The Witch’s Assistant (Bitchcraft #1)

Chapter V VIP

Chapter V

VIP

F rom inside the closet, Clark could hear the sound of chatter and footsteps—was it ten pairs passing? Twenty? Thirty, even? He couldn’t be sure. Which one of them was Charisma?

Clark groped for a handle or some kind of discreet opening, but no luck. He turned on his phone’s flashlight and found the light switch. Under the light of the single dim yellow bulb, he could see there was no window, no air vent, just racks of winter furs. “ Always cruelty-free,” Clark parroted mentally. He pushed the door, but it would not budge; there was no service on his cell phone, and if there was, he wasn’t sure whom he’d call. His knocks went unnoticed, and so there he remained.

He could almost swear he heard the scraping of chairs, and the clinking of stemware and utensils on plates. Dinner was underway. Before he knew it, an hour had gone by. He could make out more clacking footsteps and chatter as new guests entered from the elevator. However, Clark knew better than to draw attention to himself, lest he unintentionally upset someone, never mind incriminating Monica. He refused to risk the potential job loss. And give Monica the satisfaction? Never.

That’s when the music started.

Now they definitely won’t be able to hear me... Clark thought, kicking himself. Droplets of sweat formed on his furrowed brow and stuck to the back of his shirt as he sat against the wall in that stuffy, dusty closet.

An hour crawled into two. He tried not to panic—surely someone would remember him and let him out? But then, who would remember him?

As if his wish had been granted, the door clicked open, letting in fresh, fragrant, and air-conditioned air that billowed into the room. Clark stood up. It was Monica.

“There you are!” she exclaimed, throwing a couple of jackets at him. “Hang these.” He was certain he could hear Charisma’s boisterous voice over the music and banter.

“Come here, and quick! Before someone sees you,” Monica growled, dragging him by the arm as fast as her high-heeled feet could carry her. “What you are still doing here is absolutely beyond me .”

“The door doesn’t open from the—”

“Never mind your excuses. Hurry up! ” The late afternoon had transitioned into evening, judging by the color of the sky outside the skylights as she dragged him through the kitchen and down the employee stairs.

“Best not to overstay one’s welcome, wouldn’t you say?” Monica flung him out the doors of Hell’s Entrance and wiped her hands. The door clicked and beeped, and Clark was effectively locked out.

Indignation quickly welled up inside him. Was this what it would take to make it here? Being kept in the closet and jerked around? Clark did not have to wait long for a sign. At that same moment, from the other door behind him, Beard-o the Handsome Mystery Man appeared, the one from a few days prior, walking in from the freight elevator.

“Hey, bro!” he told Clark. “Here for the party?”

Clark had an idea. “Actually,” he replied, “yeah, I am! Hey, what’s the passcode to the door again? I forgot it.” Could this work...?

“You should write it down, man, so you don’t forget it,” Beard-o said. Clark reserved his eye-roll. Surprisingly, he showed Clark the passcode, who typed it into the keypad and committed it to memory, and then to his phone. The light flashed from red to green, and with a buzz and a click, Clark pushed it open.

“You’re a lifesaver. Thanks...bro!” Clark said. The man gave him a wink and disappeared into the employee stairwell. Clark made his way through the doors and up the stairs himself. On the other side of the door, he almost bumped into none other than Miss Honey, who stood there with her hands on her hips in reproach.

“Oh, hi, Miss Honey!” Clark said.

“What are you still doing here, baby?” she asked. He could tell by the concern in those warm eyes that she was not pleased to see him. “I told you this is no place for someone like you. You better get on outta here. Git! Scram! Trust me, baby, nothing good to see here...”

Down the hall and around the corner, Clark could make out the shadow of guests and laughter coming from the living room. “Thanks, but I just wanna get a closer...” he said, but when he turned to look back, Miss Honey had already gone. Slowly, he continued down the hall.

He caught a glimpse of himself in a mirror: Clark looked damp and dehydrated. As a waitress ran a tray of champagne flutes back to the kitchen, Clark nabbed two. He tossed one back, set it down on a passing credenza, and with the other in hand, descended upon the party.

The scene was a sight to behold, fit for Gatsby. With all the streamers and balloons, and the light of the multiple chandeliers and candles, the entire space was aglow. The doors to the terrace steps below were ajar, to a backdrop of a glittering city framed by a summer sky splashing into the deep opal blues of a slow New York sundown. Standing in the center of the crowd, Clark could make her out in action, her flaming copper hair billowing around her: Charisma Saintly was the star of the pack, of course, in the middle of telling a story by the looks of it, talking candidly and waving a cigarette animatedly in one hand while holding a drink in the other. She wore a shimmering, short black dress that hugged her slim figure, sparkling diamond jewelry on her long arms and neck, and glittery, spiky stilettos fit for the pole. Charisma was larger than life in person, a glamazon, taller than he had imagined. Maybe it was her posture, how she seemed to tower over her guests, who laughed on cue and gasped when appropriate. Charisma was fabulous. Maybe it was just her , Clark thought.

He caught a bit of side-eye from a guest or two as he walked amongst them. They turned their noses up and looked away, or otherwise tried not to make eye contact. Clark was clearly underdressed in his baby blue button-down and not an ounce of black like the rest. He put them from his mind, and tried his hardest not to appear conspicuous. Clark posted up near a marble statue—Artemis the archer with her bow—and took a sip of champagne, attempting to melt into the background.

Overhead in the loft, Clark noticed assistants Alicia and Emily in intense conversation. On the main floor, a handful of attendants swirled around the guests with trays of hors d’oeuvres and every pastry and sweet one could ever desire; inside, a DJ stood mixing music; at the bar, two dapper bartenders mixed drinks of top-shelf alcohol; out on the terrace, and all around, the air was alive in gaiety, chatter, and excess. By the fountain and next to the velvet sectional were presents of all kinds, of boxes and bows of every color and size. The balloons he had hung had made sense ( duh, you nerd ...): this was Charisma’s belated birthday party.

The guests were mostly women, a few men, many of them famous faces he might have known from TV or movies: a handsome A-list actor Clark definitely recognized, the infamous editor-in-chief of The September Issue wearing sunglasses indoors, someone he was positive was a ’90s supermodel, and more. Almost all in attendance were dressed in black like Charisma. Maybe they think they’re witches too ...Clark took notice of the way they looked, the way they moved, how they hung on to her every word, how they all seemed to talk and act just like Charisma—especially Monica, who wore her hair in the same fringe, her makeup in the same style, who stood in Charisma’s shadow so obsequiously and yet so ignored. She was a sycophant if he ever saw one. In a way, he realized, they all were.

As he watched, Charisma tossed her cigarette to the wind, leaving an attendant to chase it down and put it out into the ashtray only a few feet away. She turned on foot and her posse followed, moving like a swarm behind her. Offhandedly, Charisma almost set her empty drink down in midair—almost, because miraculously, luckily, just in time, a waitress dived and caught the glass on a tray, while another simultaneously handed her a fresh one. Charisma didn’t miss a beat, and no one except Clark seemed to notice or care.

The music stopped, and the lights were lowered. A world-famous pop star entered from the north wing, microphone in hand, and sang “Happy Birthday.” Clark watched as the guests sang along, parting the seas for her and for Charisma, while two attendants wheeled in a giant, glittering five-tiered birthday cake covered in sparklers. A spotlight descended, a photographer clicked away, and all eyes were on Charisma. Everyone and everything seemed to bend to her will, and Clark was captivated. He had never encountered a person so extraordinary, whom he seemed to know so much about and yet nothing about at all, whatsoever. As she blew on her candles, Clark knew one thing to be true, then and there: he wanted a piece of that magic. The guests clapped, the cake was wheeled away, and the festivities resumed.

What happened next, Clark wasn’t sure how, but it happened all the same: somehow, as Clark began to slip away, as she stood there scanning the room in mid-laugh, of all the faces to notice, Charisma’s eyes locked onto none other than Clark’s. He froze in place. She paused too. Her smile faded, her head cocked to the side—and to his horror, the room’s every occupant stopped to follow her gaze. In an instant, Clark had the attention of eighty, ninety, one hundred people, looking at him like he was a piece of dog’s droppings under their nose.

Oh, shit . . . he thought.

From behind Charisma, Monica pushed aside a guest and spilled their drink onto their dress, ignoring them as they cried aloud in protest. Monica was leering at Clark through gritted, perfect teeth. He could think of only one word: Run...!

Clark darted in between guests, ducking under a tray of champagne and around a waitress. Another attendant almost crashed into him, but Clark bounded off her just in time. He ran until he was around the corner and far down the hall. One door next to the stairwell was ajar, and unsure of what he had glimpsed, Clark came to a halt, reversed, and did a double take: it was Melissa, bent over the powder room counter, snorting a line of cocaine through a hundred-dollar bill, and Charisma’s niece, Alicia, standing next to her, sniffing and prodding at her own nostrils in the mirror. They both turned to look at him. Clark’s eyes widened. He made a dash for the stairwell.

Down the stairs, he bounded through Hell’s Entrance and landed in the freight elevator, panting. Clark did not dare stop, not until he landed on the noisy street below, onto the subway that came just in time, and up into the respite of his quiet Astoria apartment.

Exhausted, Clark showered, crawled into bed, and fell into an uneasy sleep to the sound of chirping crickets, the train nearby, and sirens in the distance.

There was a buzzing in his ears, which had not stopped burning red and angry since he had left Charisma’s.

The birthday party was Friday. That Saturday, Clark brought his diary to the coffee shop: all that morning, he was eager to recount the oddest dream he’d had the night before. He had not forgotten it since:

I was standing in the center of a long stage under a single spotlight, in the middle of a kind of ... event space. A meeting hall of sorts. Or was it a church? From all around and on the peripherals, I was being watched by hooded onlookers cloaked in shadow, whispering ...

Another spotlight flipped on, across from me, flooding the other end of the stage with light.

Who appeared on that stage was none other than . . . me.

Only, this me was older, or at least more mature, dressed in a sharp black suit and shoes, hair smoothed back. Rich. Smart. Successful. Powerful. Charismatic. A leader. Everything that I’m not. This Other Me, this Future Clark, I somehow understood, was my ideal self.

The onlookers were whispering, so many whispers about me and what I had become, what I had to do to get there, and what I had yet to achieve ...

I smiled at him. Other Me looked down on me—Current Me— from atop his nose, sized me up and down for who I am, and then he—I—actually rolled his eyes and looked at me with contempt.

What a bitch . . . !

I have a long way to go before meeting him again ...

As Clark filled an order (“One large cawfee , a splash of half-and-half, and two sugars”), he thought about how Charisma would be flying on her helicopter to her manor in Montauk for Labor Day weekend. That Monday, he would be totally off work for the first time in weeks. Clark planned on being in and out of intermittent naps, binging television and books and peanut butter with Oreos, all the while putting off from his mind the consequences he would face on Tuesday when the “Coven” reconvened...

Someone else was off from work that Labor Day too. Behind the coffee shop counter, he opened a text from an unknown number:

(9:30 a.m. Joey DiMuccio): Hey Clark from Queens, how are you? This is Joey from Brooklyn lol. From yesterday. What are you doing on Monday? Come out for a picnic with me, if you’re not up to anything.

A guy this cute wants to make plans with me . . . ? Clark thought. On Labor Day . . . ?

(9:31 a.m. Joey DiMuccio): I know right? Making plans with someone you just met for Labor Day...You’re probably busy. I could pick you up . It’ll be cute, promise =]

Part of Clark wanted to appear in-demand, busy, out with friends having a blast, or some other kind of nonsense he could think up, but another part thought, why play games when a guy this interested doesn’t come around often?

(9:40 a.m. Clark Crane): Hey Joey, sure! I’d like that :] What time?

Clark spent the rest of the weekend stressing over what to wear. Joey had requested him on social media, and looking through his photos almost made Clark’s stomach flip. There were photos of Joey at work, Joey with his family at their Brooklyn pizza shop (DiMuccio’s Pizza), Joey shirtless, his torso proudly on display, Joey at the beach in short swimming shorts...Clark was an excited-nervous he could not remember feeling in a long time.

That Monday, after practically trying on his entire closet, Clark settled on a comic-book tee and jean shorts, happy to be out of slacks and button-downs for once. He donned those well-worn high-tops.

As promised, Joey was double-parked outside Clark’s building in a modest Honda Civic. He stood leaning on the passenger-side door, looking suave and debonair, with his dark hair slicked back and his Wayfarers on, dressed in shorts and a crisp, unbuttoned Henley. After hugging hello, Joey kissed him on the cheek before opening the door for Clark, who flushed a warm, conspicuous pink.

“What a gentleman,” Clark mused. “I’m not used to it.”

“Get used to it, baby,” Joey said, looking over at him with his Mr. Big smile.

Clark had assumed when Joey said “the park” that he meant Central Park. Instead, he drove them east on the expressway towards Long Island, blasting pop music and singing along with the windows down. Joey was a fearless crooner, Clark learned.

“This is one of my favorites,” Joey said, turning the volume up on an oldie covered by a young, modern jazz-pop star no longer living. He kept up with every note, even ad-libbed a riff or two. They pulled into the parking lot, in a park of sweeping green lawns and tall evergreens, where Clark took a deep breath of clean, non-city air.

“You’re pretty good,” Clark commented. “Where’d you learn to sing like that?”

“Oh, that? That’s nothing. My grandma could out-sing the best,” Joey said as he unpacked the trunk, producing a blanket and an heirloom picnic basket. “She taught me about all the oldies and Old Hollywood. That’s my hobby, I guess: I love watching movies. That’s why I wanna be an actor.” Clark carried the blanket and they started at a slow pace, walking through the grass.

“An actor? That’s so cool,” Clark said.

“Thanks! What about you, what do you do for fun?”

“Oh, me? Nothing exciting, I guess. I like to read. Maybe that’s kinda boring...” Clark said. He didn’t want to admit he couldn’t afford to have many platform subscriptions.

“Not boring at all! That’s great.”

“Thanks, Joey,” Clark said. “That’s really beautiful, what you and your grandma share. Are you two close?”

“Oh yeah, very,” Joey said. “She practically raised me and taught me everything I know: how to style myself, how to cook for myself, how to take care of myself. Nothing compares to how she used to cook though.”

Clark asked, “‘Used to’?” He regretted it almost instantly.

Joey looked at him with those large amber eyes and their long, straight, dark eyelashes: “Yeah. She passed, a couple or so years ago...Cancer. She toughed it out long and hard. I actually dropped out of college to care for her in the daytime when we couldn’t afford hospice care. I started bartending to help with all the bills. She was so mad at me for that. I had grown up mixing her drinks for her. The rest of the family would get me to mix theirs, so I did what came naturally! I told her, ‘You take care of me, I take care of you.’”

Clark wasn’t sure what to say. After a moment, as they strolled, he said, “I’m sorry. I’m sure that meant a lot to her, and that she loved you very much.”

“Oh yeah, for sure,” he replied, looking up with a smile. “I loved her too. She was the matriarch of the family, no doubt. When she died, everyone was devastated. I was really beside myself. She left an inheritance for me, just a small sum of money to help with college, you know? It was the biggest of all of ours, everyone knew I was her favorite. I put it right back into taking care of us and our bills. I mean, my family and I, we lived pretty comfortably up until the stock market crash. We had a hard time after, and my parents almost lost the restaurant. They were getting behind on bills and they were about to lose the house, things were adding up, and with my little sister still in school, I had to help them out. I kinda had no choice.”

They stopped to park under a shady tree and lay down Joey’s large blanket. “Gosh,” Clark said, furrowing his brow. “That’s...wow. I’m sorry you had to put your goals aside. That must not have been the easy thing to do, but I’m sure it was the right thing.”

“It was the only thing to do, you know what I mean?” Joey said. “‘The things we do for love.’ It’s okay though, I’ve had a great life. I’ve got a great job. I’ve got a great family. All of us are really close. We got to keep the restaurant and the house, which is...where I live now.” Joey averted his eyes. “I’ve got the basement all to myself! They pretty much let me do my own thing...How about you? Any siblings? Family?”

Were the tops of Clark’s cheeks turning pink? He fidgeted in his seat as Joey opened the picnic basket and broke out the food, a collection of handmade sandwiches, chips, and dips.

“My family life is...kinda weird,” Clark replied. “My parents divorced when I was little. I must have been four or five. I can almost remember life before then, when my grandmother was still alive. I remember things being so good back then. They always seem that way when you’re little. Then came the stroke, followed by the aneurysm. After that, shared custody and child support were all I knew.”

Clark unzipped the backpack he had brought and produced red Dixie cups, and a bottle of cheap white wine he had been saving, for what, he wasn’t sure. Joey immediately took hold of it and the bottle opener, and uncorked it at lightning speed. “Wartch,” Clark said in an Australian accent. “The cork whisperer at work.”

Joey looked up and winked. “Hey,” he said, “I’m sorry about your grandma too.”

“Aw, thanks,” Clark said. “It’s okay, I was so little anyway. She was the one to look after me mostly; both of my parents are workaholics. She loved me a lot. I was their golden child, after all, the favorite. I remember her reading to me, she was such a great storyteller, and the matriarch of the family, too. From what my parents say about that time, I don’t think the three of them got along: Grandma Wanda didn’t totally approve of my father, and he didn’t really care for her either. She was a strong personality. I wish I could have grown up with her, to know her, and blah blah blah...Hey, you’re not drinking?”

“Nah, I’m good. I have other vices,” Joey said, producing a bottle of cola. He filled his Dixie cup, raised it to Clark, and said, “To grandmothers who cared.”

“To grandmothers,” Clark said, clinking plastic to plastic. They smiled and held eye contact as they sipped.

Joey pressed on. “Any siblings?”

“Nah, it’s just me. But I wished I had one,” Clark confessed. “Between the phone calls about late child support payments, the cold handoffs, the showdowns at the after-school pickup line, all to be left at home on my own, I always felt sorta...I dunno. Alone. They both deny ever triangulating me in any of it, saying they never wanted to make enemies of the other, but they did. It was only natural. They’re only human, after all.”

“Oh man. That’s a tough spot to be in for a kid, for sure.”

“Oh yeah, totally. It’s no big deal now! Maybe my story isn’t that unique,” Clark said, taking another sip. “Why am I telling you all this? Haha...What about you and your family with coming out? How was that?”

“Oh, a breeze.” Joey chortled.

Clark smiled too. “Are you being sarcastic?”

“No, not at all! I came out, well, sorta recently.” Joey winced. “I think my Nonna Margaret knew before I did. That helped. I’ve dated girls, of course, but you know, it didn’t take. Did you?”

“Date girls?” Clark hesitated when he said, “Um, well, yeah...Kinda sorta but not really...” Clark couldn’t bring himself to confess he hadn’t started seriously dating until recently too, at least not then and there.

“Cool,” said Joey, unpressed. “Well, my parents took her lead and that was that. They didn’t even bat an eye. I think the day I officially told them, they pretended nothing was any different. We all went out for dinner that night, and we had an expensive bottle of wine they were saving. They never admitted to celebrating exactly, although that’s kinda what it was. I’m really lucky.”

“Wow, that’s refreshing,” Clark said, wiping his lips between bites. He took a sip and shifted in his seat again. “A stable home life. Most of my friends come from some kind of abuse or estrangement or broken home.”

“Well,” Joey said, “I wouldn’t say my home life was without its...peculiarities...” He topped off Clark’s cup with another heavy pour. Clark wasn’t sure what he meant.

“This BLT is delicious, by the way,” Clark said. “Thanks for bringing the provisions! Did you make this all yourself?”

“Thanks for coming. Yeah, yes I did,” Joey said, smiling from the rim of his cup. Clark thought he looked so handsome with his sweet smile and flirty eyes. Clark’s own eyes landed on his broad shoulders, down his collarbone, to Joey’s chest hair peeking out...He cleared his throat and quickly looked away.

“My coming out was, um, not as smooth,” Clark said. “I think Maria and Ryan were in denial about it. I had kind of...grown up emotionally estranged from them? I didn’t really know them, nor did they know me, so it’s no surprise they took it as badly as they did. I actually regret coming out September of my freshman year; it turned into a bout of family counseling, pretending we were an actual functioning family—I mean, as if! As if we were an actual family all along. I called them out on it. My dad wasn’t ever really in the picture and my mother was an emotional stranger to me; she doesn’t even know who I am. They even courted conversion therapists. The first session was on my fifteenth birthday. I called them out on that, too. ‘Happy birthday to me...’” Clark paused. “Aaand I’m rambling. Sorry for the overshare! If this is too much! You probably think something’s wrong with me...”

“Hey,” Joey said. “Nothing’s wrong with you. It’s not too much. I’m listening.”

“Okay...” Clark said. “Thanks, Joey.” His smile turned down a little at the corners. “Well, those therapists, they didn’t take either, of course. They’d talk about me like I wasn’t actually there, like I was some kinda object, something less than, just like everyone else growing up. I told them I was proud of who I am and the person I’m becoming, that there was nothing wrong with me. They said, ‘There’s no changing him if he doesn’t want to change.’ I think they were all kind of surprised to hear that come out of me at fifteen since I was kind of—well, I was super bullied—but I knew I had already done the brave thing in opening up. I knew that being brave was my only choice. It was survival.

“I came out to my mom first. I remember our family friend Patricia, her best friend growing up, told me, ‘Just tell her! She has to know already. She’s your mothuh ! She loves you no matter what!’ But my mom, she took it horribly! I think she felt somewhat betrayed, like I had broken some unspoken agreement. My dad followed suit. To think, I came out to grow closer to them. It just left me feeling like no matter what I did, I wasn’t good enough for them.”

Joey leaned in and said, “You did the right thing too, Clark, and the best you could do.”

“Yeah, I guess so,” he said. Clark looked down at his cup and threw back the last of its contents. Joey held the wine at the ready. “Thanks,” Clark said, holding his refill. “Well, that was when I had just turned fifteen. I got a job working part-time at the coffee shop. I saved up all I could. The night after my last day of freshman year of high school, I packed up all I had and moved into my grandma’s rent-controlled apartment, this cute little studio in Astoria that’s basically a bedroom with amazing light, and walls coated an inch thick in paint. I dunno how my parents got to keep it after she passed. I think she must’ve been close with the owners of the building and they turned a blind eye or something. I never see them except to sign some papers every once in a while that say I’ve let them in for repairs. I’ve been living there ever since.”

“That’s amazing,” Joey said, watching Clark with a caring eye. “That’s so young to be on your own. I think you’re amazing.”

“Aw, thanks, Joey. I remember my first night, staring up at that ceiling. It’s coated in paint so thick and dripping, I call it my papier-maché apartment. I had never felt so scared and so free at the same time, you know what I mean...?” Clark said, trailing off. “I think you’re amazing, too.”

“What about Charisma?” Joey asked.

Clark paused with his sandwich midway to his mouth. “What do you mean? What about her?”

“You’re interning for one of the most famous women in the world. That’s gotta be a big job with a lot of pressure.”

“Oh, haha . . . Yeah, I’m just an errand boy. I’m the only guy. It’s . . . kinda rough,” Clark said, searching for words.

“Why are you doing it then?” Joey asked. By his lighthearted tone, the question seemed innocent enough.

“Hmm. I...guess I’m doing it because it could lead to other, better things,” Clark said. “The opportunity kinda fell in my lap, and I’d be crazy not to take it, I think. A year there can open many doors, or so I’m told...”

“‘ If you can make it there,’” Joey mused.

“Yeah...What about you? Why Charisma? For that matter, why Northlight? You look like you could work at any gay bar in the city.”

“I’ve done that already,” Joey said matter-of-factly. “I’ve done the scene. I’ve dated those kinds of guys. Not for me. The money was...so good, but I work better hours at Northlight. The gay scene can be, I dunno. That lifestyle can kinda consume you: the parties, the people, the gratification, the alcohol...I’m better here—happier. I’ve already been promoted to assistant manager. I can audition in the mornings. I won’t do it forever but right now it’s all I know.”

Here I am, telling a guy like Joey I want more, Clark mused, when he’s happier with less... “I admire that,” he said.

“Thanks! Yeah, it’s made me reevaluate what I want, and what my goals are. Do you want to get married and have kids, Clark?” Joey asked.

Clark dropped his sandwich altogether. “What?”

Joey’s eyes widened and he broke into a fit of giggles. “I meant someday, not with me! Hahaha! That wasn’t a proposal, I swear...If I were proposing to you, I’d do it the right way.”

“Oh! Hahaha,” Clark got out nervously. His cheeks turned bright pink again. “With the right person, yeah. Someday. I think I’d be a great dad. I think anyone who’s had a messy childhood wants that, to right the wrong their parents did, don’t you? Do you? Want marriage and kids, I mean.”

“Oh yeah,” he said. “Definitely. I wanna put a down payment down, get a mortgage, and raise a family. I want the kids, the dog, the white picket fence: the whole nine yards.”

“A traditionalist. I like that,” Clark said.

Joey smiled. “A family man.”

Clark smiled back. “I think you’d be a great dad.” There was something about being around Joey that felt so easy and natural, that made Clark comfortable being his honest self. It made Joey even more intimidating, and at the same time even more attractive.

“I think you’d be a great dad, too,” Joey said, slowly leaning into Clark.

“Sometimes,” Clark said with a reluctant chortle, “I feel like I grew up so quickly that I just don’t get any of it. Being an adult is so hard.”

“So don’t grow up,” Joey said, leaning in even closer. “Stay a kid with me.”

Joey was so close, Clark could smell his cologne. For a moment, Joey’s head tilted to one side. They looked into one another’s eyes, and then to one another’s lips, and then to one another’s eyes again, and then their lips once more. Joey smiled. They moved closer, and closer, as Clark’s heart raced out of his chest, until...

“More soda?!” Clark blurted out.

Joey gave a knowing smile. “Sure! Thanks,” he said. “Hey, I have an idea—to lighten the mood.” Clark understood instantly where that telltale smell was coming from when Joey produced from his pocket a yellow lighter and a joint. “Want a hit?”

Clark looked at him, and with a hesitant smile said, “Okay. I have to confess something: I’ve never been high before...”

Joey paused and looked at him. “Never?”

“I mean, I’ve tried it once or twice. I’m from New York. It is the city’s official flower, after all...”

“Baby’s first high,” Joey said. “I’m honored.”

Joey toked the first puff and passed the joint to Clark, who took a drag, and coughed and coughed and coughed. He sputtered so hard for a minute straight that they both laughed. A couple nearby packed their belongings, stood up, and left in a huff.

While they finished eating, the two exchanged notes and giggles on the music they both loved, the TV shows they grew up on, and the movies they enjoyed. It turned out that Joey really did have a thing for witches too.

“Love them,” he said. “Can’t get enough of ’em. My grandma would always tell me to turn the sauce spoon clockwise for good luck. She and I would watch all the witch movies growing up. The one about the three Salem witches was our favorite.”

“Get out!” Clark exclaimed excitedly. “Mine too! My birthday is a week before Halloween so I always wanted Halloween parties, even if I didn’t have a lot of friends or family that would come. My mom would hunt through the TV guide when it was printed on paper—remember that?—and find all the witchy Halloween movies for me the week leading up. I always wanted to be a witch. To be special like that...What about you, when’s your birthday?”

“April eighteenth.”

“Oh, Aries . . . on the cusp of Taurus.”

“You like astrology?”

“Yeah, I like it! My mom was big into it growing up. Okay, here’s a corny question,” Clark said. “What’s your favorite color, and why?”

“Sage green,” Joey said, “because it’s peaceful. What’s yours?”

“Mm...periwinkle,” Clark said, “because it’s the color of the sky at twilight, my favorite time of day.”

Joey smiled. “What’s your favorite ice cream?”

“Ohh, that’s easy: pistachio with Nutella on top. What about yours?”

“Noice! Mine’s mint chocolate chip,” Joey said.

“Cookie dough and cookies and cream are a close second!”

“Definitely a close second. Can’t turn down anything baked,” he said wryly, passing the joint back.

Clark asked, “How about your . . . favorite smell?”

“Ohh, that’s a tough one. Lemme see...amaretto and bitters, I think, because it’s what my grandma used to drink, a glass a night. It kept her ‘zippy,’ she used to say. And cigarettes and roasting chestnuts, because they always remind me of Christmastime in the city. Oh! And the smell of cooking, like garlic and onions. That always feels like coming home. What about yours?”

“I love that! Okay, mine is, um, well, the smell of books! I love the smell of paper. Color me a nerd! And the smell of cookies baking—heaven. And coffee on the pot in the morning, like my mom used to do, although now it just makes me think about work...Ohh, and also that smoky smell of burnt-out candles, because it reminds me of birthdays when I was little, when I’d get to dress up as someone else and make a wish and blow out my candles and pretend that everybody actually loves me...” He trailed off and could feel the blood pooling in his cheeks and ears. “Hello, sob story, party of one!” Stahp talking, Clark...!

Joey leaned in and said in agreement, “This burnout loves that.” Lightly, he gave Clark a knock on the shoulder.

Joey and Clark swapped the joint until it was an ember-less bud, sharing more and laughing more, and losing track of time. Eventually, they finished the food and snacks, and when their things were packed they headed for the restroom, and then back to the car. Joey offered Clark one more hit (Clark couldn’t say no) and proposed another idea, if Clark was up for it (“of course,” Clark said, not wanting the day to end, nor to admit as much). They left the parking lot and meandered down the opposite way, walking side by side, pinkies gently knocking into one another, until the path came to a stop: Joey had wryly led them to a grassy old playground, remarkably devoid of children. Clark raced him to the top of the jungle gym.

They laughed as they squeezed their big-boy bodies through its pint-sized openings. They dangled off the monkey bars, rode the slide to the bottom and back again, and took turns pushing one another on the swings, seeing how far the other could jump off. The whole day had felt so simple and so light, Clark could not remember the last time he smiled as much.

When they tired themselves out, Joey and Clark landed in the grass to watch the clouds. The first of the fireflies had come out to play, and the sun was setting low on the horizon. On that last day of summer, under that cotton-candy sky, Clark and Joey turned to look at one another, and as if like magnets, leaned in and kissed—gentle at first, then deeper kisses that gave Clark the butterflies.

The two held hands on their way back to the car and never let go.

Joey and Clark hit some traffic on their way home. Joey drove slow in the right lane, and Clark didn’t mind. They talked about everything except work and their families, as the glittering skyline and the RFK Bridge approached on the horizon.

Before the roads grew narrow and they drove into the tight congestion of the city, Joey and Clark stopped for their favorite fast-food chain (the Other Red-Headed Girl, Clark mused, another taste they discovered they shared). They happened upon one of those miracle parking spots right in front of Clark’s building, where they sat for quite a while, eating, listening to one another’s music and stories, and then kissing some more. Joey knew exactly where to place his hands, and Clark knew exactly where to hold him. It was after ten on a school night before they finally did the adult thing they didn’t want to do, and bid one another goodbye.

“ Arrivederci , baby,” Joey said with a smile. “Until next time.”

“See you soon,” Clark replied. They leaned in for a last kiss goodnight.

That night, Clark found himself in that dream space, meeting his Ideal Self again. The whispering crowd was rowdier this time, restless and moving about.

Clark’s Ideal Self, who looked down on him with disdain, turned from Clark’s face into Monica’s, leering at him with her cold, gray eyes. “Never save the day, Clark , or you’ll never be one of us,” she sneered.

Her face erupted into sheets of fiery-copper hair, and Charisma’s head stared down at him with those piercing yellow-green eyes. She laughed her boisterous laugh that shook him to his core. Clark practically jumped out of his skin as he startled himself awake, drenched in a cold sweat at three in the morning.

That was when the nightmares began.