Authors: Ellen Hopkins

Triangles (22 page)

And by the time Andrea gets back

to her seat, I’m pretty sure her choice will be “kill” rather than “kiss” me.

She has bloomed scarlet, cleavage

to scalp. She plops into her seat,

finishes half a watered-down drink

in one large swallow.
Thanks a lot!

Oh my God. How embarrassing!

“Are you kidding? That was excellent!” I signal to the cocktail waitress to bring another round. “What I want

to know is … how big is his bulge?” Andrea sputters, but Sahara answers,
Pretty damn big. Take it from me.

She returns her attention to the action, now a chorus line of firemen.

These guys aren’t the best dancers

in the world, but they’re definitely entertaining. Almost as much as

some of the people in the crowd.

In addition to the women, not all

of whom are what you’d call young,

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there are a few single men who keep yelling for the Aussies to
take it
all
off.

Now a total stud takes hold

of a silver-haired woman’s hand,

all the encouragement she needs

to follow him up onstage. He plops

her down into a chair—worried

about the state of her knees?—

and proceeds with a performance

much the same as the one Andrea

was treated to. The older lady

seems much more in her element,

totally getting into the whole

simulated oral sex thing. Wow,

interesting mental picture. Hope

her dentures don’t fall out! Drinks finally arrive just about the time

the big finale begins. I have to admit ninety minutes is more than enough of hot dudes dancing. The lights come

up.
Do you want pictures with them?

asks Sahara.
Twenty bucks each.

Andrea and I both decline.
Well,
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the guys will be out for photos.

That will probably take a while.

We can head up to the suite to wait.

ANOTHER FIRST

Who knew high rollers had it so good?

This penthouse suite is amazing—marble and wood and polished chrome. The only thing more gorgeous than the room itself is the view across the city to the Sierra.

You can’t really see the mountain’s features at night, but neither can you miss its presence in the distance. At the moment, it’s just the three of us here. If we talk, our voices will probably echo in all this hugeness.

Make yourselves at home,
says Sahara.

I’ll call down to have them bring up
the food. There’s booze on the sidebar.

She goes to the phone. I go for alcohol.

“I don’t know how to make a mai tai.

How about a mojito? They’re easy.”

Andrea’s still standing at the window.

She shrugs.
I really don’t need a drink.

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“Who does?” I make two, anyway.

“Where’s Harley tonight? With her dad?”
No. She’s still too pissed about Chad.

My parents took her to see Bob Dylan.

“That should be interesting. He’s kind of getting up there, isn’t he?” I offer the mojito and she accepts it.
Uh, yeah,
he is. So, how does Sahara know these
guys? And is she the one who rented
this suite? Kind of pricey for a party.

Sahara comes back into the room,

all freshened up and lipstick reapplied.

I used to be a dancer.
Sounds like she heard Andrea’s questions.
So I’ve known the show’s
producer for years. As for the suite, you’d
be surprised how reasonable it is.
Her tone is curt, and some uneasy current

flows between her and Andrea.

A loud knock interrupts, diverting

the strange energy.
Coming!
calls Sahara.

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She goes to let in the food. Andrea sips her drink in silence. Some party.

AS THE WAITER LEAVES

The real party arrives. Seven

Aussie dancers—two with girls,

two obviously with each other—

plus another guy, obviously not

a male stripper. He’s kind of cute, but built more like an accountant.

The suite shrinks as it fills with

mostly beautiful bodies and faces.

And it gets loud with voices.

Big voice:
Check out this spread!

Deep voice:
You talking food or pussy?

Squeaky voice:
Make me a drink, baby.

Taunting voice:
You can drink this, darlin’.

Gentle voice:
Look at the view, hon.

Tandem voice:
I’d rather look at you.

Too many people to bother

with introductions all around,

Sahara leaves it to us to connect.

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One of the dancers corners her,

so I go over to keep Andrea company, hoping a guy or two joins us.

It doesn’t take long for Mitch—

the one who danced for dentures—

and the accountant to come over.

The latter directs his attention

to Andrea.
Hi. I’m Robin.
Turns out he’s Sahara’s producer friend.

Andrea manages a smile. Good

sign. And now Mitch says to me,

You were sitting in front tonight.

He has long, sable hair and

black coffee eyes, and they’re

scoping me out. “You noticed.”

I’d have to be blind not to notice
legs like those. You’re a runner.

And we’re off. He’s an actor,

of course. But he’s making me

feel like a starlet. I realize he’s had lots of practice. But I don’t let that bother me. I glance over at Andrea, 417/881

who is enmeshed in conversation

with Robin. Wonder what about.

Oh well. I’ve got more important

things to worry about, like Mitch.

“Do you want to sit for a few?”

We do, on a small loveseat. He begins a downstream flirtation—easy ride,

no demands. No real work.
I’m pretty
good at massage,
he says in a honeyed Down Under accent.
Kick off your
shoes and I’ll show you.
He pulls my feet into his lap, works the high arches with his thumbs. Oh, yeah.

“Ever do this for old ladies?”

He smiles.
Once or twice. Mostly
the old birds just want company.

He adds a few matter-of-fact details.

I’m pretty sure I could go with him to his room. But I won’t. He is fine,

and no doubt well practiced in bed.

Too practiced. I want to feel special.

Andrea shoots me a disapproving

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look. God, what would she say if

I told her about Sahara, and why

she seems so proprietary? But no,

Andrea would never understand that.

It comes to me that there are different degrees of infidelity. And while an extramarital foot rub isn’t exactly right, it really isn’t so wrong.

DEGREES OF INFIDELITY

Even lust isn’t black

and white.

Would it be wrong

to scan an unfamiliar room, and

when

your lover’s back is turned,

lock eyes

with a stranger? What if

you carried the rush home

to warm your tepid bed?

Is it

faithless to let someone new

kiss you,

soft as a drift of eiderdown,

knowing that kiss

is a solitary tick of

time,

never to be repeated?

Should you

bump into a once-upon-a-time

flame, still an ember,

would you call it betrayal

to say,

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I will never stop loving you?

Would the gesture

hold deeper meaning

if you had already

decided to tell your lover

goodbye?

Marissa

SAYING GOODBYE

To Mom and Dad has never

been quite as difficult as it

was today. For one thing, I’d

always assumed their riding

off into the sunset together

was a mutually satisfying

experience. Learning their

relationship is like lukewarm

bathwater opened my eyes

to some things I had chosen

to ignore. Or to be honest,

I’ve been so mired in my own

personal pile of misery, every-

body else’s problems seemed

insignificant. I hope Mom’s

decision to stay with Dad was

the right one. Either way, it

was great spending time with

the two of them. Having them

here helped me realize how

much of a hermit I’ve become.

Not good for Shelby. Not good

for Shane. Not good for me.

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It was really Dad who made me

see that, and Dad who made

damn sure to introduce Alex

into our midst, make him feel

accepted. Dad and Shane had

the heart-to-heart that Christian

refuses to have with him. Ever.

TO SAY

Christian has been unsupportive

of Shane would be an understatement.

He was hoping his boy would be

a quarterback, not queer. Pop Warner was a disaster, especially since Christian was coaching. Two years was all Shane could take. Little League wasn’t much better. When it comes to sports, Shane prefers boards—skateboards, snowboards, wakeboards. Christian used to ski but doesn’t so much anymore. Too busy. Shane

boards with his buddies, not his dad, who is not exactly homophobic, but

neither has he totally accepted the fact that his only son is gay. Shane knew in sixth grade but didn’t find the courage to tell us until his freshman year.

I suspected by then, and so I’d had some time to process the idea. Christian, though, looked like he’d been smacked across the face. He didn’t say a word. But beneath 424/881

his diamond-jawed exterior, one emotion was clear—anger. He has tempered some.

But he still won’t talk about it. To anyone.

HE BARELY TALKS

To Shane at all. So it surprises me when, post Shelby’s morning CPT,

I start toward the kitchen and overhear the two of them, attempting communication.

But I’ve been old enough to get
my license for over a month …

Wait. His license? Shane’s birthday.

Oh my God. I forgot all about it.

Why didn’t he say anything?

How could I not remember?

I didn’t say you couldn’t have it.

Just not this week. I don’t have time.

You never have time for me. For any
of us. You pretty much suck as a dad.

Yeah, well, you’re not exactly

my idea of a noteworthy son, either.

Going downhill, and fast. Time

to interrupt. “Shane! I’m so sorry

I forgot your birthday. I must have …

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I don’t know. No excuse, really.”

It’s okay, Mom. Not like you don’t
have enough stuff on your mind.

Oh, and I don’t? Christian snaps.

You have no fucking idea—

“Stop it. Just stop it. Look, maybe I can take you to the DMV this week.

Only problem is the van is not the best vehicle for a driving test. It’s huge.”
I’d just need you to sign the papers.

Alex will let me use his car.

Alex. Perfect. Christian creaks out of
his chair, goes to the counter, pours a cup of coffee. Then he opens a high cupboard, reaches for a large bottle that turns out to be Irish whiskey.

I glance at the clock. Not even ten.

Shane pounces.
No wonder you

don’t want to take me to the DMV.

You’d get busted for drunk driving.

Do you drink at work too, Dad?

VALID QUESTION

But probably not one Shane should

ask. Christian turns slowly, razor-eyed.

Do you screw your boyfriend at school?

Whoa. “Just wait a minute. This

conversation doesn’t need to get

any uglier. Mellow out, Christian.”
Me? You want me to mellow out?