Food Whore Read Free Page A

for the Don’t Walk sign to change and looked away from him. But from the corner of my eye, I saw that he never wavered, even as a car pulled up two inches away from him.
    â€œYes,” I answered.
    â€œWould you do anything for her?”
    Finally, the Walk sign lit up. I stepped from the curb and said, “Yeah, I would.”
    After I crossed the street, I looked around to see if Michael Saltz had followed me. But he remained in the same spot and now had a wild grin on his face.
    E LLIOTT RAN UP the second I stepped into the reception hall.
    â€œTia, there you are!” he said, winded. “She arrived a ­couple of minutes ago. Come on! ­People are already surrounding her! I tried to text you but—­”
    I had no time to tell Elliott about Michael Saltz. We ran and made a full circle of the room, but neither of us saw Helen anywhere.
    â€œDid we lose her?” Elliott asked me, genuinely distressed.
    I spotted Kyle and ran over to him, desperate for info. I’d been so close to Helen. Why had I stayed with Michael Saltz?
    â€œHave you seen Helen?” I wheezed.
    â€œOh, hey,” Kyle said. “Yeah, she was in here for like, five or ten minutes, and then she left. I barely chatted with her.”
    â€œYou chatted with her?”
    â€œYeah . . . I’m gunning for her internship, so of course I talked to her. At least a dozen ­people bombarded her with gifts. Did you see her?”
    His question sucker-­punched me. No, I hadn’t. Would I ever? Had I lost Helen, just like that?
    I climbed up a set of stairs to get a better view of the room. The room was still crowded with faces, but none was the one I wanted to see.
    Then I felt a tap on my leg and looked down to see Elliott, his mouth tight and wary. “Hey,” Elliott said. “I was asking around for Helen, and this gentleman said he knows where to find her.” He gestured behind him to Michael Saltz, peering at me with those curious, predatory eyes.
    â€œTia! I’d like to make up for the incident earlier. I’ll connect you with Helen. Send me your application essay, and I’ll ensure she sees it and makes her desires known to the committee.” He took out a pen and scribbled a generic email address, then held out his hand to Elliott. “I must go, but I realized I didn’t introduce myself. I’m Paul,” Michael Saltz said.
    â€œElliott,” he replied as he shook. With the other hand, Elliott touched the small of my back as if to say, If this weird guy does anything, I got you.
    I loved that. But at the same time, I was amazed at Michael Saltz’s persistence, even after I had stormed away and Helen had expressly warned him against attending this very reception. Amazed, and a little flattered.
    â€œAnd Tia,” Michael Saltz said, turning to me again, “such a pleasure.” He held out his hand and as my flesh touched his, he clamped my fingers and swooped down for a kiss. His lips were dry and frail. His cold nose touched my wrist and a chill ran through my bones.
    Elliott grabbed my other arm and pulled me away. I looked behind me and saw Michael Saltz smirk his good-­bye.
    â€œUgh, sorry I subjected you to that guy. Who was that creep?”
    â€œHe was . . .” My heart was pounding so fast I could hardly breathe.
    What could I say to Elliott? He was the New York Times restaurant critic. Helen’s stubborn friend. An interloper at the reception. A sickly thin man who frightened and aggravated and—­I had to admit—­fascinated me.
    The man who would give my essay to Helen. But what was in it for him? I couldn’t quite figure it out, so I echoed the critic’s lie, to give myself time. He obviously hadn’t wanted to reveal his identity to Elliott, so I didn’t give him away. “His name is Paul.”
    Elliott heaved a sigh of relief, as if that explained everything. “Well, glad we got you