The Deception Dance (5 page)

The store lady looks as if she might crumple from the weight, as she
carries Chauncey's purchases to the glass counter. "Two thousand
three hundred and forty two Euros," she says, over a small
old-fashioned cash register.

"Um." I swallow and glance at Chauncey who is smoking a
cigarette; her phone is not even out. My fingers can't seem to let go
of the card, so I just hold it up and let the woman pluck it from my
still pinching fingers.

She gives me an 'I don't like you' smile, hands back the card and
says, "for your friend."

Chauncey loads me up with her bags. Sherpa Raven, that's me. When I
drop one, maybe on purpose, she insists we return to the car she had
reserved for the day. After the dropped bag incident, we start
loading each new purchase into the car, which follows us from store
to store. Several shops and several bags later, Chauncey asks, "do
you know who your roommate is going to be next year?"

I throw yet another bag in the car and close the door. "No ...”

"You should find out, as soon as possible. I lucked out with
your sister: we’re like each other’s best friends in the
whole world, but my dorm was full of shallow bitches and yours will
be, too. You should get a move on it." She looks at me and
covers her mouth. "Oh, I'm sorry; I didn't offend you, did I?
When I said I'm Linnie's best friend. I mean, because I know you guys
are close."

"Nope, not at all." I pull my lips into a straight-lipped
smile, while stepping out of the way of an oncoming couple on the
narrow street, bustling with pedestrians.

"So, does Linnie talk about me, like, when she calls home?"
Chauncey's says.

Every phone conversation I've had with Linnie in the last six months
has started, "Me and Chauncey were shopping . . ." or,
"going to a party . . ." or, "eating Chinese food."
But why end my lying streak now? I say, "Once in a while."
I shove my hands in the pockets of my skirt.

As we walk around, Chauncey offers to buy me something in every
store. Just for some peace, I let her buy me a pair of one-inch heels
that are marked down to a price I could maybe someday imagine
spending on shoes, like if I ever get married.

“How about I buy you a dress too; I’m taking you on a
date tonight.” She bats her eyelashes. "It'll be so much
fun. We can go to a nice dinner then to a club and see if we can find
hotties to fall in love with.”

Four days with Chauncey down, nine weeks to go; I have to play nice.
“Yeah, okay,” I say, "To the date, I mean. I have a
dress.”

“Oh, is your dress . . . ?” She examines me from head to
toe and trails off whatever she was saying. “Well, if you’re
sure.”

Back at the hotel, Chauncey insists on doing my hair and make-up.
Every time she spreads something on my face, I'm sure she’s
painting me up black like the Goth she thinks I am. Chalky powder
weighs down my eyelids, begging to be scrubbed off.

Before turning to my reflection, I get the exact same nervous stomach
feeling I get when a cop pulls behind me on the freeway. When I spin,
another girl looks back at me from the bathroom mirror, her lips part
in a silent 'whoa.'

“You look great," Chauncey says, while pulling my hair
into a twist and clipping it. "You know when I called you a Goth
this morning; it wasn't, like, an insult. I meant that you're gothic
chic, because you're pale and have black hair, and all. Well, anyway,
you’re pretty and it's no wonder that woman gave you her card.
You have to be careful though, she was probably a fake.”

“I threw her card away,” I say.

She holds up her straightening iron while leaning forward in a fit of
laughter. "Wow, good job. Modeling sucks. You always have to
lose weight and stuff, not fun. And it makes you realize that people
only love you if they think you're beautiful."

"That's stupid," I say.

"Not really. It's the truth.” She tilts her head and
stares past me at her reflection. “I liked modeling. It isn't
for everyone, but I was good at it." Wow, Chauncey can do a
complete opinion three-sixty in fewer than ten seconds, impressive.
When her focus returns to my hair she says, “I'd never get a
tattoo, but I like yours."

I clap my hand over the back of my neck. "That’s not a
tattoo, it’s a birthmark.”

“I can’t straighten your hair with your hand there.”
She brushes away my hand and traces a finger along my mark. “Your
birthmark looks just like a little flying bird.”

“Your dress is so ‘something I would have bought last
season.’ Cute." Chauncey says when we're finally ready to
walk out the door. Chauncey's dress, a silver halter thing, couldn’t
be tighter if she’d shrink-wrapped it on. I can't decide if she
looks more like she just stepped off the runway or climbed down from
a stripper pole. There is no way we’re not attracting hordes of
Italian men tonight.

I don’t have a purse or a nice jacket that will match my much
more modest red spaghetti strap dress, so I tuck a few Euros into my
bra and leave my cell phone.

Chauncey again puckers her lips at her reflection, as we walk past a
mirror in the hall outside our room. She says, "Okay, I’m
taking you to somewhere I know you can’t afford. So, please
don’t offer to help pay. I’m paying for everything.”

I am about to object but she adds, “You’re doing me a
favor. I want to go to this restaurant and I want to go to this club,
but I can’t go alone. Please, just let me do this.”

“Sure. Um, thanks Chauncey. I’ve never gone to a club
before.”

“Tonight will be great,” she says, voice sounding a bit
high pitched, as she gives the mirror one more sultry look, then
heads for the elevator.

In the elevator, I reach for the button for the top floor.

"What are you doing?" Chauncey says.

I draw back my hand, "Do you mind if we ride the elevator up to
the terrace first, it's supposed to have one of the best views in the
city."

"We have a reservation."

"It'll only take a couple seconds."

"Fine," she says, slamming her finger on the button.

When we reach the top floor, Chauncey follows me, as I walk down the
hall. "I'm taking you to Antica Pesa," she says as we pass
tinkling piano music and the faint aroma of Mediterranean spices. "My
dad says I can't miss it; and when my dad recommends something ...”
She stops, staring into an open door.

My gaze follows hers into a well-lit room. A long gleaming wood bar
stretches down a wall of alcohol bottles, I don't recognize and could
never afford. Three men occupy the room: a middle-aged bartender in a
tux, his single patron, and a small piano player with a red bow-tie.
Balancing the other half of the room is a line of couches, tables and
chairs, and behind them is the view. The elegance and perfect balance
of the room can't compete with the view from the half wall of
windows; green trees scatter throughout an expanse of domes and
temples and towers.

"Let's skip Antica Pesa," Chauncey says, still staring into
the room.

"Huh?" I say, "Um, Chauncey, I usually don't skip
meals." And besides, I'm starving.

"I'll order you something; let's go sit at the bar."

I look to the bar, where the only patron, a blond man turns to glance
at his watch.

"Flower guy!" I say so loudly that the bartender, blond man
and piano player all glance over. Not for the first time, I reflect
that if my high school year book had given a 'most likely to
humiliate yourself in public' award, I would have won it.

Chauncey levels a look on me that clearly questions whether I'm
mentally competent.

"He sent me a flower," I whisper, "yesterday, in the
piazza." If there were moisture in the air, it would sizzle off
my cheeks.

"Good, then you can introduce me."

When I turn back, he's already standing and crossing the room toward
us.

“Hello, do I know you?” He smiles
that same unguarded, heart-stopping grin. “Yes,” he says,
answering his own question, “The white rose.” Still
halfway across the room, he offers his hand. "I’m Nicholas
Tapper.”

I approach to shake it, but Chauncey steps in my way. “My
name’s Chauncey Halverson and she’s ...” she
gestures over her shoulder and says, “Raven Smith.” She
steps closer and throws her ringlets from side to side. "Are you
American?”

“Swedish actually,” he says.

“You don’t have an accent?” she says, giggling.

“Thank you. I've been practicing.” Maybe he realizes how
strange his comment sounds, because when we just stare, he runs a
hand through his blond hair and explains, "I work for my
grandfather, and when I finish school, I'll be taking over his
American accounts. He's had me travel to America many times to study
the culture, dialect, expressions, and all things like that, but, I
don't want to bore you. Come, sit down, and join me for a drink."

Chauncey touches Nicholas's arm. "No, you don't bore me in the
slightest. I find you very interesting." Her loud,
forced-sounding giggles startle me out of my smile.

Nicholas’s raised eyebrows look a little startled too; he
recovers by leading us to the bar.

After insisting on sitting between Nicholas and me, Chauncey calls to
the bartender, "We're going to order one of everything on your
anti pasta
menu." She pats my head and says, "Raven
here is a big eater."

I roll my eyes and sigh. "Yep, that's me. How does the saying
go? I never met a ham sandwich I didn't like."

Nicholas leans over the bar and turns to me. He says, "I've met
a couple: those ham sandwiches can be a rough crowd. But as for
pizza, we were made for each other. I've spent many a night, gazing
into the pepperonis of a fine looking pizza."

Do you hear that Chauncey? I think your snide remark just backfired.
Also, my ‘birds of a feather’ radar was beeping; could I
have just found another member of club dork?

Chauncey pouts out her lips and whispers, "I'd go for the ham, I
like it a little rough."

I choke on… air, and Chauncey slaps my back, hard.
Jeez
.
The awkward tension, buzzing in the silence that follows, is so
strong I search for something, anything, to say. "So they have
pizza in Sweden?"

He seems relieved, as he answers, "Yes, but it's not like your
American pizza. Sometimes, I'll have our cook order ingredients from
the United States, but it does not taste the same, by the time it
reaches Leijonskjöld Slot."

I gaze at the ceiling thinking. "Isn't a 'Slot' a Swedish
castle?"

Chauncey sits straighter. I don't know if it's possible, but it looks
as if her dress slipped farther down and tightened. "You live in
a castle?" she asks.

"It's more like a big house." Nicholas shrugs.

Chauncey leans toward Nicholas, blocking my view of him. "After
Raven gorges herself, we're going to a club. I'd love it if you
joined us."

Nicholas leans back into my view and grins his firecracker smile my
way. "Yes, I'd love to join you."

"Sir," the bartender says while refilling Nicholas's wine
glass, "You asked me to remind you of your reservation."

"Oh, yes, I'll need to cancel that." Nicholas stands
extracting a cell phone from his suit pants pocket. "If you
ladies will excuse me for a second." He walks out of the bar.

"We'll each take a glass." Chauncey says to the bartender
before turning on me. "We're friends, right?"

Honesty or diplomacy? That is the question. "Sure," I say.

"Friends don't block friends; so why don't you have the food
I
bought
you
delivered to our room, and go eat there."

The waiter pours a glass of wine, two glasses, showing no indication
that he heard what Chauncey just said.

I lift up my glass and take a sip of wine. Watching the Chauncey show
isn't exactly my idea of a good time, but, if I leave now, she'll
think she can push me around all vacation.

"It's not smart to get in my way," she whispers with a
smile. She must take my silence for acceptance, because she calls to
the bartender, "Excuse me, we have a change of plans, could you
send all the food to room 311?"

The bartender nods and crosses to a computer register.

"Change of plans?" Nicholas asks. I didn't even hear him
re-enter the bar.

"Raven's feeling anti-social, she's ...”

"Oh," Nicholas interrupts, looking at me. "We could do
this some other time. Perhaps tomorrow ...”

"Oh, Raven, you could join us for one drink, can't you,"
Chauncey practically begs me, her lip pouting out like a freaking two
year old. I just stare at her; I have no idea what she wants me to
say.

"Thanks, you're such a sweetheart, we'll all go out together."
she actually has the gall to glare at me after she says this. “You,"
she says to the bartender, "another change of plans, can you
have her food wrapped up? I’ll call for the car.”

"I'll see what I can do, miss," the bartender says with a
slight bow of his head.

I somehow managed to change my mind twice without even saying a word;
I should do a ventriloquist act, I've got talent.

Nicholas takes Chauncey's seat when she leaves to call for the car.

"I'm only going to stay for one drink," I tell him.

He smiles, "Then that is my plan, also. Perhaps, though,
tomorrow, I could spend some time with you?"

"Tomorrow, my sister and I are going to Vatican city." I
look into his grinning face and say, “I think I'd like you to
come. If you want, that is."

He nods.

"I meant to thank you, for the rose; it completed a wonderful
moment; but you, uh, left so suddenly . . . ?" I say this as if
it’s a question, hoping he'll explain what happened in the
piazza, but, Chauncey returns.

She stands, staring where Nicholas's arm is close to mine on the
bar. “Five minutes,” she announces and then turns on her
heel to stalk out.