Cindy and the Prom King by Carol Culver Page A

dad yelling in the background and Toby wasn’t sure if he missed having a dad around who cared if he got drunk or if he was happy to be on his own. If he did stop drinking, it wouldn’t be to please his father; his father didn’t know or care. He had to do it for himself. There wasn’t anyone else.
    Only thing was, how was he going to get home?

twenty-two
    Demons don’t play by the rules.
They lie and they cheat and they stab in the back.
—Alan Grant
    By the time the twins got home from the dance, Cindy was in bed, but no earplugs existed that could keep out their loud laughter and shrieks of glee at the fun they’d had. Cindy buried her head under the blankets but could not block out the sounds reverberating throughout the house. The whole neighborhood must have heard how they’d danced, drank, partied and played.
    She wondered if Marco had spent the rest of the evening freak-dancing with them when they returned to the dance, or if the headmaster had put a stop to their fun with the Barney songs and they’d moved on to another venue like some friend’s McMansion with no parents at home. She told herself it was just as well she hadn’t gone with them. But sometimes she wondered what would have happened if she had.
    The next day Marco called her on her cell phone while she was working at the spa. She was so shocked she almost dropped the pumice stone she used to scrub the clients’ feet.
    “How did you get my number?” she asked, taking refuge in the supply closet so Irina wouldn’t know she was taking a personal call, a total no-no for spa employees.
    “It was on the tutor list with your name. I’m sorry to bother you. You’re busy, yes?”
    “Well, yes, I’m at work.”
    “What about lunch? Can you meet me for lunch?”
    “I… I don’t know.” Irina gave her fifteen minutes to eat a sandwich unless the place was really busy, then she worked straight through until the spa closed. “Is it something that can’t wait until school on Monday?”
    He didn’t answer. Instead he asked her, “What kind of a job doesn’t let you have time for lunch? In Italy it would be a crime. Everything closes at noon. We eat, we talk, we rest. Then we go back to work.”
    “But we’re not in Italy,” she said. “Unfortunately.”
    “I will come there. I will bring the lunch. It’s the least I can do for you who helps me so much.”
    “Here? No. Okay, I’ll meet you in the mall at the tables in front of the Oakton Grocery. Do you know where that is?”
    “I will find it. I will be there at twelve.”
    Cindy nodded and hung up just as Irina was banging on the closet door, demanding to know what Cindy was doing in there. Cindy left feeling guilty about leaving the customer whose feet were still soaking in a cocoa bath, her skin turning brown and wrinkled as she dozed in her massage chair. Never mind; her skin would ultimately be soft as a baby’s.
    Marco was pacing back and forth in front of the upscale grocery where he’d just purchased two prosciutto and Fontina cheese sandwiches and two bottles of San Pellegrino water. He hoped Cindy wouldn’t be in trouble for taking time from her job, but really what kind of a country was this that didn’t give workers time to eat a proper meal at noon?
    When he saw her she was walking quickly toward him, her copper-colored hair shining in the autumn sunlight. She was different from any other girl he’d ever met. She was hardworking, both at school and at her job. She was shy and she didn’t seem to have any idea how attractive she was, with her beautiful cheekbones like Sophia Loren’s and a wide mouth that curved up when she was amused. He liked to make her smile. He’d like to make her laugh too. Of course her clothes were terrible. She didn’t seem to know or care. That was refreshing.
    He restrained himself from kissing her on both cheeks as he would have when meeting a friend in Italy. He just motioned for her to sit down and opened the plastic tray with the