at a different set of eyes - Sydney’s eyes on the valentine headshot. Someone had drawn X’s over them, pressing down hard with a pencil.
¢>
5
Magic Mirrors
Since it was reasonably close to Sunny Side, we decided to walk to Ruby Redd’s Brewing Company, the touristy West Village restaurant where Peter Steele worked. Yale wanted us both to have at least an hour to stare at the Most Beautiful Man You Will Ever See in Your Life before we were due in at the Space, so we were running a little late on his clock. My friend moved fast to begin with, and since the eleven inches he had on me was almost all leg, I was jogging to keep up.
I hadn’t shown Yale the defaced valentine. I figured he’d probably make up more excuses about crazy bar queens and I wasn’t ready to hear them, wasn’t ready to talk about it at all.
‘So what exactly does Peter look like?’
Yale responded with dependable creativity. And as he described the waiter’s ‘lethal’ abs, ‘ergonomic’ bone structure and lips ‘that would be considered a delicacy in most countries,’ I did my best to picture him. But, hard as I tried, my mind replaced each of Yale’s images with these: mirrored eyes staring at the back of my head, a man’s hand clutching a pencil.
It was a good thing I was no longer hungover, because the interior of Ruby Redd’s Brewing Company was nearly more overpowering than my classroom.
‘There’s so much red,’ I said, staring at all of it. Red-and-white checkered tablecloths, tiny bunches of red carnations at the center of every table in red glass vases, brass ceiling lamps with red Tiffany-style shades, red vinyl booths facing red wooden chairs. ‘I mean, okay, Ruby Redd’s. We get the point. It’s like The Shining in here.’
The waiters wore red-and-white checkered bow ties that matched the tablecloths and red butchers’ aprons that matched nearly everything else. All of them looked cute enough to be on a TV commercial, though none was exactly ready for the Galleria dell’Accademia .
I watched my friend’s face as he scanned the room for Peter Steele, but his expression remained neutral, his baby-blue eyes darkened. ‘Do you think he was lying about working here?’ he asked.
‘Who would lie about being a waiter at Ruby Redd’s Brewing Company?’
Yale and I sat on two crimson counter stools, and a young waiter with spiky burgundy hair and a red name tag that said ‘Tredwell’ approached us.
‘Hi, Tredwell,’ Yale said as he accepted two long, rectangular menus encased in cherry velveteen. ‘Did you color your hair to match the restaurant or vice versa?’
‘Huh?’
‘Never mind. We’re looking for Peter Steele?’
‘You guys are friends of Peter’s?’ Tredwell said.
Yale exhaled audibly. ‘He does work here.’
‘Yeah. His shift doesn’t start ’til later, though.’
We decided to stay anyway. I hadn’t eaten a thing since before I’d puked, and I realized I was starving. I ordered my typical posthangover meal: a cheddar omelet with a side of bacon, buttered rye toast and black coffee.
Yale gave me a disdainful look and pointedly asked for grilled vegetables and green tea.
‘Oh, I never shared my other lovely news,’ I said, after the waiter walked away. ‘You remember Nate, don’t you?’ I whipped the Post out of my bag and placed the entertainment section in front of Yale as Tredwell returned with our steaming red mugs.
Yale stared at the article. ‘You have got to be kidding.’
‘Stupid, huh?’
Yale jerked his tea bag up and down, up and down. ‘Well . . . it’s not as if he’s on Broadway.’
‘No. He’s making more money than that.’
‘How’d you two kids like some cream with your coffee and tea?’ asked Tredwell.
‘He cheated on you with a man and a woman!’ Yale was inadvertently using his stage voice, and I could feel customers turning to stare at us, or, rather, at me.
‘Could you possibly keep it
¢>
5
Magic Mirrors
Since it was reasonably close to Sunny Side, we decided to walk to Ruby Redd’s Brewing Company, the touristy West Village restaurant where Peter Steele worked. Yale wanted us both to have at least an hour to stare at the Most Beautiful Man You Will Ever See in Your Life before we were due in at the Space, so we were running a little late on his clock. My friend moved fast to begin with, and since the eleven inches he had on me was almost all leg, I was jogging to keep up.
I hadn’t shown Yale the defaced valentine. I figured he’d probably make up more excuses about crazy bar queens and I wasn’t ready to hear them, wasn’t ready to talk about it at all.
‘So what exactly does Peter look like?’
Yale responded with dependable creativity. And as he described the waiter’s ‘lethal’ abs, ‘ergonomic’ bone structure and lips ‘that would be considered a delicacy in most countries,’ I did my best to picture him. But, hard as I tried, my mind replaced each of Yale’s images with these: mirrored eyes staring at the back of my head, a man’s hand clutching a pencil.
It was a good thing I was no longer hungover, because the interior of Ruby Redd’s Brewing Company was nearly more overpowering than my classroom.
‘There’s so much red,’ I said, staring at all of it. Red-and-white checkered tablecloths, tiny bunches of red carnations at the center of every table in red glass vases, brass ceiling lamps with red Tiffany-style shades, red vinyl booths facing red wooden chairs. ‘I mean, okay, Ruby Redd’s. We get the point. It’s like The Shining in here.’
The waiters wore red-and-white checkered bow ties that matched the tablecloths and red butchers’ aprons that matched nearly everything else. All of them looked cute enough to be on a TV commercial, though none was exactly ready for the Galleria dell’Accademia .
I watched my friend’s face as he scanned the room for Peter Steele, but his expression remained neutral, his baby-blue eyes darkened. ‘Do you think he was lying about working here?’ he asked.
‘Who would lie about being a waiter at Ruby Redd’s Brewing Company?’
Yale and I sat on two crimson counter stools, and a young waiter with spiky burgundy hair and a red name tag that said ‘Tredwell’ approached us.
‘Hi, Tredwell,’ Yale said as he accepted two long, rectangular menus encased in cherry velveteen. ‘Did you color your hair to match the restaurant or vice versa?’
‘Huh?’
‘Never mind. We’re looking for Peter Steele?’
‘You guys are friends of Peter’s?’ Tredwell said.
Yale exhaled audibly. ‘He does work here.’
‘Yeah. His shift doesn’t start ’til later, though.’
We decided to stay anyway. I hadn’t eaten a thing since before I’d puked, and I realized I was starving. I ordered my typical posthangover meal: a cheddar omelet with a side of bacon, buttered rye toast and black coffee.
Yale gave me a disdainful look and pointedly asked for grilled vegetables and green tea.
‘Oh, I never shared my other lovely news,’ I said, after the waiter walked away. ‘You remember Nate, don’t you?’ I whipped the Post out of my bag and placed the entertainment section in front of Yale as Tredwell returned with our steaming red mugs.
Yale stared at the article. ‘You have got to be kidding.’
‘Stupid, huh?’
Yale jerked his tea bag up and down, up and down. ‘Well . . . it’s not as if he’s on Broadway.’
‘No. He’s making more money than that.’
‘How’d you two kids like some cream with your coffee and tea?’ asked Tredwell.
‘He cheated on you with a man and a woman!’ Yale was inadvertently using his stage voice, and I could feel customers turning to stare at us, or, rather, at me.
‘Could you possibly keep it
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