GOSSIP GIRL: The Upper East Siders
I dedicate this story to my ultimate bff, Kaye E.
And for "Henry Duane Montenegro", I would never be inspired to write this without you . . .
For these two, with all my love, always . . .
I
A box of pizza and a hot chocolate
Ostroff Treatment Center
It was my day-off that sunny morning in New York City.
But instead reading Emily Bronte while sipping hot chocolate in Central Park, I was standing here in the 3rd floor of Ostroff Treatment Center—waiting patiently for Mrs. Krantz to finish her conversation with a black nurse in front of a computer; Mrs. Krantz was the owner of the bookstore where I was working.
You must be wondering what the hell I was doing here. No darling she has no plans in putting me here—but merely accompanying her here in one of her weekly visits to his drug-addict son,
After finishing her talk with the nurse, Mrs. Krantz asked me, "Coming with me, RJ?"
I hastily decline the invitation faster than Superman. "I don't think your son will appreciate that you brought a stranger with you. I'll just wait here. Don't worry, I'll be totally fine here," I gestured at the comfortable-looking chair nearby.
She didn't persist and went her way. With a sigh, I sat myself on the sofa. Great, I thought to myself dryly, this is better than Central Park. I sipped on my chocolate and just about to read the first line of Wuthering Heights when a familiar song caught my attention--it was "Wouldn't It Be Nice" being sung by an unmistakably male voice:
Wouldn't it be nice if we could wake up
in the morning when the day is new
And after having spent the day together
Hold each other close the whole night through
I didn't have a difficult time finding the source. It was coming from a room not far from me, the door slightly ajar. Tempted to know who was behind it, I walked to the door and peeked inside. In the room was a blonde-haired guy wearing a brown t-shirt, sitting on an uncarpeted floor. His back rested against the end of the bed, while singing the song of The Beach boys and playing the guitar. He was preoccupied that he didn't notice me.
Happy times together we've been spending
I wish that every kiss was never-ending
wouldn't it be nice
I crossed my arms on my chest, leaned my left shoulder against the door framed, and listened openly . . . and eventually, sang along:
Maybe if we think and wish and hope and pray it might come true
Baby then there wouldn't be a single thing we couldn't do
we could be married
and then we'd be happy . . .
But the next line of the song stacked in my throat when without warning, the blonde stopped singing and playing the guitar at the same time. Did I sing too loud? I asked myself privately as he gazed up at me and sprang to his feet.
First thing that came to my mind: RUN. I started to turn around and about to make a step when he spoke in a rush, "Hey, wait! Please . . . stay."
It wasn't the words that made me halt but rather his voice. Was it . . . desperation?
Reluctantly, I faced him. Our eyes met; mine was questioning, his was pleading. Ignorant in how to deal with the situation I found myself in—yet feeling that I should I explain myself—I said, "I'm so sorry for listening and watching without permission. I know it's wrong but I couldn't help it; it's my favorite song and—"
"It's okay. I didn't mind at all," he said with resignation; I saw his body relaxed deliberately.
It was obvious that he was hesitant to ay the next words, "Actually, I'm kinda . . . glad that someone got attracted to come here . . ."
I noted sadness in his voice that made my brows knitted together. Intrigued, I asked, "Why?"
Instead of answering my question, he went back to the floor, sat Indian-style.
I had a feeling that the answer to my question would lead to a sensitive subject that he refused to answer me, so I didn't push; it wasn't my business.
He pulled a box of pizza beside him; he offered with a smile, "Here have some." As he balanced it on his right hand, I spotted bandages rolled in his wrist. My tongue itched to ask, but I chose to ignore it, remembering my former unanswered question. To further distract myself, I plucked a slice on the box.
He patted the place beside him, indicating where I could sit. Taking a bite, I sat there.
He held out the hand with the bandage, "I'm Eric van der Woodsen."
His hand enveloped mine as I accepted it. "Just call me RJ."
"RJ," he echoed, sounded like tasting it in his tongue. "Nice and short. Easy to remember." A smiled lingered in his lips.
His warm smile, the taste of the pizza in my mouth, and its smell comforted me. Everything was so cozy. I decided I could stay here since he seemed harmless—looking at his kind, friendly yet somewhat sad blue eyes. Chatting with this cute blonde named Eric was better than sitting at that couch alone and by myself, waiting for Mrs. Krantz.
"So, obviously, music is your interest," I started, eyeing the guitar.
Eric followed my gaze to the instrument. "Yeah, it keeps me sane here."
I smiled, remembering someone. "You are so like my best friend Kaye. She extremely loves music. Perhaps you have the same reason in mind."
With his mouth full, Eric asked, "Why? Is she one you are visiting her?"
I laughed a little, realizing the notion my words implied. "No, No. she isn't what you're thinking. I mean, with all the information she was studying and putting in her head, it's so crazy. Music must be keeping her sane."
"Then what are you doing here?"
"Just accompanying someone who has a son her," I said simply.
Eric nodded several times; then he sniffed, "Is that chocolate?"
I looked down to my up. "Yup. Want some?"
Looking slightly amazed, he asked, "You'll share your pizza with a stranger?"
I shrugged. "You didn't mind sharing your pizza with a stranger . . ." I inch the cup closer to him.
The creased on his forehead slowly faded. He reached for the cup, and then sipped on it.
"Hm . . . this tastes really good," he said appreciatively, returning the cup with a grateful smile.
I smiled back, noticing that I could now barely see the sadness in Eric's eyes . . .
-R-