and she feels his lips on her fingertips once again, wet and slick. The tip of his tongue reaches out like a fat pink worm and licks the space between her fingers, zinging her whole body as if he had licked her all over. Her lips part, and before she thinks to stop him, he has planted his face on hers and she can’t remember when she’s felt like this, fusing, melting, surrendering …
He stops abruptly. Backs away from her, picks up his mail sack without looking. “Don’t move,” he whispers. “I want to remember you just this way.” Before he shuts the door, he adds, “See you tomorrow.”
Lorena feels paralyzed for long minutes after he’s left. She stares at the pile of mail on the coffee table. Binky kissed her. She hasn’t been kissed by another man for … what? Thirteen years? Unlessshe counts Uncle Rudy, who may he rest in peace used to try when Aunt Lula would have them over for Sunday dinner.
She feels different now. Sexy. Sensual. Desirable. Does it show? She staggers upstairs to look in the bathroom mirror. Her hair looks electrified. Her ears are sticking out. Her face is smeared from nose to chin with lipstick. She looks as if she just finished a cherry Popsicle.
But Binky kissed her. And not just a kiss. It was a seal, a promise, a pledge to her future.
It’s destiny, she whispers to the face in the mirror. It’s written in the stars. Soon you will meet cousin Wally. Soon you will
be
a star.
9
CASSIE
I REALLY WANT to go back out to the pool, but no, we have to sit here in the dumb coffee shop even though I’ve finished my hamburger and I’m bored bored bored with all their talking. This is supposed to be my special treat, to have lunch and swim at the Chamberlin Hotel, but Mom and Delia act like I’m not even here except when Mom says “Stop that!” if I make the table move with my knees or slurp my straw in the bottom of my glass.
And then I see him. Snooky Lanson. I know it’s him, I can tell all the way across the coffee shop. It’s not just somebody who looks like him, kind of pale and freckle-y, hair combed high in a pompadour. It’s Snooky Lanson, the TV star. I know his voice. It booms all the way across the room, even though he’s not singing like he does on
Your Hit Parade,
one of my very very favorite TV shows. He’s sitting at a table with a bunch of ladies in bathing suits covered with frilly robes and men dressed in cabana sets, bathing trunks with matching shirts like the kind Dad took back to Nachman’s after Mom bought him a set.
I’ve never seen a real live famous person before, not in the same room with me. “Mom!” I say, but she’s so busy yakking with Delia that she’s not paying attention. “Mom, Mom, look!” I pull at the sleeve of her striped beach jacket and she says her usual “Stop that,” until I say the magic words “Snooky Lanson” and she looks at where I’m pointing.
“Don’t point,” she says, smacking my hand down, but she’s craning her neck to see for herself. “He looks older in person,” she says to Delia, who has unstuck her bottom from the plastic seat of our booth and is half standing for a better view.
“Snooky Lanson?” asks Delia. “Isn’t he on
My Hit Parade?”
“YOUR Hit Parade
,” I say, and roll my eyes around. Most times I really like Delia, a lot. She’s funny and nice and treats me like a real person, not just a kid, but sometimes she can be such a dumb Dora, as Dad would say.
“You know the show,” Mom says to her. “The one where they sing and dance to the top hits of the week. And at the end they sing that song.” And then she sings it in her Minnie Mouse voice: “So long for a while, that’s all the songs for a while …” I would like to die. Just crawl under this table and die.
“Mom!
Stop
that.” I cover my face with my hands. “He can hear you.”
She laughs. “No, he can’t. He’s too busy talking.” I look over at his table. He’s laughing, his big TV teeth open wide, his
He stops abruptly. Backs away from her, picks up his mail sack without looking. “Don’t move,” he whispers. “I want to remember you just this way.” Before he shuts the door, he adds, “See you tomorrow.”
Lorena feels paralyzed for long minutes after he’s left. She stares at the pile of mail on the coffee table. Binky kissed her. She hasn’t been kissed by another man for … what? Thirteen years? Unlessshe counts Uncle Rudy, who may he rest in peace used to try when Aunt Lula would have them over for Sunday dinner.
She feels different now. Sexy. Sensual. Desirable. Does it show? She staggers upstairs to look in the bathroom mirror. Her hair looks electrified. Her ears are sticking out. Her face is smeared from nose to chin with lipstick. She looks as if she just finished a cherry Popsicle.
But Binky kissed her. And not just a kiss. It was a seal, a promise, a pledge to her future.
It’s destiny, she whispers to the face in the mirror. It’s written in the stars. Soon you will meet cousin Wally. Soon you will
be
a star.
9
CASSIE
I REALLY WANT to go back out to the pool, but no, we have to sit here in the dumb coffee shop even though I’ve finished my hamburger and I’m bored bored bored with all their talking. This is supposed to be my special treat, to have lunch and swim at the Chamberlin Hotel, but Mom and Delia act like I’m not even here except when Mom says “Stop that!” if I make the table move with my knees or slurp my straw in the bottom of my glass.
And then I see him. Snooky Lanson. I know it’s him, I can tell all the way across the coffee shop. It’s not just somebody who looks like him, kind of pale and freckle-y, hair combed high in a pompadour. It’s Snooky Lanson, the TV star. I know his voice. It booms all the way across the room, even though he’s not singing like he does on
Your Hit Parade,
one of my very very favorite TV shows. He’s sitting at a table with a bunch of ladies in bathing suits covered with frilly robes and men dressed in cabana sets, bathing trunks with matching shirts like the kind Dad took back to Nachman’s after Mom bought him a set.
I’ve never seen a real live famous person before, not in the same room with me. “Mom!” I say, but she’s so busy yakking with Delia that she’s not paying attention. “Mom, Mom, look!” I pull at the sleeve of her striped beach jacket and she says her usual “Stop that,” until I say the magic words “Snooky Lanson” and she looks at where I’m pointing.
“Don’t point,” she says, smacking my hand down, but she’s craning her neck to see for herself. “He looks older in person,” she says to Delia, who has unstuck her bottom from the plastic seat of our booth and is half standing for a better view.
“Snooky Lanson?” asks Delia. “Isn’t he on
My Hit Parade?”
“YOUR Hit Parade
,” I say, and roll my eyes around. Most times I really like Delia, a lot. She’s funny and nice and treats me like a real person, not just a kid, but sometimes she can be such a dumb Dora, as Dad would say.
“You know the show,” Mom says to her. “The one where they sing and dance to the top hits of the week. And at the end they sing that song.” And then she sings it in her Minnie Mouse voice: “So long for a while, that’s all the songs for a while …” I would like to die. Just crawl under this table and die.
“Mom!
Stop
that.” I cover my face with my hands. “He can hear you.”
She laughs. “No, he can’t. He’s too busy talking.” I look over at his table. He’s laughing, his big TV teeth open wide, his
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