He’s back to the “Be a real guy” crap again—in which case I’m ready to comply by slugging him right in the mouth.
He figured out that he doesn’t love me after all.
His father found out about us and hit the ceiling.
He’s fallen for somebody else.
Once we’d come up the stairs into the bright blue sky that covered Copley Square, we still had to walk a couple of blocks to the Pru. And since he was hunched down with his hands in his pockets, I had a chance to take an inventory of his face to see if there were any clues there. But all of the possibilities tested negative, so this was something brand-new―and he had exactly sixty seconds to tell me what it was or I was going to have to force it out of him. I hate being ignored. Especially in heavy traffic by the boy of my dreams.
The clock began running when we crossed the Prudential Center’s glass and marble lobby and stepped into an empty elevator. As we stood wordlessly side by side, the doors slid closed—and I finally began getting a little pissed off.
“Look, Andy,” I said firmly, breaking the twenty-three-minute deadlock. “I don’t know what the hell your”—but that’s as far as I got. Because without any warning at all, he turned suddenly, put his hands on my shoulders, yanked me close, and—eyes wide with terror—kissed me. Right there in the Prudential Center elevator. And he didn’t stop kissing me until the “Ping!” told us we were about to have company.
I still can’t imagine what the people on the second floor must have thought when the doors opened again. Sure, by then we were standing a respectable distance apart and staring straight ahead, but neither one of us was anchored to New England terra firma anymore.
“Hey! Kids! Are you getting out or what?” Actually, for the next two hours we reminded me of shock victims who’d just survived a terrible accident and who found themselves wandering through an occasional dim flash of reality—like flipping through a copy of Grouting Made Easy at Back Bay Books, browsing coaxial cable assemblies at Radio Shack, or carefully checking out Medeco locks at Sentry Security. Finally we drifted into a place called Copley House and Garden. I bought a flowerpot and Andy bought paint thinner. Neither one of us remembers why.
Somehow we managed to retrace our steps to the Green Line T station without ending up in Vermont instead. We still couldn’t say anything to each other, but at least now it was for the same dazed reason. Our car was packed with late-afternoon shoppers and there weren’t any seats left, so we found ourselves squished together by the rear door as the motorman let her go. “Clang, clang, clang went the trolley.”
But you know what? Nobody sings after their first kiss. They’re lucky they can still keep lunch down.
Love,
Augie
KELLER CONSTRUCTION
BOSTON • GLOUCESTER • WALTHAM
ELECTRONIC TRANSMISSION
Craig:
Strategy question. Tony C’s made plans with Augie to spend the Kiss Me, Kate/Valentine’s weekend on your side of town “just in case Augie ginks out and starts getting cold feet before the curtain goes up.” Since this means I’m going to have the whole house to myself for three nights, mightn’t it be a valid opportunity to invite Lori over for a “romantic interlude”?
Ted
The Word Shop
BROOKLINE’S FAVORITE BOOKSTORE
E-Memo From the Desk of
Craig Hwong
Hey, Teddy.
Sure. Just like Richard Nixon’s valid opportunity to invade Cambodia. Are you whacked? You’re still at sophomore level. The only one who gets to invite Lori over for a romantic interlude is Lori. So take her out to dinner and make sure she knows you’re alone for the weekend. (But do not be obvious about it. Her radar could have prevented World War II.) Then halfway through the decaf cappuccinos, smack your forehead when you suddenly “remember” that you forgot to feed Nehi before you left. Explain how sorry you are that you’ve got to cut the evening short, but promise you’ll make it up to her next time. Period. She’ll either invite herself over or she won’t. If she doesn’t, it means she wasn’t ripe yet anyway. If she does, you’re on your own.
Andy kissed Augie on Sunday, and now we keep misplacing our son. Half an hour ago I found him sitting in a broken armchair in the basement with a blank stare on his face. And he couldn’t remember how he’d gotten there.
Craig
Dear Jacqueline,
With the utmost respect, please be advised that I can no longer confide in you. This hasn’t been an easy decision to reach, but the facts speak for themselves:
You know all of the classics by heart, some of them in two languages.
You associate only with kings, duchesses, and the top 4 percent of the social register.
Your two marriages were regal but joyless.
You’ve been my role model since I was eight, and these are the results:
I’ve been called “cold,” “stuck-up,” “snotty,” and “pre-tentious.”
I was actually prepared to settle for a loveless career in the diplomatic corps because it was proper and expected.
I was so busy waiting for my own unfaithful knight, I nearly failed to recognize the prince in the gray T-shirt.
I appreciate your past companionship, and I certainly hope that we cross paths again. But not for at least ten years.
With warm regards,
Alejandra Perez
Dear Ms. Poppins,
I’ve never apologized to a fictitious character before, but having seen your biography nearly a dozen times in the past month, I hope you’ll pardon my earlier judgment in 1996. Perhaps I ought to have given you more than a fifteen-minute chance—yet even at the age of seven, I simply couldn’t accept umbrellas as a believable means of air travel. I was wrong. However, I do wish that you’d had some tricks in your carpet bag for those of us who already know how to keep our rooms neat and whose mothers aren’t necessarily early-twentieth-century suffragettes. We could use a little help with some of our own problems too.
Anthony and I have already gone out together three times since Plum Island—but since he doesn’t deserve to know that yet, I’ve been careful to keep him from finding out that they were actually dates. The first one was disguised as a visit to a merry-go-round with Hucky, who wanted to see if this was the day our horses were going to jump onto the grass—poles and all—and race each other to an imaginary finish line. The second one was a trip to Emerson Garden so that Hucky could practice closing his eyes and jumping into chalk pavement pictures (he’s determined to be up to speed when you finally come to live with him). And this afternoon was a safari to the Franklin Park Zoo, where I was positive I could convince Hucky that the animals were talking to us. At least that’s what I told Anthony when I cooked up the plan last night. These days, our conversations function on two levels.
• Lunch at the Brookline Café (Bobby Kennedy’s booth). I had a garden salad, Anthony had a patty melt, and Hucky had the grilled cheese. Anthony and I reached for our Cokes at the same time, so naturally our hands bumped together. “Ooops,” he said apologetically.
SUBTEXT:
ANTHONY: Do I really have a chance here?
ALEJANDRA: Yes. But not until you retire your collection of charades.
• Green Line to Red Line to #16 bus at Andrew Station. Hucky insisted on sitting in every empty seat at least once between stops—so Anthony grinned and said to me, “This is a forty-five-minute trip. At the rate he’s going, he’ll be worn out before we get there.”
SUBTEXT:
ANTHONY: How come you picked such an out-of-the-way place?
ALEJANDRA: To spend as much time with you as possible, you nitwit. Do you really think I’m going to tell you that yet?
• The zoo. Because the temperature hasn’t reached twenty-seven degrees all week, we shared the park with a family from Taunton and a vomiting tiger. The remaining animals were smart enough to stay inside. While Hucky ran ahead so he wouldn’t miss the Bengal’s next retch, Anthony put
one of my hands into his pocket—careful to keep it businesslike. “The last thing you need is frostbite,” he warned, his breath glazing to ice right in front of us.
SUBTEXT:
ANTHONY: Sorry. It may have lacked creativity, but it’s the best I could do on the fly.
ALEJANDRA: It was an honest move. Do you hear me complaining?
(I should also note that he and Hucky were dressed in identical Red Sox ski jackets, wool Red Sox caps, and blue Red Sox gloves/mittens. They were absolutely irresistible together. I’m surprised Anthony hasn’t discovered what effective props small children make.)
After following a frozen footpath and passing one empty cage after another, we finally encountered a rumpled llama named Molly, who was standing alone in her pen and who appeared to be alarmingly self-medicated. Though I have nothing but praise for all of nature’s generous wonders, llamas aren’t exactly the sharpest tools in the shed—and Molly seemed to be denser than most.
“What’s that?” asked Hucky as he hid behind Anthony’s legs and tugged on his hair.
“It’s a llama,” I replied, making sure I signed it carefully so he’d know that the two “l’s” were on purpose. “Don’t worry—she won’t hurt you.” Anthony knelt down and put his hands on Hucky’s shoulders.
“Listen, buddy,” he began. “Her name is Molly, and she’s a really good friend of Alé’s. They even talk to each other.” Hucky stared in wonder at Anthony, at Molly, at me, and then back at Anthony again. Then he began wiggling his fingers earnestly. I may not be up to speed on ASL yet, but I can most certainly read between the lines.
“Can we go back and watch the tiger puke?” he insisted. “But all together this time?”
TRANSLATION: What a load of crap.
It’s funny how kids already know where the magic is, even if it takes the rest of us a little longer to catch up.
Fondly,
Alejandra
INSTANT MESSENGER
AugieHwong: We’re famous! We’re in bookstores, we’re in restaurants, and we’re even in the lobby of the DuPont Chemical Building. Mr. DuPont knows who we are!
AlePerez: This has got your fingerprints all over it. What did you do—hire a press agent?
AugieHwong: Even better. I talked Mrs. Packer into printing an extra 200, and then I bet Andy, Benji, Neil, Ricardo, and Billy $5.00 apiece that I could put up more than they could. It cost me 25 bucks, but Benton & Bowles would have charged us 25 grand for that kind of mass saturation. We’ve covered the waterfront: Brookline, Brighton, Back Bay, Beacon Hill, the Fens, Allston, Cambridge—
AlePerez: Cambridge?! Augie, I need a slight-to-moderate favor. As long as we’re there anyway, could we have one posted on the second-floor bulletin board in the Belfer Center for Science and International Affairs at Harvard?
AugieHwong: I see where this is going.
AlePerez: Then don’t tell anybody.
Dear Ms. Poppins,
It’s a good thing I switched my loyalties to you so recently, be-cause Mrs. Kennedy would have been in over her head. I recall that when you put Mr. Banks in his place, you did so with a firm but gentle hand—noblesse oblige. Jacqueline would have been more tactful. And tact could never have gotten me through the past twenty-four hours.
I knew that Papa had seen the poster, because he was unusually quiet at dinner last night (squab with ginger peas and lace potatoes; God, how I wanted a mushroom pizza). Since our small dining room is made out of burnished walnut and has the seating capacity of Fenway Park in 1942, it seemed an appropriate setting for my Declaration of Independence. The charade had continued long enough, and the time had come for me to put my foot down. On the record.
“Alejandra,” said Papa, clearing his throat. “I saw a mention of your play this morning. In Cambridge. I had no idea it was such a well-publicized event.” Mamita broke into an immediate smile.
“What else could you expect, Papi?” she countered, putting her hand on top of his. “Alejandra’s in it, after all.” Next to me, Carlos froze. His instincts are swift and accurate; he can smell a political coup boiling three continents away.
“Oh, Papa, it’s been such fun,” I blurted unexpectedly. Where did that come from? Get back to the script, girl. “As a matter of fact, I seem to be doing so well, I’d like to apply to a summer stock theatre in Rhode Island as an apprentice. Experience like that’ll make it so much easier for me to get into a performing arts college.” There. Done. Was that so improbable? I sat back in my chair, pleased with both my delivery and my poise. Now all that remained was for the house to blow up. But I didn’t really care. After four months with Anthony, Augie, and Hucky, it had become quite clear that I was a little remedial in the courage department―and it was time to catch up. Especially when Mamita lowered her eyes, Papa’s fork clattered to his plate, and Carlos fetched me a kick under the table that should have hobbled me for life.
“I’m sorry, Alejandra,” snapped Papa, glaring. “That’s simply unacceptable. There’s an embassy position waiting for you in July, and we’ve all known for years that you’ll be majoring in government at Harvard. What were you thinking?”
That’s when I remembered you and Mr. Banks. He was fully prepared to fire you after he found out his kids had been dancing with cartoons—but by the time you got through with him, he’d have followed you to Indiana if you’d given the order. All it took from you was respect, dignity, holding your ground, and not forgetting how much you loved those children. (It also helped that you had professional screenwriters giving you the lines. I didn’t, so I managed the best I could.)
ALEJANDRA
(Rising)
Papa, I’m ashamed that you think women are so simple. We can make decisions for ourselves too, you know. I’m not a child or a baby anymore, so I’m allowed to speak my mind. And if you don’t wish to hear it, just tell me so and I’ll go into another room—but I’ll speak it anyway. I want this for myself as much as I’ve never wanted the diplomatic corps, and I’m going to get it—even if I have to do it alone. Excuse me.
(I’d love to take even partial author credit, but it was a mix of Kiss Me, Kate¸ The Taming of the Shrew, and a song lyric from some ’60s musical I’d never heard of until Augie discovered it in December.)
When I’d reached my room at the top of the stairs and shut the door behind me, my heart was pounding—and not because I was afraid. So that’s what it feels like to stand up for yourself! What have I been missing out on?? The buzz lasted for the rest of the evening (sleep finally came at 3:30 a.m.), and at breakfast this morning, nobody spoke at all—except for Carlos’s glowering eyes, which kept repeating silently, “You’ve lost your last marble and you can’t have any of mine.” But this was a victory all by itself. Except for a halfhearted “Alejandra, we have a few things to discuss” from Papa, at least no one was attempting to talk me out of it.
INSTANT MESSENGER
AugieHwong: You rock, girl. I AM SO PROUD OF YOU!!
Our first tech rehearsal passed in a blur. All I remember is that the sets were glimmering and my costume made me look like a turnip. (I’m assured by Mrs. Packer that it’ll be replaced by the time we open on Friday. I certainly hope so. I don’t play vegetables well.) The freshman band has a tuba player who belongs on sedatives, but otherwise they managed to keep up with us—and the afternoon’s highlight came unexpectedly during a first act break when Mrs. Packer gave us fifteen minutes off so she could refocus the lights. This is usually when Augie performs “Too Darn Hot” for us, but Lee had warned me that there was an unscheduled change in the program.
“Watch this,” she whispered as we slid into our seats in the third row. I was sandwiched in between Lee and Anthony, as Augie wrapped up a hasty conference from the stage with Mr. Disharoon and the band. When musical matters had been settled, he turned to face the audience.
“For this number,” he announced, “I’m going to need a volunteer. Somebody to play Bill and to feed me my cues. Any takers?” Well, since Augie is Augi
e, nine arms shot into the air simultaneously—so he shielded his eyes from the light, examined his applicants, and pointed to a spot in the darkened auditorium. “Andy Wexler. You’re it, dude.” To the best of my recollection, Andy hadn’t been one of those with his arm raised.
“How do you spell ‘stacked deck’?” I mumbled to Anthony.
“And like, what exactly were you expecting?” he mumbled back.
Andy climbed sheepishly onto the stage and allowed himself to be positioned on a set piece; then Augie leaned down to whisper to him. At first Andy blushed, and then he broke into an automatic grin. (As well he’d better. There were three of us poised to beat him to death if he’d responded with anything less.)
“You got it,” he replied with a wink. The way they were taking such obvious delight in each other—especially after the crisis they’d survived together—you couldn’t help feeling jealous that you weren’t either one of them. And as soon as Augie had planted himself center stage and Mr. Disharoon had cued the song, Andy—as a disgruntled Bill—called out to his boyfriend.
“Aw, doll. Why can’t you behave?” In reply, Augie scratched his head as though thoroughly perplexed and turned upstage to reply.
“How in hell can you be jealous,” he sang incredulously, “when you know, baby, I’m your slave?” Then without any warning at all, he lit into a version of “Always True to You in My Fashion” that would have sent Lisa Kirk in the original cast straight back to dance class. Between his pirouettes, his jetés, and his exuberant habit of shadowboxing with some of the cleverest lyrics ever written, the rest of us already looked like has-beens.
“That little twerp is better than I am,” hissed Lee.