Blue Rose In Chelsea by Adriana Devoy Page A

fare.”  Dylan smirks in spite of himself, and I know he doesn’t really mean it.
         “You are the most generous creature in the world,” I tease, and I do mean it.
         “You can relate to Holden because you both blew a shot at a great education,” Dylan pontificates, perhaps embarrassed by my sudden sentiment, and I roll my eyes because this is becoming a theme with Dylan.  “My sister is brilliant, but always dissatisfied and unable to stick with anything.”
         “But I’ll always stick with you, my brother,” I say, saucily.
         “Holden had the same ability that you do, to really see through to the essence of things.”  Evan looks gently down at me from his position on the arm of the chair.
         “Here’s a little reality check for the Holden fan club over there.  Newsflash!”  Dylan flicks his hands like high beams.  “The guy ended up in a mental ward.”
         Evan winks at me.
         “Red Hunting Hat.”  Brandon savors the words, giving it serious consideration.  “Why did he wear that hat?” he asks the air, straining to remember.
         “It was symbolic of his alienation,” I offer.
         “Cool.  We could wear red hats onstage,” Joe says.
         Dylan pulls a face that says that won’t be happening anytime soon.  Dylan knows his gorgeous silken hair gives him Samson-like powers over women, and he won’t be stuffing it under some hat anytime soon.
         “I think he wore the red hat because of his brother, Allie, who died.  His brother had red hair.”  Evan leans his chin into his hand, sitting balanced on the arm of the chair, his strong muscled physique evident even through his thick clothing.
         “I never thought of that,” I say, and I realize suddenly that I’m mirroring Evan, my chin in hand, as I look up at him thoughtfully.  I straighten, self-consciously, and sip my tea.
         Evan seems almost embarrassed by the compliment.  “I don’t have more than a high school education, but I did read that book.”  This is the first crack I’ve seen in his armor of impenetrable confidence.
         “Look at us, talking books and art and theatre,” Brandon says.  “We’re like our own little Algonquin Table.”
         “Without the booze,” Dylan says, frowning into his tea.
         “And without the table,” Joe adds, confused.
         “We’ve got an iguana,” Evan offers.
         I feel languid and content, with Evan so near, and then Dylan decides we have to leave.
         “Okay, Mr. Places To Go,” I groan as my brother nags me to get up.  I linger on the chair, as if caught in Evan’s powerful force field.
         Evan and Joe are leaving, too.  The Down elevator is within the loft, unlike the Up elevator, which is in the hallway.  When Joe and Dylan file onto the elevator, Evan pulls me back and informs Dylan, as the doors squeeze shut, that we’re taking the stairs.
         “So, I heard you may be leaving New York,” I say, as he guides me down the narrow, stale-smelling stairway.  My boot heels echo on the slate; there is a slight run in my dance tights, and the little black cover-up is tight in the waist and stretched out of shape over my hips like some inverted tulip, and all I can think about is that someday I am going to be wearing a great outfit when I see Evan.
         Evan informs me that he’s being flown to the west coast to audition for an upcoming television series on Fox.  It follows the lives of four high school friends after graduation.
         “I may not even get it,” he says, with a shrug, and loops around to take the outside so that I have the banister.
         “You’ll get it.”  I state this as if it were the most obvious thing in the world.
         “How can you be so sure?”  His hand hovers near my waist, not actually touching me, but there in case I should slip in my heels.
         “Why would someone not want