People are gasping and craning their necks to see who is outbidding himself.
Anastasia gives up, but now Ethan Giles is drunkenly in on the action. “Four thousand one hundred.” By the rules, no one visibly drunk should be allowed to bid. However, no one is going to stop him. I could, as I’m the organizer of this event. But how would that look? His family could yank all support from this school with one perceived slight. They’ve threatened it before.
Oh god. I can’t go home with Ethan Giles.
Crosby counters with five thousand. Something inside me feels encouraged, but reality sinks in quickly. There’s no way he can afford this. He’s fucking with us, and he’s making a mockery of my event. I don’t care how much pot he deals; there’s no way he will pay this bill.
The auctioneer has given up pointing out the actually sane customs of bidding and is now thoroughly into this ridiculousness.
“Seems we’ve got us a bidding war, folks!”
And that gets everyone clapping and a few people cheer.
I turn to look at the auctioneer and shrug. “I have no idea,” I tell him.
Ethan bids five thousand one hundred.
Crosby bids five thousand two hundred.
They continue like this by hundreds until they get close to six thousand.
Someone goes up to the stage and gestures something to the auctioneer.
He motions for a time-out and stops to confer with the person at the edge of the stage. Everyone waits in awkward silence for what seems like an eternity. I don’t know what I’m supposed to do up here by myself. Sing and dance? Recite poetry? What could they be talking about?
When the auctioneer returns to the podium, he has an announcement. “It seems that the current bidding has put us close to our goal, so I’m going to declare the bidding for this item—well, for Leela Gamble—over.”
No. Ethan had the last bid. No. No, please. Not Ethan. Desperately, I close my eyes and wait for the gavel to fall.
But before the gavel comes down, Crosby shouts, “Ten thousand dollars.”
The room erupts into pandemonium. Everyone is shouting and howling. The sea of people parts like the Red Sea, and Crosby Nash marches to the foot of the stage like freaking Moses. He and his frayed jeans and loud boots, and leather jacket. He holds out one hand to me.
I don’t know why my heart is pounding the way it is. I don’t know what I’m doing here. I put myself up on this stage, and I don’t want to go home with any of these people.
It’s then that I realize that some small, self-destructive part of me does, in fact, want to go home with Crosby. Whether he can afford me or not.
Look at him. So self-satisfied. I would be annoyed, except that Ethan Giles is watching him walk by with a salty look on his face.
Everyone goes quiet when he approaches the stage and holds out his hand.
“Shall we?”
Don’t make a scene, Leela. I know I’m not one to shy away from the spotlight or from drama, but now doesn’t seem like a good time for that. After all, he did just shell out ten grand for the animals.
But did he?
Being a good sport, I take his hand and let him help me descend the makeshift stage. He digs his phone out of his wallet and asks me, “Who’s the actual person collecting the money?”
I tell him the name and email of the foundation that’s handling the funds for the humane society.
I watch him scroll through his phone, open an app and click around.
Through gritted teeth, I tell him, “You do realize that it’s not Monopoly money, right? You know you can’t just write a fake check? You actually are contractually obligated to produce ten thou—“
“Done,” he says.
“Excuse me?”