Page 50 of Paging Dr. Hart
“Sorry, but I can’t. I’m trying to be there for my mom as much as possible.” A twist of resentment stirs in my gut. Of course, I want to be out having fun too, but I have responsibilities. Of all people, I hoped Shelly would understand.
I freeze at her next words.
“Rafe was at the club last night, wearing this tight shirt. He must be working out because he’s all bulked up. I’m telling you, he was looking good.” She drags out the last word, practically salivating.
I still haven’t mentioned my fascination with Rafe to Shelly. Something’s been holding me back. I used to tell her everything, all my deepest, darkest secrets back when we were little kids, but not anymore. I flash back to the night she stole from cars in the Starlight parking lot. It made me uncomfortable to see that side of her, the lying and thieving side. Now it’s too late to make a claim on Rafe. It’s not like he belongs to me, anyway. We just shared one kiss.
“Oh?” I try to sound noncommittal, like I don’t care, when in reality I’m hanging on every word she says. “He was there?”
“He was there looking hot,” confirms Shelly with a Cheshire-cat grin. “I didn’t get to talk to him, but next time I’ll make sure he notices me.”
A fiery knife twists in my heart. I turn to my window and open it halfway, using the motion to hide the tale-tell jealousy on my face.
Oblivious, she continues, “Guess who else was at the club?”
“Who?” Neon lights flash by outside my window. The sidewalks are crowded with tourists and revelers who stumble drunkenly down the street. It’s noisy. As we drive past, music blares from restaurants and shops, each song overlapping with the next. The clinking sound of slot machines pours out of open casino doors. Every day is the same here, like it’s an eternal Saturday night. The perfect night to go out and gamble with your money and sometimes with your heart, too.
“That guy who has a crush on you. You know the one. Short and geeky. What’s his name again?” She turns the car into the Starlight parking lot, past the chain-link fence that’s been cut and dragged away to leave an opening. Even though this lot is supposed to be blocked off, it’s always full of cars. Nobody seems to care if we park here or that kids party in the abandoned hotel. I’ve never seen security around the place. There are rumors it’s set for demolition. Supposedly, the plan is to implode the old hotel and casino using dynamite, but they haven’t announced a date yet.
“Do you mean Stewart?” I answer Shelly’s question.
I had met Stewart a few months ago. It had been late one night when the crowd was slow. Taking advantage of the lull, I had spread my jacket on the ground, sticky from spilled drinks, old gum, and who knew what else. I sat down and leaned against the cold concrete wall of the casino with my novel in hand when a voice interrupted me.
“Is that Harry Potter?”
I looked up to see a slim young man with black-rimmed glasses, which magnified his doe-brown eyes. He had wiry brown hair prematurely receding in the front. A sports jacket was thrown over a plaid button-up shirt paired with dark blue jeans and scuffed white sneakers.
“It’s the third one.” I held upHarry Potter and the Prisoner of Azkabanfor the stranger to see.
“How do you like it? I’ve read them all, and this story is the darkest.” Although he looked young, the man had a formal way of speaking, almost like a professor.
No one else I knew had read the series, so I was eager to discuss them. “I like it. I can’t believe they executed the hippogriff, Buckbeak, though.”
“Ah, keep reading. That part of the story isn’t over yet.” The man looked at the ground shyly. “I’m Stewart. I…I just graduated from college, and now I…I work at the Luxor.” He had a slight stutter, like he wasn’t sure what to say.
“Tiffany. I work…here I guess.” I waved at the busy sidewalk in front of us.
Stewart’s gaze followed my hand and then returned to me. “How do you like that? Working here?” he had asked hesitantly.
I searched his expression for judgment. I got that a lot from women who would wrinkle their noses like they smelled something rancid when they walked by me. People who looked down on me for my skimpy outfit and the fact that I was exchanging my looks for cold, hard cash. It used to bother me, that disdain on people’s faces, but, over time, I had grown more comfortable with it. Whenever it became too much, I pictured my mom pale and fragile in a hospital bed, red hair blazing against the stark white pillow, and the money I needed to pay her medical bills. The image served as motivation to look past the revulsion.
No judgment was on Stewart’s face, though. He seemed curious. Like myopinion was interesting and worthy of his attention. It had been a while since anyone had looked at me like that. We had talked for over an hour that night, mostly about books we liked and movies we’d seen. We quickly agreed that most movies made from books were disappointing. They could never compare to the pictures we had formed in our minds while reading.
I had seen Stewart a few times since then. He would seek me out, patiently waiting until there was a break in the stream of tourists shooting photos with me. I had an inkling he had a crush on me. He was an obviously intelligent guy, but his words would grow clumsy around me. The way his face would redden, and how he couldn’t look me in the eye, were more clues.
I liked Stewart. He differed from most of the self-serving people I met on the Strip, more honest and introspective. I fostered our friendship but was careful not to encourage him too much. I didn’t want to lead him on.
“Yeah, Stewart. That’s the one,” Shelly says, dragging me back into the present.
After she parks, we gather our backpacks and pick our way across the parking lot, gingerly stepping over broken bottles with jagged edges and half-used cigarette butts. Faint dance music emanates from the shattered windows of the hotel, but that’s not our destination tonight.
“What do you know about him? Stewart, I mean,” asks Shelly. There’s an eager gleam in her eyes, like she can’t wait to share some juicy gossip. She’s always liked to know things before other people, thriving off the feeling of power it gives her.
“I know he just turned 20 and that he graduated from college early. I think he skipped some grades since he’s so smart. He works for the Luxor, but I’m not sure what he does,” I admit, feeling guilty. Stewart has spent hours asking me about my life, getting to know me. I’d even told him about my mom’s cancer. Have I been selfish? Haven’t tried as hard to learn about him?
As we wait for a blinking walk sign to turn from red to green, Shelly reveals, “Your little buddy Stewart is the son of Johnny Stralla, the guy who owns the whole casino, the Luxor!”
“What?” I think back to my conversations with Stewart. He had told me how his mother passed away when he was a baby, an experience that madehim especially sympathetic to the situation with my mom. But I can’t remember him saying much about his dad.
