muttered a few minutes later, kicking off her shoes. One of them scuffed the paint on her door, which she'd hear about later, but just then she didn't care. How could a date go from so good to so bad so fast? No guy was worth dealing with a mother like that, not even Mark—and besides, Mark's mother loved Kiki a lot more than Mark did.

She flopped onto the bed and turned on her cell phone so she could tell Jasmine that she was right about home-school boys, but a text message popped up before she could dial Jasmine's number.

Kiki chewed on her lower lip, still slightly raw from kissing, and tried to decide if Lyman was worth a second chance. She felt like she had found the perfect pair of jeans, perfect color, perfect cut, perfectly worn in, but the price was more than she wanted to pay. What was she going to do?

 

SHOULD KIKI TRY HIM ON
?
Turn to page 107 to see if Lyman's her perfect fit.