Everybody clapped when the song was over, Mr. Taylor loudest of all. “Do another one.”
When he said that, I remembered the dreams I used to have of performing in the kindergarten talent show, and the memory made me smile.
I was about to hit an encore with “Simply the Best,” when his assistant said, “I’m afraid you don’t have time for that, Mr. Taylor. The gate called earlier. James Farrell is on his way up.”
My heart froze. I barely heard him say, “No, don’t stop. James is a buddy from college. Believe me, he’s going to want to see this.”
It felt like the world slowed down for a few terrible seconds, then snapped back, pushing me into fast forward.
“Sorry,” I said, all traces of Stage Davie gone. “I’ve got another appointment. Happy birthday.”
By the time I was done saying this, I had already put my portable player back in my satchel and was halfway out the door.
“How about your tip?” he called after me.
“Already taken care of,” I called back.
It wasn’t already taken care of. In fact, tips were a big part of the money I made at this, but I had to get out of there.
High School Davie was full-out screaming in my head, Run, girl, run! as if I were in a horror movie.
I can only blame my state of complete and total mind-numbing panic for what happened next.
I rounded the corner and hit somebody so hard that I flew back—I mean I actually had air before my cottontail hit the floor with a teeth-rattling thud. I could hear the contents of my satchel skittering across the carpet.
The sad thing is that the panic had me back on my feet and gathering up my things before I even had time to register what had happened or even the faint ache in my tailbone.
I found my wallet and my portable player and put them back in my satchel. I could hear faint voices all around me, cubicle people asking if I was all right.
I mumbled, “Fine, fine. I’m fine.”
But then one voice came through my fog of panic, clear as a bell. “You sure?” he asked. “You went down awful hard.”
I looked up.
Standing above me was James Farrell.
And I could see immediately why he hadn’t gone down like I had. Fifteen years later, he was still ropy-but-strong. And though I could tell from his few words that he had ditched his Southern accent, he was just as beautiful as ever.
He wore his hair in one of those hip, urban Afros, and his skin shone out bright against the lightweight tan suit that he had on with a red T-shirt and very expensive-looking leather slip-ons.
How could he still be so incredibly beautiful? It made no sense. Absolutely no sense at all.
It is a surprising thing that my heart didn’t just burst open right there. As it was, my head filled with static, and I couldn’t hear anything but the sound of High School Davie whimpering and Little Davie saying over and over again, I used to be Tina Turner.
I froze, crouched over my satchel bag, and waited for him to recognize me. I doubted that he would call me Monkey Night in front of all these people. Still, I didn’t know what I was going to do or how I was going to respond when he said, Hey, didn’t we go to high school together? Weren’t you that sad little girl that gave me that sad little note?
But he didn’t say any of that; he just kept looking down at me with worry—but no recognition—in his eyes. And eventually I could hear him through the static saying, “Are you sure you’re all right?”
He didn’t recognize me. Probably because I was dressed in a large bunny suit, I realized, a little late in the game.
Well, I wasn’t going to give him a chance to figure it out. I slung my satchel back over my shoulder, ran past him to the elevator, and thumbed the down button like my life depended on it.
And let me tell you, the immediate sound of the arrival ding was just about the sweetest, most wonderful thing I had ever heard.