150 Pounds Part 6

"Oh! Right. So anyway, I gathered up about twelve pinecones in my canvas bag and then just stood there and watched you. It was kind of hard to hear through the gla.s.s..."

"I can imagine," Shoshana said sarcastically, but Aggie didn't pick up on it.

"But toward the end that Alexis person started shouting nice and loud and then I could hear just fine. The mom didn't even see me, but I had an excuse all cooked up in case they did, that I was looking for my earring in the bushes. And by the way, Alexis was totally demonic! Her aura is totally off. You looked beautiful up there. Oh! And you sounded really smart when you were talking about your blog and facts about big women's health. I was impressed."

"You could see her aura through the TV, now, could you?"

"Of course I could," she said, like it was the most obvious thing in the world. "It's a sickly green color, a very worrisome shade of moss. Pea soup. It means her chi is waaaaaaay messed up. Anyway, enough about her. I was so proud that I knew you, and you looked so beautiful and knowledgeable up there onstage!"

Shoshana was touched. Aggie's head was always so up in the clouds. Up until now, she wasn't sure Aggie actually knew about what she did for a living. "Thanks, Aggie," she said, hugging her.

Shoshana quickly pulled away, retching. "Ugh! What's that smell?"

"Must be the herbs, then," Aggie said defensively.

"It smells like dead monkey!"

"Well, then, I'll be sure not to offer you any," Aggie sniffed, turning her tiny elfin back to Shoshana. Aggie seemed impervious to cold, never wore a jacket, and had on a thin white cotton dress that had a big circle cut out in the back, through which her two shoulder blades pressed together like moth wings. You could see her tiny pink nipples through the front of the dress.

"I'm sorry, Aggie, you know I love you," Shoshana said, planting a kiss on her friend's cheek. Aggie, never one to hold a grudge, beamed at Shoshana before continuing to stir her pot.

Shoshana grabbed two slices of whole-wheat bread, a jar of peanut b.u.t.ter, and an orange. She threw it all on a plate and headed upstairs to her bedroom and shut the door. She loved living with four women, but sometimes she had to hide.

Climbing into her bed, she could hear the shouts of a teacher outside, leading a line of children across the street. "Hold hands with your buddy! Walk between the white lines!"

Shoshana walked over to her window to wipe condensation off the gla.s.s and felt the cold wet on her palm. Tiny light flakes of snow danced down from the sky, only to disappear once they hit pavement. Mothers walked side by side, pushing strollers like a brigade. There's a joke in Hoboken that you never see a child out of a stroller. And that there is a baby boom here, with a three-child limit: once the third baby pops out you grow tired of living sardinelike in a two-bedroom for three thousand a month; it's time to venture forth to that foreign land we call the suburbs. Families move a few exits down the Turnpike and expand to Montclair, Jersey City, Madison, and Summit. Shoshana planned on sticking it out in Hoboken for as long as she possibly could. Should she get married, children would have to simply live stacked one on top of the other. She would not move to the burbs no matter what.

She heard a car door slam and two small, hunched old ladies clutching triangle-shaped plastic purses emerged from their car and peered up at a tall sign in front of their car. "Can we park here?" Shoshana heard one of them ask a pa.s.serby, her wrinkled face creased further in confusion. The man crossed his arms and read the sign slowly.

"Can I park here?" is a refrain heard everywhere in Mile Square City. On the right side of every street is a white sign with green lettering. That means you can stick your car there for four hours. If you should miraculously find an empty spot on the left side, well, that is a different story. The left side has a green sign with white lettering, and you need a resident sticker on your car that you give up your firstborn child to attain. On top of this, you must also be aware that there is street cleaning every day from nine to eleven. And if you can follow all that, the streets where the cleaning takes place switch daily. All this makes for a very pedestrian-friendly city, but confusing parking situations. Hobokenites constantly look for a.s.surance from strangers walking by that they are reading the sign system correctly, and they're not about to have the parking police come by with their little handheld computers that spit fifty-dollar tickets out like sticks of gum. If you are in line at the dry cleaner's, the bakery, or the library, it is not uncommon to get a debilitating neck strain from craning your head toward the window, carefully keeping tabs on your double-parked car.

But you wouldn't have your flashers on, oh, no, sir, not if you're a local. Flashers signal weakness; a bleeding deer leaving a trail through the woods. Only a novice puts on the flashers in Hoboken, and that's who gets saddled with the dreaded white ticket slipped beneath the windshield wiper. If you're from Hoboken, you simply double-park for as long as you want. Double-parking, sans flashers, is a way of life here.

Shoshana left the window and helped Sinatra hop up on the bed. She plumped up her many pillows, forming a chair of sorts she could lean against. She moved a larger-sized one to her lap, so her computer's heat (when it was thinking, it emitted a hot blast) wouldn't scald her. She called her Web site manager, who lived in Park Slope and updated her blog daily, implemented advertis.e.m.e.nts, and kept things running smoothly. They spoke briefly, and agreed to touch base the following week to talk about a redesign of the entire blog. She peeled her orange and bit into one half-moon section, feeling the sugary burst of juice on her tongue.

She logged on to Fat and Fabulous and began reading the morning's message boards. A lot of positive feedback was still streaming in from the Oprah show as well as several sympathetic e-mails. Her favorite was from Erin of Austin, Texas: Dear Shoshana, I never knew your father pa.s.sed away, I totally understand why you'd want to keep that private and I just wanted to offer you my condolences. At first I was surprised that you kept something a secret, since you usually tell your readers every detail of your private life. Fat and Fabulous has done amazing things for my self-esteem. I am a librarian at an all-girls prep school and I weigh 300 pounds. I feel like your blog helps me open discussions between the high-school-age girls at my school so they can love their bodies just the way they are. Anyway, I appreciate everything you've done for me in my life and wanted to reach out and say how sorry I am about your father's pa.s.sing.

Her phone rang. Shoshana sighed. She wished she were one of those dedicated writers who could shut off her phone so as not to be disturbed. She'd once read an interview with a novelist who would cuff her leg to her desk chair in order to force herself to work. Sometimes Shoshana thought writers made up things to sound interesting. I mean, how did that woman pee for goodness' sake?

She heard her mother's voice and was immediately enveloped in a warm calm.

"Hi, Mom," she said.

"Honey, did you know they're showing another repeat of the Oprah show today?"

Her throat tightened. "Oh. I didn't know that, no."

"Well, do you want to drive here and we'll watch it together? Your sister is home, she got that lovely new a.s.sistant to watch the store and she doesn't have anyone to draw pictures on today."

Shoshana smiled. Her mother always called tattooing "drawing pictures." She didn't seem to grasp the concept of the needle penetrating skin.

"I can't, Mom, I just woke up and I have to do some work on the blog. I literally haven't done anything yet today, and I have to check in with all my writers and see when the heck they're going to turn in their work."

"Your sister and I will be watching the show again. Emily wants to see if she can spot herself in the audience, of course."

She was half listening to her mother, and half drifting into her wave of thought. Shoshana felt something shift within her. The Oprah experience still bothered her.

"Are you proud of me, Mom?" she asked quietly. She stuck a pink fingernail on the down arrow and scrolled through several more posts on her message board. There were a lot of women very angry with Alexis Allbright. One had superimposed red devil horns and a tail onto a picture of her, taken from an appearance she'd made on The View last year.

"Well, I was proud of you until I saw this kid on Ellen who is a five-year-old piano prodigy who they say is better now than Beethoven in his prime."

"Mom!"

Pam laughed. "Of course I'm proud of you, what kind of question is that?"

"I don't know. I've been kind of b.u.mmed out since Oprah. Alexis had way more health facts to throw at me than I did. I feel like I came off kind of silly."

"Shoshana, if you think for one second I give ... well, I give an owl's behind about what Alexis Allbright says or thinks, you've got another thing coming."

Shoshana had to smile at the expression. Pam wasn't much of a curser.

"Dear, no one cares about boring statistics but doctors. Your posts are funny and smart and witty. You make people feel good about themselves again, and that is a skill. Your father and I have always been proud of you, and if he were here today he'd give you a big hug. Now, promise me you'll come over later after you do some work. Emily is shouting that she'll make spinach lasagna for dinner, your favorite. And you know she's not always willing to eat your vegetarian stuff. It sometimes has an odd ... taste. You can bring Sinatra. I've bought him a new chew toy."

Her mother called Sinatra her hairy grandson and doted on him. He could do no wrong in her eyes, even when he dug up her azaleas and peed all over the backyard, leaving little white circles where the gra.s.s withered and finally died.

"Okay, okay. I'll drive home after I do some work. Love you, Mom."

"Love you, too. And keep your chin up!" There was a click as her mother hung up her old white phone, which had hung in their kitchen as long as Shoshana could remember. Its ring was cranky, a hammer hitting a bell. Her parents had bought it at a flea market when they were dating, and Pam refused to get rid of it.

Shoshana read through more message boards, made a few notes for tomorrow's column, and closed her laptop. She heard Karen and her long, volleyball-champ legs walking down the stairs on her way to law school and the creaking sounds of the metal gate swinging behind her as she left for the train. Andrea's light snoring came through the wall next door. Well, good. She worked a lot of nights and Shoshana knew she was tired. Plus, she had to get her beauty rest before her big date. She hoped this guy was a good one; some of Andrea's past beaus were doing hard time in the clink.

It was one o'clock and time to call Nancy.

"Is this Fancy Nancy?" she asked, when her friend picked up the phone.

"In the flesh," she said, in her low growl of a voice. She had a thick Jersey accent that sounded just like Kathleen Turner in Serial Mom.

"Ready for our walk? It's pretty cold out, but I feel like I need to do something healthy after the few gla.s.ses of wine I had last night. I think my insides are made out of grapes now."

"Meet you at Dunkin's?"

"Word."

They disconnected. Shoshana put on her pink XXL sweatsuit, brushed her long hair into a high ponytail, slipped on shoes, and set out, dragging a protesting Sinatra along with her. He was a high-maintenance dog and didn't like being out in any weather below fifty degrees, but Shoshana knew he'd like it once the cold air hit his tongue. She dressed him in an army fatigue jacket with a fur-trim hood.

As she pa.s.sed an old-style Italian club (one of several still scattered throughout this mile-square town) she caught a flash of soccer on a television bolted into the wood-panel wall, an overwhelming smell of cigar smoke (the no-smoking-inside ban had come and gone here, like a fad), and glimpsed old men cl.u.s.tered around the entrance. They patted their breast pockets for their next cigar, spoke in rapid Italian (oh, what were they saying she wanted to know), and slapped one another on the back, telling stories. They wore tweed jackets, skinny gray ties with bright red designs on them, high-waisted pants with cuffs on the bottoms, and suspenders Shoshana imagined she could have walked past the club any decade of the last century and the men would look exactly as they did now. There were never any women in sight.

She had a library book to return, so she walked down Fourth. The snow had let up and there was a light dusting on the ground. The sun peeked through clouds, casting the town in a grayish yellow light. Kids were having a s...o...b..ll fight in Church Square Park and Shoshana scooted out of the way of an incoming missile. Because of the snow the colors were crisp: the bricks on the top of Our Lady of Grace Church shone bright red against its surroundings. On the Waterfront was filmed here, and the church looked even more beautiful in color than in the black-and-white film. She pictured Brando sauntering in, a cigarette dangling from his mouth.

As they neared the dog park Sinatra let out a high-pitched yelp and his furless body wiggled with excitement. Last fall she took knitting lessons with Aggie at Patricia's Yarns up the street, and beneath his jacket Sinatra was decked out in a very festive blue and white sweater: Giants colors. There was a fenced-in park for big dogs, and a neighboring one set up for small dogs, but Sinatra didn't know his puny size and preferred to gallop and chase tennis b.a.l.l.s with Great Danes and pit bulls, for reasons Shoshana would never understand. She thought it might go back to his kennel days. When she adopted him, he was being nursed by a very large pit bull, much to the amazement of the shelter's staff, but now that she knew Sinatra's bewitching charms, she could easily see why the pit bull had chosen to mother him. Thus, Sinatra loved oversized dogs, and didn't mind being occasionally stepped on or having his b.u.t.t sniffed by dogs big enough to eat him for lunch.

"See, aren't you glad you came outside?" she cooed to him, as she opened the gate to the park. She waved to a few regulars, and sat down on a bench to finish the latest beach read she'd bought last week because it made her feel warm. After a couple of minutes she looked up to see Sinatra riding on the back of a German shepherd. "Five-minute warning!" she called to him, like the mother of a preschooler. And sure enough, soon Sinatra seemed to sense it was time to go see Aunt Nancy, and he came trotting over.

White snow on the branches of the trees reflected off the library's windows as she walked. It was hard to imagine the ashen boughs ever holding succulent green leaves again. She dropped off her library book in the metal box outside the building instead of going inside; it was so cold out that if she warmed up slightly she'd want to head right back home and get back into bed.

As she walked uptown, a snowplow with orange circling lights made beeping noises as a cop helped direct traffic around it. Over her sweatshirt Shoshana was wearing a black down jacket that went to her knees and had an attractive cinched metal belt that she felt gave her a waist. It came with a fake fur hood that matched Sinatra's, and she now gathered it over her head for warmth. It framed the scene in an oval shape in front of her: the mailwoman pushing her mail cart with red mittens, two skinny Hispanic teenage girls wearing Day-Glo high-tops and skin-tight jeans pressed against one another, popping gum and giggling as they walked, a harried-looking mother pushing twin boys in an expensive-looking double stroller with a plastic awning down in front of them to keep the warmth in, a group of loud, laughing men walking to a late lunch, a father walking with his daughter balanced on his shoulders, her cheeks rosy from the cold. The last image made Shoshana smile. She missed her own father constantly, and something about happy father-daughter images always melted her heart because they made her remember him, which was a good thing.

She walked the three blocks over to Dunkin' Donuts to meet Nancy and begin exercising, which hopefully would culminate with a gla.s.s of wine. The crisp, sharp winter air felt fresh and full of promise against her cheeks. She saw Nancy in all her leopard-print spandex glory, and waved, happy to see her friend.

Skinny Chick.

Beth Ditto was recently interviewed, and The Frisky ran her quote: "I'm not an unhealthy person and I feel like one of the most tiring parts of being fat and being proud of it is ... you do a lot of proving yourself all the time. It's really interesting to me that people will look at a thin person and go, 'That's a healthy person.' I want to go, 'Come open my refrigerator and look and then let's talk about what you think is so bad.' To be thin and to stay really thin, sometimes ... some people literally do c.o.ke all the time. Some people smoke cigarettes instead of eating. That's crazy. But that's 'okay' because you look healthier."

Of course, I just had to comment on this. Beth, I would love to take a look inside your refrigerator. And your kitchen cabinets. And underneath your pillow. With 64 percent of American women overweight, I find your comments ridiculous and I think you should stick to what you do best: writing songs.

No, Beth, not every thin person snorts cocaine to maintain a healthy body weight. Most of us simply believe making simple, smart choices helps us feel better about ourselves.

If you're a multimillionaire pop star with a driver and stylist, and you have business deals designing clothing for overweight women, you're going to have higher self-esteem than the average American woman. But Beth, most of us don't have those privileges. And trying to make obesity somehow sound cool and righteous means you are digging graves for your fans and promoting an unhealthy and unproductive life. And that's more than gossip.

What the h.e.l.l do people wear to a cooking cla.s.s held within a chic gym? Alexis was not about to don an ap.r.o.n. She was knee-deep in the hallway closet she shared with Billy. In terms of a "walk-in closet," it was more like a "step-one-toe-into-closet." Each time she went downstairs she stared longingly through the window at the Container Store's organized shelving ideas, but she couldn't afford any of them. She and Billy and Vanya had barely sc.r.a.ped together enough money for rent last month, and Chelsea was getting more and more expensive. Soon they'd have to (gasp!) move to an outer borough, something she and Billy had once made a blood pact not to do.

Half the time she couldn't tell which clothing was hers and which belonged to Billy. She'd suggested she take the top bar and he the bottom, but when he hung up his clothes (which wasn't very often) he mixed his stuff in with hers, and as he wasn't that much larger than herself, she often ended up wearing his clothes. Seeing a flash of leopard print or having a soft fan of pink feathers brush against her cheek when she started rummaging around in there didn't tell her anything; it could belong to either one of them. She was glad skin-tight leggings were hot right now, as she'd throw on a pair in black and one of Billy's gray cashmere Ralph Lauren sweaters and leave several b.u.t.tons open at the top, then loop a ton of thin gold necklaces around her neck, and pull on her knee-high black boots with the pointy heel that doubled as a weapon and could put someone's eye out if necessary. For tonight she chose skinny black jeans and a lacy black bra with a gray, loose-fitting tank top that was open on the sides and showed her ribs. She loved monochromatic, solid colors and stayed away from anything overly feminine. She was so thin she was almost androgynous, and she wore mainly gray or black. On her feet she slipped on her favorite pair of black suede Ferragamo knee-high boots with four-inch heels. She found one of Billy's sweaters scrunched and rolled up on the floor like a run-over animal on the road and put it over the tank for warmth.

She owned what she thought of as essential clothing; she'd get designer clothes at consignment stores, or she would save up her earnings from Skinny Chick until she could buy something rare and fabulous. She refused to shop at H&M or Target just to have a big wardrobe. She was careful, conscientious, and meticulous about her purchases. She might only collect one item of clothing a season, and would first stalk the store like a lion would a gazelle in the wild, stopping by Armani on Fifth Avenue to try on the same wrap dress five times, popping into Prada to measure a purse with a ruler, then practicing walking around the store with it, or heading on over to Saks (she loved the smell of the place, the little perfume sample wands, the rows of new clothing from every designer, even the dressing rooms!) and would slip on a pair of Michael Kors platform pumps and not buy them until a month later. Sometimes she had dreams about whatever piece she was contemplating buying.

She knew how best to dress her rail-thin frame and she didn't mind not having b.r.e.a.s.t.s. In fact, she was proud of her little mosquito bites. Billy even had bigger b.r.e.a.s.t.s than she did when he dressed in drag, which he would from time to time if the mood struck. His chest was sculpted and when he wore a push-up bra he had minor cleavage. He complained her size-A bras were too small to fit around his chest, so she told him to f.u.c.k off and buy his own bra, which he did, in a C cup so he could stuff it with a pair of wobbly chicken-cutlet-like fake b.r.e.a.s.t.s he had left over from a photo shoot and take up an hour in the bathroom affixing.

Hollywood had, in the last ten years, made thin very in, and clothes being made these days reflected that. Why else call regular old blue jeans "skinny jeans"? American culture had finally caught up with Alexis's shape and form, and she couldn't be more thrilled about it.

She fiddled with earrings on her dresser, finally settling on a pair of square-shaped gold ones bought from a street vendor in Chinatown. While she avoided the cheap stuff when it came to clothing, bags, and shoes, she wasn't sn.o.bbish about accessories and felt a surge of excitement when she found great, funky jewelry on the street. She wondered what kind of clothes the women that cute chef dated wore, and then was so surprised she cared that she paused in the hallway. She picked up men and discarded them like yesterday's newspaper. She couldn't remember the last time she'd dressed up for a boy. The thought bounced around her mind, shiny and exciting.

She locked the door to her apartment, pa.s.sing the sound of her neighbor's guitar playing. His name was Jack and he was in a small indie rock band that traveled most of the year. Billy fed his goldfish for him when he was on tour and Billy and Alexis would snoop around in Jack's dresser, giggling about his leopard-print boxers. Jack worked out with hand weights and Billy would pump a few rounds of iron before getting bored and trying on all Jack's tight black jeans.

Alexis took the stairs, bypa.s.sing the elevator in favor of exercise. She'd gone slightly over her caloric intake at lunch, enjoying half of a chicken salad with mayonnaise that Billy had brought home from work.

Outside, a great gust of wind and wet hit her, throwing her hair across her face in one sticky move. She picked it off her forehead, wiped the water out of her eyes, combed her stick-straight white bob with her fingers, and set forth toward Soho Gym. Alexis had a strut, which she'd learned by watching Kate Moss walk the runway. She liked Kate because she was the most pet.i.te supermodel, and therefore had a body similar to her own.

She turned on her iPod and strains of Woody Guthrie sounded in her ears. She loved folk music. It was a fact that always surprised people, though she didn't know why. She was very patriotic. She loved Pete Seeger, Taylor Swift, Joni Mitch.e.l.l, Phil Ochs, James Taylor.

The night was balmy; spring wet and windy. She regretted the sweater and considered stripping it and only wearing the camisole underneath, but she would not stoop to winding it around her waist. People who did that looked like mountain hikers. It was absurd. Hopefully the kitchen was air-conditioned.

Approaching her gym, she marveled at its wide, etched gla.s.s front windows and oversized modern steel doors. It was so much a part of her life, she was surprised she never took advantage of one of its special cooking series. The idea of being around so many people had been a turnoff (Alexis hated crowds), yet this was the first time the instructor was so d.a.m.n cute. Soho Gym had a huge state-of-the-art cooking facility and hosted several guest chef appearances a year. If nothing else, she could use healthy cooking tips for Skinny Chick, she mused.

Someone new was working the front desk, a woman in her late thirties with her black hair in a braid and a sculpted body. She smiled at Alexis and beeped in her membership card. This annoyed Alexis (she didn't like change) until she remembered Carlos said he was taking the cooking cla.s.s tonight along with Sarah. Her usual routine was to enter the locker room and weigh herself, so it was odd to bypa.s.s it and instead walk in the opposite direction. It gave her pause. She still wasn't sure why she'd impulsively signed up for this cooking cla.s.s. She sighed and fiddled with her earring.

Alexis pa.s.sed the weight room, strutted by the little spa that was attached to the gym, breezed through the trainers' offices, until she finally came out into a high-ceilinged area that was s.p.a.cious, with a modern design of bleached-blond wood countertops and shining steel stoves that took up a large portion of the room. On the wall were large black-and-white photos of various New York chefs such as David Chang and Mario Batali captured in stills while working at their craft.

She spotted Carlos and Sarah huddled in a corner talking with other gym members, some of whom she recognized. There was the chick who always did sit-ups with one of the medicine b.a.l.l.s to conclude her workout. Talking to her was the Hispanic guy in his forties with gray sideburns who wore fingerless gloves to lift weights. Tonight he had on a suit, probably having come from work. There was the red-haired mother of three with the great legs whom Alexis always overheard complaining about her youngest son, who apparently was a troublemaker in the little day care at the gym. She looked relieved to be child-free. It was strange to see all the regulars in street clothes; like attending a costume party.

It was crowded, but the room was big enough that the twenty or so people taking the cla.s.s were a.s.sembled in the front on white leather couches and matching chairs. Noah stood in front of a fireplace that gave the room a pleasant smoky aroma. Alexis found herself catching her breath. Noah was very, very tall and even more handsome in person; those coal eyes contrasting with the sleeves of his white cashmere sweater pushed back to showcase his rich, dark skin and sculpted forearms. He wore a pencil behind one ear. He was standing very close to two women who were waving cookbooks around and asking him questions. He appeared to be listening deeply, nodding his head as they spoke. Alexis could tell by their happy demeanor that they couldn't care less about the program. They were just happy to talk to Noah.

She walked over to Sarah and Carlos. She couldn't be sure, but it seemed like a flash of annoyance ran over Sarah's face as she approached but she quickly recovered and gave Alexis a broad smile. Alexis had known both of them for years, but never seen them socially. She felt absurdly shy. As a child she'd beaten people into submission until they were her "friend." Other than Billy, she didn't have any other friends. She sometimes wished she had better people skills and wasn't so neurotic. It was almost as if she couldn't ever relax enough to not care what other people thought, and she gave off tense vibes. She wasn't sure how to be perceived differently. b.i.t.c.hiness was all she knew.

"Hi, Alexis! You look fabulous, as always. Those squats are paying off. Carlos and I were just talking about how we hope the cooking gets started soon. I'm starving!"

"Hi, Sarah, Carlos. I have some edamame in my purse," Alexis offered, pulling out a small plastic bag and opening it for Sarah. She made a mental note to adjust the calories on her phone app later.

"Thanks!" Sarah said, reaching her hand into the offered bag. "I guess I'm going to have to get used to eating all the time. I'm always either watching what I eat or stuffing a ton of protein down my throat for various triathlons. Eating more moderately is going to take some getting used to, so I think I'll learn a lot tonight."

"I was just hoping to be taught some good dishes to impress the girls," Carlos said, and Sarah punched him in the arm. He was wearing a hot pink netted tank top over a white wife-beater and jeans. Alexis could never tell if Carlos was gay or straight. He dressed pretty flamboyantly, but he was always flirting with her when she checked in at the front desk. He seemed to just simply like everyone.

"Do you ever not think with little Carlos?" Sarah asked. "You're just like my husband, with s.e.x on the brain twenty-four/seven."

"Shhhhh, I think he's getting started, mamacitas. Pay attention." He put his arms around Sarah and Alexis, turning them both toward the front of the room.

A murmur went through the crowd as some of the women began taking their seats. Looking around, Alexis saw most had taken as much care as she had with choosing their outfits. She saw short skirts, high heels, expertly done makeup, tasteful jewelry. She crossed her arms. Noah might be hot, but she was here to learn recipes for Skinny Chick. Not to be suckered into drooling all over this guy, who probably had a big ego, what with all these women fawning over him.

"h.e.l.lo, h.e.l.lo," he was saying, as people wrapped up their conversations. He had a warm baritone. He ran a hand through his curls, making some hair stand up on its own. He had two-day-old stubble, which bothered Alexis. If you're teaching a cla.s.s, is it too much trouble for you to shave your face? She admitted it gave him a handsome kind of rustic outdoorsy look, but still. She didn't tolerate anyone who wasn't neat, like her-and a chef, no less!

"I'd just like to take a moment to thank everyone for coming to my cooking cla.s.s tonight. I know a lot of you have families and it's difficult to get away."

"Not if you force your husband to watch the kids!" the red-haired, freckly woman who was sitting near Alexis shouted out.

"What is this, bingo night?" she whispered to Carlos, who choked on the iced coffee he was drinking. He loved Alexis. She was such a diva. Alexis got a pad of paper from her purse and started jotting down notes.

Noah laughed. He had a goofy laugh, a deep sound that was too dorky for a man so handsome. It sounded like the mating call of some exotic bird. Alexis found herself wondering if people teased him about it.

"Good for you," he was saying, nodding. "I know how important it is for some of you to have a night off from child care, and I promise you that I will be teaching the wonders and beauty of cooking low-fat, healthy chili. It's a recipe I perfected while hiking the Appalachian Trail. I ran out of food and had to borrow ingredients from other hikers. This recipe I hope to use someday when I open my own restaurant." He chuckled humbly. "If I ever open up my own restaurant. It's called Noah's Nasty Chili, and it's got a major spicy kick. So hold on to your seats, everyone! And be sure to drink lots of water!"

He gave a brief bio of his work, from helping in restaurants in Colorado where he was from, to his experience in various New York restaurants with names Alexis was impressed by.

A few oohs and aahs from the audience.

"Also, while we work we'll be sipping some of my organic beer, which I make in my apartment in Brooklyn. Trust me, it's worth the calories!"

Hmmm. Very few things were worth the calories. Alexis would skip the beer.

"He can come over to my place and cook for me anytime," a woman standing nearby whispered to her friend.

There were the sounds of shuffling feet as people formed groups around the gleaming stoves in the center of the room.

"Right! So I'll start pa.s.sing out the ingredients, which I got at the Union Square farmers' market this morning," said Noah. He stood in the middle of his audience. Alexis was sitting on a low stool and he was so tall she had to crane her neck up to see him. He continued, "Always buy vegetables when they're in season, not when they have to be imported."

Alexis sighed loudly. So far she wasn't learning anything she didn't know. She'd blogged just recently about the importance of buying local and attending farmers' markets, and accompanied the entry with pictures of her wearing an adorable striped sailor dress she'd bought used at Tokio 7 and holding up squashes, zucchinis, and plums. She'd posted a picture of Billy with dark circles under his eyes. (He really did need to get more sleep.) She made a mental note to tell him. He held two coconuts as mock b.r.e.a.s.t.s on his skinny chest like a Hawaiian hula girl's bra. Alexis giggled every time she saw the picture.

Also, she didn't think making chili or drinking beer were very healthy, or appropriate for a gym cooking cla.s.s. But she'd already paid the money, so she might as well learn something. If nothing else, it was fun to hang out socially with Sarah and Carlos.

Just before Noah went around the room pa.s.sing out various foods, he flipped a large chalkboard over like a somersault in the front of the room. He'd drawn the ingredients in chalk, which included wasabi sauce and a few alarming-sounding hot peppers ... and was that scorpion sauce? What the h.e.l.l? At the bottom he wrote in all caps, = NOAH'S NASTY CHILI, like it was a math equation. That equal sign endeared him just a little to Alexis. It looked so determined up there. So complete, like Noah really cared about each person here adding up all the ingredients and ending up with piping hot chili. She c.o.c.ked her head and peered at him closer. Her blunt, chic bob swayed forward. The lights on the ceiling glowed, a shimmery ring.