Gluttony

A weasel, Kane thought, but an effective one.

“If you want to go.” Miranda began, “I totally-”

“We’re going,” Jackson told her. “And I know just the place.”

They set off and, with a deep sigh, Kane followed. So the game wouldn’t end as quickly as Kane would have liked, but it would still certainly end in his favor. Jackson didn’t know who he was playing against.

In fact, to Kane’s great benefit, Jackson didn’t know he was playing at all. And that was Kane’s favorite way to win.

“I cannot believe you talked me into this,” Harper groused as a line of Elvises spread out across the stage in a Rockettes-like kickline.

Adam clinked his glass against her Blue Hawaii daiquiri and took a sip from his All Shook Up vodka tonic. It was just as disgusting as it looked. “How can you not be enjoying this?” he asked, grinning widely. When Miranda had called to cancel that night’s prebirthday dinner, it had taken Adam only twenty minutes of concentrated wheedling to convince Harper that the Elvis Extravaganza might be their best bet.

Not that Adam had nurtured any particular desire to see a two-hour parade of Elvis impersonators, spanning the eras from Ed Sullivan Show chic to bloated 70s white jumpsuits. But he also hadn’t wanted the day to end.

They were the youngest people in the hall by more than a decade. But thanks to their new friend Margie, their free tickets placed them at a small table only a few feet from the stage. Adam could almost see his reflection in the fat Elvises’ oversize sunglasses and gold medallion belts.

It was gaudy, tacky, and so noisy, he feared he’d be hearing “Jailhouse Rock” echo in his ears for weeks. But Harper wasn’t arguing with him, attacking him, or running away from him, so Adam concluded it was worth it.

“Remind you of anything?” he asked suddenly. The so-called music was so loud that no one could hear them talking, even at normal volume-they could barely hear themselves. “Sixth grade?”

She looked puzzled for a second, then burst into laughter. “Oh, my God, I can’t believe you remember that.”

Their teacher had been one of those naive, overeager, twenty-two-year-olds who had yet to realize that Grace, CA, was about as dead as dead ends could get. Ms. Carpenter had quickly tired of the explorers, the Civil War, and the Great Depression, and had skipped forward to what she saw as the fundamental development of American history: the creation of rock-’n’-roll. They’d formed groups, and each had been charged with reenacting a performance of some famous group from the past. Complete with costumes and offbeat lip- synching.

“If you’d just listened to me in the first place,” Harper said, giggling, “it never would have happened.”

“If I’d listened to you in the first place, I would have ended up wearing a dress.” Harper had done her best to convince Adam to join up with her and Miranda… to perform as The Supremes. By the time Harper pulled out the spangly sequined miniskirts she had discovered in her parents’ attic, Adam was out the door and halfway down the block.

He’d opted to go solo, and there was only one true option: Elvis Presley, the King. His rendition of “Jailhouse Rock” had brought the audience to its feet within seconds. (Not much of an accomplishment, considering the audience was made up entirely of sixth graders-half of whom already wanted to date him.) Harper had helped him tape black stripes to his white shirt for an excellent convict effect, and choreographed a dance for him. It all went perfectly… until he climbed up on his chair, kicked his leg out while strumming his air guitar-and slipped off the chair, flipping through the air and landing in a tangled, broken heap.

He’d hobbled around on crutches for the next two months, with a broken ankle almost as painful as his new nickname: the Klutz King.

“I still blame you,” Adam said, waving an accusing finger in Harper’s face. “If you hadn’t suckered me into doing that stupid chair dance-”

“If you hadn’t fallen on your ass-”

“I might never have become the man I am today,” Adam concluded jokingly. He clapped Harper on the back. “I guess I owe it all to you.”

Her grin faded suddenly, and she looked away, taking a long sip of the drink that looked even more disgusting than his. “Yeah.”

“What’s wrong?”

“Nothing.” But she lowered her head, letting her wild wavy hair fall across her eyes. He knew it wasn’t accidental. She was hiding.

“What is it, Gracie?” He hesitated, remembering that the last time he’d tried using his childhood nickname for her, she’d blasted him for his presumption that their history together still mattered. “What’s wrong?” He used to be able to read her, and know why she was upset almost before she did. But this year, too much had happened-too much had changed. “Is it the tickets?” he guessed. “Miranda will never even know you were trying to get them for her. So she won’t be disappointed. I’m sure we can think of something else great to surprise her with.”

Harper laughed, but it was a sad sound. “I don’t care about the stupid tickets,” she admitted, her voice muffled. She was speaking so softly, he could barely hear her over the music, but what she said next was clear enough that he could almost read her lips. “It’s… you. I miss you.”

His first sensation: relief. Pure and overwhelming. Adam had to grip the edge of his chair to hold himself still. He didn’t know what to say next. Their friendship-what was left of it-was so fragile, he feared that the wrong words could smash it beyond repair. “I-”

But before he could say anything, right or wrong, one of the white jumpsuit Elvises hopped oft the stage and strolled right up to their table, close enough that Adam could see the plastic studs holding the rhinestones in place. “How about a serenade for our young lovers here?” the Elvis asked, and the audience roared with approval. Harper’s face flushed red, and Adam wished he could hide under the table-or, better yet, shove the Elvis under there until he and Harper had safely left the building. But they did nothing, and Elvis began to sing.

“Love me tender,” he crooned. “Love me true…”

Adam buried his face in his hands, but it didn’t make the nightmare end.

“For my darlin’ I love you. And I always will.”

“… and let’s just say that I will never again bite into something without checking to see if it’s still breathing,” Jackson concluded, shaking his head as if in dismay at his own foolishness.

Miranda laughed-perhaps a little harder than the story merited, but then, she was spending her birthday with a cute, older guy who, in his own words, thought she was “adorable,” “hilarious,” and “fantastic.” A little extra laughter was a small price to pay. “That’s unbelievable,” she said, gasping for breath.

“I swear.” Jackson put a hand over his heart. “It happened exactly like I said.”

When they’d been booted out of the bar, Miranda had been sure her date was over before it even began, but Jackson had just shrugged and escorted her down the strip to Killian’s, a dark, opulent, outrageously Irish pub with thick burgers, heaping plates of mashed potatoes, and towering mugs of beer. Miranda stuck to salad and soda.

“I’m really glad you agreed to come out with me tonight,” Jackson told her.

Miranda searched for a suitably snappy response, but under the table she suddenly felt the light touch of a hand on her knee, and her witty bravado melted away. “Me too,” she said sincerely, and, though it felt unthinkably bold, she rested her hand on top of his, lightly twining their fingers. Jackson stared at her so intensely that she was tempted to look away, but she knew that in a situation like this, she was supposed to meet his eyes. So she forced herself to do it.

He’s gazing at me, the