Chapter Six: Story of a Girl

We took a cab to the gallery. Matt led the way as we got out.

“There’s just one thing bugging me. Didn’t this Calla chick tell you she didn’t want to see you yesterday? And not to call her back?”

I kept walking. “Yeah, so?”

“Well, aren’t you doing the exact opposite of what she said?”

I opened the door to the gallery.

“Yes, but she called me. If she didn’t want me around, she wouldn’t have called.”

Matt squinted, thinking. “Um, but she told you not to answer her calls. She sounds crazy. Are we chasing after a crazy chick? Because that’s bad mojo.”

“Mojo? Who are you, Austin Powers?” I laughed, going inside.

Matt grimaced and grabbed my arm. “I get that I’m not making sense. And I’m usually the last person to talk you out of chasing a girl. But this time: isn’t there a flaw to the logic? She’s crazy.”

“You’ve never even met her,” I laughed.

“No, but you have. Apparently three different times, and not one of them made any sense. I have a bad feeling about this.”

I tried to laugh it off, pulling my arm away from him. “Let’s just have some fun. Maybe she won’t even be here.”

Matt shrugged and followed me into the gallery. We ran into his cousin Sheila the Snob pretty quickly, as she showed off a set of photographs to some of her clients. They air-kissed, quite fashionably, and I simply smiled a hello.

“Diggory, darling, you simply must call me. My girlfriends are dying to see you again after that party at the summer house.” Sheila was all smiles, as usual. Too bad for her that I hated her dyed blonde hair and chic black dresses. All style and no substance.

“Well, Sheila, what can I say? A lawyer’s work is never done.”

Matt promised we’d check in later, and tugged me over to the cheese buffet, where it sat in artful chunks amidst fruit. I couldn’t even name all the kinds. But then, I don’t need names to enjoy wine, either, and neither of us hesitated in pouring a glass.

“So, do you see her?” Matt asked. We mingled in the crowd, faking interest in black and white photographs and weird paintings.

“Not yet.” I scanned the faces. The Fashionable Rich mingled with students from the university, some of whom were the Spoiled Rich, children of the wealthy. Then there was the fake Philanthropic Rich, looking to be someone’s benefactor. Make a donation to the university, sponsor a young career, earn some points at the country club.

Waitresses weaved through the crowd with plates of appetizers and drinks. I grabbed a few shrimp, while Matt grabbed a cocktail and some ass.

“Hey, Daphne.” He winked at an old flame as she handed out drinks, causing her to smile back.

“Daphne?” I asked.

“Three months ago, we were hot and heavy for a few weeks. Remember?”

“I’m impressed you do. Since then there’s been Amber, Yvonne, Stacey…”

“Shhhh. Daphne might hear you. I know one of us won’t be going home empty-handed.”

I groaned and wandered away. I tried to ignore the crowd, and the music in the background. I wiped Matt the Pimp and his girls from my mind. Sheila and her fake friends didn’t exist. I just let it all fall away and looked around.

I didn’t see Calla. But I did see a photograph I liked. It was of a young woman on a swing in silhouette, under a tree. The picture was black and white, so the hues of grey throughout the piece made me feel suddenly isolated and wistful. It matched my internal mood perfectly. I stood there and stared, for once letting art reach me.

“Lovely piece, isn’t it?” A voice intruded on my reverie.

“Uh, yeah.” I tried to ignore this interloper, and reconnect with the picture. I studiously stared forward, hoping they’d get the message that I wasn’t really listening to them.

“I really like the artist’s use of light. Really captures the mood.”

“Sure.” I moved a step to my right, away from the speaker. I put my left hand on my right elbow, blocking myself off, and put my right hand on my chin, as if deep in thought. Go away, I projected telepathically, hoping for once it would work.

“Its mood is almost palpable, almost sensual, don’t you think?” The voice was actually closer, as if they had leaned towards me suggestively. I realized the voice was extremely feminine and rich.

“It’s a great picture. Do you mind? I’m trying to appreciate art here.”

I turned snappishly to try to get this girl to back off, and stared into the soft grey eyes of my mystery woman. I felt the air in my lungs escape me with the subtlety of a punch in the gut, as I stopped myself from yelling at her. How could I yell at Helen of Troy?

“Speechless, Mr. Franklin? It suits you. Keeps you from embarrassing pick-up lines.”

I blushed. Calla was wearing a charcoal sweater, one of those soft ones with a big neck that covers and simultaneously opens to show a bare shoulder as a woman moves. She had black stockings and a darker skirt, with a grey pattern interweaving. She was wearing earrings, which she hadn’t before, and looked a lot less stern.

Well, either way, to me she looked beautiful.

“Miss Wiley, fancy meeting you here.”

“I invited you,” she smiled, sipping her drink.

“Right.” I hit my forehead. “Should I just insert my foot in my mouth now? It seems like it belongs there.”

Surprisingly, I was rewarded with laughter. It was a cheerful, joyous sound. I’d never appreciated laughter before.

Crap, I had it bad. I wondered how long it would be before I was growing my hair long, sitting under trees and writing sonnets. I wondered how long after that it would be before Matt was slapping me upside the head and taking me to Vegas to look at strippers and showgirls. I had to get my head together.

“So, why did you invite me?” I asked, smiling at her. “It was quite unexpected.”

Calla sipped her wine, looking up at me. “Well, the way you blew our first meeting was kind of cute. I figured maybe you deserved a second chance.”

“Or a third and fourth?” I asked.

She laughed again. “Why, do you think it will take that many tries to make a good impression?”


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