Everyone Worth Knowing (45 page)

when they were in a festive mood. "Big day tomorrow." She extended

her hand to my father, which he took with a smile. "So nice

to meet you, Sammy. We just love meeting
Belle's friends."

Sammy leapt to his feet. "Nice to meet you both as well.

Thanks for having me. And good luck with the party tomorrow. It

sounds great."

"Yes, well, it's a tradition, and we hope to see you there.

Nighty-night," my father said cheerily, following my mother into

the house, but not before he leaned in and whispered a fervent

thank-you to Sammy for allowing him one edible meal.

"They're great," Sammy said quietly when the door had closed.

"After the way you described them, I was honestly expecting circus

freaks. But they couldn't be more normal."

"Yeah, well, it depends on your definition of
normal,
I guess.

You ready?"

"Uh, sure. If you are." He sounded hesitant.

"Well, I figured you'd want to get home, but I'm totally up for

hanging out if you are," I said, holding my breath the entire time.

He appeared to think about this for a minute and then said,

"How do you feel about hitting the Starlight?"

It was official: he was perfect.

I exhaled. "Great call. It's only the best diner on earth. Do you

love it as much as I do?"

"More. I used to go there by myself in high school, if you can

even believe how humiliating that is. I'd just sit there with a book

or a magazine and a cup of coffee. It broke my heart when the

original wart lady left."

The Starlight had been the epicenter of our high school social

life, the place I'd spent the better part of my teenage years, hanging

out with my friends who, like me, weren't quite pretty or cool

enough to be considered popular, but who could still confidently

claim superiority over the dorks and losers (mostly the horrifyingly

antisocial math and computer types) who unwillingly occupied the

rungs beneath us. The social hierarchy was strictly maintained: the

cool kids monopolized the smoking section, the severely socially

challenged played video games at the two booths all the way in the

back, and my crowd (assorted hippies, alternative punk kids, and

the socially striving who hadn't quite made the big leagues yet)

held the half-dozen tables and the entire counter space in between.

The guys would sit in one booth, smoking and discussing—quite

suavely, and with the strong suggestion of expertise—whether

they'd sacrifice blow jobs or sex if forced to decide at gunpoint, as

we, their loyal girlfriends (who weren't doing much more than kissing

any of them), gulped coffee and analyzed in great detail which

of the girls at school had the best clothes, chest, and boyfriend.

Starlight was the Poughkeepsie version of Central Perk, only slightly

stickier and with fluorescent lights, brown vinyl booths, and a waitstaff

where each employee, incredibly, possessed either a sprouting

facial wart or a missing finger. I loved the way some people remain

devoted to their childhood bedrooms or summer-vacation spots,

and I returned, like a homing pigeon, every time I went back to

town. The idea of Sammy there alone made me sad and nostalgic.

We settled into the least sticky booth we could find and pretended

to examine the plastic menus, which hadn't changed in

decades. Even though I was stuffed, I debated between cinnamon

toast and fries and then decided that carb-loading was acceptable

outside the Manhattan city limits and got both. Sammy ordered a

cup of regular coffee. One of my favorite waitresses, the woman

with the longest hair of all growing from the wart near her lip, had

snorted when he'd asked for skim milk instead of cream, and the

two were now involved in some sort of glaring contest across the

room.

We sipped coffee and chatted and picked at the food.

"You never mentioned you were doing brunch at Gramercy

Tavern. I'd love to come by."

"Yeah, well, you never mentioned that you were salutatorian of

your class. Or that you won the Martin Luther King Award for

cross-cultural community service."

I laughed. "Boy, they didn't miss a thing, did they? I thought it

was lucky you graduated three years before me so you wouldn't

remember any of that stuff, but I should've known better."

The waitress refilled Sammy's mug and let a little of the coffee

splash for good measure.

"They're proud of you, Bette. I think that's so nice."

"They
were
proud of me. It's different now. I don't think my

newfound ability to draw celebs to Bungalow 8 and get written

about in gossip columns was exactly what they had in mind for me."

He smiled sadly. "Everyone makes compromises, you know?

Doesn't mean you're any different from the person you were back

then."

The way he said it made me want to believe it. "Can we get

out of here?" I asked, motioning for the check, which, regardless of

how many people were in the party or what was ordered, always

amounted to exactly three dollars per person. "I think I need to

conserve my energy for tomorrow's festivities, which I'm hoping to

convince you to attend. . . ."

He left a twenty-dollar bill on the table ("To make up for all the

nights I left really shitty tips after sitting here for hours") and put

his hand on my back to direct me out. We detoured long enough

for him to win me a small stuffed pig from the claw game in the

foyer—the one that sat just past the rotating pie display. I hugged

it to me and he told me it was the best two bucks in quarters he'd

ever spent. The ten-mile drive to his house was quiet, and I realized

that in all the years I lived in Poughkeepsie, I'd never been to

this part of town. We were both contemplative, with none of the

chitchat or joking or confiding that we'd shared during the past

nine hours we'd spent together—nine hours that felt like five minutes.

I pulled into the short, unpaved driveway of a small, tidy

Colonial-style home and put the car in park.

"I had a great time tonight. Today, tonight, the whole thing.

Thanks for the ride and for dinner—all of it." He didn't look like

he was in any rush to get out of the car, and I finally allowed myself

to entertain the idea that he might just kiss me. Any Harlequin

novel would've surely pointed out how the electricity crackled between

us.

"Are you serious? I should be thanking you! You're the one

who kept us from enduring an entire night of vicious food poisoning,

you know," I blurted out. Then I tucked my hands underneath

my knees to keep them from shaking.

And then he was climbing out. Just like that. He simply opened

the door and grabbed his duffel from the backseat and waved,

mumbling something about calling me tomorrow. The disappointment

stung like a slap to the face, and I put the car in reverse as

quickly as possible, needing to leave before I started crying.
Why

on earth would you think he's even remotely interested in you?
I

asked myself, going back over the night in my head.
He needed a

tide and you offered him one and he was nothing except perfectly

friendly. It's your own delusion and you need to get over it imme-

diately before you make a complete ass of yourself.
As I turned

to back out of the gravelly driveway, I saw a figure approaching

the car.

He was talking, but I couldn't hear him through the closed

window. I rolled it down and hit the brakes.

"Did you forget something?" I asked, trying to keep my voice

from quivering.

"Yes."

"Well, hold on a sec. There, the back door's open, so—"

I didn't get to finish. He reached in through the driver's-side

window and across my lap and I was briefly frightened until he

grabbed the gearshift and put the car in park. He then unbuckled

my seat belt, yanked open the door, and pulled me from the car.

"What? I don't know—"

But he silenced me by taking my face in his hands in exactly

the way that every girl wants and no guy ever does. Just like on

the cover of
Lustfully Yours,
if I was recalling it correctly, the picture

that had symbolized for me the ultimate in romantic makeouts.

His hands were cool and strong and I was convinced he

could feel my face burning, but there was no time to worry about

it. He leaned in and kissed me with such softness that I could

barely respond, had no choice but to stand there and let it happen,

too shocked to even kiss him back.

"I promise I won't forget that next time," he said with what I

swear was the kind of gruffness you'd only ever hear in a movie.

He gallantly held my door open for me and motioned that I was to

sit down again. Happy I needn't rely on my own legs for support

anymore, I collapsed clumsily into the seat and grinned as he shut

the door and walked off toward the house.

20

I had just finished stringing the last succotash-shaped paper

lantern when my mother finally caved and asked me about

Sammy.

"Bettina, honey, Sammy seems like a lovely boy. Your father

and I enjoyed meeting him last night."

"Yeah, he does seem nice." I was going to make her work for

this one and enjoy every second of it.

"Will he be joining us for the party?" She placed a hummus

platter next to a tray of mixed olives and stood back to admire her

work before turning her attention to me.

"I don't think so. I know he'd like to, but we're both only here

for the weekend, and I think he needs to spend some time with his

dad. He mentioned they might go out for steaks or something."

"Mmm, is that so?" she asked in a tight voice, visibly trying not

to comment on what she was surely envisioning to be a frenzied

orgy of meat-eating. Sammy had only said that they'd go out for

Thanksgiving dinner, but it was too easy and too much fun to drive

her crazy. "Maybe he'd like to stop by afterward and sample some

of our finest local produce?"

"Yes, well, I'll definitely pass along that sexy invitation." I was

upset when Sammy had called to say he couldn't make the party,

and even more so when he mentioned that he wouldn't be riding

back to the city with me. After thanking me quite politely for the

ride the day before, he explained that he had to work Saturday

night and would be taking the bus back. I thought about leaving

early, too, but knew my parents would be upset, so I just wished

him a good night and hung up.

"Hey, Bettina, come and help me with this, will you?" My father

was lovingly arranging a pile of sticks and firewood in a complicated

woven pattern. The piece de resistance of every Harvest Festival

was the ceremonial bonfire, around which everyone would