Mayne Attraction: In The Spotlight (20 page)

“So about the Kool-aid…”

I couldn’t stop myself from setting the
matter straight on that. I was just too insecure to let that go
without being totally clarified. He looked down and over at me,
inquisitive and amused. It disrupted my train of thought and the
words spilled over in a less than controlled way.

“Well, it’s just that…I don’t…I mean
wouldn’t ever…be allowed to have Kool-Aid.”

Darn it! That is NOT how I wanted that to
come out.

“I mean, I wouldn’t want to anyway… I uh… I
don’t drink that stuff.”

Just shut it. Stop now. Are you happy you
made your point? Was it worth it, idiot?

“So your mother is concerned about the
negative effects that artificial colors and flavors might have on
you? That sounds reasonable to me. It makes me wonder about the
presence of Cherry Coke in your house, though,” he said, smiling
archly.

“Yeah, that’s contra-band too. I bought that
at the grocery today. I bought all kinds of stuff I’m not supposed
to have. But I’ve got nine days to consume all the evidence,” I
confessed.

I laughed self-consciously at my sad little
passive aggressive victory: stickin’ it to the man (or the mom, in
this case) while she sailed the high seas.

“Let me know if you need any help with
that,” he replied.

He didn’t look at me when he said this, so I
wasn’t sure if it was a joke or an offer. Probably a joke.

The dishwashing business didn’t take nearly
as long as normal, or as long as I would have liked, and it was
time to do some more entertaining. We moved out into the yard to
try out the Corn-hole game that was new to my guests, including the
one who owned his own set.

The concept is simple. Contestants toss
small bags of dried corn toward a wooden target with a hole cut out
in the center. Points are awarded based on the accuracy of the
toss. A bag through the hole is worth three points. A bag on the
box is worth one. Matching efforts by competitors cancel each other
out. Each player gets four throws. The game is played to
twenty-one.

I always especially enjoy the discomfort and
embarrassment of men playing Corn-hole for the first time. I am not
by nature a sadistic person, but it’s satisfying to see a good
‘dose of your own medicine’ play out from time to time. For such a
seemingly easy game, victory can be surprisingly elusive. As your
skills improve, usually do those of your opponent. But there’s
nothing more humiliating than competing with a person of skill. And
that’s where I came in.

I explained the rules and encouraged
everyone to take practice throws, though I didn’t engage in the
warm up exercises. Just as normal, there was secret pleasure to be
had in each man’s reaction to his initial throw, far wide or short
of the box in each case. My secret sentiments were more generous
for Lidia.

After an unusually long stint of practice
throws the game began in earnest. In a tradition as old as time, we
paired into teams of boys versus girls. I smiled inwardly, feeling
like a cat with canary feathers in my whiskers.

I had subtly maneuvered the pairings so that
I would be throwing against Ray. He needed a little pay back for
the “Teen Gourmet Killer” bit at dinner, and I was just the gal to
bring it.

With me holding back, the game was fairly
even. Nobody was throwing in the hole yet, so neither did I. Of the
three of them, Ash seemed to have the most natural ability. He was
able to get most of his bags on the box, usually at least three out
of the four. Lidia’s bags would hit the box, but invariably slide
off the back. I would vary my throws so that sometimes they landed
on the box, and sometimes they dove off the edge, taking Ray’s bag
along for the ride.

The score was very close. They were all
extremely competitive, and the trash talk had started immediately
and was escalating with every throw. The score was boys nineteen
and girls sixteen. Ray and I were up. Ray tossed first. His throw
was perfect. The bag passed through the hole like it had
disappeared into another dimension. Because he knew it was
ungentlemanly to gloat in my poor little face, his victory
celebration took the form of a very expressive arm pump action.

The score was now twenty-one to sixteen.
They had won if I couldn’t counter…a lot. With feigned nervousness
I stared long and hard at the target, some thirty feet away. Then
with a quick toss, my bag joined Ray’s in the fifth dimension.
Behind me I heard a muffled curse and a big sigh. I suppressed the
answering gloat I had for him. He squared up and tossed again. It
was another perfect, seamless throw—straight in the hole, which was
followed by more vigorous arm pumping.

I took a deep breath, concentrating hard on
the target, and released my bag into the air. It was another
copycat throw in the hole. Ray was unhappy now. There was no
muffled sound, just fierce determination as he made his third toss.
The pressure must have disrupted his newfound technique. The bag
smacked hard just above the hole, still on the box, but just
barely.

I shooed the imaginary bird feathers away
from my face and made my throw. It too, hit the box, just at the
top edge of the hole, but unlike Ray’s toss, my bag took a lucky
bounce and slid through the hole, but not before the displaced
inertia shoved his bag off the edge of the box and onto the grass
behind.

Helpfully, I announced the new score.

“Nineteen all,” I proclaimed cheerfully.

Ray was feeling the pressure of his final
throw. He knew now that he had it in him to throw to hole and win
the game. He was digging deep, probably thinking something like ‘Be
the Bag.’ I certainly hoped so.

I knew on his release it was over…and so did
he. The bag weakly glanced off the very front edge of the box, and
then slowly slid backwards, into the grass. He couldn’t suppress a
curse, but he apologized immediately.

I stepped up and took a deep breath. Then I
took another deep breath. Then I took time to look at Lidia, who
was all intensity, and hope and excitement, ready with her trash
talking victory speech, no doubt.

Ash’s expression was not what I expected. It
made me feel guilty—like he knew my secret, and that he disapproved
of my using my superpowers for selfish means. It sucked some of the
joy out of this otherwise sublime moment. But I didn’t let it stop
me. My final throw was a very show-boatingly high arched toss that
whistled its way straight into the hole like it had been dropped in
from directly above. And that was game.

Lidia gleefully announced the final score,
“Girls twenty-two, boys nineteen!”

She was inordinately happy (considering her
contribution of points) to share the victory with me and bounded
over to give me a huge hug and kisses too.

“We won! We won!” she kept shouting.

Ash had approached as well and came over to
shake my hand. Just like before, I felt warmed by him. The look he
gave me was piercing, though. He knew. Of course he knew. He’d
probably watched me practicing mindlessly for hours at a time
because I had needed it to look like I was doing something, but I
couldn’t take being with people or being in my room any more.

Something without words flowed between us.
He knew I knew that he knew. There was a knowing smile across his
face.

He said, “That was well done. I think I
should start practicing with you.”

My heart skipped a beat, but in my eagerness
to acquiesce I still managed to say, “I’d love that! Mom and Hoyt
won’t play with me.”

That wasn’t really true anymore, though.
They were still way into indulgence mode and would play anything I
wanted, corn-hole included. Though I wondered how far the
indulgence would go if I tested it by playing in the backyard with
my adult male neighbor, the one who I’d love to help me round out
the numbers in social settings…

Chapter 18
–
Love Letter

I couldn’t deny it any more. After spending
an evening in his company, and then replaying every blissful second
over and over in my mind like a pathetic junkie, I had to admit to
myself that I was truly obsessed—worse than I had ever been before.
It was bad.

I’d seen Ash off and on after that first
encounter at Tinseltown, though I don’t think he was aware of that.
Never on Mondays, though. I determined that Monday must be his day
off and then I had a new reason hate Mondays all the more. I
wondered what he did with himself when he wasn’t babysitting me.
Was he a car enthusiast, like Lidia? Did he enjoy music? Maybe he
traveled to interesting places, happy to get away from the boring
monotony of watching me living my stupid life. Was there someone
special? I switched off my questions after that one popped up. I
felt a familiar stab in my chest the instant I’d thought it. I
quickly turned my mental channel to something more enjoyable.

I’d had the most wonderful dream about him
recently. It was very vivid and pleasurable. In fact, I was certain
I’d had this dream before, but this time his face and voice were
very clear, whereas before they had been muddled. We were walking
in a field of fireflies at night. He was holding my hand and
telling me that he loved me. I was telling him that I liked
chocolate and the color magenta.

After I had invited him over for dinner it
occurred to me, belatedly, that he could have gotten fired over
that. There had been two agents in the past, both of whom I was
sure had been dismissed because of my interactions with them. That
was fine; I didn’t feel bad about them at all. In fact, getting
them fired had been my aim. I’m not a mean spirited person, but I
have no patience for self-important, discourteous behavior,
especially when it’s directed at timid people like me. I had a
feeling that these ‘security’ personnel made a decent wage, and
although I hated the waste that their care over me incurred, I’d be
darned if I’d allow a jerk to profit from it.

One watcher had been following Sam and me
around the mall on a Saturday and settled into a booth directly
behind us at Ruby Tuesday’s when we all took a break for lunch.
This fellow was fairly new in the rotation, but had made himself
noticeable right away simply through his body language, but also
through stunts like sitting too close—it creeped me out. He exuded
self-importance; something I had instantly picked up on, like a
whiff of dead mouse in the garage. I have nothing against important
people, but treating others rudely to create a false sense of
superiority offended me on many levels. None of the other personnel
stood out in any way, (apart from the impossibly handsome one,
though even he was hard to spot in most cases) so I wondered about
this new guy, and how he came to be one of them.

I ordered a quiche, which came with the
salad bar, so I’d been up a few times, back and forth to get this
and that and I had noticed him being very rude to his waitress,
more than once. In fact, at one point, from where I was standing at
the salad bar near the kitchen, I could see her inside near the
service line waiting for a plate of food to be redone at his
insistence, while wiping her eyes with a tissue.

I was curious about something so after Sam
and I left the restaurant, with him following right on our heels, I
did an about face, nearly knocking into him, and marched right back
over to the table where he had been sitting. The waitress was
standing there and the bus boy was moving in that direction. Just
as I suspected, he’d left her a penny, which she was holding up to
inspect in disbelief.

I went right up to her and handed her a
ten—my entire cash reserve.

“He’s an idiot. You’re a great waitress.
Just walk it off. Oh, can I have that?”

I took the penny out of her hand and walked
swiftly away and back out into the hall where I knew he’d be
loitering around. Then I marched directly up to him and said, “I
think you forgot something.”

He looked like a deer in the headlights, or
maybe more like a skunk in the headlights. He must not have
anticipated what I was about to give him because he opened his hand
expectantly while at the same time looking away, or maybe around to
see if anyone else was watching. I pressed the single penny back in
his palm and said, “This is for poor service. I hope it was worth
it,” and I turned and stormed away.

I never saw him again.

My Goth friend had been shadowing me in
stony amazed silence. As I stomped off in no particular direction,
still seeing red, she said, “Who are you, and what have you done
with my non-confrontational best friend?”

As time moved forward and winter phased into
spring I began to actively seek opportunities to be out and about.
At first I didn’t consciously understand my own motives. I just
thought I was making up for lost time from after the funeral. But
when I began to reflect on the difference in my moods after outings
that included an Ash sighting and those that did not, it occurred
to me that the common thread to a pleasant and successful venture
was the thrill of spotting my perfectly cast angelic looking
guardian angel.

From there I progressed to orchestrating
‘lost and found’ scenarios, but only if he was around, and of
course, never on Mondays. I’d ‘lose’ my iPod anytime I downloaded
new material, so he could hear what I was listening to. I left
books behind so he could see what I was reading. I loved a news
parody website called ‘The Onion’ and I’d print off bogus articles
from there that made me laugh and then leave them laying around for
him to find. I wanted to make his job as interesting and enjoyable
as I could with what little resources I had to work with.

There was, however, a serious potential flaw
in my logic to consider: Was I truly making things interesting for
him, (after all, tastes in entertainment are highly subjective) or
was I simply working to confirm what he must already suspect: that
he was watching the most foolish and forgetful person on the
planet?