The Girl from Ventnor Avenue (sample)
“Okay, here’s a nerdy one. You ready?” “I’m ready.” “You really, really ready,” Sam asks her, scratching under his watch, “or are you just saying that to move the game along.” We’re playing the slowest freakin’ game in circulation, Cecily wants to point out. I got all night. “I’m ready,” she says. On Saturday nights in Atlantic City men hit on women in bars. Cecily Martello is not exempt from this honor, except on those Saturday nights when she stays home, which she’s only done sixteen Saturdays this year. “Babe,” Sam says, “you’re so hot, two hobbits just tried to throw a ring in you.” “Not bad.” Cecily rolls the dice and moves her little car—six—Pacific Avenue—hers. “Your turn.” Sam takes the dice. “And your turn. For a cheesy pick-up line.” “We’re doing dorky lines, not cheesy lines—” “Oh, like we know the difference.” “Fine, fine.” She studies his face. “Sam Glick,” she tells him, “I get so lost in your eyes, I’m Fermat’s proof of his last theorem.” “Sublime,” he says. He rolls and goes to jail. She scoops up the bones—not her usual word for dice, but it’s popped into her head and entertained her. “Now give me a good one,” she says. “I deserve it.” She almost believes that she does. Cecily looks tough and isn’t. Short and dark-haired with eyes approaching onyx, it is easy to miss her across a crowded room, easy not to notice that her heart has been broken—the signs are in her eyes, but only to those who draw close. Sam is slight and slender, with hair in an unruly mop being eaten by another unruly mop. What rescues his appearance is a permanent smirk at the edges of his lips that tells any careful observer that this is the funniest guy in the room. “I got nothing,” Sam says. Cecily shakes the dice in a jerk-off motion. “Bull.” “All right, I’ll revise. I’m thinking.” “You’re thinking?” “Okay, fine, you got it, I got it,” Sam says. He puts his thoughts in order. “Baby,” he says. “Baby, you’re lookin’ so fine, if you were on the Monopoly board, you’d be St. James Place.” An icy pause. She stares and judges him. “So, not Boardwalk.” He shakes his head. “No. Not at all.” “You think I belong on the cheap half.” Flop-sweat dances on his brow. “I totally figured you’d get it, it’s a question of ratio of price to development value—” “Sam.” “Huh?” “I’m messing with your head. It’s fine.” Then she rolls, and in the same motion, lifts her hand to hide her goofy smile.
St. James Place is just about the best thing he could have said. (St. James Place has no apostrophe.) St. James Place is far more desirable than Boardwalk. I’m St. James Place? she wonders, not believing it. Cecily knows that the game can be counter-intuitive, that status means nothing, that the small and mid-range gems can mean more than the coveted beauties. Her affection for Sam is cemented now, but it’s not because he understands the game. It’s because he respects her enough to assume that she does.
“I mean,” Sam adds, “the compliment assumes a sort of vacuum, since obviously if you owned Park Place then Boardwalk would be far more advantageous—” “Shut up, Sam.” “—and of course if two opponents had the other oranges, forget it, it doesn’t mean much alone—” “Shut up, Sam.” She likes his dweebish blither. The word ‘adorkable’ bounces through her brain before she rejects it as twee. Their growing bond has been one of ironic distance, a finger-quotes flirtation, standoffishly pretending to show interest while still wanting credit for showing it. In hindsight, Cecily reflects, she should have known he was special for agreeing to Monopoly, while everyone else in the bar playing games has gone for easier, low-commitment fare, connecting four and sinking battleships.
This concludes the free sample, but you can buy the full story at this link! . . . |