It is a beautiful, clear June night in the heart New York City. You can barely make out a few shining stars. The Waldorf Astoria is the place where dreams are made. We are standing inside it living the biggest dreams of all and perpetrating an even bigger lie. The doors to the Grand Ballroom are magnificent in size and carvings. They tell a story of times long ago. People frolicking on nights like this, enjoying life. I can’t help but wonder why we aren’t frolicking this perfect night away.
The debate with Dante, my best friend, about whether setting foot through these doors is a good idea or not A beautiful, cloudless night in the heart New York City without the earlier smog is surprising. The city is immersed in a heat wave. The smells and sounds of Manhattan surround me like a blanket. At this time of night, you might not expect vehicles’ exhaust, food vendor carts, vendors shouting trying to sell their wares and music from street entertainers in any other city, but this Manhattan, the city that never sleeps.
The Waldorf Astoria is a place where dreams are made. We are standing outside it’s glass entrance overhang dressed to the nines. I tip my head back and follow the line of the building up until I can’t see it any longer, marveling in its height. Ornate, copper-framed, revolving doors move effortlessly as guests enter and exit the building. Dante and I are perpetrating the biggest lie, but living an even bigger dream.
The grandness of the lobby is overwhelming. Dante quickly tugs me along, not wanting to spend too much time out here in the open. He stops in front of our destination- the doors to the Grand Ballroom. A high society event for some non-for-profit organization is going on behind these doors and we don’t belong here. We come from a rent controlled area of the city where the rent is less than what it cost for these tickets.
A shiver courses through me. I know my life is about to be affected in the most drastic way when the ominous golden doors swing open. Someone is going to find out I am not who I say I am. We weren’t invited. These people don’t even know we exist. We slipped through the doors without being noticed.
The tickets appeared out of thin air, like a wish had been granted. During a shift at the diner two nights ago, a group of patrons dropped the tickets and never realized they were gone. They weren’t much older than Dante and me. I have no doubt that they were coming from a party of some type because no one noticed the hundred-dollar tip, which happened to be more than the actual bill, or the surprise they left behind.
I was clearing the table when I found the tickets lying neatly on the seat. I rushed to the door to see if I could find them, but no one was around. Dante came rushing out, assuming they left without paying the bill. When I explained to Dante what happened, he grabbed the tickets inspecting them closely. He jumped around excitedly. I didn’t know what they were until he calmed down enough to explain.
That’s how Daphne Michels- me, orphaned girl, is at one of the most important social functions of the season, wearing a vintage gown found at a second-hand clothing store. However, if you looked at me, you would think I was born for this. Dante spent hours making sure the street appearance I usually donned was gone, making me look like royalty.
I never knew my father and no other family came forward to claim me when I entered the foster system after my mother’s death. She died when I was six from a drug overdose. My birth certificate never listed a father’s name. Most of it was blank. The only thing I have from my father is a weird birthmark on my right shoulder. A mark I have always hidden. The only reason I know it is from him is because my mother told me so. I never bothered to ask more about it or him. When I was older, I thought if my mother did not want his name on my birth certificate, there must have been a reason.
Dante’s slight tug on my arm brings draws my attention from my internal thoughts. I glance around at the overwhelming splendor beyond the doors. The colossal room is softly lit by thousands of candles. The tables with their starched, white tablecloths, fine china, and too much silverware to count, are laden with huge centerpieces of white and red roses each with tapered candles. The painted mural on the walls remind me of the classic art work displayed in museums. Long cocktail tables hold a wooden row boat of some sort, two chefs preparing food and other food stations. A harpist is currently strumming a beautiful piece next to the orchestra.
I look up at Dante in awe of our surroundings. He is the best friend a girl could ask for. Dante and I met in the last foster home I visited. He glances down at me smiling. Despite how comfortable I am with him, I have never felt more out of place in my life then I do in this moment. We don’t belong here. These people live a different life than we live. They are rich, powerful and a class unto their own. The women dressed in designer gowns and the men in tuxedos cost more than Dante and I make in a year.
Dante leans down reading my thoughts, murmuring in my ear, “Everything will be fine. No one will care if they find out.” He kisses my forehead. “Let’s do this, darling.”
I giggle at the way he pronounces “darling.” He wraps my arm in the crook of his elbow and leads us further into the room. We have come far in our twenty-one years. Our bond formed the night we barely escaped Mrs. Johnson’s house. The hairs on my arms stand on end as I remember that night.
Mrs. Johnson took foster kids in as a main source of income and relied heavily on it to survive. The funny thing was though, her foster kids never saw the money. She barely had enough food on the table for all of us. Our clothes were old and torn, but her biological sons, Scott and Richard, had everything they ever wanted.
I was sixteen when Dante arrived and had been there a year by then. Dante was shy, withdrawn and too skinny. He had amazing, sad, green eyes that captured me immediately. I knew he was someone that needed protection from Scott and Richard. They would torment the new kids. After what they did to me, I couldn’t allow that to happen to anyone else.
I walked in on Scott and Richard beating Dante one day. He wasn’t fighting back. They never saw me coming. I pulled Scott off Dante first, kneeing him in the groin. In the time it took Richard to turn and attack me, Dante spurred into action. It was like a switch flipped on. He was quick to gain the upper hand, knocking Richard out cold.
When Mrs. Johnson came home later that night smelling of beer and smoke, Scott and Richard lied to her. She tried forcing Dante down the dark, damp basement, a place all the foster kids tried to avoid because we could be left down there for days with no food or toilet, only a bucket in the corner. I pushed her before she had the chance. She tripped and fell on her backside, sputtering.
I grabbed Dante by the arm, fleeing with only the clothes on our backs. Scott and Richard tried following us, but we lost them at the supermarket. When we could, we found the nearest phone booth and made an anonymous call to the police, mentioning how Social Services should get to the house. It was from that moment on we became inseparable.
I have never wanted more from life than to be able to afford a roof over my head. However, being here opens my eyes to how the other half lives. Dante escorts me to the dance floor, but stops to pick up two glasses of champagne from a passing waiter. He pulls my arm, turning me towards him to make a toast.
“To us. We’ve finally arrived. Fate, that wonderful Goddess,” he says worshipfully, “has seen fit to bring us here tonight. Let’s make tonight special, making Fate’s interference worthwhile.”
Clinking glasses, he downs his and I sip mine at a leisurely pace. Dante tends to be the partier, having fun, but not to excess. He doesn’t want to be anything like his father. I, on the other hand, don’t care for the stuff anymore since Dante rescued me one night.
“Do you want to dance?” I question, rapidly blinking my eyes.
“Thought you’d never ask.” He formally bows over my hand. “Let’s show these people how we dance.”
The twinkle in his eye tells me he is up to no good. As the music starts, he looks up at me through his shaggy blonde hair and beautiful long lashes. The fun begins with a twirl out to the dance floor. We move in synchronized patterns that force the other dancers to make room for us. Our smooth steps are flawless from years of practice.
I passed through a phase of wanting to ballroom dance after watching Beauty and the Beast. We could never afford the lessons. Dante would buy bootleg copies of ballroom dancing DVDs. Our living room was the perfect place for practicing at the time because it lacked any furniture. Our neighbors would bang on the floor and ceilings for hours when we practiced, but we didn’t care.
“I forgot how much fun it is to dance with you.” I say in his ear as a crowd forms, watching us. “You missed your calling.”
“I know, right.” His cocky remark makes me smile. “Being gay helps. I swear it is in my genes.”
“All those DVDs had nothing to do with it, huh?” I mock.
“Bitch.” He smiles, wagging his eyebrows. “It’s the partner that’s the key element to this dance.”
The dance floor occupants thin to only a few couples waltzing, trying to keep up with us.
“We cleared the dance floor again.” I point out, sighing. “Don’t look but we’re the youngest ones out here.”
He looks around smiling when his eye catches something or someone.
“I see some handsome men here. Let’s play.”
I sigh, knowing his next words.
“Whoever gets the first telephone number wins. The loser has to do the laundry for the week.”
I feel him shake with suppressed laughter.
“You’re on.”
He knows I will never approach any one here. But there is also no way he will ever hit on a guy in a place like this either. He must be sure about the guy first before he makes a move.
Dante steps away as the dance comes to an end. Our hands are still connected when the music changes to a tango, our favorite dance. Dante snaps me back towards him, molding me against him. His hand firmly on my butt. He dips me low. We look like two lovers who have shared things most people don’t have the chance to. About mid dance Dante dips me low again, this time my arms fall behind my head. I notice we have an admirer who seems fixated on us.
“We have an admirer.” I tell Dante when he lifts me back up.
My arms loop around his neck. He drags me across the floor, his hand gliding over my body in an outwardly sexual way. We turn and move in the other direction.
“I see.” He hums. “I hope he likes what he sees. I wouldn’t mind getting to know him. But, chances are he’s looking at you sweetheart and sadly, not me.” He looks down at me smiling. “I can’t blame him. You look like a princess.”
“Thank you. I could say the same for you. My dashing prince.”
“You know I am anything but. If I could, I would dress you like this all the time. You were made to be dressed in fine clothes.” He looks at me with appreciation before twirling me again. “Part of your birthmark is showing.”
“Nothing we can do about it now.” I say, not caring in the least how ugly it looks in that moment.
The song ends shortly thereafter leaving me a thirsty, sweaty mess. My feet hurt from these ridiculously high heels Dante made me get. People are applauding our little performance as Dante escort me off the floor. We nod gracefully passing them on the way to the bar.
“I need a seat.” I comment tiptoeing slowly behind him.
Dante steers me towards an empty chair.
“Here. Sit. I’ll get us some drinks.” He pulls out the chair. “The regular?”
I nod.
A waiter passes by with finger food laden trays that smell delicious. I grab two, inhaling the first debating the second. Dante returns with a sparkling water and Stoli Vanilla. He sees the second and opens his mouth. I feed it to him, smiling at the face he makes.
“Hmm.”
He grabs two crackers loaded with black dots as another waiter passes by.
“What is it?” I question, looking at the black dots.
“Caviar.” He says handing me one.
“Oh.” I take his offering. “Here goes nothing.”
I close my eyes taking a small bit, not sure what to expect. There are little bursts of sea water in my mouth as I chew. Not fishy at all and not what I thought it would be like.
“Different. Not bad.”
“Hmm. It’s delicious. I think I may have found my new favorite food.” Dante remarks.
“Too bad we can’t afford it.” I chuckle at the pout he throws my way.
“Debbie Downer.” He smiles, joking. “Well, we just have to catch a rich man.”
Flippantly, I say, “Gold digger.”
He swats my arm and chuckles back at me. “Hussy.”
Playing shocked, I knock his shoulder with mine. He feigns injury, drawing the attention of nearby guests. We do this all the time, trying to see who can shock the other the quickest. He usually wins. I still haven’t been able to retaliate against the last one. I needed tampons and he had an intimate conversation about womanly products with the stock boy at the supermarket, who I happen to be crushing on then.
Embarrassed by the attention, I lean in whispering, “I think we’re making a spectacle of ourselves. Again.”
At that moment, the guy who was watching us advances in our direction. Saying he was tall dark and handsome seems cliché, but absolutely fitting. When he speaks, his voice is accented, deep and like silk gliding over my skin.
“May I have this dance?” He inquires with an outstretched hand.
I look to Dante, who quirks an eyebrow at me.
“Sure.”
The stranger guides me to the dance floor. I turn my head to see Dante wink in encouragement. The man’s hand burns my lower back, but oddly feeling like it was meant to be there. His other hand grips my hand.
The band starts playing Witchcraft by Frank Sinatra. He twirls me outward then snaps me back. Our bodies are flush against each other. Each of us feeling the curves of the other intimately. My body explodes, reacting to his closeness. His body is hard as stone under the expensive tuxedo. The deceiving jacket hides large muscular arms.
His mesmerizing eyes capture me when I look up at him. The blue grey color reminds me of a stormy cloud filled day. Slightly longer than normal jet black hair frames high cheekbones and an aristocratic nose. A faint scar next to his left eye is the only imperfection. He projects an air of nobility despite his five o’clock shadow.
He twirls me out twice more, each with a stronger snap than the first, always bringing me back as forcefully. The force of the last snap releases a lock of my hair to fall across my face. Before I can move it, he lifts his hand twining it around his fingers before brushing it behind my ear. His other hand glides lower along my back until rests right above my backside, applying the slightest pressure there.
“Soft.” He murmurs. “I don’t think I’ve ever felt anything so soft.”
“Thank you. I don’t believe in using mass hair products on it. I know women like to dye their hair or alter it somehow, but me, I like it natural.” I babble.
God, am I really talking about hair products?
He’s surprised by my response.
“Well, natural looks beautiful on you. Have we met before? You seem familiar somehow, but I know I would remember someone as beautiful as you. My name is Daniel, Daniel Ashbrooke.”
His compliment makes me blush five shades of red.
“Daphne Michels. I would remember you without a doubt. Trust me.” I blush more, if that’s possible.
He smiles back.
“Well, Ms. Michels, how did you hear about this event?” He inquires.
Oh shoot!
“It was sort of a last-minute thing for my friend and me. We hadn’t planned on coming but then the tickets sort of fell into our laps.”
That’s a close version of the truth. I can’t lie and when I do all sorts of bad things happen.
“I’m glad you came otherwise I would not have had the pleasure of this dance. The charity will benefit from your donation. My parents were big supporters of it.”
“Were?” I question.
He evades my question.
“Watching you and your boyfriend made dancing look like fun. I hope he doesn’t mind that I stole you for a little while?”
He leads me through the dance with a confidence that’s alluring.
“He isn’t my boyfriend. More of a brother, best friend, confidante and protector.” I reply.
“Then he shouldn’t mind us having a drink?” He inquires with an arched eyebrow.
“He wouldn’t, but I may.” For a moment, he looks dejected. “You see, we don’t know anyone here and I wouldn’t want to leave him alone. However, if you would like to join us, you are more than welcome to.”
“Sounds good.”
Daniel leads us off the floor when the song finishes. He scans the room, stopping briefly. His grip on my waist tightens fractionally.
“He’s right over there.” I nod in Dante’s direction.
“I would like that, but perhaps some other time. I must go. Enjoy your night, Daphne Michels.” He bows slightly, kissing my hand.
His lips linger longer than is considered appropriate. He is gone then in a flash, no trace of the handsome man named Daniel when I look around me. I make a complete circle trying to find some clue as to what direction Daniel went.
Dante surprises me from behind, leaning his chin on my shoulder.
“Please tell me he at least asked about me?” Dante grabs my shoulders. “Wait, lie to me. Please! Let me have this fantasy.”
“Hmmm.” I reply distracted.
Dante tugs on my arm.
“He is a fine piece of man. Did you at least get his number?”
Did that just happen? Was Daniel real? The only trace of Daniel is a lingering whiff of his cologne. Baffled by Daniel’s abrupt departure and questioning my own sanity, I burst into a fit of giggles except I’m not sure what I am laughing at.
“Girl, are you okay?” Dante asks, looking at me as if I’ve gone crazy.
“Did I just dance with him? I mean, he was perfect. I never get perfect.” I wonder out loud.
He nods his head, still looking concerned. I shake my head clearing the confusion grabbing onto the only thing I know to be true.
“What? I’m confused. You’re asking if you danced with the guy?”
“You’re confused? Really?” I reply sarcastically and a little too loudly.
“You two seemed pretty close.”
“I thought I dreamed him and the dance. It passed by too quickly and then he was gone. Like poof, gone.” I remark.
“I wonder if it had anything to do with the woman who was watching you two. She looked pissed and territorial. You know the saying that if looks could kill.” He arches his brow.
“Really? He didn’t mention being here with someone, but then I didn’t ask. He even asked if I would like to get a drink. We were going to get one when he abruptly left.”
“It was probably his wife or girlfriend.” He surmises.
“Well, there goes the happily ever after.” I joke outwardly, but inside something hurts, confusing me further. “I guess I’ll be doing the laundry this week.”
“Didn’t you know? We’re living happily ever after. But you can definitely do the laundry.” He replies, pulling me in for a hug, trying to cheer my sullen mood.
Dancing with Daniel felt different. The intensity I felt with our bodies touching wasn’t anything I ever felt before. I am a proud member of the V club, but his body made me think being a card carrier was foolish. Visions of him on top of me, naked, caressing every inch of my body sends chills down my spine.
“It looks like things are starting to settle down. You want to head out?” Dante interrupts my fantasies.
“Sounds good. My feet are killing me.” I fan myself.
Dante and I make our way towards the lobby’s front doors when a man dressed formally stops us.
“Miss Michels, Mr. Ashbrooke would like me to escort you and your date home.”
Shocked and annoyed by Daniel’s action after ditching me, I answer rudely. “You tell Mr. Ashbrooke thank you, but we have our own way of getting home.”
Dante looks at me questioningly. I grab his hand, squeezing it tightly, hoping to convey my thoughts without voicing them.
“Please Miss. Mr. Ashbrooke was quite adamant about it.” He tries again.
“Thank you, but no.” I reply, walking briskly away, but he doggedly follows us.
“Miss, please.” He pleads.
Ignoring his last protest, I tug on Dante to move faster. I hail a cab once outside, a luxury we can barely afford. Tonight, right now however, I need to do this. I will go without lunch for the week if I have to. In the cab, I give the cab driver the directions home and close the window separating us.
“What gives? We can’t afford this?” Dante asks, always stating the obvious. “Mr. Ashbrooke wanted to drive us home.”
“He can’t drive us home. Think about it. If he found out where we lived, we would have been found out. Or did you forget we weren’t supposed to be there?”
“No, I didn’t forget.”
I stare him down hard.
“Okay maybe a little.”
“That’s better.”
“But did you stop to think? We could have had him drop us off at one of the better buildings with a doorman a few blocks away.” He retorts, shaking his head in dismay. “It doesn’t matter. We had tickets no matter how we got them.”
“Look, I acted impetuously. I’m sorry, but he probably had a wife.”
“Really? Is that it? Or are you embarrassed by where we live?”
“I’m fine with our zip code. You know how I feel about married men. Anyway, I’m not walking city blocks in these heels.” I respond stubbornly, knowing he is right. “I couldn’t accept the ride from Daniel, especially when he ran off too quickly without an explanation.”
“So, now we have to suffer because of your rashness.” He puffs out.
“I’ll work extra shifts to cover the fare.”
“Oh, yes, you will. I’d rather spend our money on other indulgences.” He supplies cockily. His mood shifting quickly. “But I’ll help also.”
I smile back at him, kissing his cheek.
“I’ll work double the amount so you can have one of those indulgences this month.”
I swear the cab driver took the long way home. I paid him with my overworked, new credit card. Once upstairs, I unzip the dress in the kitchen while starting a pot of tea, my only real source of relaxation after a long day such as this.
While we wait for the water to boil, Dante removes the thousands of hair pins that he nicely glued in my hair. Never once did we talk about Daniel. Eventually, after a hot shower and some comfy pajamas we retire on the couch to watch an old, black and white, movie about a king and his children’s teacher. Sleep tonight comes easily.