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Lilah’s List Blog Entry

October 27, 2007

I made out with a stranger last night. Yes, me, the girl who wears rubber gloves to carry trash cans to the curb, had my lips and tongue completely interlocked with a man I barely know. It’s true, I’ve been in New York one day, and I’ve already succumbed to the debauchery. I wasn’t fazed by the white-knuckle flight, the cab driver with a death wish or the cranky Jamaican bouncer. But put me in a crowded room with a bed that sleeps sixteen and a hot guy, and I completely lose my cool. But before you book me a ticket on the next train to Skankytown, let me explain.

When she’d boarded the plane for New York that morning, Lilah had felt daring. Her blood had pumped with excitement. Whether or not she returned with a tattoo, a designer dress or a date with a celebrity didn’t matter. For two weeks she was going to have fun, spend some much-needed time with her best friend, and live on the edge.

She’d headed for her first-class window seat only to find a gentleman already occupying it. Eventually the stewardess was able to sort out the mixup, but that didn’t keep Lilah from feeling conspicuously like a fraud.

To make matters worse, the plane sat on the tarmac for forty-five minutes while some unexplained mechanical trouble was investigated. Thank goodness the flight was only an hour long, because Lilah white-knuckled it the entire way. So much for first-class—it was lost in a blur of fear and mimosas.

After struggling with her bags and arguing with the taxi driver for trying to make a daring pass into oncoming traffic that had nearly killed them, Lilah finally arrived at the Casablanca Hotel. It was a self-proclaimed oasis in the heart of Times Square. She chose the place because Casablanca was one of her favorite movies. And watching it was one of the first things she was able to cross off The List.

She’d had romantic fantasies of sitting in front of the fireplace in Rick’s Café and listening to “As Time Goes By” on her iPod. Unfortunately she didn’t even take the time to soak in the vibrantly colored Moroccan decor. Instead she flopped down on the king-size bed and slept like the dead all afternoon.

Lilah was just returning to a groggy consciousness when Angie began pounding on her door early that evening. “Take it easy,” Lilah said, opening the door, heedless of her nap-mussed hair and wrinkled T-shirt and jeans.

Angie stood in the doorway, hand on hip, as she looked Lilah up and down. She clicked her tongue. “It’s just as I suspected. So much to do and so little time.”

Lilah blinked at her friend. “I love you, too.”

Then she was swept off her feet as the taller woman lifted her into a bear hug. “I’m so happy you’re finally here. We’re going to have so much fun.”

Angie reached into the hallway for the suitcase she’d brought along, and bounded into the room, filling it with her energy. But Lilah was feeling the opposite of energetic. Her days of staying up late and going out were long in her past. If the truth were told, she could get much more excited about room service and a movie rental than the agenda Angie was laying out for them.

“We have to get to Duvet early, otherwise we’ll never get past the door. But don’t worry, I have a fool-proof plan to get us in.”

“Great,” Lilah said, falling back on the tousled bed sheets.

“Have you been sleeping all day?” It was an accusation.

“Yup,” she answered without remorse. “I could barely sleep last night thinking about this trip. You know, the more I think about The List, the more impossible it seems.”

Angie stopped rummaging through the closet to stare at her. “Since when do we let the impossible stand in our way? Two days before senior prom, when we were doomed to being each other’s dates, it was your idea to storm the University of Maryland campus and ask every cute guy we saw to the prom. You had every girl at Richard Montgomery High School wondering how two nobodies scored dates with hot college boys.”

“Yeah,” Lilah said absently.

“You used to be fearless, remember? You could talk anyone into anything. What happened to you?”

When Lilah looked back on some of the stunts she and Angie had pulled in their youth, it blew her mind. She couldn’t imagine approaching situations with the same reckless abandon she’d once had.

Lilah looked at Angie and shrugged. “What happened to me? I grew up.”

After a few moments of awkward silence, Angie turned her attention back to Lilah’s closet and began throwing her clothes around the room.

“None of these clothes are acceptable for tonight’s activities, and there’s no time for shopping.” Angie walked over to her suitcase and opened it up. “Fortunately for you, I came prepared. It’s an original creation and it will look stunning on you.”

It was a burnt-orange swirly-print cocktail dress with a complicated weaving of spaghetti straps across the back. It stopped just above Lilah’s knees with dainty flair. Lilah studied herself in the mirror. The dress was beautiful, if a bit bold for her taste.

“Good Lord, are those the only shoes you have?” Angie turned up her nose at Lilah’s functional, decidedly nondesigner black pumps.

“I’m afraid so, unless you think my pink Timberlands would work with this look.”

“I guess the pumps are going to have to do. I don’t know how you balance on those tiny pin-pricks you call feet, anyway,” she said with a comical glare that had the two of them bursting into giggles. Angie’s feet were two sizes bigger than Lilah’s—and Angie all but hated her for it.

Lilah piled her light brown hair atop her head in one of those sloppy knots she’d seen in magazines. She was going for an air of elegant maturity. She silently prayed she didn’t look the way she felt—like a little girl playing dress-up.

Physically, Lilah hadn’t changed much since high school. She still got carded on a regular basis. With her clear champagne complexion, no makeup and her honey-brown hair worn loose, she was a dead ringer for sixteen.

It would be a few more years before Lilah felt being mistaken for someone younger could actually be flattering instead of mildly annoying. Her tiny, soft voice did nothing to help matters. That was why Lilah relied on makeup and a severe topknot to force clients to take her seriously. She also tried as hard as possible not to be bubbly.

Angie, on the other hand, epitomized bubbly. Add that to her two-toned Macy Gray fro and funky homemade clothes, and people frequently underestimated her wickedly keen mind.

Angie in her typical statement-making fashion, was wearing a skintight vinyl tube that passed as a dress. With this she wore black leggings and multicolored paint-splattered boots, under a long dark coat straight from The Matrix. With her orange curling Afro frosted at the tips, her hair radiated from her head like rays of sunshine.

“Okay, are you ready to hear my strategy?” Angie asked later as they rode to the Flatiron District in a taxi. The late October night air had just enough bite for them to need overcoats, but it wasn’t cold enough for gloves and scarves yet.

“I can’t wait,” Lilah answered, deflated. She wasn’t looking forward to this adventure. In fact, considering the way her trip had begun, she was convinced this entire outing would be a disaster.

“Listen up, I have a three-tiered plan to get us past the doorman. Phase one, and the least likely to work, we flash our brilliant smiles and sweetly ask to be let in.”

“If that’s unlikely to work, Angie, why is it even part of the plan?”

“Because we’re attractive women—we’re armed with mother nature’s tools. It never hurts to try them out.”

Lilah rolled her eyes. “What’s phase two?”

“We drop the high school connection.”

“What?”

“We tell the bouncer we went to high school with Reggie Martin.”

That gave Lilah a start. She hadn’t seen Reggie since high school graduation. Would he even remember her?

She took a deep breath. Of course he would. She’d spent countless hours in his house for their tutoring sessions. He usually turned up an hour or so after she did, which gave her plenty of time to take in personal details and talk to his family about him.

And he’d been so nice to her. He always made sure she had a ride home with his brother whenever he couldn’t take her himself. He would even confide in her about his family problems.

But what would she say to him after all these years? Suddenly The List sounded so juvenile. Hopefully, he wouldn’t laugh in her face.

“Please tell me phase three is a real winner. Otherwise I suggest we turn this cab around and go have a nice dinner. I haven’t eaten all day.”

“Phase three is a sure thing.”

“I’m listening.”

“Filet mignon.”

“You agree we should go for dinner?”

“No, that’s the code word.”

“What are you talking about?”

“Apparently all bouncers know this code word. It means let us in immediately, we’re very important people.”

“And just where did you get this information?”

She pointed out the window. “Look, we’re almost there.”

“No changing the subject. Where did you hear this?”

Angie sighed. “The Internet.”

Lilah’s spine snapped straight. “Driver!”

Angie grabbed her arm and covered Lilah’s mouth. “Shh. This is going to work. You’ll see.”

Lilah climbed out of the cab, her legs trembling ever so slightly. “This is going to be so humiliating.”

Angie gripped her elbow and started marching her forward. “You know the drill. Say everything with confidence and authority, and you’ll have those bouncers eating out of your hand.”

They approached a tall, dark-skinned man with dreadlocks and a black leather trench coat. “Hi, we’re here for the party,” Angie said brightly.

The man frowned at her. “We don’t open to the public until after midnight tonight. We have a private party going on,” he answered with a thick Jamaican accent.

“That’s right,” Angie continued. “We’re here for the party.”

The man just shook his head.

“We’re meeting our high school friend Reggie here. Reggie Martin.”

The man pointed over Angie’s shoulder to the long line stretching down the block.

“What’s that line for?”

“Dat’s for everyone who wants to be let in after midnight.”

“But it’s only eight-thirty.”

His gaze remained cold.

“By the way,” Angie said finally. “We’re filet mignon.”

The bouncer glared at her. “Really, ’cuz you look more like chopped liver.” He turned to Lilah. “And this one barely looks over eighteen. Don’t try flashing dem fake IDs ’round here. I can spot ’em a mile away.”

“Now wait a minute,” Lilah said, finally finding her voice. “There’s no need to be rude. I realize you probably hear a lot of creative stories from people trying to scam their way into the club. And I’m certain it’s no fun to have people approach you like they own the world and expect to be treated like it. But you don’t look like the kind of gentleman whose mother raised him to disrespect women.”

Lilah resisted the urge to giggle at the look of wide-eyed chagrin on his face. “I…uh…I—”

“Please tell me you’re not giving my friends a hard time,” a deep masculine voice called out behind them.

Lilah froze in place. She knew that voice. It couldn’t be—

She turned and found herself looking up into a pair of deep-brown eyes. He towered over her at six-foot-four and was dressed in a black winter coat over an impeccably tailored, dark suit. His crisp, white shirt was open at the collar.

All of Lilah’s words stuck in her throat.

“Mr. Martin, my apologies,” the bouncer said, opening the rope for them to pass through.