Who: Ainslie and Billy What: Meeting, Lunch Where: Passages → Dance Studio When: Recently Warnings/Rating: Nope
The dusty passageway outside the Marvel door was getting to be familiar. Billy liked the creepy old hotel and its faded carpet. It was always cool even when Vegas was hot, and even when he was hurting he never felt totally alone there. To Billy the abandoned hotel always seemed full, as if every door was a world so teeming with the incredible and amazing that any moment it all might spill out into the hallway in front of him. The metaphor of so many doors and so many keys wasn’t lost on him, and he enjoyed living it. Not for the first time, he wished that he had a stronger tie with the guy he became just over the threshold. Every little kid wanted to be a superhero or a rockstar, and it tickled Billy that Peter could be one and he the other, and yet both so ordinary at the same time.
It would be beyond cool to be able to move like Peter could move, to swing and jump and run and ride a skateboard. Billy knew Peter did these things but Billy didn’t quite live them, just like the two of them didn’t quite talk. It was like thinking about something he’d done when he was five--the veil of memory was too thick, and he couldn’t quite shout loud enough. It was a disappointment, but Billy lived with disappointment every day, and he got through it by focusing on the good stuff. He liked Peter, and Peter liked him. Billy believed in what Peter did, and both of them were willing to sacrifice one for the other. Peter was always careful to put the cane in his hand before walking back out into Passages again, and Billy assumed he must keep it somewhere safe until that time. Once there had been a scrap of notebook paper with a clear question wrapped around the handle with a rubber band, and Billy had answered in the same way. Neither of them were doing much sharing, but on the essential things, Billy felt the whole thing was like having an awesome penpal that shared a vague memory or thought along with experience.
The cane was medical issue, made of lightweight titanium with a flat handle that offered a good grip. Billy wasn’t interested in getting anything fancy and he couldn’t imagine how people got along with those funny c-shaped canes you saw old guys with in pictures. He checked to see if there was a message (there wasn’t) and then put his hand on the doorframe to make sure his key was in his pocket. Before stepping out into the corridor he did something he called a pre-flight routine, like those guys in Top Gun. “Check flaps and stabs,” you know? Sometimes Peter would have a bruise or two, but so far nothing too bad. Billy wanted to know where those were in case he needed to put his weight on something unexpectedly, and if he wanted to stay on his feet, balance and strength were key. No surprises if he could help it.
So Billy carefully distributed his weight first on his good leg, and then on his bad one. He flexed his fingers on the doorframe, tried to pull his shoulders back on his spine--slowly--and then set the cane down on the ground. Feet, check. Hands, check. Hips... manageable. Right knee check, left knee... manageable. Back... well, it had been worse. Arms were okay, shoulders surprisingly good, and no vertigo or balance today. Pain level was probably somewhere around three or four (ten being screaming impossible), really good since he was on his feet and had been for a while. “Awesome,” Billy congratulated himself out loud. Then he set off down the hall toward the grand staircase--nice and easy.
Ainslie was in a good mood. This, by itself, was not strange, but she was in an even better mood than normal. Her morning class had been geared toward very small children, and Ainslie enjoyed running around the echoing wood floor of the studio as much as they did. This class involved much of this, of running, before settling into the true work of basic, tiny ballet positions that did not work right on tiny feet. These girls she taught, they would never be ballerinas. They were neither rich enough, nor thin enough, nor what sociedad believed a ballerina should be, but every little girl deserved to pretend, and so Ainslie included the program as a Head Start option, teaching it for free to children before the beginning of classes. She enjoyed it, she knew, every bit as much as they did, and the perdidad of money was no hardship. She did not expect to live off the estudio's income; she never had.
After class ended, she had traded out her black leotard and pink tights for a bright white sundress, one with red flowers embroidered on the hem, and she had left the ballerina bun where it was. A pair of cheap, plastic flip flops later, and she was walking into Passages, chattering to herself in her head, as she tended to do. She was not speaking with the muchacha there, as they still had dificultad understanding one another. No, she was speaking to herself of things. Of Ada's novia, and of her involvement there, which she was being very careful about. Maddie Kate did not like her, and Ainslie did not blame her, but she had done nothing wrong, and there was a line that she was trying to maintain. But it was dificil, especially when the blonde muchacha in her head and the redhead's otra had such problems beyond the door. But Ada was important, and she was determined to make this work. Perhaps she should have been worried about becoming involved in his vigilante work, but she was not. Anyone who stood against the life she always feared would claim her was someone she would respect. El gobierno, they were doing nothing about the Familias in this world, and someone must.
These thoughts distracted her as she rounded the landing at the top of the staircase, and it was only luck that she noticed the hombre that was proceeding toward it slowly. She skidded to a halt just at the last moment, the scent of mint and honey and myrrh coming along with the shift of her skirt and its failed attempt to wrap around the aluminum cane he held. She dropped her phone, and her llave- her key- went rolling between his feet on the old and dusty carpet. "Lo siento- I am sorry," she said, her smile bright and genuine. It was easy to think her younger than her twenty-two years as she dropped down to pick up the phone, freckles in sharp relief against her pale skin. She wiped the screen with the end of the very long skirt of her sundress, which trailed along the musty carpet, and she smiled a dimpled smile when she pointed to the key that had come to rest between his feet. "Perdon?" she asked, tipping her head to look up at him from her crouch.
Because Billy was concentrating on his own feet, he didn’t really notice her approaching either, at least not until her flip-flops made a plastic slapping sound almost on top of him. This was one of the reasons he didn’t move with haste; anyone else could have just set out a foot and put their weight hard on one heel to come to a stop in a fraction of a second. Billy actually had to complete the step, which was embarrassing because he had to walk over her belongings where they lay. He refused to make that her fault, however, and his round, generous face looked down at her with a faint surprise and clear apology.
“Oh, sorry.” He shifted his weight onto his bad leg, which was supported by the cane on his left side, and then back. The result was a slight shuffle to one side, but it wasn’t particularly effective. “You know, once I’m going forward, shifting gears into reverse is difficult.”
"No, esta bien. I was not looking," she said, still not wanting to reach beyond him for the key. "I was thinking about things. Do you do this? Become lost in thoughts and forget the real world even exists?" she asked, seemingly unconcerned with remaining in the crouch for the duration of the conversation. He had a kind face, and she thought perhaps the roundness did this. In her home, men were not like this, pale and soft, and he had kind eyes. She smiled, and she motioned to the key. "Puedo? May I? I believe the little blonde girl will be upset if I do not let her have the time I have promised her. It was dificil enough to come to an agreement," she informed him, as if he was perfectly aware of who she was talking about, as if they had been friends for months, and not as if they had only met when she nearly ran him over. This too came from being raised in a culture where doors were always open, and visitas were made every afternoon, face-to-face, and without computadoras.
Billy had run into fans before who had seen his face and his website and listened to his music, and then assumed they knew him down to his soul. Those people tended to greet him like an old friend in just this way, and at first he gave her a faintly worried look, but then something about her manner eased that concern quickly. Then he made a visible connection when he heard the Spanish. “Oh, yeah. You must be talking about Gwen, huh? I’m Billy.” He smiled at her pleasantly, really pleased with this development, and then set all his weight down and swung gently a couple inches to one side, clearing the way. “There.”
She gave him a quizzical look when he looked worried, because she did not understand why. She had no idea who he was, and even when he gave his nombre it took her a moment to make the connection. "Abilio," she said with a smile that was, somehow, warmer than the ones that had come before. This was how she thought of him in her mind, and it was easier for her than the double lls that did not sound as they should, like a y. She scooped up the key, and she stood in a swirl of mint in the stale air of the cool passage. "Si," she said, leaning against the wall at her back unthinkingly, in case he wished to do the same to take the pressure off whatever caused him to use the cane. An accidente, she remembered. "Si, Gwen. You have just been?" she asked, motioning the way he had come.
Billy was so used to his own specific haunts, his apartment, his parents’ house, and now Passages, that the pleasant smell of her startled him into a broader smile. At first he had no idea what she’d just said, and like most Southern Californians with just a hint of Spanish, he just nodded and pretended he completely comprehended. He did not copy her example of leaning on the wall, because once he stopped being straight it was hard to get there again, so he just propped his arm on the cane to ease the pressure. “Yes. You have this schedule? Maybe we should work something out so they’re not missing each other all the time.” Easy smile. Billy knew there was some unease about Gwen but he didn’t really know the specific details, just overtones from how Peter felt. He was fairly sure Peter wouldn’t want to miss seeing Gwen forever.
"Do you think this is a good idea?" she asked curiously, the question heavily accented, if all English. She swiped her finger across the phone screen as she asked, though, and she pulled up the calendar and held the phone out to him. Her classes were detailed, and the times she had told the muchacha she would come to el hotel were marked as well. "I believe they are having problemas, entiendes? He does not like her anymore, is what I have come to understand. There is something about a muchacha, Mary Jane, that is also involved. It is, I believe, complicado," she said, and her expression said she could like some clarity. The language barrier made it hard for her to understand concepts in-depth with Gwen. It was all like a child's book, with surface information, but nada mas.
He took her phone with his right hand, the one that wasn’t on the cane, and looked at the calendar. It looked like something his publicist might carry around, and he was impressed. “Whoa, that’s intense.” Billy looked down the calendar, trying to find a pattern, but it took him a bit. He wasn’t the best with technology, and he didn’t try too hard before handing it back. Billy looked surprised at the information they weren’t getting together. “I didn’t know he didn’t like her. I mean, we’re not close, but I think if he was angry at her, I’d know. And Mary Jane is a friend of his, I thought.” Billy got the general idea from her last word, and nodded. “Well yeah, but that’s high school, right?” He smiled. She looked young, but not high school young.
She smiled. "I own a dance studio. It is pulling in the class schedules tambien, and there are many classes," she explained, taking the phone back when he handed it out to her. "I never went to high school, not how you are meaning it, but being joven is complicado, si. I do not always understand what is happening with her, but I believe he broke up with her when her padre died, and she and this other girl, Mary Jane, they have not been getting along." She looked slightly guilty then, even though (she told herself) she had no reason to. She had done nothing wrong, verdad? "You see, her otra on this side, Maddie Kate, I know her novio from years back, and I believe it is causing trouble. He has someone from our puerta too-" Here she paused, trying to recall the young man's name.
Billy’s Spanish wasn’t really all that great. He got most of it though, except for whatever Peter and Gwen were being, other than complicated. He knew that last word, the one for door, because of the name of his band and how they translated it abroad. Billy tried to ask Peter about Mary Jane and Gwen, but he just got a confusion of good feelings and sadness, which was pretty much no help at all. “That’s too bad,” was really all he could say to them not getting along. Billy scratched his cheek gently, thoughtful. “What’s, sorry, novio? Know her what?”
She gave him a look that was apologetic. "I am sorry. I have not spent much time in this country, and I do not realize when I switch," she told him, which was true. It was not something thought out or planned, and it was the way English was spoken on her isla; she was finding it a dificil habit to break. She concentrated, as if she was speaking slowly, to someone important, and a good deal of the carefree demeanor was lost in the serious contemplation. "I was here, in this country, five years ago. I was only a girl, and a I met a doctor, an hom- a man named Adam. We became close. He is Maddie Kate's boyfriend, and she and me, we are not getting along very well here. I think it makes it worse through the door, that we do not like each other here." She gave him a hopeful look, one that said she hoped it was easier to understand this time.
Billy had a difficult time really imagining the cheerful handwriting on the journals with an actual woman with a boyfriend and jealousies. She was nice, and Billy liked talking with her, but all this history was a bit sudden. He found he liked being involved, though. Real people dealing with their shit. Yeah, this was living. “Oh, you’re right, that is complicated,” Billy agreed, obviously understanding and nodding deeply to communicate it. “But Adam, I think I talked to him. You were talking about... oh the sports... guy... what’s...” Then it hit him. “Flash, you’re talking about Flash.” It was his own turn for an apologetic smile. “Sorry, this is new for both of us. Me and Peter. But we’re not real clear, the two of us. It’s hard to know what’s going on.”
Her face lit up when he understood, and she nodded. "Si. Flash. That is the name. Gwen, she knows him, but she does not like him mucho." She cringed a little, and she shrugged her shoulders apologetically. "Much. Adam is nice, and Maddie Kate is too," she added, the last part coming in a very fast rush. "You do not hear him?" she asked, when he said that he and Peter were not very clear. She touched her temple a moment later. "She is saying all kinds of things I do not understand, but I believe it is all this mentioning of Peter, si? I have to sit and listen, or I do not know what she is saying." She glanced down at his cane then, and she shift in vision was as quick as her change of topics. "Do you wish to sit, or can we go somewhere better?" If it was impolite to ask or to address his injury, she did not seem to know it.
“No, I don’t hear him. Just feelings and memories.” Impolite didn’t seem to factor in for a lot of people. It was like being famous made everyone expect that his life be public, and only years of being out of the spotlight had helped that. Such a small notice, obviously meant to help him, irked somewhere small and uncharitable, and Billy quashed it pretty efficiently. “Um, yeah, I better sit down. But I don’t want to keep you. It will be awhile before I can get down the stairs.” He grinned at her to tell her somehow that it was all okay, mentioning it, being slow, the cane, all of it. People responded well to Billy’s smiles in general, and he wasn’t stingy with them. He started to move slowly in his intended direction once more.
She looked confused for un momento, and the expression did not suit her features. It was not to do with the feelings and memorias, however. These she understood. No, she could not tell if he wished her to go with him or not. For Ainslie, it was a strange predicament. She was accustomed to knowing what to do around hombres, because feminism had not yet made it to her isla. "Do you wish for me to come with you?" she asked, finally giving up and pushing away from the wall. "It is nice, talking to someone here," she added, in case he thought she was offering only to help, which was not the case. She knew enough from the older women that came to her Senior Citizen classes, enough to know he would not appreciate help he had not asked for. Had this been weeks ago, she would have offered her arm. No, she would have simply done this without asking. The desire was still there, in the blue of her eyes, but she kept it under control, thankfully; she was not accustomed to denying herself things she desired.
Billy moved so slowly that he could move while she hesitated, move while she made her decision, and move still and only cause her a couple steps to catch up. She was incredibly graceful, something he had not observed in people until he did not have the attribute himself. Billy had this crazy imagining that she could leap down the hall and pirouette at the end of it, laughing, and he wouldn’t even have the sense to be jealous about it. That was the kind of grace she had. He smiled at her when she added the addition of talking to him, because she correctly guessed that he thought automatically she only wanted to help. He decided he didn’t need help right now, not at a three or a four. “I mean, you can come with. I was kind of hungry, if you want lunch,” he added, brightening somewhat at the novel idea of eating with somebody. Assuming he could get down the stairs. Positioning himself with the rail to his right and the cane on his left, he carefully maneuvered a step at a time. It was a lot more painful than walking on a level floor.
She brightened when he said he had intended for her to come. "I believed you were telling me to remain," she told him honestly, and she fell into step alongside him, somehow managing the patience not to move ahead. That had been a lesson hard learned from her abuela, who had always put her en penitencia when she danced ahead of her as a child. This had involved spending an afternoon in the estate library, which Ainslie had hated; she had never been a reader of books. As she grew older, she had learned that she could push away chairs and desks to make a makeshift dance floor, one where she could twirl around with the stick used to pull books from high shelves, pretending it was a ballroom and the stick her suitor.
She tucked away her key and cellphone, promising the muchacha in her head that she would return once they had eaten. Strangely, Gwen was pleased with this development, and Ainslie made a thoughtful sound, before laughing and shaking her head. "She makes me remember what it felt like to be young like they are," she said, carefully stepping onto the step when he did, seemingly unhurried. "Y si," she added belatedly. "I would enjoy lonche- lunch."
“I know what you mean,” Billy agreed. “But you know I don’t think I ever paid as much attention to the rest of the world as Peter does. When I was that age I’m pretty sure I only cared about myself.” Billy gave Ainslie an apologetic smile, as he wasn’t getting down the stairs very quickly at all, and progress didn’t seem to be going any faster as they descended. He was definitely in the four range now and his face didn’t have that bright smile anymore. “He’s always thinking about everybody else and that crazy suit of his.” Another couple steps and Billy paused for a rest, shaking his left elbow out a little bit and leaning his right hip sideways on the rail. “Can I ask you to run down there and pull my chair out? I left it to one side of the stair there.” The chair wasn’t one of these stiff ones from the hospital, and since he essentially lived in it, it had a lean, light look and no handles on the back. The chair was made so that it was easy to get in and out, plus move himself, without assistance.
"I believe she is much smarter than me, this muchacha, but not in the way of emotiones. She gets hurt easily, from what I can tell, and then she pretends to not be this way. I do not know why she would pretend this way. Things are only fixed when you talk of them, si? If she loves this muchacho, then is backing off the way to win him? No," she answered, watching his progress and the way the sonrisa went from his face, but not saying anything of this. "It is new tambien, si, the suit? It is a new thing for him? It will be better maybe in time," she offered, because it was what she had tried to tell the muchacha in her head repeatedly, in as many different ways as she could.
When he asked her to bring the chair, she moved gratefully, running ahead of him down the stairs and tugging it out, taking great care to line it up precisely with the part of the staircase that he was walking on. The distance between them did not keep her silent, however, and she called up to him, having no care if they were drawing attention. "She has learned she will die, and I believe this is causing her problemas too. I would not want to learn I will die."
Billy took the opportunity to rest while she brightened up and ran off. It was impossible somebody could be human and move that light and easy. Billy shook his head. It had been way too long since he’d been around anybody but his parents and the nurses. Time to figure out what normal was again. He was supposed to have opinions on boys and girls and dating, and he was supposed to be able to keep up his end of a conversation even when he didn’t have two years of experience to work with.
Billy came down the stairs a few more at a time. He leaned again while still a couple away from the floor and chair. He had to unseal his lips to speak and he had lost some color, but he said with obvious concern, “Why does she need to die? You mean soon, not eventually?”
She did not understand his dificultades. She did not even realize he was having them. Si, she knew he was injured, that there had been an accident, but she could not conceive of a life lived in solitude or stillness. She had run too wild in her youth, and that remained with her even now, when she should have grown out of this long ago. She did notice his lack of color, however, and the way he needed to unstick his lips, and it made her think of illness in a way his use of the cane and slow steps had not. "I believe this happens in her story, si? That she dies?" she asked, as if he would know the answers to these things. She knew nothing of comics, thinking them a thing for muchachos and hombres, which meant he should know more than she did.
“But her story doesn’t have to be like it’s written, does it? If it hasn’t happened already don’t they make it themselves?” Billy made his way down the rest of the steps and collapsed into the chair, leaning into the low stretch of cloth that made up the back of it and then wriggling inelegantly to get into place. He had a cold sweat along his hairline by the time that was all through, and he set the cane on his lap afterward. He caught his breath and then visibly remembered she was there. He shot her a bright smile. “Whew, I deserve a medal.” Then, without referring to it again, he reached into a side pocket for his cellphone--a blue round thing that actually had physical buttons. “Did you drive or should I call a cab?”
"No se. Is this how it works? I do not believe she understands this," she explained of Gwen's understanding of things. "She is told she will die, and that Peter will be con- with- Mary Jane." She shrugged a little, and she wondered if she should push the chair, or if this would be a bad thing to offer to do; she did not know. "She is joven- young, si? To her, this is all the end of the world." She had trouble understanding Gwen, si, but some things did not require translation. She was waiting for his response, after he settled, and it took her a momento to understand that this strange thing he pulled out was a cellular. Hers was not like this, with buttons. "I do not drive," she said, looking at it curiously, and then looking at the handles of his chair. "I do not know if I should push you," she admitted frankly, because she would never know if she did not ask, si?
“I don’t really know how it works,” Billy admitted, looking down at his phone, which was about three years out of date, and checking for messages that didn’t come. “But I think just the act of them knowing has to change it, so... it can’t be exactly like they think it’s going to be.” His smile softened as he returned it to her. “You can tell her I said so.” Billy pushed a button and dialed a mnemonic cab number, and after the very brief conversation, he put the phone away on the pouch to one side. He put his hands on the wheels and rolled forward. Over his shoulder he said, “No, I got it. That’s why there aren’t handles. If I can get there myself I’d rather, you know?”
She nodded, and it was about the chair, more than about the muchachos through the door. "Si, yo entiendo. I understand. I would not want anyone to push me around either. I would not like not being in control," she admitted frankly. "I have never liked this." She moved ahead of him, toward the front door, and she continued to speak as she walked backward. "Mi abuela, she liked to control my life, and I did not like this either. Being pushed, I imagine it must be like this." She leaned back against the door, opening it with the pressure from her shoulders and standing aside once she was outside. A glance up at the sky showed no sign of rain, and she sighed, as she always did when she felt the dry heat from this place. "I miss the rain. Where you lived, was there rain?"
Billy wheeled forward, concentrating on what he was doing and grinning when he looked up to see her moving backward. The twirl was coming, and he was waiting for it. “I kind of had to get used to it,” he replied, as he moved out into the awful heat. Bump, bump and he was out of the front door and onto the crumbling pavement. Fortunately it was still in decent shape and he could roll without too much difficulty. “Being out of control, not the rain, though I guess that too. I’ve been here for a couple years and before that I moved around a lot. I haven’t been out in the rain in... ages.” He took one hand from the wheel, reached into the pouch again, and took out a pair of sunglasses. They were expensive, but beat and scratched, something he’d had from his life before that he enjoyed using again.
"I would be a terrible patiente," she admitted. Being still would madden her, and she did not even consider pretending it was not like this. She recognized the sunglasses as being expensive and older, but not the name brand. She had lived in a place where little from the Estados Unidos made it through the blockade, and she did not know the current brands muy bien. Five years ago, in Seattle, she had become better about these things. Now, she had been on her isla for months before coming here, and it was taking time to be accustomed to the language and the popular things again.
She let the door close behind him, and she wandered ahead to the curb, taking time to scrunch her bare toes into the dried, dead grass beside the old sidewalk. She frowned. "See? This is dry. Muerto. At home, it is all verde, and wet." She sounded like she yearned for it, because she did. Like she longed for it, because she did. "Where did you come from before?"
The color was coming back to Billy’s face and it wasn’t just the heat putting it there. The chair wasn’t exactly comfortable, but Billy was never comfortable these days, so he would take what he could get. Being mobile, moving around, even a few inches back and forth on the pavement while they waited for the cab, was an incredible thing. Getting around on his own, living on his own, this was going to be normal. He was going to be normal again, and this was what it felt like. The new him. Billy looked at Ainslie’s toes in the dry grass and then wiggled his own, hidden in the lightest tennis shoes money could buy under the frayed hem of his jeans.
“I grew up in California. It’s like four miles that way.” Billy raised one arm and pointed off into the distance, toward the Luxor’s black tip and beyond. “I wouldn’t mind living out there, but my parents are here, and they sort of put their foot down. One step at a time.” He smiled at the inappropriate metaphors, then waved at the cab slowly pulling into the dust in their direction.
She laughed when she saw the movement at the tips of his toes, just that, movimiento against the fabric at the front of his sneakers. "Si. Like this," she agreed, her smile bright, bright and no real understanding that perhaps wiggling toes was not something that should be done around him. "Si, California," she said, stepping back out onto the walk and looking back at him as she stopped on the edge of the sidewalk. "I have been there for fiestas when I was younger. It is not dry there," she informed him with pleasure. "I am from an isla en el oeste, in the East, and it is humid there and your skin is always dotted with sweat." She said this with pleasure, as if it was not a bad thing to admit to sweating, and she looked out toward the street after saying this. "Here, it is not like this. Do you miss this, California? And I do not believe it is really four miles," she added, narrowing her eyes, but ruining the fake distrust with the smile that still lived on her lips.
“Uhm...” Billy’s sunglasses turned to the west as he considered her question. “I do, I think. It’s just been a really long time. And I’m not who I was back then.” He turned back to her as he rolled forward to meet the cab, adding, “And maybe not four miles.” Smirk. “Maybe more like four hours.” By car, a plane could get you there in an hour, but Billy used to drive it with his buddies all the time, and for him, Vegas was four hours and a lot of pushing in a crowded car with no air conditioning.
The cabbie was in there cursing about the job because he had to get out and fold the chair up for the two of them and stick it in the trunk. He was a really skinny guy with brand new Reeboks, and he surveyed the two of them with obvious distaste while he chewed on something Billy sincerely hoped was gum. “Why didn’t you request a van?” he asked, sourly, rounding the front of the car.
"We are, none of us, who we were back then," she told him, and it was a strangely calm sageness from the young woman who could not keep her feet still. His smirk was met with a warm, warm smile, even as she pushed a shock of copper hair from across the bridge of her nariz. "I was in Seattle for mas tiempo than California. There it was always raining, but there was no sol, no sun. In California there was sun." She was still hablando about the sun when the cabbie began to curse, and she watched him attentively. Her fingers moved on the screen of her phone, where she noted his cab number, his plate number, and the number of the compañía. She smiled at him when he asked why a van had not been requested, assuming a van was a car that was mas grande. "Because we did not need one, señor, but thank you for moving so slowly and cursing so often. It has given me time to note all of your information, so that I may call the cab company once we are in the car." Her smile never faltered, and the grin never left her voice.
It was not the first time that Billy felt inconvenient, but no one had been deliberate about it before. While Ainslie made some sweet reply (he listened only to the tone and not actually what she said, which he assumed to be mildly reproving), Billy gave the guy a dark look that felt childish but good. He slid the cane off his lap and stood up on it with some difficulty while the irritated cabbie waited with obvious impatience. Ainslie's comment only got a begrudging sniff and silence, and once Billy was standing the chair was awkwardly folded then summarily packed into the trunk. The cabbie got back into his air conditioning as soon as possible, and with an apologetic look at Ainslie, Billy got in on the side closest that required the smallest amount of maneuvering. "Know any good places?" he asked her, ignoring the cabbie's eyes in the mirror.
"Nobu," she replied, looking at the cab driver and not at the hombre at her side. She let her gaze hold that of the man driving the cab, and in that moment it was clear that there was more to her than the sunny young woman she presented, si? Her blue eyes sharpened with intelligence that was not there before. "It will not be a problem, getting into this place without a reservation," she assured Billy, but she was watching the driver all the while. It was an indication, si? One that said he had upset someone that perhaps should not be upset and, then, un momento despues, her attention returned to Billy, and the easy, youthful smile was back, as if there was nothing to her but this. And, in truth, this was la verdad, but she had not grown up all of these years with her abuela to learn nothing from her.
Billy pretty much missed the silent communication between the girl and the cabbie. He didn’t pick up on that kind of thing; only blatant dislike really got through to him, and he wasn’t the kind of man to intimidate or even realize it when someone was trying to intimidate him. Billy waited for the loud Vegas advertisement to finish playing on the screen hanging on the seat behind the cabbie’s head, and then he looked at Ainslie. He quirked an eyebrow at her. The comment about reservations was strange, because it was true, but Billy had been under the impression that she didn’t recognize him. After a couple seconds he decided she didn’t, and she meant something else. He better warn her. “No, we can probably get in most places. I mean, I haven’t heard of there, but.” Oh, awkward. “Actually if it’s anywhere kind of big you might want to avoid it. I haven’t been out in a while and some people might be curious or want to take pictures.” Another apologetic look and a what-are-you-going-to-do shrug.
She did not understand his clarification, because the driver had understood her intention, even if he had not. "Perdon?" she asked, blue eyes intently focused on him as she tried to figure out what she had not understood. "I only meant I can get us in, si?" she asked, hoping he would fill in the blanks for her, but then he was saying this thing about wishing to avoid this place if it was big, and this did not make any sense to her. "You have not been out in awhile? No entiendo. I do not understand," she explained. "It is not big. It is-how do you say? Popular? It is hard to get into, and the reservations take months. We can go somewhere quieter," she offered, and she gave the driver the address to the studio. She had made her point, and the driver was looking appropriately concerned, and this was the only reason she had mentioned Nobu in the first place.
Billy rubbed the back of his head. He shifted his eyes to look at the cabbie in the rearview, and the cabbie looked back with that funny look on his face that meant he was trying to place Billy somewhere in his memory. The cabbie wasn’t saying anything though, and Billy was appropriately relieved that he seemed to have decided on manners for the duration of the drive. Lowering his voice just slightly, Billy said, “Well, we could go popular. To that place. It’s just... I was kind of in this band. Am in a band.” He frowned for a moment. “Maybe not. It doesn’t exist... anyway. The point is. They’d let me in because I’m me, and people would make a big deal out of it. I don’t mind but you might not want a bunch of people bothering you.” He was completely serious.
"I do not care about this, but since I have already given new directions?" she asked, willing to change them if need be. "I was only proving a point," she whispered, a mischievous smile on her face, one that was all youth and confidence, even as she glanced back at the driver. She did not give a new address. Instead, she merely sat back as the man drove. "What type of musica? I have not been in this country for five years," she admitted apologetically, because she honestamente had no idea who he was. "I was only here a little then, and there is no cable or radio that is Americano on the isla where I live-" She paused, correcting. "Where I lived and grew up." It was the arrival at the dance studio that made her quit talking, and not any lack of things to say about her nonexistent knowledge of American musica, and she slid out of her side of the cab while the driver parked.
Inside the the studio, which was glassfront from one end to the other, there was only one class being held in the far corner. Little girls in tutus and shorts and jeans practiced tiny plies, and Ainslie took a moment to look at them from the outside, before pushing open the door and holding it open, waiting for Billy to pay the driver and collect his silla.
Billy didn’t object to a smaller location. Despite what he said he wasn’t exactly eager to make a public debut, and being accompanied by a beautiful girl would make the rumor mill go absolutely nuts. “Alt rock. You know, mostly feel-good stuff but an angry one thrown in here or there, depends upon our mood at the time. You probably won’t have heard anything, I mean five years ago we were still working on the first album and nobody really heard of it.” He was pleased and settled back in his seat when she did, but his answer to her question was a little absent-minded as he was still trying to figure out what point she had made with the driver. It was too subtle of a thing for him to get immediately, and Billy had never had to maneuver someone into understanding that he was important. Probably because despite his success he didn’t actually think of himself as particularly important.
Once he was back in the chair on the sidewalk Billy paid the cabbie with a couple new twenties and told him to keep the change with a smile. He didn’t hold grudges, and as he wheeled away toward the studio he didn’t look back once. “This your place?” he asked her, pushing in.
She did not know this "alt rock," but she would look this up. It was what she did now; look things up, and she was doing it often. All that mattered is that he was smiling when he settled back in the seat, and this meant she had not offended him by not knowing him. She had met people in Europa, at fiestas, that she did not recognize. In her experience, famous people expected to be known. He was different. She did not think he was hiding it, being upset, because she did not think he would be very good at this, hiding.
The dance studio was large and open, wood floors and mirrors all along one wall. The tiny ballerinas looked over when he entered, but quickly went back to the plies (which were set to hip hop, as was now obvious with the door open). "Si. Ven." She motioned toward the back, where she kept a room for her altar and santos, along with a rolled up red sleeping bag for if she needed to remain during the evening, and a small cocina, kitchen, to the side. The back area, which was wide enough for his chair, smelled of honey and mint and sweet, sweet wine, along with the wax for the candles, and she pulled open a drawer with menus for all of the near places. "You pick, si? I never know what is good."
The wheels of Billy’s chair made soft squelching noises that made him wince, and he looked down at the fine parquet to make sure he wasn’t leaving streaks. He visibly had no idea what to do with the mass of little children or their curious looks, showing a nervous smile and a transparently unnecessary concentration on moving along one wall to be out of the way. Billy didn’t expect to be famous, that was sure, but he was more able to accept it from adults--teenagers, at the absolute minimum. Little people in tutus were totally foreign objects.
Ignoring a growing pain at the base of his spine that just came from sitting in the chair, Billy rolled forward and into the back room. He was surprised to see the sleeping bag on the floor and as he turned one wheel so he could face the room, he said, “Wow, you sleep here?” He started sorting through the menus, not even thinking that the question might be interpreted as rude if she didn’t actually have anywhere else to sleep.
"I have rooms at the Bellagio, but sometimes I work late, and I like it here. It feels more home than a room in a hotel, si? I want to get a couch or a small bed, but there has not been time. I have not been here long enough," she explained, pulling out one of the chairs at the table and setting her cellphone on the surface. She slid it to him, so that he might call and order, and the sound of the children and the hip hop music reached them where they were. This was not serious conversation, and this was what she needed just then. She had been wrapped up in her own loneliness, in the situation with Ada and Maddie Kate, and this was nothing of that. "You will tell me about being a musician while we eat, si? I cannot imagine living this life, traveling everywhere and speaking with strangers who seemed to know me." This had happened a little in Europa, but it was only at parties and events, and it was expected then. She believed the life of a musician to be like this constantly, and it did not sound like something she would enjoy, should it be her vida.
Bellagio meant money, especially if she was staying there long term, and finally the comment about the reservations clicked for Billy. He looked up at her, wondering where all the money came from, glanced at her left hand, and then ran out of immediate options. Only curious and not especially prejudiced, he shifted to attempt to ease some of the pressure on his back and then shuffled through the menus once more. “It was pretty crazy, but it was a good time. Nothing really beats that high when you really get the crowd going.” He shot her a wide smile, and then handed over a thai menu rather than picking up the phone she’d offered. “Order from this. Get number 7 and number 5 and then get three orders of mango rice.”
Numbers, this she could do, and she did not realize he was wondering about her money at that momento. She took the phone, and she ordered these things he said, the word mango sounding distinctly Cuban when she said it, and then she silenced the phone and set it between them again on the table. "I do not think I would enjoy this vida, though I do like a crowd," she admitted with a smile. "But to move around at the whim of others, and not to remain anywhere for as long as I wanted, it would not make me happy," she explained honestamente. Traveling, this she liked, but she liked it on her own terms, and not on anyone else's. "The spotlight would not be enough for me, al final del dia - at the end of the day - I do not think. But I am homesick already, and perhaps this colors my opinion."
When she heard the door jingle, she pushed back her chair and stood, expecting their food was there. "I will be back," she promised him, and she disappeared through the door and left him to the relative quiet and his thoughts.
Billy had never really thought about it that way. It was true that other people had decided where they were going, and he’d never really understood much about money or demand. His mother was pretty good with finances, and so he’d let her deal with all the contracts and stuff, and she’d done a good job to make sure people couldn’t take away what was supposed to be theirs, as she put it. They had people that did scheduling for the tours and the signings and the concerts, and those were the people that made it happen when Billy said he wanted this or that to happen. Those requests were fairly rare, and other people in the band had been into the theatrics, so he just went in for what they said for the shows for the most part. (Except for that one time somebody wanted people to dive from the ceiling on fire, he put his foot down on that one.) Billy stared at the ceiling why he waited, avoiding staring at the tiny dancers beyond and tapping his fingers to the rhythmic beat of the hip hop outside. Music was music, even if he didn’t necessarily like it. After a couple minutes, Billy put one hand on a wheel and rotated again so he could see out through the studio where she’d gone.
She was at the front counter, paying the hombre that was bringing the food, and she was chattering at him animatedly. He was speaking back with as much animation on his face, and she reached behind the counter and pulled out enough money to cover lunch and a generous tip, before turning to return to where Billy was. A stop was made by the tutu'ed hip hop ballerinas, and the food was set down for an impromptu pirouette lesson, one that required the slipping on of red pointe shoes. A few seconds later, she left the twirling girls behind, and she returned to the back room with the now-lukewarm food. She looked a little sheepish, but not very much. "Lo siento," she apologized as she set the bags on the table. "Shall I warm it?" she asked, pulling out a container so that he could decide if this was warm enough.
To Billy the red pointe shoes--and any shoes that made your feet squish into a straight line--looked like they should be pure torture, but he had to admit on Ainslie they looked natural and right, which explained why she was the teacher, he supposed. Billy put a text in to an anxious parent and then turned his attention to the food. He really shouldn’t be eating anything too spicy, or very much at all, as the accident played havoc on everything from the waist down, including his digestive system, but the thai smelled fantastic.
She took this to mean the food did not need to be heated, and she slid back into her chair and picked up a fork, even as she opened the boxes all at once, as if they were to share. On her isla, meals like this were common, where everyone took a little of everything. Within segundos, she had given up on the food and dragged one of the containers of sticky rice to her. "This is paraiso," she told him, and she tugged the container to the end of the table and smiled at him. "Tell me more about this, about being famoso," she said, willing to leave everything behind and listen for a few momentos, with the sound of children in the background and the sweet taste of the mango on her tongue.