Read Heart and Soul for Free Online Page B

customers as I looked for him out the window from my post at the Juilliard Bookstore cash register. And I caused a spectacular collision at Brittany’s, a trendy restaurant where the wait staff wore roller skates—some challenge when you were carting a tray full of nachos and some joker wanted to pinch your ass as you rolled by. I was delivering desserts and turned my head to gawk out at Broadway just on the off chance that Montagnier might be passing by. I rolled straight into another waitress. Hot fudge sundaes flew, we did a little roller-derby dance, and down we went. The restaurant gave us a standing ovation. That’s what I like about New Yorkers, the warped sense of humor.
    Fortunately, I kept the job, which I needed to pay the rent at my studio apartment on West 78th Street. Plus, that week I deposited another twenty bucks in Angie’s savings account and I figured if I only ate a container of yogurt for lunch, I could set aside a little more. The restaurant gave you free saltines, and I knew it wouldn’t kill me to lose a couple of pounds. I called in for my messages every time I snagged a free minute, and when I got home at night I stared at the ring button on my phone. I mean, what if I was yawning when it rang and was temporarily deaf? I took extremely short showers and made sure to stick my head out to listen every few seconds. I dried my hair beside the phone. But David Montagnier had obviously forgotten all about me. I kept reconstructing my last conversation with him and thought I remembered some clue that he wanted to work with me again. But French people pout a little when they talk and it’s sexy as hell. I’d been too busy watching David’s mouth to pay attention to what he was actually saying.
    Finally, after not hearing from him by Thursday night, I convinced myself that it was up to me to make the first move. I got all pumped and sat down with a pencil to figure out what I would say into David’s machine in case he wasn’t there. I was not about to screw up, not when there was no prayer of erasing the message once my voice got stuck to that strip of tape. So after a lot of scribbling and crossing out, here’s what I wrote down: “ Hello, this is Bess Stallone. (I didn’t know what to call him for one thing, plus there was the issue of the American DAY-vid versus the French Dah-VEED. I figured I’d just avoid the issue.) I wasn’t sure if you wanted to schedule another practice session but next week turns out to be good for me if you’re free. (And the week after that, and the week after that …) You can reach me at 503-8986. Thanks. ”
    Sounds easy enough, doesn’t it? With a certain understated dignity? So I dialed his number and suddenly the stage fright rose right up out of the floor of my own apartment and grabbed me by the throat. The last time I heard my voice sound like this I’d just inhaled the helium from Pauline’s birthday balloons back in eighth grade: “Hi. This is Stress. Bess! Stallone! … (long gap with heavy breathing, then:) I wasn’t sure if you wanted to do it with me … Oh shit, oh fuck. Sorry. Never mind. Sorry.”
    My hand was so drenched with sweat that the phone slipped out of my hand, which was probably just as well. I woke up on the floor: I lay there staring at the peeling paint on the ceiling and realized that I’d hung up without leaving my number, but I figured he’d never want to call me after that anyway.
    He didn’t. Another week went by, during which I fought the need to remain totally trashed in order to forget the phone-machine stunt. When I showed up for my lesson, Professor Stein wanted to know how it went with David Montagnier. I said, “Okay, I guess. How are you feeling?”
    â€œNever mind,” he said with a cough. “Did David want to work with you again?”
    I started to feel dangerously weepy so I just shook my head and asked the