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CASSIE
AS MUCH AS I was thrilled by Dauphine’s bravery and excited to guide her, I was also admittedly a
little jealous. After all, I had caught a glimpse of her fantasy board, and some of the marvelous men
she was about to experience. That’s why I whipped out my phone right then and there on Third Street,
before reaching Magazine. Enough of this silly reticence, these dumb fears. Dauphine had said,
“Surprise me,” in response to the Committee asking her what kind of sexual fantasies she hoped to
enjoy. If I was going to be someone’s Guide, I had better start getting brave myself.
I punched in Mark Drury’s number with a new vigor.
“Hello?” he said in a voice that sounded like it had been stored in an oak barrel in a damp
basement.
“I woke you up, didn’t I.” Oh shit.
“Yes, you did.”
“But it’s four in the afternoon.”
“Is that you, Mom? I thought you passed away eleven years ago. This is such a nice surprise,” he
said, yawning.
“No, it’s not your—It’s the girl you met on the patio a few days ago. Cassie. Though, I am sorry
about your mother.”
“I’m just messing with you. I know who you are, and for the record, my mother’s alive.”
Okay, I’m dealing with a jokester. I can do this.
“Wait till I tell her what you did.”
“That’s very presumptuous, assuming you’ll meet my mom before you’ve even gone out on one date
with me. Where are you?”
“In the Garden District, leaving … a friend’s house,” I said, glancing over my shoulder at the
Mansion, now in the distance.
“So?” I said.
“So what?”
“So … wanna hook up?”
“Right now?” he asked, choking a little on his words. “Yeah. Right now.”
“Yeah!” he said, fully awake now.
He suggested Schiro’s in a half hour. That meant no time to change, I thought, looking down at my
T-shirt and jeans. And no time to change my mind. I was going to “hook up” with a guy I had just met.
A wave of nausea overcame me. Could I do this? That was what my year of S.E.C.R.E.T. was for,
wasn’t it? To act as a set of sexual training wheels? It was high time they came off. I knew what my
needs were. Time to get them met.
Of course Mark Drury was late. Of course he knew the cute waitress, the hot girl eating alone, the
androgynous sous chef who he stopped to high-five, and the curvy bartender from whom he ordered a
pitcher of beer before taking a seat opposite me at the last empty table. Schiro’s was popular with
locals, the musicians and restaurant folks who ate at odd hours. It was almost 5 p.m., lunchtime for