PART TWO

18…Conjuring…

I'm not so much walking but rather clomping heavily up the street toward the Rehab, trying to outpace my thoughts. I'm just so furious with myself. Last night's stupid ass dance party…and that almost-kiss…Merde!...I almost kissed him…Me!...Ugh!...And he pushed me away…And I have to see him at the office in a week. What the hell is wrong with me? And I collapsed after I heard...

I shove the voices of my parents back behind the walled garden in my mind. Where all those memories are buried. Where they belong. I am quite good at this segmentation. But damn if it's not getting harder since…I don't know when…the plane, maybe? I think I dreamed of my parents on the plane from China in the first time since forever, although I don't remember it really. Just a vague feeling of unease was all that's left. And then at Bea's that first night back. And heaven knows, last night, hearing them so happy and laughing and calling me Little Monkey…I don't even like monkeys.

Nope! Back behind the wall, dammit. I lock the heavy gate. Everything in its place. In. Its. Place. I'll think about something else.

Leif had lifted me up. And carried me back to the Rambler…

I could breathe again, big gasping breaths. I was on one of the living room sofas with my chin against my chest, head down, staring at my lap. It took a few minutes to understand what I was seeing there: my ice cold hands were warming, encased in Leif's beautiful warm ones. If I lifted my eyes just a little, I would see that he was kneeling in front of me. I did. There was a new look in his eyes that might well be mirroring mine—anguish.

Em's voice in the hall. "Lord have mercy, those were sure some fireworks. The living room lights are on, they must be in there. Go on in, I'm going to quick go grab some more champagne!"

That's not what made me bound right out of the shock I felt from hearing my parents' voices. It's that when James walked in the room and saw us—Leif's hands still enclosed over mine—the happy expression on his face became a mix of accusation and hurt. At Leif. James stopped just inside the doorway.

I pulled my hands out from under Leif's as he stood, moving away from me.

Em came in a few moments later staying by the door near James, open bottle in hand. "What's the deal? I come out of the restroom at Bea's after dancing up a storm and see her stomping out of the kitchen to yell at the twins. I've not seen her angry since the twins played that Chris Brown song at the last dance party I was at a year ago. Tonight she practically had them in tears!" Em is oblivious to James's eyes drilling into his friend. "Then Bea insisted we come check on you. Why, do you think?"

Bea must've heard that tape, too, and was wondering if I had.

I looked at Leif imploringly. I didn't want Bea or anyone else to know anything about my meltdown. Somehow, Leif got it.

He turned to Em, commanding, "Emory, will you please go tell Bea that you found Ellawyn showing me around her apartment." He quickly glanced at me. "And that we're too tired to come back, but thank her for a wonderful experience." He was coordinating The Coordinator.

When Em looked at me quizzically and didn't move. I nodded dumbly at her.

"Okaaaay…did someone have too much champagne?" Em smiled, raising an eyebrow at me. She handed the bottle to James. "Be right back."

Once Em had left, James whispered accusingly, "What did you do, man?" He seemed so disappointed in his friend. Leif didn't turn towards him, he was still looking at me.

No! It's not what you think! Which begs the question…What did James think? It pained me to see a little crack in what I've thought of as this perfect friendship. I couldn't bear it. I found my voice. "Nothing, James. Leif only helped me when I…uh…when I fell in the hall. Like Em said, I might've imbibed maybe a bit much. He was just being kind."

James hurt and desolation dissolved into relief as he slid into one of the chairs, taking a swig from the bottle. "You fell? Are you okay? Might I get you something?"

"No, no, I'm fine. I promise."

James seemed mollified and went on to talk about how much fun he'd had and how many interesting characters we seemed to know. Interesting characters might well be his creative translation for "odd ducks," but I was glad to be distracted from the sound of those voices I'd just heard, and anyway, he's right. Counting Bea, Patrick, Mrs. Babushka, the twins, and various other of our neighbors, I was indeed surrounded by plenty of interesting characters.

He continued rapturously about the evening until Em sauntered back in the room. "I still don't understand what that drama was about and Bea wouldn't say, but she seemed relieved that you were over here showing Leif around." She sat on the edge of James' chair, grabbing the bottle from him. "Oh, and that cute guy who's in the band was brokenhearted you weren't coming back and wanted me to give you this." She waved a folded note in her hand and then leaned over toward me with it. "I think it's his phone number." She paused, smiling guiltily. "Okay, I know it's his phone number because I peeked at it. He wants you to come see his band play and invited all of us as well." I doubt that invitation included the "intense guy."

For some reason, after a furtive glance at Leif, I couldn't bring myself to take the note. "You can just set it on the table," I mumbled. She slapped it down and that damn note seemed to sit there on the coffee table, waving at me. I was already regretting having agreed to go out with him.

"You don't mind if we go back do you?" Em had asked me, perfunctorily, getting up from the chair. "There are even more people there and I think I could dance til dawn!"

James seemed completely knackered, poor boy. "Yes. Let's go do exactly that! I will soldier on," he said gamely, illustrating the fact that, as he said earlier, he was indeed thoroughly Coordinated. Before Em pulled James into the hall, I saw him mouth, "I'm sorry," to Leif.

"Don't wait up!" Em called gaily. "I'll shut the door on our way out." And then, for a moment, it was silent as the depths.

I found my voice again, even if only a small one. "Please don't mention anything about…about all this…" I made a vague sweeping hand motion, "to Em or James. They seem to be having a good time and I don't want to ruin it for them. I don't want Em to worry."

More silence. Leif was gazing at me with open emotion. It was too much so I dropped my eyes down again.

More deep silence.

A long, masculine artist's hand appeared in front of me. The silken voice broke the quiet. "Come. Let's not make a liar out of me. Show me around. If you're not up for it, you can just take me to a room I can sleep in."

And I took his hand.

I shudder as my mind replays last night's events. The latter part of last night needs to get its damn stupid-ass self behind the wall, too, I think as I clomp up 1st Ave. It's all too much. Too overwhelming.

I am mad at myself, mostly because I am not that girl. Dammit. I am not some stupid-ass, frivolous girl who gets all fluttery over a stupid boy, no matter how…compelling…he is. It helps if I include that stupid boy in my anger, so I replay how he seemed to want to find fault with me early in the dinner last night. That's right, I remind myself. I need to hold onto that. He's an arrogante pendejo. It's probably because of him that it feels as if I have to constantly shore up the walls in my mind; the inner structure that I like to keep in place. Yeah, it's his stupid fault, I am sure of it. I want—I need—solid ground and he unsettles me. It's his fault.

And I am not that girl!

I am a worker bee. I made straight A's at school when I was there. Now, I am someone who takes care of her grandfather. I am someone who makes this her job, who has a whole Plan to accomplish this. The only thing I've not done yet is get Henry to go out of the Rehab, even for a short walk with his wheelchair; he's refused every time. But we will do that today, come hell or damn high water. See?…I've got things to do, dammit. Plans! Pfft…I am so not that girl.

I walk with that thought in mind for at least a good block.

Guilt overtakes me that I called that pretty girl Leif was dancing with stupid. Granted, it was only in my mind, but I've never put down someone like that before, almost as if I was in competition with her or something. That was so petty. She's probably really nice and even if she isn't, she didn't deserve that from me. I say a mental I'm sorry to her. That is not like me at all. I am not that girl.

I am not that girl, dammit!

That one who gets mesmerized by some stupid dark blue eyes that are, truly, like deep pools of ocean water. Or maybe better is pools of deep ocean water; they're intense and deep, either way. I am not someone who gets distracted by plush lips or strong masculine arms. Golden muscled ones.

I am not someone easily derailed by a boy…no, a man, a twenty-three-year-old one, who asked all kinds of questions—about some of the photos in the hallway, the artwork—but thankfully, didn't ask what happened with my floundering collapse. I could see the question in his eyes, though…and the compassion and empathy and kindness. It was a sort of kindness that, at its core, did not seem to be all that unlike James'…Albeit, not so open and ready and affable, like his friend's sweetness, but still… And how he kept hold of my hand the whole time and it felt as if I pulled some strength from that, from his touch…like he was willingly giving his energy. And it wasn't unsettling at all, but peaceful and serene and…healing.

Midway down the next block, I catch myself and stop short in the middle of the sidewalk to shake off these thoughts, glad that the only people I've passed so far in this early morning are the ones stumbling home from a late night out. None of them pay me any mind. I make it to the following block with no further replaying of last night, of him. I concentrate on planning to have a wheelchair checked out from the front desk and ready for Henry—there are no rehab exercises today. And soon I'll start my first day at Falk Atlantic, all in the service of taking care of Grandfather, paying off our bills.

I am not that girl.

I wonder if I'll see him much there at the office, and how he'll be different at his place of work. Will he be the elevator guy again, all arrogance and…and… good parting lines? Or the church garden guy? Or the one from last night who gently lifted me up from the floor when…when I…? And before that…dancing. It is precisely as I flash to the beautiful feeling of dancing with him that I catch myself obsessing. Again! Baka, I whisper to myself—Japanese for idiot. I am acting like a complete baka. I stop again, putting my head in my hands, looking down at the concrete. This is not working. It's like I can feel him. Feel him right now. I shake my head in my hands saying out loud, "I am not that girl." I must look like a crazy person on the street.

Apparently though, I am a crazy person, because I can see that beautiful artists' hand right in front of me, outstretched, palm upward, blocking my downward view of the sidewalk in the dark. I continue to shake my head, to shake off this new vision, but it's still there. What?! I follow the hand with my eyes to see it attached to a strong golden arm, white shirt rolled to the elbow. I follow it all the way up to a pair of deep pools of ocean water. In his other hand he holds a leather jacket slung over his shoulder. It is real. He is real. He is here. And I am adrift.

"Did I conjure you?" I ask, before I can get ahold of my brain and mouth and understand that by asking that question, I just revealed that I had been thinking about him. He doesn't say anything. His arm is still outstretched. Beckoning.

I take his hand.