Magic Hands Read online

  Here’s the link. Turn up your volume and you can hear horns honking. It’s the coolest, hits me like a drug Cort found the website but kept the instant messaging box open in the lower left corner of his screen. He turned up the volume. Sure enough, people and cars cruised at two a.m.

  in downtown Manhattan. The far-off sound of life bustling was exciting.

  RACHEL: cool, right?

  At that moment, with his insomnia, it was great to open the front door and step out into a stream of life, rather than the stil ness of a town like Pleasant View. He could walk with mil ions of others unable to sleep, and not feel alone.

  CORT: it’s awesome, especial y tonight

  RACHEL: but then we wouldn’t be here

  CORT: what if we were there?

  RACHEL: then i’d show you my favorite places, like the borders that stays open al night on 79th we could drown ourselves in lattes and books.

  CORT: how about we go find the web cams? climb the buildings and stuff?

  Rachel laughed out loud. Wasn’t he ful of surprises? She expected him to be online tonight. She expected him to try to get her. What she hadn’t expected was how much she’d enjoy this little back and forth messaging.

  She’d been checking out options for housing at NYU, her col ege of choice, when the friend request box had popped onto the screen from Facebook.

  RACHEL: fancy yourself spideyman, do you?

  CORT: doesn’t every guy? what about you? got a complex?

  RACHEL: no. i don’t see myself in a tight suit jumping around buildings. i’d rather take the subway CORT: you’d be a limo girl RACHEL: that’s how much you stil don’t know about me CORT: that’s going to change

  A pleasant shudder streamed through Rachel. He was just aggressive enough to be interesting and not be a turn-off.

  RACHEL: i’l expect good things then. later, Cort CORT: bye, Rache

  Then Cort had the sinking feeling he’d made a huge mistake by cal ing her Rache instead of Rachel. It was something he did, nicknaming friends.

  Was she mad? Had anyone else ever cal ed her Rache?

  “Crud.” He’d feel that out later, if he hadn’t cracked the delicate steps he’d already taken to get to her.

  When the instant message box closed, he stared at the live video stream of New York City alive and thriving, lights gleaming and pulsing. In the hum of distant sound he heard brakes screeching, horns honking. Music. He smiled.

  FIVE

  Cort didn’t smel the toxic fumes of acetone and nail product anymore when he was at Miss Chachi’s and was glad for it. He didn’t want to think what that meant—that his nose or brain or both were being eaten away by the caustic stuff.

  He needed the money, so he ignored the hazards.

  He’d made a hundred and seventy-five dol ars in tips the first week, and brought Miss Chachi and her girls dozens of clients who spread the word to their mothers. Now, the place wasn’t empty anymore when he reported to work in the afternoon.

  He planned to ask Rachel to the dance Friday night, hoped she would come in for a nail fil but she didn’t. He’d not been able to corner her at school, surrounded as she always was by her posse.

  He worked, and kept glancing toward the door, hoping to see her. But everybody except her seemed to need their nails done for the dance.

  He’d never ask her any other way but in person. Of course she might have already been asked, al the hot girls had been this close to deadline.

  Even if she had, he wanted her to know he wanted to go with her.

  He was fil ing Bree’s nails, wondering why she was there again. She hadn’t had any noticeable outgrowth. Megan and Shaylee were there as wel , both having their toes painted coordinating colors to match their dresses for the dance.

  “He’s going to die when he sees it,” Bree said, clacking on a piece of gum. “It’s the prettiest dress ever.”

  Megan nodded from her perch in the pedicure chair. “For sure. I wish I’d seen it first.”

  “You wouldn’t look good in the color anyway,” Bree said.

  “You’re not the only one who can wear white.”

  “It fits me,” Bree said.

  “Yeah right,” Shaylee snickered. “Red would be more like it.”

  “Shut up.” Bree watched Cort paint the sparkly pink nail polish on her nails. “So, you going, Cortie?”

  “Not yet.”

  The girls exchanged sly glances of disbelief. “I’d ditch my date if you want,” Megan told him.

  “Get in line, ho,” Shaylee shot before softening her tone for Cort. “How come? Who are you going to ask?”

  After hearing the way they talked, knowing the way they spread things, Cort only shrugged. Again the girls looked at each other.

  “Who is she? Come on, you can tel us.”

  And it’ll be all over the place like regurgitated food. Not to mention what they might say about Rachel. Stil , he was curious what girls thought of her. Most of the guys he knew saw Rachel as this elite, untouchable idol.

  “Do you know Rachel Baxter?” he asked. He kept his eyes on Bree’s nails, so as to not appear too interested.

  Bree tugged her hand and brought his eyes to hers. “Is that who you want to ask?”

  “What do you know about her?”

  “First tel me if she’s the one you want to ask.”

  “Yeah, tel us,” Megan piped.

  Bree pul ed her hand away from him. “Answer me, Cort.”

  “I did answer you.” He snatched her hand back and started painting again. “Hold stil or it wil wreck.”

  “You did not. You were annoyingly vague,” Bree snapped.

  “But two can play that game.” She didn’t say anything more, just clacked on her gum.

  “I’m not playing any game.” Cort was frustrated. Why couldn’t these girls be real?

  “Right.” Bree hissed out a laugh. “I’ve seen you in action.

  You play just like the rest of us.”

  Shame heated his face and kept his eyes on her nails as he brushed the final coat of pink. Is that what everybody thought? He wanted to smear the plastic-pink nail polish he’d painstakingly applied and kick her out the door but his wal et depended on the job.

  “You’re done,” he told her with bite in his tone.

  Bree surveyed her nails critical y then slid him a snotty glare, her gum clacking like a gun-shot. “I guess they’l do.”

  She stood. “Oops. I forgot to get your tip out of my purse and my nails are wet. Guess you’l have to wait til next time.”

  Shaylee and Megan exchanged looks of shock. Shaylee whispered, “Way harsh, Bree.”

  Frustrated, Cort felt his jaw start to ache as he worked to keep from yel ing at her. He stood. “Look. I’m sorry if I pissed you off.”

  Miss Chachi was suddenly there, like a hound dog on the scent of something. “Everything al right?” she asked.

  “Just trying to decide if I like this fil or not.” Bree held her hands up, fingers spread for Miss Chachi to examine.

  “Bree—” The last thing Cort needed was Miss Chachi’s disapproval.

  Miss Chachi took Bree’s hands and examined them. “If you not satisfied, he do it again.”

  Cort glanced at the clock, then at the waiting area where a half-dozen more girls sat, waiting. If he’d been an octopus he couldn’t have finished al of their nails. He began to sweat.

  “No.” Bree tilted her head, hair swinging like a pendulum. “I think they’re fine, thanks.”

  With that, Miss Chachi went back to the front desk.

  Bree leaned into Cort. “I just saved your butt.” She pushed her hip, with her purse dangling next to it, his direction. “Now get me my wal et.”

  Cort rol ed his eyes before digging into her purse. He’d never seen so much junk; lipsticks, compacts, perfume and—

  jeez, a tampon. Final y he found the raspberry wal et with bright cherries and Juicy written al over it.

  “Hmm.” Bree tapped her finger to
her chin in thought.

  Cort started to burn.

  “Forget it,” he said and turned.

  Quickly, Bree shoved a ten dol ar bil in his hand. “Your customer relations needs some work.” She waited at the front of the salon while Shaylee and Megan’s pedicures finished up.

  Cort didn’t look at her when she gossiped with the other girls waiting. He could only wonder what Bree was tel ing them. And the snarling looks he got from Miss Chachi bothered him.

  Before he took his next client, he strode to the front of the salon. The girls quieted. Bree tilted her head with a smile meant to be mean.

  Cort ignored her. “I know most of you are waiting for me but,” he smiled in the way he knew most girls responded to, big and with his eyes wide. “I only have two hands. I think you’l find Misu, Tiaki, Jasmine and Abby are great at this.

  Give them a try. Seriously.”

  Some of the girls checked their watches and reluctantly sat at Tiaki, Jasmine and Misu’s tables.

  Cort hoped the effort would go a ways in appeasing Miss Chachi and proving to witchy Bree he control ed girls better than she did.

  Bree waved her newly done nails Cort’s direction as she got ready to leave the salon. “Bye Cortie.”

  By the end of the night, Cort had fil ed seven sets of nails. He rubbed his fingers, glanced at the clock on the wal —

  a photo of some place in Vietnam, he presumed, with its lush hil s and muddy waters, set in a clock face. Nine o’clock and Rachel stil had not come in.

  The other girls cleaned their work stations and Miss Chachi counted money at the front desk, looking over at him every now and then.

  He straightened his table, turned off the bright work light and stretched as he went to the front. “Wow,” he started in an effort to be friendly. “What a day, huh?”

  Miss Chachi closed the register. Her dark eyes pinned him. “We stil not make enough for me to pay rent. If more customer don’t come, I take tips to pay.”

  “What?”

  “You heard me. If I can’t pay, there no job. No job, you no money.”

  “But what about the girls I’ve brought in?”

  She nodded. “Very good, yes. But not enough. We need more. This place cost money to run. I have overhead.”

  “Maybe it’s that you’re in over your head,” he muttered.

  She came around to the front of the desk. “You a nice boy, Cort. You work hard. You want to keep job, yes?”

  “Yeah.”

  She patted his arm but her hand was icy. “See? We need each other.”

  “I’m doing what I can,” he said, exasperated.

  “You can do more. Now.” She went to the schedule and pul ed it out, laying it in front of him on the counter.

  “Tomorrow I need you until close.”

  “What? I can’t. I have a dance tomorrow night. In fact, I won’t be here at al tomorrow.”

  Her black brows hardened. “That not possible. You have eleven appointments.”

  “Tiaki and Misu and the girls can take them.”

  “They come for you.” She pounded her fist on the schedule and he jumped. The girls stared for a moment, before going back to cleaning as if they had seen nothing.

  Cort was speechless. Something in his gut didn’t feel right. Miss Chachi’s hard face softened. She laid her icy hand on his arm. “We work something out. You come in for a little while, eh?”

  Drawing his lower lip between his teeth, he stared at her, trying to figure her out. She was hot, then cold. He didn’t want either extreme. “Uh, sure.

  Okay.”

  “See you tomorrow. You go home. Rest your hands.” She took them in hers, studying them. She shook her head with a tsk-tsk. “Soak in warm water and peanut oil with a little fresh ginger. Then they feel better.”

  He didn’t have any peanut oil or fresh ginger, though he considered that his mother may have some on hand—with her weird new eating jag.

  At home, he went to his computer instead of soaking his fingers.

  He wanted Rachel.

  It was insultingly late now to ask a girl to a dance, no respectable guy did that—or they looked like a loser. He hoped she’d come online so he could fish for whether or not anybody else had asked her. Maybe he could explain why he hadn’t—because he hadn’t been able to. Maybe she wouldn’t think he was just scrounging for a last minute date, like it looked.

  When she didn’t respond and the little box indicated that she was “off line”, he sighed. Maybe he’d be working al night at Miss Chachi’s after al .

  SIX

  Countryside Manor used to give her the shivers with its funky smel of stale air, body oil, medicine and cafeteria food and howling voices echoing down empty hal s. Rachel forced herself not to let those things keep her from doing what she had to do.

  People depended on her.

  Countryside Manor looked like a poor man’s Tara from Gone with the Wind, with white columns and black shutters set against vinyl clapboard siding—falsely inviting when its occupants would move in and never move out.

  The air was always stuffy inside and Rachel quickly took off her black coat, gloves and scrappy scarf, hanging them on a brass peg near the front desk. She smiled at Charity, the elderly receptionist with a grey beehive of hair.

  “They’re waiting for you.” Charity nodded toward the gathering room.

  “Great. Thanks.”

  “Mr. Fowler’s in a foul mood. Ignore him.”

  Rachel knew better than to let the old man get under her skin. She passed rooms with open doors and didn’t glance inside—it hurt seeing those stuck in their beds from neglect or whatever reason.

  She’d been coming to Countryside for months, reading passages from plays to the older people who cal ed the rest home, home. It helped her feel like she was making a contribution somehow, and helped her learn to change her voice and fine-tune her acting talent.

  Her interest in acting was pricked after she saw Jennifer bravely take on roles in junior high. This reading on the side was her own little secret, and until she felt ready to let the world in on it, it would remain just that.

  There were seven gathered tonight; some in wheelchairs, others propped on couches and chairs scattered in the room.

  They al perked up when she entered. The sight warmed her heart and brought a smile to her face.

  “Hey.” She laughed when some of the old guys pul ed her down for a kiss on the cheek.

  “Here’s our girl.” With a twinkle in her eye, Mannie was always happy to see her. The older woman patted Rachel’s hand. “What are you going to read to us tonight, lovey?”

  Rachel pul ed a seat up close to the little semi circle, since hearing was an issue for most of them. “Hamlet.”

  “Oh,” gushed Lily, her frail hands clasped to her chest.

  “One of my favorites.”

  Martin Fowler scowled. “Blitsy, I say.”

  “Want me to wheel you over to the window so you can look out at the deer?” Rachel asked him before she began reading.

  “Hel no. A blitsy love story is better than watching a herd of dul deer any day.”

  “I’d hardly cal Hamlet a love story, Martin.” Mannie shook her head. “It’s a tragedy.”

  “Aren’t they al love stories?” Martin shot.

  “See?” Lily nodded. “You do like our girl.”

  “Wel of course I like her,” Martin scoffed. “I just don’t agree with her choice of reading material.”

  “Wel she’s not going to come in here and read an old war book, not when you’re out numbered five to one, Martin.”

  Mannie pointed her finger at him.

  “Why not?” Martin asked. “Spies and bombs would be a hel uva lot more entertaining than dancing and romance. Or Shakespeare. Maybe I wil go over to the window after al .”

  In a burst of pride, he tried to wheel himself away from the wide-eyed gathering, but his feeble body was too weak.

  Rachel pushed him to the window. She t
ried not to smile.

  Little bickerings were common between Martin and Mannie.

  She often wondered if the two old people real y liked each other and were just juvenile about their feelings.

  “Anytime you want me to come get you,” Rachel whispered to him, “raise your hand or wave.”

  “I’l do neither tonight!” Martin turned away from her.

  Rachel joined the others. The eager faces of the women touched her heart. She opened the script, one of many she col ected, and started reading.

  As usual, she threw herself into the story and the characters, playing each role with such enthusiasm she lost track of time. When she finished, she blushed at the soft applause that fol owed.

  “Is there anybody special in your life, lovey?” Mannie asked.

  “Heavens yes.” Lily leaned forward with effort. “She’s so beautiful. There are many young men in love with her.”

  Rachel’s cheeks heated. “Nobody’s in love with me, Lily.”

  “Why not?” Agatha asked. Usual y she said nothing, her oxygen tube the only hum Rachel ever heard from the woman. “What’s wrong with them?”

  “I should say,” Mannie protested. “They need their eyes examined is what’s wrong with them.”

  “I have lots of guy friends,” Rachel said.

  “So you say,” Mannie piped. “But a girl as pretty as you should have young men knocking down her door.”

  Lily nodded her little head. “In my day, I had fifteen suitors at one time. Good-looking fel ows at that.”

  “I’m sure.” Rachel couldn’t keep the smile from her face.

  The fervor these ladies felt for her social life was hilarious.

  “But I’m not interested in getting serious.”

  “And why not?” With great effort, Martin had made it half-way across the floor to them. Rachel wheeled him back to the little circle.

  “Because—”

  “Mannie’s right,” Martin scoffed. “You should find a fel a and settle down.”

  Rachel laughed. “I’m only seventeen.”

  “I was engaged at your age,” Lily’s soft voice was light and dreamy. “Met my Henry when those packs of young men were coming around. He was one of them.”