Praise for 1: The Intern
“Loved the playful voice, and going through Suzie Q’s journey. Laced with humor, it tickled me throughout. A fun, satisfying read, with bonus dance steps—liked the twist at the end! Keep the series coming.”
— Jason Ancona, author of C.Y.A / Covert Youth Agency
***
“Love
the concept and the voice is very relatable...I was hooked, and
Chester won [my] affections!”
— Vanessa Di Gregorio,
former intern @ The Rights Factory literary agency, March 2010
***
Other Books by Jess C Scott
EYELEASH: A BLOG NOVEL
(teenage memoir)
4:PLAY
(a contemporary cocktail of erotic short stories)
THE DEVILIN FEY | WICKED LOVELY | NEW ORDER
(novellas in 4:Play)
PORCELAIN
(portfolio of written + illustrative work)
BUSINESS PLAN
(on building brand identity / non-fiction)
THE OTHER SIDE OF LIFE
(upcoming cyberpunk/urban fantasy series / Winter 2010)
***
1: THE INTERN
(Book #1 / Lust, of the Sins07 series)
JESS C SCOTT
***
1: THE INTERN
Published by Jess C Scott, Smashwords Edition
http://www.sins07.wordpress.com
Copyright © 2010 by Jess C Scott.
Cover Art © 2010 by Jess C Scott.
All
rights reserved.
First Print Edition: August 2010
ISBN:
145368493X
1. Juvenile Fiction/General
2. Juvenile Fiction/Social Issues
3. Juvenile Fiction/Social Issues/Dating & Sex
4. Juvenile Fiction/Social Issues/Friendship
5. Juvenile Fiction/Social Issues/Values & Virtues
6. Juvenile Fiction/Social Issues/Love & Romance
Summary: A 17-year-old intern must choose between trusting an irresistibly suave dance instructor—or her instincts.
Notes:
1: The Intern is the first book in a “seven deadly sins” series that looks at universal issues from contemporary life. The series features light-hearted tales that explore each of the seven sins in order, beginning with lust.
# # # # #
For dance enthusiasts everywhere, Rain, and Def Dance.
# # # # #
. . . CONTENTS . . .
#
# # # #
Chapter 1
Leaving...on a Jet Plane
“Hey—check out the first song on the list.”
I glance at the catalog Chester Taylor Adamski, my internship partner, is showing me. The page lists the radio channels provided by the airline. There’s the Top 40s channel, Adult Rock, Blues/Swing channel, and so on. The one he’s pointing at is Classic Rock, and “Suzy Q” is the first song.
“Your all-time favorite?” I wink.
“Right on,” Chester says with a mighty grin.
His chin rests on his hand that’s propped up on the armrest between our seats. A couple of fingerprint marks smear the lenses of his black, plastic-framed glasses. His dusty blond hair is neat as usual, and pretty much unstyled.
I smile. I’ve gone with “Suzie Q” after Chester introduced me to that rock song. It has more flavor than “Suzie Quinn” anyhow. Chester told me about the song when we were thirteen or fourteen. I was surprised he listened to hard rock. I thought he’d be more into something like classical music.
Once in a while, in moments like this, I almost think Chester might be the one.
But then I get real. Not Chester. He’s more like a brother to me.
“Oh, and take a look at this.” He points to a small image—a close-up shot of a woman’s mouth with bright red lips, with the caption: Devil or Angel.
“What’s that?” I enquire.
He speed-reads the rest of it, then turns the page.
“Nothing important?”
“Yep,” he concludes. “Just another bunch of silly people, brought to you by yet another brainless reality TV show.”
We both laugh. I’ve always had a love-hate kind of relationship with reality shows. There’s something addictive and entertaining about even the worst of them.
The kid behind starts kicking the back of my seat, adding more distress to the slight migraine and blocked ears I’m experiencing during my maiden flight.
“Are you excited about the internship?” Chester asks suddenly, rubbing his chin lightly. He does that sometimes, when he’s deep in thought.
“Are you?” I ask in turn.
“Sure, aren’t you?”
“Yeah,” I lie. “It’s a privilege we made the cut for the Spring Break internship.”
While the internship is the highlight of Nova Academy’s junior year, I was half-hoping I’d be thrown into an exotic location, like India or Japan. I’ve lived all my life in Essex, Vermont, a quiet and scenic region in the northeast.
“We’re Nova Academy’s finest.”
“Wear your t-shirts with pride,” I reply, imitating the shrill voice of our advisor, Mrs. De Sousa.
Chester’s wearing the shirt right now, and he points to it. The t-shirts have our school crest and school name emblazoned on the front.
“You are the crème de la crème, the best of the best!” Chester raises his chin up slightly, the exact way Mrs. De Sousa does when she’s drilling it into our heads that we’re from a super school.
I hate it when they say such things. I think it’s too elitist. But Nova Academy is one of the finest high schools in the country. It’s a school for gifted and talented students, and has spawned some prodigies and now famous people.
“I still remember Pixel Wallace.” Chester continues flipping through the pages of the catalog. “Accepted into Harvard at the age of fourteen.”
Stuff like that makes me wonder what I’m doing at Nova.
Pixel and I had some classes together. She was discussing “projective geometry” with the teacher, at the speed of a bullet, while the rest of us worked on some algebra. Math whizzes like Chester T. (a.k.a. “Chas-ti-ty”) understood “projective geometry,” but not me. I tested into Nova’s program because of my high score on Languages and Linguistics. It’s probably due to my interest in cultural studies.
“Did you get a chance to check out The Lysistrata online?”
“A little bit. It looks posh.” I am halfhearted about the fact that we won’t be getting paid as interns though, as with many other interns...
“It does look posh. It’s about the number one museum around!” Chester must have sensed my lack of enthusiasm. “Come on, I know you like history. It’s going to be fun.”
Suddenly, the seatbelt signals above start to flash. My ears hurt. The pilot’s voice comes on. There is some audio static before anyone can hear what he’s saying.
“Ladies...and gentlemen...”
But the static takes over again. I feel like lurching. My hands are freezing.
“You look stressed,” says Chester. He’s right about that.
“I’ve heard about horror stories, where passengers’ cups and saucers went flying,” I mutter to him.
“During turbulence?”
“Yeah.”
The plane jerks. A baby starts to cry somewhere. I stare out the window at the surrounding dusky, gray skies. We will be landing at night.
“Maybe it’s the wind,” Chester says flatly. He gazes out the small square box of a window. “Unless a bird got in the engine.”
I wish he had not said that. I stare at the motion sickness bag in front of me.
Then, Chester holds my hand. “It’ll be okay in a bit.”
My other hand clutches the edge of the seat. I think he notices.
“Think happy thoughts...” he says, taking a look out of the window too. He lets go of my hand to put his seatbelt on.
Happy thoughts, happy thoughts.
I’d like to rest my head against his shoulder, just to feel safe, but I don’t. I think it might give him the wrong idea. Everyone already thinks we’re a couple but we’re just good friends. Of course people will believe what they want to believe.
I recollect some fun incidents with Chester over the years. Way back in the fourth grade, he got me a lime green pencil box for my birthday, while I got him a giant chocolate bar (our birthdays are a few days apart). I remember being taller than him until around eighth grade when he suddenly shot up, and now he’s a lot taller than me. He’s also been working out these last couple of years, so his name has popped up in “girl talk.”
We’ve been on group dates but never just the two of us, so I don’t know why people think of us as an item. I never give that impression. Like I said: you can’t stop people from believing what they want to.
The plane shakes a little again and I am jolted out of my memories. As I try to think about more “happy thoughts,” I realize how much of a life I am lacking, and how much I am missing out on. Apart from maintaining good grades, reading lots, and going on the once-in-a-blue-moon “date,” what else have I actually been up to? Yes, I’ll be in the world-class city of Roxeth for a fortnight—and work starts on Monday, tomorrow, oh joy—but two weeks isn’t going to make a magical difference. Besides, cities are busy, crowded, and noisy. And I hear public transport in Roxeth is expensive, so I’ve brought extra money for that. If not, there’s always the good old plastic card (thanks, Dad).
I start to fantasize. Something straight out of a romantic novel or movie, with me in the starring role, of course. I dream of someone sweeping me off my feet, someone that would show me something “new,” something that I never knew existed...I will melt in his arms and he will show me what passionate love can be.
Ah…happy thoughts.
The plane lands smoothly. I didn’t know we had been so close to landing.
Chester hits his head when we stand up to get our bags from the overhead compartment. I laugh because he looks cute when he cringes.
It is nighttime now. Everyone’s standing up and getting ready to step out of the airplane. Everyone seems to be in a big rush.
I look outside, and see the bus waiting for us. It’ll take the passengers from the plane to the airport, which is a short distance away.
“Thank you for flying with us,” the poised stewardess at the exit says. Chester and I smile politely. We must look disheveled next to the cabin crew. I’m just about to point out Chester’s dark rings under his eyes to him, when I notice something else when we step out of the plane.
The temperature.
It is a little warm. The air isn’t frosty, and doesn’t bite at your fingertips.
It’s nice and humid.
Chapter 2:
Bang, Bang, Boom
“Whoa,” Chester utters, when we walk into the airport. I share the same sentiments as he does. The airport at Essex was small. In fact, ‘small’ is an understatement. The airport at Roxeth is MASSIVE in comparison!
People whiz about everywhere. Extremely well-dressed people throng outside the arrival hall, holding placards up. I see a businessman go up to a gangly, scrawny dude holding up one of those placards obviously with his name on it. The dude looks a little older than me. Part-time job, I wonder? I notice a few limousines waiting outside the airport.
Chester and I are traveling light. We had no need to check in any luggage. All we had were our carry-on items.
“I think that’s the bus, right there.”
Chester points to the vehicle, which is several paces away from where the limousines are. The side of the bus has the words ‘Bliss Hotel,’ with a colorful floral design below the text.
No limousine for student interns, I guess.
I notice a cute guy when we get up the bus. Short, chocolate brown spiky-wispy hair, a red/black checkered jacket, looking studious as he flips through a copy of The Economist. I quickly look out the window when the person removes the jacket, and I realize said cute guy is a girl instead.
Baggy clothes can really hide one’s figure. End of that fantasy.
I don’t feel like switching my cell back on. Would I get a flood of messages or miscalls from Mom or Dad? But I know they’d be worrying, to some extent at least. I haven’t been out of Essex much.
One message:
Just checking in on you—how was the flight? Love you, Mom.
Another message:
How’s Groovetown?
The second one is from my dad.
I don’t want to disturb them too much. When you’ve lived with marine biologists all your life, you know when they’re going to be really busy—like the next few weeks because of the seasonal fish population that will be in soon.
I’ll reply the messages later. My back’s stiff from that seven hour flight. I bring a hand up to feel my hair. It’s gotten frizzier. I think it’s because of the humidity outside.
Chester looks out the window now and then; he’s also pulled out a Sudoku book, and has started filling in some numbers in the square grids. I don’t know how he can still be so alert. All I want to do is lie on a soft, comfortable bed right now.
The bus passes through some busy streets: there are lights all around. It’s as if the city never sleeps. Mrs. De Sousa says the hair on her skin stood on end when she walked down a Las Vegas street, due to the amount of static from the surrounding electricity. Would it be the same here?
“What’s that guy doing?” Chester says, looking up. He points discreetly to a group of people by the roadside. The bus has stopped at a traffic light, so we take a good look at the quartet.
Four people are hanging around outside a music club called Funky² (so says the neon signboard). If I’m not wrong, the DJ booth is right at the entrance. I take a quick look—two appear to be Asians, with baseball caps worn at a slant. One of them is doing a vibrant mix of folk and hip hop type moves on the street!
“I think he’s doing some bhangra moves,” I reply Chester. I feel a slight itch to join them. They look like they don’t have a single care in the world.
“Bhangra?”
“A folk dance from northwest India.”
I ended up falling in love with YouTube, and dancing, when I wrote an essay entitled, Exploring Different Cultures Through Music And Dance. I spent (and continue to spend) hours watching a boatload of dance clips online. It makes my parents so mad, but if it weren’t for YouTube, my life just wouldn’t be what it is. I wish they’d offer dance classes at Nova.
“Okay,” says Chester, going back to solving the numbers puzzle. “You should know. You know more about world music than I do.”
The other two who make up the foursome are girls—a Caucasian with dyed black hair, and Japanese girl with bleached blonde peroxide hair. People never appreciate what they have, do they? Both have pretty ample bosoms (hmm...) and both are on their cell phones. The bus starts moving again, at the same time that the group enters the club. That’s when one of the guys slides a hand into the back pocket of the blonde’s skinny jeans.
“I wonder how long they’ll be there,” I say to Chester, and then wonder why I would even want to know that.
Chester mumbles an “mmm-hmm,” without looking up from his Sudoku book. He obviously won’t be interested in checking out that place, even if we’re old enough to patronize it. I wonder if we are?
It’s dusk but it’s still so bright. The main sources of light come from signboards, or the lamps lining the street.
I turn my attention back to my cell. I am climbing up the scoreboard on the highly-addictive game Bejeweled, when the bus drives right up to the hotel. I take a look at my watch—it’s been a twenty-minute drive at most.
“I’m beat,” I mumble to Chester. I feel as if my bones are made of lead.
“Yeah, likewise,” he replies, equally worn out. “But hey, here we are at last!”
While I feel tired, I feel a sudden, contradictory urge to go out and explore too. I think of the group we’d seen outside the music club, and envision myself standing at the entrance of Funky².
It hits me that I am f-r-e-e.
Free from books-reading.
Free from to-do lists.
Free from the lack of a life I could leave behind for a fortnight.
Chester and I drag ourselves into Bliss Hotel.
“Oh my goodness,” Chester says when we walk in.
“Yeah,” I reply simply. Indeed, the hotel’s interior is styled with ultra-modern lighting, sleek curves and stainless steel.
“That’s Tina Turner!”
Oh, my bad. Chester is a little entranced with a huge signed poster of the iconic rock singer. It’s hanging on the wall behind the reception desk.
We check in and get our hotel key cards. There’s a note for us. We have to meet someone from the museum at nine tomorrow for a briefing and orientation.
Chester’s still engrossed with the picture.
“Did she really stay here?” Chester asks the receptionist, who looks very young, and looks like a doll. Her eye shadow is a matte, light violet.
I’m half-thinking Chester is a little out of his mind, but the receptionist says, “Yes! She’s simply the best.” Chester looks smugly at me.
“Fascinating,” I say as if impressed, then wonder maybe Chester might check out that dance place with me after all. There might be some hope.
Chester and I take the elevator up to the fifth storey.
“See ya in the morning,” Chester says with a quick smile. He goes into his room, 5G. I place the card in the slot to get into my room, which is across from his.
I kick my well-worn sneakers off. I’ve probably walked them out over thousands of miles or more. Running, gardening, you name it. That’s what I call a pair of reliable shoes. I have just four pairs—the sneakers, a back-up pair of scruffy boots for winter, flip flops, and slight heels for whenever. That’s it.
I’ve brought the slight heels along. I try them on, then kick them back off promptly. The white straps look a little bit more faded than when I first got them. Hopefully, I’m the only one who’ll notice.
I sit on the bed. Then, I get up and stand up on the cushiony mattress. I jump a few times, throwing my hands up in the air, yelling “whoo!”, since nobody is watching. Look in the mirror—look at myself in the reflection. How much make-up do I wear tomorrow?
“Not too much,” I say to myself. I’ve always had poor make-up skills. Make that zero make-up skills.
I switch the TV on, and channel-surf for a few minutes. There’s a new reality show called Devil or Angel, the one Chester was reading about on the plane.
“Join us for another episode of women wishing to get even with men who mis-be-have,” rattles off Victoria Keller, the host. She’s a super tall leggy platinum blonde hottie. She’s wearing blood red lipstick. “Tried-and-tired pick-up lines, the moment your back is turned? Cheating on you after saying that he truly loves you? We’ve all been there, ladies. Discover for real if he’s a devil or angel. Revenge is served, hidden-camera style!”
This episode shows women enticing men who are supposedly in “happy relationships” to a private party, where their bad behavior is going to be filmed and then exposed to an all-female jury.
Chester’s always laughed at reality TV shows like this. He says that people who get caught are a bunch of losers and “silly people.” I couldn’t agree less! It’s people who get themselves into awful situations in the first place, which get more and more complicated the longer they stay in it.
I switch channels during the ad break. The judging panel was pretty mean and bitchy with their comments. On another channel, an episode of What Not To Wear is on. The featured woman has come from a region that’s not too far away from Essex. She looks about thirty years old.
“When was the last time you had a professional haircut?” the stylist on the show asks the lady. He’s running a comb through her dry mop of hair, that looks like it’s gone through a dozen bad dye jobs.
“About ten years ago,” she replies with a tired, heavy sigh. “I just gave up after a while.”
Watching the show is kind of thrilling yet depressing at the same time. I think I might schedule a haircut for myself sometime. Surely this city must have some pretty awesome hairstylists. Question is: can I afford them? Ha!
I’m in my exploratory mood again, so I decide to roam the hotel. I like wandering around aimlessly, from time to time, alone. That way I can take as long or as short a time I like and return to this oh-so-comfortable room if and when the jet-lag hits me again.
I take the elevator to the top floor. I can’t believe the picturesque, panoramic view through the large glass window. I notice a small golden plate on the wall with words inscribed on it:
I love thee to the depth and breadth and height
My soul can reach, when feeling out of sight.
I recognize the words. They’re from a poem by Elizabeth Barrett Browning; a nice touch to add to the “ambience.” I deduce that this must be a romantic spot for couples, and quickly glance around to see if there’s any exquisitely handsome guy eyeing me.
No such luck. Just another fantasy.
I sigh and take the elevator this time to the ground floor. “This looks so fine,” I say to myself, as I pick up a promotional pamphlet on the hotel. The map shows a gym, swimming pool, spa, several bistros, and even a dance studio. Guests would be spoiled for choice. I’m beginning to think this is going to be an exciting trip after all, and I’m not talking about the internship.
The dance studio piques my curiosity and I head there. I glance at my watch—10pm. Who’d be at a dance studio at this hour? No one, I guess, because there’s no one there. But there is a list of dance schedules, pasted on the front of the door. One catches my eye, mainly because of the cool guy in funky street wear in the photo. I scan the notice:
==========
* Hip Hop Course Level 1 *
Objectives
* Styles + Techniques Overview
* To teach students who’ve always wanted to learn dance in a small class
* To instill basic free styling skills so that you can start dancing to any music in the clubs!
Details
Start date: 13 April
Mondays / 8.30-9.30pm
Duration: 10 Sessions (1hr/week)
Fees: $200
* free two lessons for Bliss Hotel guests!
Registration: Open
(sign-up @ hotel counter
or online @ www.hot-steps-studio.com)
==========
My arrival to Roxeth couldn’t have been better timed. The first lesson starts tomorrow, and the two lessons are going to be for free too! I recall my first dance DVD, which I got for a personal fitness program I was working on. The DVD included moves like body isolations, popping, the box step, simple grooves, and “model” walks. At least I won’t be a total beginner. I can think of so many reasons to sign up—learn hip hop (of course), have fun in my free time and of course, maybe, hopefully meet the guy in the photo! I chuckle to myself. Maybe he’s the dance instructor?
I suddenly wonder if Chester might be interested, but I doubt it. I try to picture Chester dancing hip hop and almost laugh aloud. But people can surprise, so I call him on his cell just to be polite and ask him.
“No, thanks—no dancing for me. You go ahead,” he mumbles, rather sleepily. “I’ve two left feet, if you know what I mean...”
No surprises there.
“Alrighty,” I say, and as I turn my cell off, the door swings open. I get a shock but I think whoever’s opened the door gets a surprise too, because a CD case goes clattering to the floor. I bend down to pick it up and return it to the stranger.
When I look up, I almost gasp. The stranger is tall and lean, and insanely gorgeous. What’s more, it’s him—the guy in the photo. Looking a hundred times better in the flesh. There’s a glint in his expressive eyes. Dark mysterious eyes, and dark hair. The slightly messy look just makes me want to touch his hair. He looks…biracial...half Asian and half White? He’s in a sleeveless gray tank top and black pants, which suit his fit, athletic body just fine. He must have delectable abs underneath his shirt.
“You dropped this.” I hand over the CD. Our fingers lightly touch and it sends shivers down my spine.
“Thank you.”
He has a nice, smooth voice. As well as a devilish, charming, disarming smile.
Are you a dance instructor? I want to say, but nothing comes out of my mouth.
All I hear is the sound my heart makes: Bang, Bang, Boom.
“Are you taking lessons here?” he asks me. He speaks perfect English. He leans against the shut door, and I just notice he’s also carrying a sports bag, a small paper bag, a radio and a couple of CDs.
“I’m...a guest,” I reply slowly. I don’t want my anxiety to show. It’s not very often that I get the attention of such a gorgeous hunk. “I was looking at the schedules.”
“How long will you be here?”
“Two weeks,” I say, when his cell rings. I hear someone say “yo” over the phone, and then I can’t hear much else. Mr. Drop Dead Gorgeous is obviously in a rush to get somewhere and I move out of the way.
“Hey, thanks again.” He waves the CD, and starts moving down the hallway. I look at his figure from the back right until he turns a corner.
And I didn’t even get the chance to ask what his name was. Drat. I wish I could abolish all cell phone devices on the planet. I’d still be talking to him if it weren’t for that one phone call!
I decide to sign up for the Hip Hop dance class anyway. As I’m getting all excited wondering what the instructor might look like, I notice the name “Josie” on the form, beside the title “Dance Instructor.”
Just my luck. I was hoping I’d get to see that guy again.
How utterly disappointing. But I guess it’s better than no available classes at all. Besides, I just want to learn the dance styles, I remind myself.
“Who’s Josie?” I ask the receptionist as I’m filling up the form.
“A very talented instructor,” she replies, without looking up at me from some paperwork.
I make a note of her name on her name tag—Evita Ramos. Maybe she just doesn’t like me much. I thought she’d be friendlier, seeing the way she and Chester got on together so well earlier. I am half-considering asking whether she’d know the name of the handsome stranger, but decide not to bother. Even if he is an instructor and I manage to be in one of his classes (what are the chances?), I’ll be on the way back to Essex in no time.
“You like hip hop?” Evita asks. I can smell her perfume. It’s super feminine, and makes my nose itch.
“Yes,” I say. I know I don’t look like a typical “hip hopper” but everyone has their own likes and dislikes. I secretly hope there’ll be a student or two that look like the guy I saw not too long ago.
“Enjoy your dance classes.” Evita gives me a kind of sly wink. I wonder what that is about.
On the way back to my room, I keep thinking of Mr. Gorgeous (that’ll be his name for now). I recall the shiver down my spine when our fingers lightly touched. And when he smiled at me I remember the rush of blood to my face (hope he didn’t see me blush) and my heart was pounding like crazy. It was like being struck by a thunderbolt! Not that I’ve ever been struck by a thunderbolt...but I’ve heard that’s what it feels like when you meet someone special. Special? What am I talking about? I only just met the guy and may never see him again.
Oh well. I allow myself to dream for now. After all I’ve nothing better to do.
I’m still in dreamland when my cell phone rings. I look at the number and my heart sinks—it’s Mom.
“How are you?” she says, and I fill her in on the flight, and the bright city lights, and she tells me to say hi to Chester, and before we say goodnight, she mentions the episode of What Not To Wear I’d been watching earlier (“Bernie” was the lady’s name and she’d just bought a used car from Mom’s high school friend whose name I don’t quite catch).
I think of the show for a few minutes. Think of Mr. Gorgeous as the host, and myself as the featured “fashion victim” on the show. I’d get to spend so much quality time with him that way.
I’d be standing in the 360° mirrored room, in a fuchsia strapless satin A-line dress.
“This shows off your waist better,” he’d say, bringing a hand up to trace the fabric. I’d get to feel a little of his touch again.
I might even try giving him a kiss. The cameramen would have to be out of the way first though. I wonder what else we might talk about?
Then I return to the real world, and remember the main purpose of this trip. Oh well. I roll over onto my side, and automatically finger comb my hair to detangle some of the ends. I know I’ll wake up at 6.58am, without an alarm clock.
Like I always do.
Chapter 3:
Hips Don’t Lie
I wake up at 7am. I had a dream of the cool, hot, tall, dark, handsome stranger. We were at a competition or something—we were dance partners, and he was in a crisp white shirt and sleek black pants combo. I had a sparkling silvery, dark blue, short, swishy kind of dress with really high heels, the sort you could sprain an ankle with while using. We were dancing something crazy fast—something like the tango, or salsa?
“You’ve got game, baby,” he said once...he whispered it into my hair, in a sexy accent. What on earth does that mean? His right arm was resting on my back, and flexing my body, as I bent back slightly towards the floor. He was so, so close...
“Wake up, girl!” I shriek out loud. I jump out of bed to freshen up—I’ve forgotten to get my outfit together for today.
Chester and I are supposed to be at The Lysistrata at 9am. I’ve got about one hour to get myself ready. I’ve no need for my own bottles of shower gel and shampoo. The hotel has a wonderful citrus shampoo and conditioner set, that’s in a fantastic square basket on the restroom counter, together with other condiments like soap and body lotion. I could get used to this.
I choose a safe, standard work outfit—striped three-quarter sleeved shirt, straight black pants, and the pair of slight heels. I think I look like my accountant cousin. My hair straightening iron is in my bag. I probably should have bought a smaller, travel version of it.
“Heads, or tails,” I mutter, getting ready to flip a penny. If it’s heads, I’ll straighten my hair. If it’s the other, I won’t.
I put the straightener away when someone rings the doorbell. I look through the peep hole—it’s Chester.
“I called you on your cell,” he says, holding up his own cell and waving it side to side in the air. It’s a bit like when the hot-cool-stranger waved the CD as he was saying “thanks again”...
“When?” I turn to get my phone, before I remember something. “Oh, I switched it off last night before I went to sleep.” I feel quite silly.
“Not a problem,” he says, still standing at the doorway. “Are you ready? We could grab something to eat first.”
We’ve got to take the train for a couple of stops, then a ten-minute walk to the museum. We were planning to get there ten minutes early, just in case we wound up getting lost on the subway.
“Hey, um...” Chester’s tone makes me wonder what he’s thinking about. “I was reading this magazine article, about some college kids who got rushed to the hospital.”
“Where? Here?”
“Yeah. Alcohol poisoning. They were on spring break.” He looks down the corridor even though I don’t hear anyone approaching. “You think anything like that could happen while we’re here?”
“I don’t know,” I reply. Has he found a party he wants to crash? “I suppose it’s possible.”
“Well, we’re here without chaperons,” he says with a slight laugh.
“Yes. No one to keep us in line with ‘the rule book.’”
Every Nova student was given one, before starting their internship. Rule number one was: No Misbehaving. Break that rule and you’re on the first plane home. But they didn’t say who’d be watching.
“So we could bend the rules...and no one would know...right?”
“Yeah right,” I say, convincing myself we’re too goody-two-shoes to really get up to anything.
But for a moment, I wonder if he’s being serious. I think about Chester and me—and then I think about us dancing, like in that dream I had—and I’m like, no way!
“Give me five minutes,” I say. I have a few things to pack—wallet, lip balm, pen, and my cell.