Mayne Attraction: In The Spotlight Read online

  I noticed that he had nothing to drink so I asked him about it.

  “What can I get you to drink? There’s wine, beer, soda….or you could help me finish off the Kool-Aid.”

  They all laughed again. It was a relief to get laughs when I was actually trying to be funny. More often than not, my comedy routines tended to be unintentional in nature.

  I rose from the table to go retrieve some eating utensils for myself and see to Ash’s beverage requirements. To my relief, he’d asked for whatever I was having. This was good for a couple of reasons. It took the childish edge off of my not drinking wine, though his reasons for abstaining were obviously different than mine, and it spared me from having to explain that the Kool-Aid offer was just a joke. Though making it clear that I did not actually ever drink Kool-Aid probably would have been good for my self-esteem.

  Dinner was pleasant. I was happy to realize that I wasn’t nearly as nervous with these three people that I didn’t know very well as I could have been. There was this strange sense of familiarity at the table that I couldn’t understand, but couldn’t deny, either. We plied each other with polite questions and the conversation kept moving forward in an admirable way, considering the hostess’ nearly disabling tendency toward shyness. Again, I felt very happy with myself. I was looking people in the eye, I was asking questions, and I was being the kind of person I actually wanted to be for once.

  Ash jumped up to help me clear the table; and I couldn’t hide my pleasure with this chivalrous notion. He was the first male I’d ever encountered to do that. Because I’m short and I appear to be much younger than I am, or maybe because I just exude ineptness, it seemed like everyone was always trying to assist me with everything, except the dishes. There was never any help to be had on that front…until tonight. And I couldn’t have imagined a more fantastic way to break that streak. It felt surreal to be standing in front of the dishwasher, of all things, in company with this perfectly beautiful boy. It was a good thing that he was doing most of the work. It freed me up to stare unabashedly at him while he labored.

  “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 fee
l 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?

  Finally I got to the point where I couldn’t stop the mental stream of fantasizing and the old familiar sick twist of my stomach and polar emotions began creeping up on me. I really wanted to believe that he was fond of me like I was fond of him, but he was probably just fond of having an easy job. Could he ever possibly be interested in me for reasons other than work? Since he knew my life inside and out, and the complete lack of anything remotely interesting associated there, the answer was probably no. After all, nothing had changed since the last amazing guy I fell for didn’t want me. I still wasn’t cool, gorgeous or grown up.

  My mind kept spinning back to the one
and only time I’d actually had him to myself, first at his house for five minutes and then in my kitchen for five more. He was kind and polite and smooth and divinely handsome. And then there was the Ash of my dreams. Holding my hands, hugging me and telling me how much I meant to him. I had to hand it to my subconscious, when it came to pleasant mental concoctions featuring the men I loved, mine were world class.

  One day I was toying with the idea of leaving a love letter behind for him. I wasn’t sure if I could really go through with it, but I thought it might be therapeutic to get my feelings out in the open, so I sat down at the computer and began to type.

  Please don’t be mad at me. I’m not trying to get you in trouble or fired. I’m just frightened that you’re going to disappear before I get the chance to tell you how I feel about you. I know I’m too young for you. I know you’re just doing your job. And I’m so sorry if you don’t want to hear this…

  But, I think I’m in love with you. I can’t stop thinking about you. I dream about you all the time. Sometimes I see you when you’re on duty and it makes my day. When I don’t see you, I miss you, and I wonder where you are and what you’re doing, wishing I was there too. I feel happy when I think of you, more than that, actually, but then I turn around and cry because I’m probably wasting my time hoping for something that won’t happen.

  It’s scary to confess all of this, but dealing with the suspense is even worse. I can brave the embarrassment. What I can’t brave is not knowing where I stand in your eyes. If you don’t return my sentiments, then please don’t worry. I won’t make things hard for you. I promise. I care about you too much to be mean. Just please tell me either way so I can breathe.