Элизабет Чандлер: Kissed by an Angel

"Not real well," he said, smiling at each in turn.

Suzanne glowed. Beth focused on him with the interest of a researcher, her hand clicking away on the ballpoint.

"Guess what, Ivy? In April you won't be living far from my house. Not far at all," Twinkie said.

"It will be a lot easier to study together now."

Easier?

"I can give you a ride to school. It will be a quicker drive to your house."

Quicker?

"Maybe we can get together more."

More?

"Well, Ivy," Suzanne exclaimed, batting her long, dark lashes, "you never told me that you and Twinkie were such good friends! Maybe we can all get together more. You'd like to go to Twinkie's house, wouldn't you, Beth?"

Gregory barely suppressed his smile.

"We could have a sleepover, Twinkie."

Twinkie didn't look enthused.

"We could talk about guys and vote on who's the hottest date around." Suzanne turned her gaze upon Gregory, sliding her eyes down and up him, taking in everything. He continued to look amused.

"We know some other girls, from Ivy's old school in Norwalk," Suzanne went on cheerily. She knew that Stonehill's high-class commuters to New York City would have nothing to do with blue-collar Norwalk. "They'd love to come.

Then we can all be friends. Don't you think that would be fun?"

"Not really," Twinkie said, and turned her back on Suzanne.

"Nice talking to you, Ivy. See you soon, I hope. Come on, Greg, it's crowded over here." She tugged on his arm.

As Ivy turned back to the action in the pool Gregory caught her chin. With the tips of his fingers he tilted her face up toward him. He was smiling.

"Innocent Ivy," he said. "You look embarrassed. Why? It works both ways, you know. There are plenty of guys, guys I hardly know, who are suddenly talking like they're my best friends, who are counting on dropping by my house the first week of April. Why do you suppose that is?"

Ivy shrugged. "You're part of the in crowd, I guess."

"You really are innocent!" he exclaimed.

She wished that he would let go of her. She glanced past him to the next set of bleachers, where his friends sat. Eric Ghent and another guy were talking to Twinkie now and laughing. The ultra-cool Will O'Leary looked back at her.

Gregory withdrew his hand. He left with still bright with laughter. When Ivy turned back to the pool again, she saw that three rubber-capped guys in identical little swimsuits had been watching her. She had no idea which, if any, of them was Tristan.

"I feel like a fool," Tristan said, peeking through the diamond-shaped window in the door between the kitchen and the dining room of the college's Alumni Club. Candelabra were being lit and crystal stemware checked. In the large kitchen where he and Gary were standing, tables were laid out with polished fruit and hors d'oeuvres. Tristan had no idea what most of the hors d'oeuvres were or if they were to be served in any special way. He hoped simply that they and the champagne glasses would stay on the up side of his tray.

Gary was struggling with his cuff links. The cummerbund of his rental tuxedo kept unwrapping itself from his waist, its Velcro failing to stick. One of his shiny black shoes, a size too small, was tied with an emergency purple sneaker lace. Gary was a real friend, Tristan thought, to agree to this scheme.

"Remember, it's good money," Tristan said aloud, "and we need it for the Midwest meet."

Gary grunted. "We'll see what's left after we pay for the damages."

"All of it!" Tristan replied with confidence. How hard could it be to carry this stuff around? He and Gary were swimmers. Their natural athletic balance had given them the right to fib about their experience when they interviewed with the caterer. A piece of cake, this job.

Tristan picked up a silver tray and surveyed his reflection. "I don't just feel like a fool-I look like one."

"You are one," said Gary. "And I want you to know I'm not that much of a fool to believe your line about earning money for the Midwest meet."

"What do you mean?"

Gary snatched up a spaghetti mop and held it so its spongy strings flopped over his head. "Oh, Tristy," he said in a high-pitched voice, "what a surprise to see you at my mother's wedding!"

"Shut up, Gary."

"Oh, Tristy, put down that tray and dance with me." Gary smiled and patted the mop's spongy head.

"Her hair doesn't look like that."

"Oh, Tristy, I just caught my mother's bouquet. Let's run away and get married."

"I don't want to marry her! I just want her to know I exist. I just want to go out with her. Once! If she doesn't like me, well…" Tristan shrugged as if it didn't matter, as if the worst crush he'd ever had in his life might really disappear overnight.

"Oh, Tristy-" "I'm going to kick your-" The kitchen door swung open. "Gentlemen," said Monsieur Pompideau, "the wedding guests have arrived and are ready to be served. Could Fortune be so smiling upon us that you two experienced garcons would be available to help serve them?"

"Is he being sarcastic?" Gary asked.

Tristan rolled his eyes, and they hurried to join the other waiters at their stations.

For the first ten minutes, Tristan occupied himself with watching the other workers, trying to learn his job. He knew that girls and women liked his smile, and he used it for all it was worth, especially when the caviar he was serving leaped like a fully evolved fish into an older woman's lap.

He worked his way around the large reception hall, searching for Ivy, sneaking peeks while big-bellied men unloaded his trays. Two of them went away wearing their drinks and muttering, but he barely noticed. All he could think about was Ivy. If he came face-to-face with her, what would he say? "Have some crab balls?" Or perhaps, "May I suggest le bailee de crabbe?"

Yeah, that would impress her.

What kind of guy had he turned into? Why should he, Tristan Carruthers, a guy hanging up in a hundred girls' lockers (maybe a slight exaggeration) need to impress her, a girl uninterested in hanging in his locker or anybody else's, for all he could tell? She walked the same halls he did, but it was as if she traveled in another world.

He'd noticed her on her first day at Stonehill. It wasn't just her different kind of beauty, that wild tangle of kinky gold hair and her sea green eyes, that made him want to look and look, and touch.

It was the way she seemed free of things other people were caught up in- the way she focused on the person she was talking to, without scanning the crowd to see who else was there; the way she dressed not to look like everyone else; the way she lost herself in a song. He had stood in the doorway of the school music room one day, mesmerized. Of course, she hadn't even noticed him.

He doubted that Ivy knew he existed. But was this catering thing really a good way to clue her in? After recovering a fat crab ball that had rolled to a stop between some pointy-toed shoes, he was starting to doubt it.

Then he saw her. She was in pink-and pink and pink: yards of pink sparkly stuff that fell off her shoulders and must have had some kind of hoop under its skirt.

Gary passed by him then. Tristan turned a little too quickly and their elbows hit. Eight glasses shivered on their stems, spilling dark wine.

"Some dress!" Gary said with a quiet snicker.

Tristan shrugged. He knew the dress was cheesy, but he didn't care. "Eventually she'll take it off," he reasoned.

"Pretty cocky there, buddy."

"That's not what I meant! What I-" "Pompideau," Gary warned, and the two of them quickly parted. The caterer snagged Tristan, however, and hauled him into the kitchen. When Tristan emerged again, he was carrying a lowlying spread of vegetables and a shallow bowl of dip-stuff that couldn't spill. He noticed that some of the guests seemed to recognize him now and moved quickly out of his way when he approached. Which meant he carried a full tray round and round, hardly needing to look where he was going, and had plenty of time to scope out the party.