Bicycle Built for Two Read Online Free PDF Page A

thrived.
    Philosophical questions only confused her so
she chucked them out. She had more important things to do. Getting
ready for her dance number, for instance.
    “That looks sort of funny, Kate, that black
band.”
    Kate turned to grin at Stephanie Margolis,
one of the legion of women hired to sweep up and mop out the
exhibits on a daily basis. “I know it, but it’s better than
black-and-blue marks.”
    Stephanie didn’t grin back. “I’m awful sorry
about what happened, Kate. If you need any help, you just come to
me, all right?”
    Touched by the offer of generosity from a
woman in Kate’s own low station in life, Kate nevertheless gave
Stephanie the response to offers of help that had become natural to
her. “Thanks, Stephanie, but I’ll be all right. And so will
Ma.”
    The older woman smiled at last. “I’m sure
you will. You have heart, Kate, and that’s the important
thing.”
    “Thanks, Stephanie.”
    Stephanie moved on, plying her broom, and
Kate adjusted the black ribbon, trying to make the velvet strip
cover all the bruises. She gave an internal snort. Why was it, she
wondered, that poor folks like dear old Stephanie offered to help,
and rich folks, like that ass Alex English, offered to kick her in
the butt? “It’s the way of the world,” she muttered.
    Giving up on adjusting her black
ribbon—maybe nobody would notice the bruises peeking out from
behind it—she picked up her cymbals and fitted them onto her
fingers. She clanged them during her dance whenever she remembered
to do so.
    No expert in the art of the so-called
“genuine native muscle dance,” Kate nevertheless knew how to
perform when she had to. She’d watched Little Egypt often enough,
and practiced long enough, that nobody else knew she was a faker.
They might suspect something this evening, however. She frowned at
her reflection and again fingered the black band. The lights were
dim when she danced. Maybe nobody would notice the bruises.
    As a rule, Kate wore a short, strapped top
with beads and tassels dangling therefrom, along with a gauzy skirt
that was split up the side to reveal her left leg—shocking,
that—which was encased in black stockinette ending just above her
knee. Thus, people could occasionally catch a glimpse of her naked
upper thigh if they stared hard enough. She figured they were even
more titillated by the white garters she tied about her thigh to
keep her stockings up. They’d be a darned sight more titillated if
she danced as she’d heard real Egyptian ladies did: Barefoot and
bare-legged. That would call the Purity League down on the fair in
a heartbeat. Alex English would never hear of it. She sniffed at
the thought of the stuffy Alex.
    She’d unbraided her hair, and it now waved
over her shoulders, as formerly braided hair will do when left to
its own devices. She wore a metal head ornament that reminded her
of chain mail and that covered the top of her head. Dangly
ornaments depended from the chain mail and jangled around and
banged against her forehead when she was particularly energetic,
which she tried not to be because it hurt to be banged by bangles.
The head piece was so outre as to divert people from her blue
eyes.
    Little Egypt herself, who was actually
Syrian and whose real name was Fahreda Mahzar, had once told Kate
in an accent so thick Kate could hardly understand her, that nobody
paid attention to a girl’s face when she was dancing. Kate, who
chose her alliances carefully, believed her.
    The saving grace of the outrageous costume,
to her mind, was the sheer scarf she waved around as she danced. It
was probably a provocative item of drape, but Kate used it more to
cover her assets than to reveal them. She was sure Alex English
wouldn’t agree. But, then, he was too proper, too much of a
decorous gentleman, too much a blasted snob, to visit her
performance. Drat the man.
    She wished she could stop thinking about
him, but he worried her. A lot.
    Alex English, however, was