Trance Page 5

  She barely looked at me as she pulled back the chain wall. “Late again,” she said.

  It took all the willpower I could summon not to roll my eyes. Six hours of this was going to be excruciating. “Your watch must be fast.” I held out my wrist to show her mine. “I’m on time.”

  “Not for the third Saturday before Easter you’re not.” She waddled back around the front of the kiosk and pulled an apron out from underneath the counter. “We’ve already got moms waiting.”

  Sure enough, the play area in the center court was filled with kids in their Sunday best. A couple of the mothers looked back at me with anxious faces, waiting for the signal, I supposed, so they could jockey for the first spot in line.

  At the counter, Gina struggled to tie the apron behind her back. The posture made her stomach stick out like she was carrying a watermelon under her shirt. A really big watermelon. For a moment I wondered if I should offer to tie the apron for her, but there was nothing in the set of her face that told me she wanted my help. She managed on her own and started punching the merchant code into the cash register, pausing only long enough to give me a sharp look.

  “Well, come on,” she said.

  I slipped behind the counter and grabbed an apron of my own. The donning of the apron seemed to be some kind of magic signal that we were officially open, because as soon as I slipped the top loop over my head, moms began lining up.

  “Get them signed in,” Gina said, handing me the clipboard. “I’ll set up the equipment.”

  Without waiting for an answer, she slipped into the back. Right, I thought. Like she had anything to set up. The camera and the umbrellas were stationary.

  It didn’t matter. I pasted on my good employee smile and set the clipboard on the counter, offering a cup of pens to the first lady in line. “Good morning.”

  “I sure hope so,” she said, filling in her name and number.

  “So do I,” I mumbled.

  “Hmmm?” She glanced up.

  “I’m sure it will be.”

  I hated to admit it, but Gina and I made a good team. We cranked through about fifteen sittings before lunch, which is more than I’d ever done at Polaris—and that included two bathroom breaks for her. I didn’t even mind that it was Gina who was doing all the picture-taking. We had a rhythm going for a good three hours with her manning the cameras and me selling the portrait packages.

  Finally, we reached the last name on the page and she called out from behind the partition, “Quick! Put up the sign!”

  The only sign I knew about was the “BACK IN . . .” sign with the adjustable clock on it. It was something we stuck on the counter when we were working alone to let customers know when we’d be back if we had to run to the bathroom or something. But there were two of us; we could tag team for breaks. I peeked around the fake wall. “Which sign are you talking about?”

  She was folding a square of sheer, peach-colored fabric and didn’t even look up at me. “What do you mean which sign? The Be Back sign. How many signs are there?”

  I hesitated. “Well, it’s just—”

  “Don’t you want lunch?” She tucked the fabric into a three-tiered plastic box that looked like the kind of thing my mom used to organize her craft supplies.

  “Well, yeah, but since there’s two of us . . .”

  She snapped the box closed and picked it up by its sparkly purple handle. “Excuse me,” she said, gesturing for me to move out of the “doorway.” She slid her box under the counter and grabbed the countertop sign, adjusting the little plastic minute hands to show half an hour. Then she turned to face me. “On a busy day like today, it takes two of us to keep things moving.”

  “But it’s slowed down now. I could take over when—”

  Gina shook her head. “I’m sure you could. But I sure as hell don’t want to take a shift alone while you go on your break, so we’re going to close up shop.” She reached under the counter once more and came back up with her leather bag. “Are you coming or what?”

  Her invitation surprised me. If it was an invitation. Usually, I took my lunch alone, but I thought of my resolve before coming to work, and followed her to the food court.

  We didn’t make it three steps inside before Gina stopped to dig through her bag. “I gotta hit the john.” She handed me a twenty. “Grab me some bourbon chicken, would you? Not the whole meal, just the chicken. And a large lemonade. No, make that a medium or else I’ll be going all afternoon.”

  Naturally, Boutin’s Cajun Grill had the longest line in the whole food court. I grumbled to myself and joined the crowd, which already wound halfway back to the Rolling Scone. And here I thought Gina had invited me to join her for the company. From my spot in line, I watched her wobble past tables and chairs on her way to the ladies’ room. She could have at least said “please.”

  By the time I made it through the line, Gina had returned from the restroom and had found an empty table. She settled in, feet propped on one of the empty chairs. I set the tray onto the table and sank down on the chair across from her.

  “Oh, yesss.” She grabbed her lemonade and took a huge swig. “I’ve had cotton mouth all morning.”

  I pointed out her change on the tray and she tucked it into her purse before spreading a napkin over the top of her stomach. “So . . .” She speared a piece of chicken with her fork. “Tell me, Ashlyn. What’s your story?”

  I’d been peeling back the paper wrapper on my straw and I froze, mid-peel. “What do you mean?”

  “Whoa. That was quite a reaction. What I meant,” she said, emphasizing the word, “was how did Carole rope you into working for her? But I’m guessing you have more interesting stories to tell.” She took another sip of her lemonade, her eyes never leaving me.

  I finished unwrapping my straw and stirred the ice around in my water with it. “Sorry to disappoint you. Nothing exciting here. How about you? When is your baby due?”

  Both her hands smoothed over her belly and a small smile touched her lips. “Five more weeks. Nice diversion, by the way.”

  “Then you’ll like this even better. Boy or girl?”

  She laughed. “Excellent technique. And I’m not telling.”

  “But you know?”

  Another belly rub. “Yeah. I’m not one of those who think you have to wait until the baby pops out to see what it is so you can be surprised. I mean, what’s the purpose of that? So I did all the usual stuff early on, dousing, tarot, bibliomancy, and . . . don’t raise your eyebrows at me like that!” She swatted me with her napkin.

  “I wasn’t!” I said. In fact, the picture of Gina dangling something over her stomach to guess the sex of the baby was more fascinating than surprising.

  “I happen to have faith in the divine,” she continued, “which is more than I can say for the daddy.”

  “He didn’t believe your readings?”

  She took a sip of her lemonade, shaking her head. “Nah. But once I told him what I found out, he wanted scientific proof, so we had to spring for the ultrasound.”

  “But it’s a secret.”

  “Yeah. He still likes the surprise angle, so we decided to compromise and keep everyone else in the dark.”

  “But then you’ll get all unisex stuff at your shower,” I reasoned.

  Her smile faded and she looked away. “Nah. I don’t have to worry about that.”

  Before I could ask her what she meant, I noticed Jake the music store guy weaving through the crowded maze of tables. He was wearing the same awful music-note tie, but paired with a denim shirt this time. And he was headed our way. I dropped my eyes to my cup and slid down in my chair. I had hoped never to face him again after what happened on Thursday. He must have thought I was the biggest freak.

  When I peeked up again he was looking straight at me and flashed me a smile. A very nice smile. Gina must have noticed me looking behind her because she twisted in her seat to see what it was—as much as her shape would allow, anyway.

  Her face lit up when
she saw Jake and she waved him over. “Hey, lover!”

  He lifted his chin in response. “How’s it going, gorgeous?”

  “Come take a load off.” She patted the remaining empty chair at our table.

  “There’s an offer I can’t refuse.” He turned his smile back to me as he took his seat, setting a brown paper sack and a water bottle on the table. “Feeling better?”

  “And here I was about to introduce you.” Gina looked from Jake to me. “You two know each other? Do tell.”

  I waited for him to say something since he and Gina were obviously friends, but he just looked at me with the same expectant expression Gina was wearing.

  “We met the other night,” I said finally. “He . . . came to my rescue, not once but twice.”

  “Oh?” She turned her attention back to him. “Rescuing damsels in distress? How very gallant.”

  He spread his hands. “What can I tell you? I’m a catch.”

  “That’s what you keep saying.” Gina nudged his arm with a kind of comfortable familiarity I envied. “So where’s your lunch?”

  He held up his paper sack. “Some of us are on a budget.”

  “Maybe some of us don’t need new two-thousand-dollar amps. You need to eat!” She reached over and pinched his arm. “Look at this! Skin and bones. I’m telling you, you want to maintain your manly physique, you’ve got to indulge in mall food once in a while.”

  I personally didn’t think there was anything wrong with his physique, but I kept those thoughts to myself. It wasn’t my conversation. I stirred my salad around with my fork, listening to them joke back and forth.

  “Well, kids, that’s it,” Gina said finally, pushing back from the table as she struggled to her feet. “We’re back on in ten and I gotta pee something fierce.” She grabbed her lemonade and used it as a pointer that she leveled at Jake. “Take care of my girl. Don’t keep her out late.”

  He saluted. “Yes, ma’am.”

  She lumbered back toward the restroom leaving Jake and me alone at the table. Suddenly, I didn’t know what to do with myself. I picked up my water then put it back again, checked my watch out of habit.

  “Don’t worry. You have time.”

  I glanced up at him. “Huh?”

  He gestured to my salad. “To finish your lunch. Didn’t Gina say you had ten minutes?”

  “Oh. Yeah.” I picked up my fork. “You sure bring out a different side of her.”

  He laughed. “What, Gina? Gina doesn’t have sides. She’s just . . . Gina.”

  I considered that for a moment. “What does that mean, ‘just Gina’?”

  He shrugged and opened up his paper bag, pulling out a sandwich in a Ziploc baggie. “I don’t know. Crazy. Genuine. Real. With Gina, what you see is what you get.”

  “Oh.” I wondered how people would describe me. Crazy, maybe, but genuine? I don’t think so. Real? I’d gotten so used to lying to cover my secret over the years that I wasn’t even sure I knew what real was. I toyed with my lettuce some more.

  “Yeah. You just have to stay out of her way sometimes.” Jake took a bite of his sandwich and grimaced. “Man, I really should learn to cook.”

  I eyed the soggy mess in his hand. “What’ve you got there?”

  He lifted the top piece of bread to reveal the pinkish-brown paste underneath. “Tuna. It’s all we had.”

  “Looks like maybe you didn’t drain it very well.”

  “Drain it?” He examined the sandwich and frowned.

  “Here.” I slid my tray over in front of him. “You can have my salad. I’m not really hungry.”

  Jake put down his sandwich slowly. “You’re . . . giving me your salad?”

  “If you want it,” I said in a small voice. “Blackened shrimp. Cajun. It’s good.” I forced a smile, but inside I was kicking myself. What was I thinking? Offering to share food was way too familiar. He probably thought I was coming on to him or something. The heat rose in my face again, only quicker this time.

  He just grinned. “I’ve never gotten a salad from a girl before.” He practically purred, drawling the word so that it sounded like guurrrl.

  “Well.” I took a sip of my water to hide the immense relief from showing on my face. “Just don’t let it go to your head.”

  “Never,” he said solemnly.

  The conversation lagged and I guessed it was my turn to say something. But really? I wasn’t any good at the back-and-forth. I hadn’t had much practice. “Um . . . so you’re really good,” I blurted.

  He was taking a bite of the salad and paused with the fork halfway to his mouth. “Only on Sundays,” he deadpanned.

  “On the piano,” I clarified, my face practically combustible.

  He chewed for a moment. Swallowed and smiled. “Thanks. Gotta sell those Wurlitzers.” I must have really looked lost because he added, “It’s my uncle’s store. He swears he makes more sales if customers can see the pianos in use.”

  “I see. Just in case they haven’t figured out what to do with one before stumbling into his store?”

  “Exactly. And what about you? Tell me something about yourself.”

  I actually thought for a moment. As if I could come up with anything worth telling. The truth was, I couldn’t tell him anything. I had no business sitting there, flirting with him. Why start something that could never go anywhere? “You know what?” I said. “I’ve got to get back to work.”

  His smile faded and was replaced with confusion.

  “I’m sorry. I . . .” I pushed away from the table and jumped to my feet. “I should go.”

  The confusion turned into a frown. “See you later, then.”

  “Right. Later.”

  I hurried from the food court, feeling his eyes on me the entire way.

  7

  Gina was just getting back to the kiosk at the same time I was. “Naptime’s over,” she said, gesturing with her head toward the hordes of toddlers in bow ties and pink frills playing on the pressed-foam ice cream in the center court. She stuffed the Be Back sign under the counter and grabbed her craft box, pausing long enough to throw me an impatient look over her shoulder. “Well, come on. We don’t have much time.”

  I followed her to the back section of the kiosk, wondering what happened to the cheerful, joking Gina I had seen at lunch. Jake said she didn’t have sides, but I wasn’t so sure. “What are we doing?”

  She opened the box and began pulling things out, piling them on the table. “I’m going to show you the arsenal,” she said without glancing up. “I’ve got to get off my feet. Look at this.” She lifted one foot in illustration. “My ankles are as big as my thighs. I’m going to take over the front counter for a while and you can do the portraits.”

  “Sure,” I answered, although I knew she wasn’t really asking for my consent.

  Gina pulled the length of sheer, peachy fabric from the box. “This is for filtering the light,” she said. “Let it drape over the umbrellas. Yes. Like that. Kind of like a makeshift light box. And this”—she held up a dime-store up-light—“put it under the table to provide a little backlighting so the kids won’t end up looking like paper cutouts against the backdrop.”

  I took the light and turned it over in my hands. “How did you come up with—”

  She just hmmphed and pulled out a homemade lens filter from her box. “If I have to work with this artless medium, at least I can try to give it some authenticity. I mean, do you like taking these kind of pictures?”

  “You mean posed, flat, and fake?”

  “Exactly.”

  I shrugged. My kind of photography wasn’t the studio variety. I didn’t know much about taking portraits, besides what I had learned from Carole—but I did know they had no life to them. They didn’t look real. But then, there weren’t a whole lot of options to change things with the setup Carole had. I said so to Gina and she hmmphed again.

  “Never use limitations as an excuse for mediocrity,” she said, and left me to set up the lights.

>   Music floated over the confusion of Saturday afternoon shoppers and I looked up to see Jake back at the piano in Kinnear’s window. His eyes were closed and he rocked gently to the tempo of the song he was playing. I recognized the music. Something classical, but I couldn’t remember the composer. The way he played it, though, was entirely new to me—heartbreaking and hopeful at the same time.

  I stopped what I was doing and watched him until the song was over. After the final note, he sat still, fingers resting on the keys. It was almost as if he had to gather himself after the music the way I did after a trance. Then he lifted his head and his eyes met mine. A slow smile touched his lips and he dipped his head.

  Heat rose in my cheeks and I quickly turned back to the lights. Don’t, I warned myself. Don’t even start.

  We had a steady flow of kids until about three-thirty, when it began to taper off. Only two screamers and half a dozen criers in total. When we hit a lull, I wandered up front to find Gina still perched on the stool, one hand pressing on the small of her back as she studied something that was lying on the counter.

  “Gina?”

  Whatever it was on the counter, she hurried and stuffed it into her pocket and swiped at her eyes with the back of her hand before turning to face me. “Damn hormones.” Her laugh sounded like it got caught in her throat. “I’m turning into some kind of schizoid with all these mood swings.”

  I felt like I had walked in on a private moment and I didn’t know how to get myself back out again. I wondered if I should offer some kind of comfort, but then I wasn’t sure if she might think of it as an intrusion. I remembered how I’d hated the empty platitudes of friends who thought they should “say something” after my mom died. Maybe it would be better not to mention the tears. “Uh . . . how much time until the next sign-in?”

  “Enough time for me to hit the john,” she said, her voice all attitude again. She eased herself off the stool. “I swear, my bladder’s squashed flat as a pancake.”