Элизабет Чандлер: Kissed by an Angel

Tristan's head shot up and he looked into the pale, triangular face of a kid. The kid, who looked about eight years old, was all dressed up, his tie knotted tightly and his dark hair plastered down.

He must have been one of the wedding guests.

"What are you doing in here?" Tristan demanded.

"Would you get me some food?" the boy asked.

Tristan frowned, annoyed that he had to share his hideout, a cozy place for pining over Ivy.

"Why can't you get your own food?"

"They'll see me," said the boy.

"Well, they'll see me too!"

The boy's mouth formed a thin, straight line. His jaw was set. But his eyes looked uncertain and his brow was puckered.

Tristan spoke in a gentler voice. "Looks as if you and I are up to the same thing. Hiding out.

"I'm really hungry. I didn't eat breakfast or lunch," the kid said.

Through the door, which was open a crack, Tristan could see the other waiters whisking in and out. They had just begun to serve the dinner.

"I might have something in my pocket," he told the kid, and pulled out a squashed crab ball, several shrimp, three stalks of stuffed celery, a handful of cashews, and something unidentifiable.

"Is that sushi?" asked the boy.

"Got me. All of this was on the floor and then it was in my pocket, and I don't know where this jacket has been, it was rented."

The boy nodded solemnly and studied Tristan's selection. "I like shrimp," he said at last, picking up one, spitting on it, then wiping it clean with his finger. He did this with each shrimp in turn, then the crab ball, then the celery. Tristan wondered if he'd spit on each tiny nut. He wondered how big a problem this kid was carrying around to make him not eat all day and hide in a dark storeroom.

"So," said Tristan, "I guess you don't really like weddings."

The kid glanced at him, then took a nibble out of the unrecognizable thing.

"Do you have a name, kid?"

"Yes."

"Mine's Tristan. What's yours?"

The kid set aside the unrecognizable hors d'oeuvre and began working on the nuts. "I'd like dinner," he said. "I'm real hungry."

Tristan peered through the crack. Waiters were rushing in and out of the kitchen. "Too many people around," he said.

"Are you in some kind of trouble?" the kid asked.

"Some kind. Nothing serious. How about your "Not yet," said the kid.

"But you will be?"

"When they find me."

Tristan nodded. "I guess you've already figured out that you can't stay here forever."

Squinting, the boy surveyed the shelves in the dim room, as if he were seriously considering its possibilities.

Tristan laid his hand gently on the boy's arm. "What's the problem, pal? Want to tell me about it?"

"I'd really like dinner," the boy said.

"All right, all right!" Tristan said irritably.

"I'd like dessert, too."

"You'll take what I can get!" snapped Tristan.

"Okay," the boy replied meekly.

Tristan sighed. "Don't mind me. I'm grouchy."

"I don't mind you," the boy assured him softly.

"Look, pal," Tristan said. "Only one waiter left, and plenty of food. You coming with me? Good!

There he goes. Raiders, take your mark, get set-" "Where's Philip?" Ivy asked.

The wedding party was halfway through their dinner when she realized that her brother wasn't in his chair. "Have you seen Philip?" she said, rising from her seat.

Gregory pulled her back down. "I wouldn't worry, Ivy. He's probably messing around somewhere."

"But he hasn't eaten all day," said Ivy.

"Then he's in the kitchen," Gregory said simply.

Gregory didn't understand. Her little brother had been threatening to run away for weeks. She had tried to explain to Philip what was happening and how nice it would be in their big house with a tennis court and a view of the river, and how great it would be to have Gregory as an older brother. He didn't buy any of it. Actually, Ivy didn't, either.

She pushed back her chair, too quickly for Gregory to stop her, and hurried off to the kitchen.

"Dig in," said Tristan. On the box between the kid and him sat a mound of food-charred filet mignon, shrimp, an assortment of vegetables, salad, and rolls with lots of whipped butter.

"This is pretty good," said the kid.

"Pretty good? This is a feast!" said Tristan. "Eat up! We'll need our strength to capture dessert."

He saw a trace of a smile, then it disappeared.

"Who're you in trouble with?" the boy wanted to know.

Tristan chewed for a moment. "It's the caterer, Monsieur Pompideau. I was working for him and spilled some things. You know, I wet a few people's pants."

The boy smiled, a bigger smile this time. "Did you get Mr. Lever?"

"Should I have aimed for him?" Tristan asked.

The kid nodded, his face brightened considerably by this thought.

"Anyway, Pompideau told me to stick to things that didn't spill. Imagine that."

"You know what I'd tell him?" said the kid. The pucker in his brow was gone. He was gulping down food and talking with his mouth full. He looked about a hundred times better than he had fifteen minutes earlier.

"What?"

"I'd tell him: Stick it in your ear!"

"Good idea!" said Tristan. He picked up a piece of celery. "Stick it in your ear, Pompideau."

The kid laughed out loud, and Tristan wedged in the stalk.

"Stick it in your other ear, Pompideau!" the kid commanded.

Tristan snatched up another piece of celery.

"Stick it in your hair, Dippity-doo!" the boy crowed, carried away with the game.

Tristan took a handful of shredded salad and dropped it on his head. Too late he realized the greens were covered with vinaigrette.

The kid threw back his head and laughed. "Stick it in your nose, Doo-be-doo!"

Well, why not? Tristan thought. He had been eight years old once, and remembered how funny noses and boogers seemed to little boys. He found two shrimp tails and stuck them in, their pink fins flaring out of his nostrils.

The kid was falling off his box laughing. "Stick it in your teeth, Doo-be-doo!"

Two black olives worked well, each stuck on a tooth, so he had two black incisors.

"Stick it in-" Tristan was busy adjusting his celery and shrimp tails. He hadn't noticed how the crack of light had widened. He didn't see the kid's face change. "Stick it where, Doo-be-doo?"

Then Tristan looked up.

Ivy froze. She was stunned by the sight of Tristan, celery stuck in his ears, salad shreds in his hair, something squishy and black on his teeth, and-hard as it was to believe that someone older than eight would do this-shrimp tails sticking out of his nose.

Tristan looked just as stunned to see her.

"Am I in trouble?" Philip asked.

"I think I am," Tristan said softly.

"You're supposed to be in the dining room, eating with us," Ivy told Philip.

"We're eating in here. We're having a feast."

She looked at the assortment of food piled on the plates between them, and one side of her mouth curled up.

"Please, Ivy, Mom said we could bring any friends we wanted to the wedding."

"And you told her you didn't have any, remember? You said you didn't have one friend in Stonehill."

"I do now."

Ivy looked at Tristan. He was careful to keep his eyes down, concentrating on the celery, shrimp, and squashed black olives, lining them up on the box in front of him. Disgusting.

"Mademoiselle!"

"It's Doo-be-doo!" cried Philip. "Close the door! Please, Ivy!"

Against her better judgment, she did, for strange as it seemed, her brother looked happier than he had in weeks. With her back to the storeroom, Ivy faced the caterer.

"Is something wrong, mademoiselle?"

"No, sir."

"Are you tres certaine?"

"Tres," she replied, taking Monsieur Pompideau's arm and walking him away from the door.