Free Improper English by Katie MacAlister Page B

tucked a bag under my chin and freed up a hand to shake hers. “It’s Alexandra, really, but no one calls me that but my mother when she’s annoyed, and I spell the shortened version with an I not an E, but yes, it’s more or less the same. I’ve been told Isabella has a bit of aproblem with names. She told me you were Miss Fingers.”
    Ray barked a short laugh that echoed up the stairwell as we marched upwards. “Been called worse. Fingers. Have to remember that one for Bert.”
    We rounded the landing between the second and third floors and started up the last flight of stairs. “Perhaps we could have dinner together one night. There’s a lovely Italian restaurant I found a couple of blocks away—you probably know it. They do the best chicken Caesar salad I’ve ever had—”
    “Stella’s,” she interrupted me, and stood by my door as I unlocked it. “Couldn’t go without Bert.”
    “Bert?” I dumped my bags on the little table next to the door and turned back to take the CD player from her, but she held it tight. She gave me a long, steady look.
    “Bert’s my partner. Just so you know.”
    “Your partner?” I reached for the box she held and then paused. She had a short pony tail with cropped hair on top, was dressed in a T-shirt and scrungy pair of khaki shorts, and wore socks with her leather sandals. “Oh, your partner . No, that’s fine, I wasn’t trying to pick you up or anything, I just thought it would be nice to get to know the people in the building. Besides, I’m not—I don’t—that is, I’m into men—”
    “It’s frowned on here,” she said, shoving the box into my arms.
    “It is?” I felt my jaw sag at this bit of startling news. Heterosexuality was frowned on here? Was it in the lease?
    “Loud music.” She nodded toward the CD player. “Disturbs everyone. No loud music after ten p.m.”
    “Oh, the music! No problem, I’ll keep it down low.Thanks for your help, and let me know about dinner one night. You and Bert and me.”
    She flashed a blinding smile, nodded, gave a little wave, and trotted back down the stairs.
    After a quick shower in the minuscule bathroom that shared a wall with the cubbyhole kitchen, I spread out all of the hair products and tried to pick one that looked like it wouldn’t harden to the consistency of shellac. I did my best to follow Manuel’s hastily spoken instructions for duplicating my kicky ’do, pulled on another of the cool Indian gauze dresses from the shop in the tube station, and ran back downstairs to pick up my mail. Generally most of my mail consisted of Stephanie’s mail that I forward to her parents; this day was no different, with one letter for me, a handful of what looked like junk mail for Stephanie, and something from British Telecom addressed to Philippe Aspertaille, Flat 3.
    “Mr. Aspertame, I just bet,” I said, and went to plug in the new boom box. I rummaged through the few CDs I had brought with me and tried to think what I was in the mood for.
    “When in Rome,” I sighed, and popped in the Austin Powers soundtrack. I waited for my favorite song to start, and almost jumped out of my skin when the music blasted out at a decibel level I didn’t think was possible from a cheap knock-off CD player. I leaped for the volume control, well aware that with the heat, everyone’s windows were open to catch a draft, and no doubt the music was being heard all over the neighborhood. I turned the knob to the left, but the song still blared at a deafening volume.
    “Damn, damn, damn,” I swore, and turned the knob to the right. The volume dropped slightly, but I was sureit was still loud enough to be heard throughout the house. I tipped the player face down on two pillows, and deciding it was bearable, grabbed Philippe’s letter, bossa-ing my nova down to the floor below.
    Right foot back, close left foot to right. Left foot forward, close right foot to left. Remember to bend at the knees and add a touch of hip action.
    I