Lilah's List. Robyn Amos
Feeling a surge of wistfulness, Lilah grabbed her phone and began to dial. It was ten-thirty on a Saturday night, so the odds were strongly against her friend answering, but it had already been too long since they’d last spoken.
“Hello?”
“Angie, I’m so glad you’re there.”
“Lilah?” croaked a weaker version of Angie’s vibrant timbre.
“Did I catch you at a bad time? You sound exhausted.”
“It’s never a bad time to talk to you, but I was running around the city all day looking for platinum buttons. Not gold. Not silver. Platinum—for some diva who doesn’t let any lesser metals touch her skin.”
While she was awaiting her big break, Angie was sewing costumes for an off-Broadway playhouse.
“Aw, honey, I’m sorry to hear you had such a rough day.”
“Don’t worry, as it turns out, Miss Thing doesn’t know the difference between silver and platinum after all.”
Lilah laughed. “You’re so bad.”
“That’s why you love me.”
“Anyway, I was finally unpacking the last of my boxes today, and you’ll never believe what I found.”
“Um, two million dollars’ worth of gold bullion that you’re looking to split with your best friend?”
“I found The List.”
“The List? Fifty things you wanted to do before thirty? Hey, your thirtieth birthday is next month. How far did you get?”
Lilah scanned the sheet, mentally crossing off a couple of things she’d accomplished in the last eight years. “I guess I’m almost halfway through it.”
“November tenth is—” She paused for calculation. “Twenty-one days away. Are you going to try to finish it off?”
Lilah huffed. “Some of these things aren’t even possible anymore. Remember item number one—date Reggie Martin?”
Angie sighed. “Well, that one’s not impossible. Just a bit of a challenge.”
“Ha! Have you listened to your radio lately? Reggie Martin is even more unattainable now than when he was just your average high school stud.”
Reggie Martin was the sole reason Lilah had made The List in the first place. Her father had been giving her some sort of pep talk about how anything was possible if she identified her goals and worked toward them. Sure, he’d been referring to things like college and career, but at the time, Lilah had been obsessed with Reggie Martin.
It had taken a great deal of self-restraint not to write marry Reggie Martin at the top of The List, but she’d decided to stay within the realm of possibility. He was the lean-muscled, baby-faced, track-running, future superstar that she’d tutored in math.
“I don’t know,” Angie argued. “I think we got you pretty close in high school. I had to bake Bobby Carnivelli cookies for two months so he’d let you take over as Reggie’s math tutor. It’s not my fault you were too shy to make the first move.”
For her entire junior and senior year, she and Angie had devised many a plot to get Reggie’s attention, all of which stopped just short of her confessing her undying love. A girl had to have her pride.
“I’m old-fashioned. I prefer the gentleman to do the asking.”
“Old-fashioned, my gluteus maximus. You were just a big, fat chicken.”
“Oh ho. Was I chicken in the sixth grade when I talked LaTonya Richards out of beating you up?”
“Well—”
“And what about the time I convinced a Maryland State Trooper not to give you yet another ticket. The ticket that would have ultimately caused you to lose your license. And—”
“I meant with boys, okay? You’re a big, fat chicken when it comes to boys.”
“Fine. I’ll concede on that point. Which brings us back to the issue at hand. Number one on my list, date Reggie Martin, has gone from unlikely to impossible. He’s a superstar now.”
Reggie had always been a singer. He had a lovely melodic voice and could be found singing on almost any occasion. But no one could have predicted that he’d manage to parlay that into a career. Right now, his first single, “Love Triangle,” was getting heavy rotation on all the air waves.
“He’s not a superstar yet—more like a rising star. It’s not the same as trying to get a date with somebody like…Usher.” Angie was eternally optimistic, which was one of the qualities Lilah missed most about her.
“Yeah, whatever, girl. Keep hitting that crack pipe.”
“Okay, put number one aside for now. What else is left on your list?”
“Eat escargot, ride a mechanical bull, get a tattoo, crash a party—”
“Slow down there, girlfriend. Those are all things you can still do.”
“Angie, I don’t even want a tattoo.”
“That point is moot. Listen…. I have a plan—”
In the past those four words between them would have given her a charge, but Lilah’s mature, twenty-nine-year-old self had learned to avoid trouble at all costs. “No, I have a plan. How about we forget I ever mentioned the stupid list and talk about something else.”
“Not a chance. Here’s what I think—you should come to New York a week before your birthday, and we’ll knock The List out.”
“Remember number one—”
“I said I have a plan.”
“You have a plan to get me a date with the hottest new R&B singer?”
“No, I have a plan to get you a date with an old, high school friend who happens to be a hot new R&B singer.”
“Okay, let’s hear it. This ought to be good.”
“As I see it, we have two viable avenues by which to reach Reggie. One, I read that his older brother Tyler is his business manager, and he lives here in the city. We can try to contact him and enlist his help hooking up with Reggie.”
Lilah remembered Reggie’s older brother well. And she’d always been a tiny bit scared of him. If Reggie were sunshine, Tyler was a thunder cloud—a dark, brooding killjoy. During her tutoring sessions, Reggie had complained rather frequently about how hard his brother rode him. She’d always suspected Tyler was jealous of Reggie’s talent and popularity.
“And the second avenue?”
“Well, you can’t live in New York and work in the fashion industry without being hot-wired into the celebrity grapevine. With his brother managing his business affairs here in the city, odds are he either lives here or frequents the area. I know my contacts can dig up the dirt on his whereabouts. Then it’s just a matter of matching the two of you up in time and space.”
Sure, it sounded straightforward, even plausible, but Lilah knew from experience that their schemes never went according to plan. “Well, I have to hand it to you, Ang, that’s not bad. You certainly haven’t lost your touch.”
“So we’re on?”
“Not. A. Chance.”
“What? Why not?”
“I have to work.”
“I know for a fact you haven’t taken any time off since the divorce. That was a year and a half ago. You must have vacation accrued up to your eyeballs.”
“I just moved. There’s still so much to be done around here.”
“Nothing that can’t wait.”
“It’s