Picking Up the Pace By Kimberly LaFontaine

Chapter Four

When Angie got home, she felt like taking another bath and went through her usual ritual. A Hemingway book in hand, she let an hour go by as she read about Africa. But that feeling that she was forgetting something returned to nag at her every so often and she finally decided to get out of the water and slipped into her bathrobe, determined to figure out what it was.

Then she heard a knock on the door.

Sue Ellen's. Lauren. Shit.

"Hi Jimmy," she answered her door. As he looked her up and down, it seemed as though he was wondering if he should make a comment about how bathrobes and towel turbans were not exactly a fashion trend. He opened his mouth and closed it, smirking instead.

"I know, I know," she said quickly. "Give me a few minutes, I totally forgot. Just don't be mad, ok? I had a long day at work. I'll hurry."

While she rushed into her bedroom, Jimmy poked around her apartment, beginning with her bookshelves, curious to see what he would find. He was wondering if he would find any clues about his friend that he could use to his advantage. And she did not disappoint. He had to grin when he found Rubyfruit Jungle and The Color Purple back-to-back.

"You like those?" she surprised him. "My friend Leslie gave them to me for my birthday. They were well written, I think." Then she hurried off to put on makeup. He watched her retreat, admiring the short black skirt, tall boots and sleeveless green shirt she had chosen.

"My, my," he said. "You look almost kind of punk."

She laughed as she ran gel through her hair.

"That's what I'm going for. This Sue Ellen's place better not disapprove."

"Oh, I'm quite sure nobody will disapprove."

She rushed back out of the bathroom and grabbed her keys. She handed him her wallet expectantly. He stared at the offered item, not understanding.

"No pockets," she explained.

"Do I look like a purse?"

"No, but you're the guy, gay or not," she said smiling. "You look great, by the way. Nice shirt." She ruffled his collar and inspected his freshly polished shoes.

He put his hands on her shoulders and stopped her for a second.

"Do you want to talk about your day?"

"Oh, it wasn't that bad, just took forever. I really don't feel like re-hashing any of it, either. If you really want to know, pick up a copy of tomorrow's paper and look for my byline. You'll see what I wrote about and might understand. But hey, I feel like I could really use a good drink, so let's get the hell out of here. I hadn't realized it was already 9:30 p.m. Don't we have to be there in half an hour?"

They hurried down the stairs and out to his black, sleek Firebird. He could tell she admired his car and immediately knew how to lighten her mood.

"You drive," he said and tossed her the keys. She caught them and ran around to the other side, nearly tripping on her high-heeled boots.

He knew he had made a mistake when she threw the gear in reverse and stepped on the gas, peeling out of the parking space and revved the engine after she slammed on the brake. He put his seatbelt on and closed his eyes as he heard her shift it back to drive. They most certainly were not going to be late if Angie got her way.

Through some kind of miracle, they made it in one piece without being pulled over.

When they got out, Jimmy snatched the keys from her and hid them deep in his pockets, vowing never to make that mistake again. She teased him and he smiled, relieved they were finally there.

The two walked a few blocks and Angie looked around. She had realized she was in The Village when Jimmy choked out directions earlier. For some reason it bothered her that he had not mentioned earlier that Sue Ellen's was a gay bar, but then again, she should have known. Maybe she would have toned her outfit down a little -- at a straight place she could have pretended to be dating Jimmy -- but the ladies, she hoped, would be a little more polite.

She took Jimmy's arm when they walked up to the bar. The woman manning the entrance gave them a skeptical look but took their money and let them in. The place was dark and very loud. No band was playing on stage, but music was blaring from the sound system. Jimmy bought her a drink and she lit a cigarette, soaking up the atmosphere.

She was not oblivious to the gay scene. But she hadn't had been many opportunities to visit gay bars. The ones she had visited catered mostly to men, so she had seldom met lesbians.

A couple worked with her on the school paper in college. They looked and acted like most of her female friends -- a little grungy maybe, but fairly safe. And those girls at Jimmy's party, who talked a lot about feminism and refused to wear makeup or shave their legs hadn't been a big deal either.

Then she met her first butch.

"Watcha drinkin'?"

Angie looked at the speaker and thought a man was talking to her. The hair was tightly cropped, the flannel shirt open and lose over a tight white tank top, the jeans baggy.

"Jimmy's buying me drinks tonight," she finally said. "But thanks for asking."

"He your boyfriend?"

"Oh no, but he's my date, I guess. We're meeting up with a friend in a few minutes."

She felt incredibly rude as she snagged Jimmy by the sleeve and dragged him over to a small vacant table near the tiny dance floor. He was laughing and she was not quite so amused.

"What's wrong?" he shouted over the music. "You can't shoot down an offer gracefully?"

"Shove it," she said and lit a cigarette. She finished her drink and calmed down. It was not that big a deal, she told herself; she should feel flattered. Jimmy went to buy her another drink, and she looked around the room again, scrutinizing its every detail.

It was not exactly clean or up-scale, and it was smaller than she first thought. From her table, she could see that there was another bar at the end of a smaller room filled with a few booths and some pool tables. Some women were dressed up in slinky dresses and high heels and they wore lots of makeup. Others wore skater-type pants and baggy T-shirts. Some even wore lots of leather. And everywhere she looked, women were making out, and if not, they were openly eyeing her.

Jimmy appeared to be the only man in the place.

She didn't know what to make of the scene and felt a little uncomfortable. Just then Jimmy returned with her second drink and she gulped it down, regretting it almost immediately. She would have to pace herself, she thought, or face a repeat of the prior weekend.

Just when she was beginning to think Lauren wouldn't show up, an announcer came out onto the dance floor.

"Are ya'll having fun tonight?" The ladies cheered. "Well, it's karaoke night and that means a chance to win $50. Just sign up at the bar. Come on, ladies, we need some singers in her pronto!"

Jimmy elbowed her in the ribs.

"Oh, no, no, no," she said laughing. "Hell no. I need to be drunk for this shit."

He jumped up and headed back for the bar. Shit.

While he was weaving his way back to her, the lady with the microphone announced the first contestant.

"Lauren here tells me she's just come back from Micronesia, where she was apparently trying to save the world with the Peace Corps. She says she also has a band called Fearless that's playing at Division One in Arlington next weekend. Give her a round of applause and let's see what she's got!"

A few people clapped, though most were paying little attention. But when Lauren stepped out from behind a wall and gripped the microphone, conversations ceased and all eyes turned to her.

Angie couldn't believe what she was wearing -- skin-tight black leather pants and a black muscle-sleeved top, her hair loose. The reporter mentally noted that she looked almost dangerous. She also noticed that many of the women's attention was definitely aimed at the stage.

The first notes of ACDC's "You Shook Me All Night Long" began to play, and the small crowd that had gathered cheered wildly. Lauren flashed a ravishing grin and her deep, rich voice filled the room. She was wild, acting quite the rock star, quickly winning over the crowd. It was apparent that this was not the first time she had performed.

Angie wondered if the woman would change the lyrics. Of course Lauren didn't and the reporter blushed at images the song provoked. She glanced at Jimmy, who wiggled his eyebrows at her. She huffed in annoyance and reached for her cigarette, only to discover it had burned itself out -- forgotten -- on the side of the ashtray. She had been staring again and chastised herself.

When the last screams of the guitar rang out, Lauren handed the microphone back to the announcer who stole a quick hug and a kiss.

"Damn, girl," she huffed. "You have got to come back here more often. Am I right, ladies?"

A few screamed again, and by the time Lauren made it to the small table where Angie and Jimmy were sitting, the bartender was on his way with several drinks others had bought for her. The singer would have little trouble finding someone to take home for the night. Too bad the lady she wanted wasn't interested.

Jimmy, as promised, had a little chat with her about the straight reporter. She had been a little surprised and disappointed. But hey, there were plenty of others.

Lauren sat down and took the drinks from the waiter, smiling broadly. Leaning over, Angie said, "That was totally awesome. I love ACDC! When are you playing next week? I absolutely have to be there if you're going to sing like that."

The singer smiled and took in what the reporter was wearing with a long look, then gave the requested information. Angie felt shuffling under the table and from the wince on Lauren's face, felt certain Jimmy had kicked the woman. But the mischief and interest did not leave those dark brown eyes.

*                   *                  *

Several hours later, the three were in a heated political debate over the recently released Fahrenheit 9/11, Angie and Lauren arguing against Jimmy's criticisms of the flick. He had claimed that Michael Moore was only trying to make a buck and a half, that his facts were skewed and showed his poor responsibility as a role-model. The two women admitted that better research and less twisting of the facts may have yielded a better product, but that it was important the man had put out such a widely successful criticism to begin with, and that he wasn't just out to earn some cash.

Angie, for the most part, filled in many of the blanks the others had regarding the issues, always the news junkie.

She was enjoying the evening much more than she had anticipated. The stranger didn't feel so much like a stranger anymore. She found Lauren to be exceptionally well-read and clever. The discussions had also helped her to overcome the awkwardness she had felt earlier. Women were no longer treating her like eye-candy, though she had suspicions that they believed she was off limits because Lauren was at the table. Whatever works, she thought.

Her comfort level also had to do with the many drinks they had ordered, though she felt much more in control of herself than the prior weekend. She hadn't missed that look Lauren had on her face when she first sat down, but it no longer bothered her. Neither did that warmth that spread throughout her body every time the singer touched her arm or shoulder to emphasize a point. She thought of her mother's question earlier that week and giggled.

"What's so funny?" Jimmy asked.

"Oh, I was just thinking about my mom. I told her about the party and she asked if I had met a 'nice young man.'" The three of them rolled their eyes in unison. "I told her yes, I had, but that he's gay."

"When do I get to meet the parents?" Jimmy quipped.

"Not any time soon. They live in North Carolina. Anyway, so she wanted to know if everybody in the world is turning gay and I think it's funny."

"Why?" Lauren asked, leaning in a little closer.

"Well, my mom's been trying to hook me up with a childhood friend, who coincidentally has recently come out. My ex also ditched me six months ago -- just ran off -- and my parents love him. My mother decided the only reason he could have possibly rejected me is because he's no longer interested in women," she explained to Lauren.

"I'm sorry, that's terrible."

"I'm getting over it, I think. Anyway, I just think it's kind of funny. I wonder what she'd say if she knew I was here."

"Let's play a game of hypothetical situations," Jimmy perked up. "If you hooked up with a girl and told your mom, what would she say?"

Angie stopped sipping her drink for a moment and thought about it. Indeed, what would she say? She couldn't help herself from stealing a quick glance at the women next to her.

"She'd be disappointed, I think. Not mad, just sad. She'd get over it. My parents are pretty liberal, just a little sheltered. What would your parents say if you told them you had found a nice young woman?"

"They'd sing hallelujah," he said and giggled. "They'd say all their years of trying to get me to go to church had finally paid off, that I was obviously saved. My brother would be pissed. He joined PFLAG to deal with it."

"If I told my parents I had turned straight, they'd have my ass on a spike," Lauren joined in. "They went through two years of therapy so we could all get along again after they threw me out of the house when I was 19. They would probably tell me to pay the tab."

They laughed and ordered another round of drinks. Jimmy suggested they grab an open pool table and play some cutthroat. Angie and Lauren spent the last part of their evening ganging up on their friend, sinking his balls quickly so that he stood in the corner and pouted. It was too cute.

When 2:30 a.m. rolled around, Angie truly regretted that it was time to go home. The two had grown on her and she made a note to make plans for the following weekend, if possible. She remembered the band performance and took a flyer that Lauren pulled out when she asked about it again.

The taller woman walked them to Jimmy's car. She placed her hand on the small of the reporter's back to guide her and Angie didn't protest. The singer felt encouraged.

"You alright to drive Jimmy?"

"Sure, no problem. I'll see you next week."

"Alright then," she said. She walked back around to where Angie had gotten in and motioned for her to roll down the window and leaned in, resting her arms on the car door.

"It was very nice talking with you," she drawled, her voice soft. "Thanks for the compliments and I'll see you next week." She boldly placed a kiss on the reporter's cheek and then sauntered off towards the other end of the parking lot.

Angie sat quietly and waited for some smart-ass comment from the man beside her and was grateful when nothing came. She watched the leather-clad woman retreat until they drove off, fidgeting the flyer nervously.

*                  *                    *

"Damn it," Angie grumbled when her city went bankrupt and quit the game. She stood up and stretched the hours of sitting in a chair away, wondering what to do next. The weekend seemed to drag on forever and the reporter wasn't tired enough to go to bed at 11 o'clock on a Saturday night. She wondered if she should go see a movie. But a glance at the clock told her it was too late. Besides, going to the movies alone was kind of lame.

She eyed the stack of laundry with a disheartened sigh and got to work. Popping in an Ani DiFranco CD, she began methodically cleaning her apartment until she was satisfied but still not in the mood to hit the sheets. Flipping on the television, she pulled out a sketchpad and began drawing -- a task that was always soothing, whether she produced something decent or not. At one time she had thought she might become an artist, but one semester at the university's poorly funded department changed her mind, that and having her work ripped to shreds by other students during each critique. Her parents, she remembered, had been elated.

She ran the piece of charcoal down the length of the paper, roughly pulling out shadows cast by an imaginary figure standing in a corner alley caught only by the light of passing cars on a dark night. At first she didn't know what she was drawing, creating abstract shapes and wiping her forehead every so often, lost in thought. But as time went by, the figure took on a strong, feminine look, and long, dark tresses of hair framed a hidden face.

As usual, she didn't spend too much time on her piece. Her art teachers had always said she had potential, if only she could keep herself from overworking her art. Half an hour went by, then she quit, tore the piece from the pad and pinned it to a corkboard in the kitchen next to reminders and shopping receipts. Standing back, she examined it closely, wondering if she was loosing her touch, when she suddenly realized the figure bore a striking resemblance to a certain woman she had met recently. Angie frowned and washed her blackened hands. But she did not take down the drawing and instead headed into her bedroom in search of another project.

She was a little unnerved that Lauren had popped into her thoughts so easily and without her realizing it. The reporter chalked it up to simple fascination -- the woman had led an interesting life -- but the quick justification wasn't quite satisfactory enough. She shook her head and looked at the books by her desk and decided she wasn't in the mood to read, however many books she had to catch up on. Then her eyes fell on a small, dusty box under her bed and she picked it up, a smile tugging at the corners of her lips. It had been a long time since she'd bothered to examine its contents.

Opening the small wooden container, she found the familiar newspaper clippings, her first stories at the college paper. She found concert tickets to Tori Amos, silly buttons, old letters from past friends. She sighed at the memories, both good and bad. When her fingers touched a tiny diary, she hesitated.

The thing fit into the palm of her hand and was held together by a small rubber band. The paper edges were tattered, signs of well-worn use. She flipped it open and laughed as she read the old poems, her attempt at writing something a little different than just the facts. She knew they were quite terrible, had given up the craft years ago.

About half-way through the diary, she discovered a poem that made her hair stand on end. She had pasted in a tiny photograph next to it. She read the poem and re-read it again. The photograph, crumbled up and flattened, showed her and Leslie, arm-in-arm, looking very cozy on a small couch at some house who's owner she couldn't even remember. In sloppy writing, she had written, "Summer, 1999, what happened?"

"Oh, Leslie," she sighed as she remembered the evening.

It had been a long day filled with tears and hugs and hours of talks as they tried to lighten up over cups of tea. Leslie had been dumped by a geeky guy named Tommy, and Angie was upset because her then-crush Joey had refused to return her phone calls after what she had thought was a particularly exciting first date. The fast friends had called each other, cried to each other and then decided an acquaintance's party might cheer them up.

They arrived in poor spirits with the intent to get trashed as quickly as possible. Egging each other on, they downed beer after beer until they were both sloppy drunk. The picture had been taken early in the evening, while they sat on the couch and tried to talk about anything but their troubles. Angie liked Leslie, normally a wild girl with a desire for trouble.

Hours later they stumbled out into the backyard, giggling as they struggled to keep each other balanced, Leslie's arm slung over Angie's shoulders. They discovered a trampoline and excitedly climbed up onto the huge contraption. The two began bouncing and giggling, holding on to each other for support until they fell over and laid still, both fearing the other might get sick.

Leslie had leaned over to her and said, "Don't worry about that idiot anymore, ok? He's pretty stupid for blowing you off. You're smart, you're cute. Am I right? Well, you deserve better."

"Thanks, you're a sweetheart. And same goes for you and Tommy. Fuck him, you know? He's a jerk. I didn't like him anyway. He always acted like he knows better than everybody else."

"You know what? Fuck guys. Period. We should just date each other and then we wouldn't have to worry about it."

"That's right! No more men!" Angie giggled. "No more worrying about dates and what to wear. You're smart. You're cute. I'll take you any day."

They both fell silent, each lost in their own thoughts. Angie remembered looking up at the moon and saying something nonsensical about the stars. When she looked back at her friend, she found herself just a few inches away from Leslie's lips.

And then it happened, that moment the two seldom spoke about. It wasn't just a simple kiss, but that's how it started out. Angie returned the embrace far more than she should have and Leslie responded hungrily. They kissed and explored each other's mouths greedily, forcefully. Angie couldn't remember how long it had lasted, but she did recall small hands running up her side, cupping her breast and squeezing her nipple.

Someone opened the squeaky sliding-glass door and they jumped up, not looking at each other, scared. He asked what was going on and they lied. He offered them a drink, they took it and shooed him away. Leslie hopped off the trampoline and went back inside. Angie sat there for some time, smoked a cigarette, and felt very empty, like she had just lost something far more important than the affection of Joey.

Angie stared at the picture, at her friend's strawberry blond hair and deep blue eyes, long-latent emotions bubbling close to the surface. That's why it's supposed to stay in the box -- hidden -- she thought angrily. The poem was also angry, confused.

The reporter had never told her friend she'd been so upset. She hadn't even been sure why she should have been. The party was in good fun and they had both been vulnerable. She never considered her friend a dating possibility, but the incident had stirred something inside she didn't want to acknowledge. Something that was resurfacing against her will.

After that night, Angie had questioned herself for a long time. The two friends didn't speak for a week, and later pretended it never happened. When it came up over a beer one day at the bar, they both shrugged it off and laughed about it, dropping the topic quickly. Angie thought she'd sealed that door tightly.

But thinking about those kisses made her think of Lauren and the singer's full, pink lips. She shuddered and quickly stuffed the diary back in the box.

She glanced at her watch, 1 a.m. She thought it must have been early morning in Paris and went to get the phone. Angie thought that five years was far enough removed that she should be able to ask questions of her best friend, settle something that obviously still evoked a strong sense of confusion.

"Bonjour? C'est Leslie," she heard the familiar voice say.

"Hey, how's it going?"

"Oh my God! What's wrong? Are you okay?"

"Yeah, why?"

"Well, you never call."

"Very funny. Look, I need to talk to you about something. You have a minute?"

"Sure, give me just a second, I'm in a café, trying to order."

Angie heard a muffled conversation and began pacing in the living room. She wandered into the kitchen and started brewing a pot of tea in the kitchen. Pouring a cup, she added mint and chamomile before Leslie's voice sounded from the receiver.

"Okay, why don't you step outside so we can have a cigarette together? Isn't it kind of late for you?"

"It's late, but you know me. I wasn't ready for sleep and was messing around my apartment when I came across the box." Her phone wedged between her ear and shoulder, she carefully balanced the tea and cigarettes as she walked out onto her balcony.

"Oh, no."

"Oh, yes. And you know my old diary's in there," Angie paused, searching for words. "I'll get to the point. I want to talk about that night on the trampoline."

"Do we have to? I mean, that was like a century ago."

"We do, and I'll explain why in a minute. Please, alright? It's just going to come up again later if we don't talk about it now. Besides, something weird is going on and I feel like I'm going out of my mind."

"Sleep deprivation will do that."

"This is different. Now, come on. That night, what do you think happened? I mean, did you kiss me or did I kiss you?"

"I always liked to think that you kissed me, but I'm not sure."

"You didn't start it? I mean, you didn't just reach out and kiss me?"

"Hey," the reporter heard her friend sigh. "You weren't exactly protesting, you know. And I'm pretty sure you started it. Tell me why you need to know. Is something going on?"

"I don't know," Angie huffed in frustration. "Remember that party I told you about? Well, I met someone there -- incredibly interesting, a great singer -- and we've had a couple of nice conversations since then. But, see, the problem is that ..."

"I can't believe you didn't tell me! Wait a minute ... you're playing the no-gender game. Oh. My. God. You're talking about a chick! That's why you're asking about us," Leslie said and gasped. The phone line was filled with several seconds of silence. Finally, she said, "Are you telling me you have a crush on a chick? What's her name?"

Angie hesitated. She couldn't tell if her friend was just baffled or upset.

"Well, I wouldn't call it a crush and her name is Lauren. Maybe more like intrigue or fascination. Oh, I don't know."

"It sounds like you like her, at least like you think she's interesting. Is she gay?"

"Yes."

"Is she attracted to you?"

"Yeah, I'm pretty sure of that."

"So, why are you asking about us if you want to talk about Lauren? Are you asking me if I think you're gay or bi? Making out at a party once doesn't make you either, you know."

"Look, I just want to know what you were thinking."

"Well, I did what I did because I thought you were cute. I always have. You did what you did for whatever reason. I thought it freaked you out and was scared you weren't going to talk to me anymore. And based on your reaction, I decided you didn't like it."

"But I did," Angie said quietly and slowly ran her fingers through her hair.

"Me too," Leslie nearly whispered. "I'm sorry. I didn't know what to do. Look, it's alright, it doesn't matter anymore. We're okay, right? So tell me more about this Lauren lady. Is she hot?"

Angie giggled, half relieved and half nervous. She told her friend about the night at Sue Ellen's and what Jimmy had told her over dinner while Leslie munched on croissants with jelly and sipped a café-crème. They both laughed when the reporter told her about that moment on the balcony.

Angie began to relax, feeling better after they had finally broached the old subject in a serious manner. After a while, Leslie's mind, as usual, returned to the gutter and she began asking for a more detailed physical description of the singer, to which Angie first blushed and then protested.

By the time they hung up, Leslie's, "Don't do anything stupid," tacked on to the end, the reporter felt a lot better about herself and what was going on. She held the receiver in her hand for a few seconds, the dial tone buzzing. Putting the phone back on its cradle, she finished the rest of her now-cold tea and got ready for bed.

She stared at the ceiling and thought about long raven hair and dark eyes, wondering.

"Just figure out what you want from that lady.' Oh, Leslie, it's not that easy," she mumbled before she rolled over and dozed off.

Chapter Five

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