Page 61 of The Amazing Date

“Easiest challenge yet,” he says, grabbing a napkin to wipe his mouth before standing. “See you at the next one.”

We fist-bump, and I take a seat. The staff member hands me a menu. “Order a slice of pizza with your partner’s favorite topping. It will be brought to you, and you must finish. Your partner is in the back doing the same. Once both of you have completed your slice, you are free to go. If you order the incorrect topping, you will need to order another, eat it, and repeat until correct.”

Rylee was right—it’s an eating challenge. The menu lists over thirty different toppings with a small footnote that shows a slice may be ordered with multiple toppings. I know instantly we are in trouble once again. New York is known for its terrific pizza, some of the best outside of Italy. LA not so much, and Puerto Rico not at all.

I’ve never seen Rylee order or eat pizza. I’ll have to be strategic.

Gabby.

She and Rylee share everything. And my sister, in turn, shares them with me. For four years, I’ve never asked about Rylee, yet Gabby always finds a way to add her to our conversations. Her study habits, her becoming a convert to checklists, her job offer, her apartment in New York. I realize that in the four years I’ve iced out Rylee, I’ve never, not once, stopped my sister from talking about her. Was this my subconscious holding on, wanting to know?

I rack my puny brain as my finger taps plain Margherita, no topping, on the menu. Then it hits me. Gabby telling me about a wild night on campus senior year. Rylee getting drunk, and Gabby being grossed out as Rylee berated the poor kid ordering pies for the party because he refused to order a full pie with some weird combination.

A smile crosses my face as I point to the menu and order, “I’ll have a slice with beef and pineapple.”

Wilma trains her staff well. The team member’s pen hovers over the order pad, one brow lifting, doubt in his voice. “Are you sure?”

I nod, satisfied. I may not have spent much time with Rylee, but through Gabby, I do know more about her than I realized. I know her favorite foods, what makes her laugh, her biggest fears, her favorite subjects in school, and a lot more than I have been giving myself credit for.

I pray Gabby’s incessant need to share both of our lives with the other is paying off for Rylee as well. When the slice arrives a few minutes later, I hold it with skepticism. It’s a strange combination, one that I wouldn’t expect anyone to order. The oddball combination shouldn’t work, yet when I take my first bite, I realize how wrong I am. The blend of salty beef and the sweet pineapple balance each other. The soft, warm dough and three blended cheeses hit my tongue, bringing with it a surprise I hadn’t expected to enjoy.

“Damn, that’s good,” I whisper to no one as my lips tick up into a smile. The slice is gone in four more bites, and I wait, my gaze locked on the doorway to the back room.

I spot the bouncing of her head before our gaze meets. Happy eyes and relief fill her face with a bright smile of surprise as I stand. “I thought for sure there was no way in hell you’d know my favorite slice.” Her voice fills with admiration. “I had asked the owner to flip to the Mets game, figuring we’d be here for a while.”

“I know you better than you think,” I counter. “Apparently, I’m not the only one.”

A laugh escapes her lips, and we are handed our next clue. “You’re easy. Plain slice. What you see is what you get.”

Her gaze flitters for a second, and I expect to hear more, but she quickly rips open the clue and reads it. “Back to the subway. We’re headed to Harlem. Oh my god.” Her voice fills with excitement.

A dozen thoughts cross my mind before Rylee interrupts them. “We’re headed to the world-famous Apollo Theater.”

* * *

The Apollo Theater resides on 125th Street, right in the heart of Harlem, the mecca of black entertainment and African American culture. The Apollo has launched the careers of James Brown, Billie Holiday, Sammy Davis Jr., Aretha Franklin, Stevie Wonder, and many, many more.

We turn the corner and immediately feel as if we are in the presence of greatness. The famous awning announces Amateur Night in large bold letters.

“I can’t believe we’re here.” Rylee’s voice fills with awe. “I’ve never been.” We enter the sparkling lobby, and the sound of a pair of off-key, untuned trumpets blasts from the theater. I don’t recognize the tune, but even my untrained ears hurt from the assault. A cascade of boos drowns out the horn. The boos are so loud and vicious I feel for the fool who decided to venture onto the stage of the most discerning and vocal crowd in entertainment. I hope we’re here to locate a star’s name on the Walk of Fame or something less conspicuous.

A sharply dressed African American man in a suit and tie exits the theater, head shaking, laughs escaping his lips. “Welcome to the world-famous Apollo Theater. My name is Kevin Cooper. You are the third and final team to arrive here tonight. Wilma has whipped up a torturous challenge for you two. I hope you’re ready. As you can hear, team Kelly and Caitlin aren’t faring too well.”

With the mention of the blondes, I lean forward on my toes, catching Rylee’s eyeline and the smile on her face.

“Tonight is Amateur Night. Nonprofessionals are invited on the stage to perform for the audience. Three minutes of torture. If you are good, they cheer; if you fail, they will boo you, and you will be run off the stage by Sandman.” Kevin laughs once again. “And yes, it’s as humiliating as it seems. Sandman is part of our entertainment staff, and he’ll play to the audience.”

A loud air raid siren blasts from the stage, followed by a fast-paced cartoonish anthem being struck by the band. “Speak of the devil, that sound you hear is Sandman going to work. Right now, he’s kicking Kelly and Caitlin off the stage.”

The boos transform into laughter and applause. “The crowd is cheering on Sandman. He’ll egg them as he chases contestants off the stage. Tonight, you have it worse than normal.”

“How so?” Rylee asks.

“Since you are in a competition, if you get booed off, you go to the end of the line and have to perform again. And again. And again. Until you either get cheered or we get tired of humiliating you. I’ve been here three decades and have yet to see them tire of booing someone. Only when you make it the full three minutes will you get your next clue.”

We hear the MC speaking from the stage in the theater, followed by a loud roar of laughter. It doesn’t take much to know it’s at the expense of team blondie.

“Three minutes,” Kevin continues. “You can sing, dance, tell jokes, or anything really. Just make it good. If you need music, let us know. We can stream just about anything, and the band is top-notch, though they have a bend toward soul. Most of them are classically trained and can play any type of music. Insider tip: the audience responds better to live music. Oh, one last tidbit, an absolute must, or you will be booed off immediately.”

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