Age of Consent

by Amanda Brainerd

Justine looked up from her copy of Pale Fire and nodded.

  Eve wanted to ask Justine about Bruce. But she didn’t want to pry.

  “It’s so great to get away,” Justine said. “I feel like all I do is study.”

  “Really? Griswold is so much easier than Beaverton. It’s like summer camp in comparison.”

  Not for the public-school kid on the scholarship, Justine thought, fingering a tear in her pants. Justine knew Eve would never understand. In her soft world, money was never a factor. What would Eve do when she found out that Justine only had the small change in her pocket? She would probably think she was trying to be hip.

  Justine had waited for her mother to mail her some money, but then, in typical fashion, Cressida had forgotten. Did her mother imagine that things would magically work themselves out? She’d borrow the money from Eve and find a way to pay her back. I have always depended on the kindness of strangers. Somehow that wasn’t how it went in real life.

  When the conductor came by, Eve paid for both their tickets without word or ceremony, and Justine felt a wave of gratitude and affection for her friend. Maybe Eve understood more than she let on.

  Justine loved New York—she and her mother visited every year or so, staying with her mom’s friend Gretchen on Bleecker. Justine recalled one weekend in particular. After a day of hunting for fabric on the Lower East Side and a supper of Cressida’s famous roast chicken, Cressida and Gretchen had gone to bed early. Around midnight Justine had snuck out to CBGB. The club was just down the block. But when she came back a police car was parked in front of the house. A street fight had awoken her mother, who, finding Justine’s bed empty, had called the police. And there in Gretchen’s parlor was a cop taking notes while Gretchen and Cressida slugged vodka straight from the bottle.

  * * *

  —

  The view outside finally changed from a smear of ochre into a tangle of brick buildings, billboards, and power lines. The train plunged into the tunnel under the station. When it finally came to a stop the girls grabbed their bags and made their way up the escalator into Grand Central.

  Crowds crisscrossed the massive vaulted space and rays of light streamed through the wide, arched windows, making patterns on the floor. Justine admired the golden zodiac signs etched on the sea-green ceiling.

  “What sign are you again?” Eve asked.

  “Capricorn.”

  “Oh, right. We’re totally incompatible.” She took Justine’s hand and pulled her through the hordes of commuters.

  “Wait! I don’t have a token!” Justine panted.

  Eve stopped, whipped around, and held Justine’s shoulders.

  “Let’s get one thing straight. When you’re with me, you do not take the subway. You take taxis. You eat out. You shop. And I pay for it and you don’t get all weird, because you’re my date. Got it?” Eve glanced at her watch. “Fuck, it’s almost five.”

  * * *

  —

  The cab drove up Park Avenue. Justine accepted Eve’s offer of a cigarette and rolled down the window to smoke. The city air had the tannic scent of wet asphalt, which she inhaled like an elixir.

  Park Avenue was cleaner than Bleecker Street but, in Justine’s opinion, much less interesting to look at. The brick buildings stood with their jutting cornices, stalwart as soldiers, their backs against the sky. They seemed to regard her with disapproval, their uniformity like some luxurious version of a Stalinist regime.

  Justine thought of meeting Eve’s parents and suddenly felt carsick.

  Eve said, “Mom said she’d read, um, the book. Justine.”

  “Big deal.” Justine shrugged. “My mom’s read Erica Jong. That’s much worse.”

  “I almost barfed when she told me,” Eve continued.

  “It’s not like she’s never had sex. She had you, didn’t she?” If Justine could keep up this sassy banter, pretending not to care, she just might survive the Strauses.

  Eve fiddled with the button on her coat, then put her hand in Justine’s. “Do you love me?”

  “Of course!” Justine said, squeezing Eve’s hand in response. “What the . . .”

  “Say it!”

  “I love you. Silly dope.”

  Eve removed her hand and glanced out the window.

  Justine stared at the back of Eve’s head, wondering why she had become silent. After a moment she poked her in the shoulder.

  “What’s wrong?”

  Eve turned and shrugged. “Dunno. I’ve been so excited to come home. Now I’m feeling kind of pukey.” She glanced back at the passing avenue, tapping her fingers repeatedly on her leg.

  Me too, Justine thought. It really was going to be that bad.

  * * *

  —

  They pulled up in front of an awning, where a doorman in a navy-blue cap bustled out to meet them. A tattoo peeked out from beneath his white collar. This incongruity did not alleviate Justine’s sense of impending doom.

  The whole weekend seemed like a terrible mistake.

  “Hi, Tony, can you send that stuff up the back?” Eve asked, stepping out of the cab. The doorman knocked on the trunk and their stuff was loaded onto a luggage cart without their having to lift a finger.

  The lobby was an intimidating expanse of polished marble floors and mirrors. Justine wiped her sweaty palms on her ripped jeans.

  The elevator opened directly into a square room with pale beige stone floors, empty except for an enormous gash along one wall, which disgorged plaster and wires.

  Justine wanted to ask what had happened—it looked like a crime scene, but she stopped herself. It was probably one of those things she should know.

  Eve saw her staring.

  “That’s art. By Horace Anders. Mom!”

  Justine looked around, amazed at the huge room with nothing in it. She had known that Eve was rich, but this apartment was so much cooler than she had expected. Instead of gilded antiques and old master paintings, they had modern art and a pink neon tube running across the ceiling. Justine had pegged her own family as the people who at least had taste, if not money. But the Strauses were not only loaded, they had style.

  “On the phone!” Eve’s mother’s voice sounded muffled, as if it were ensconced in a distant, upholstered chamber.

  “Shoes off,” Eve said, kicking off her combat boots. She headed down a hallway lined with photos, Eve and her parents in front of the Parthenon, Eve in a bathing suit holding a swimming trophy. Justine paused before a picture of a beautiful young boy with light curls, dressed in an old-fashioned sailor suit.

  “Who’s that?” Justine asked.

  “My brother, Sandy.”

  “You have a brother?”

  “There’s a reason I never mention him.”

  “He’s not . . .” Justine was suddenly worried.

  “Dead? I wish! Sandy’s coming home later, you’ll have the pleasure.”

  “He’s really beautiful,” Justine commented.

  “He’s fourteen, you perv.”

  Just the age I was, Justine thought. “He looks like . . .”

  “Yeah, I know, the boy from Death in Venice, you don’t have to say it. Blah blah, I hear it all the time.”

  How had she known?

  They walked down the hallway to Eve’s room, which, of course, had the softest powder-blue carpet and tufted velvet window seat. A poster of Bowie hung on the wall, in all his glory and glamour. Flame-red hair, sky-blue suit, holding a sax.

  Justine wandered to the window and looked outside. Taxis honked angrily. Justine couldn’t help wonder where Tierney was tonight. In Moodus, her father sipping his gin and her mother roasting a ham? No matter how uncomfortable Justine felt here, it gave her pleasure to imagine Tierney somewhere sequestered and provincial.

  When she turned she found Eve hugging a woman in a fuchsia dress with
treacherous shoulder pads. She had black hair with a white skunk streak in it—just like Cruella de Vil.

  “This is Justine,” Eve said, gesturing toward her friend.

  Justine hopped down from the window seat and shook Mrs. Straus’s cool and bony hand.

  “Lovely to meet you, Justine. Eve has raved about you.”

  Justine tried to come up with an appreciative response but Mrs. Straus had already turned to face her daughter. “As soon as your father gets home, darling, we have to leave.” She straightened her gold watch and glanced at it. “There’s some chicken and salad in the fridge. And save some for your brother.”

  “Let me guess,” Eve said, “Lutèce?”

  “Yes, in fact. But we’ll be home long before you. Remember to mind the curfew. Whose house?”

  Eve did not reply.

  “That poor, sweet Clayton Bradley?” Mrs. Straus persisted.

  Justine couldn’t help it, she giggled.

  Mrs. Straus gazed at her like something in an aquarium. “Eve, lend your friend something to wear, her pants are shredded.”

  “It’s called fashion, Mom!”

  Justine blushed. “Sorry, the hole started on the train.”

  “Justine, don’t mind me, I’m just being a mother,” Mrs. Straus said. “It’s unsafe to go down to SoHo showing all that lovely skin. Eve, twelve o’clock, don’t forget.”

  “Justine doesn’t even have a curfew!” Eve protested. Justine wished she could hide under the bed. Why had she worn these ratty pants? Now Mrs. Straus would think she had been raised like a wild animal.

  “Well, there must be fewer temptations in Greenwich.”

  “She’s from New Haven!”

  Mrs. Straus looked at Justine with interest. “Does your father teach at Yale?”

  “He runs a theater,” she said, feeling ashamed. She had always been proud of it, but now it sounded like he was in a traveling circus.

  “He must have unpredictable hours. That would make a curfew impractical.” Mrs. Straus massaged her taut forehead. “Unfortunately, our lives are very humdrum and Eve has to be in by midnight or she turns into a pumpkin.” She rested a hand on her fuchsia hip. “Sorry to cramp your style. Eve, about tomorrow . . .”

  “What?” Eve asked.

  Mrs. Straus gave her a pointed stare.

  “What?”

  Mrs. Straus looked at Justine. “Our family has had reservations at the Quilted Giraffe for months. It’s a table for four, and they weren’t able to change it. We tried, but, Justine dear, I’m afraid you’ll have to stay here.”

  NINE

  Eve let the hot water of the shower cascade down her back. She squeezed some shampoo onto her palm and considered simply ignoring her mother’s ridiculous curfew. At least her mother couldn’t impose the same arbitrary laws on Justine. Justine could roll in whenever she damn well pleased—she might even stay out all night and watch the sun rise over the East River. It enraged Eve. In the Griswold Rulebook Eve had learned the term “in loco parentis.” As far as she was concerned, her mom was adhering perfectly; being a parent, and loco too.

  Anyway, it wasn’t kind of Deirdre to begrudge Justine her freedom. Speaking of kindness, leaving her home while they went out to dinner without her—it was like they were punishing her for nothing. Eve could imagine Justine staring out the window onto Park Avenue, wishing she were staying with someone else, anyone else.

  The Quilted Giraffe served these incredible little crepes filled with caviar. Maybe Eve could bring one home in a doggie bag.

  * * *

  —

  Once Eve had disappeared into the pink bathroom off her room, Justine tried to tell herself if didn’t matter, that she had no interest in sitting at some fancy restaurant with Eve’s family. But it wasn’t working. She got up and explored Eve’s room. Anyone could tell that some housekeeper was in Eve’s room regularly cleaning and straightening. The beds were made, the sheets ironed. A lamp of pale-yellow porcelain sat on a wicker nightstand, with a carafe of water and a glass. Her own room in New Haven was so different, with its wall of exposed brick and window onto the overgrown garden, the wind chime tinkling in the crab apple.

  But there were similarities. Eve had ceramics she’d made on her shelves, like Justine, and Justine was gratified to see that Eve’s skill level was as low as her own. The head of a man with an enormous nose struck her in particular. Justine reflexively touched her own nose, the hated thing.

  Eve’s selection of books was more varied than hers, and many of the editions were hardcovers. There was far more poetry: Dylan Thomas, Keats, Plath. This was something she loved about Eve; she read and read everything. There was even a copy of Les Fleurs du mal, but a different translation, with a gray cover. She pulled it off the shelf, sat on the soft window seat, and started to read. Since when did “dungeon” rhyme with “grunge on”? She put the book aside and went back to staring out the window.

  * * *

  —

  Eve turned off the water. Wrapping herself in a robe, she stepped from the steaming bathroom back into her room.

  “What are you wearing?” Justine asked.

  “The robe I stole from the Hotel du Cap.”

  Justine didn’t know what that was, but she wasn’t about to admit it. “I meant tonight.”

  “Red mini and white go-go boots. You?”

  Justine sifted through a mental inventory of her weekend bag. It didn’t take long.

  “Can I borrow something? I kind of hate everything I brought.”

  “Of course!” Eve made a grandiose gesture in the direction of her closet. Justine jumped off the window seat and opened the door. “Most of my best stuff’s at school,” Eve apologized.

  Still, Justine thought, looking at the rows of dresses and skirts, this was a treasure trove.

  “How about this?” Justine fingered a brown suede dress with fringe. It looked vintage, but it was soft and buttery. “Think I could pull it off?”

  Eve didn’t tell her friend she had never worn it because she found it a tad too Pocahontas. It had been her mother’s eons ago, and it was hard to imagine she had ever worn it either. But on a blonde?

  “Try it.”

  Justine tore off her clothes.

  Eve quickly turned around. Even now, seeing people naked embarrassed her.

  “Well, what do you think?” Justine said.

  The dress seemed to have been custom made for her, the chocolate brown perfect with her skin tone, enhancing its golden burnish.

  Eve clapped. “Amazing! Shoes?”

  “I have my pink flats,” Justine replied, not telling Eve about the tear in the sole. “Got stockings?”

  “Crappy selection. Navy cable tights or control-top nudes.” Eve pulled open a drawer. Justine noticed it was an antique dresser on which rested a silver-framed photograph of a woman, maybe Eve’s grandmother, in a long dress and pearls.

  “Why do you wear control top?” Justine asked. She had never even seen a pair of control tops and had always pictured those thick elastic stockings for varicose veins.

  “I stole them from Mom.”

  “She needs them less than you do! A skinnier woman I never saw!”

  Eve laughed and handed her the package. Justine’s outfit would blow her red mini out of the water. She knew it wasn’t a competition, but she had imagined herself as the sophisticated city girl, showing her ingenue friend around her glittering hometown. Now there was a crazy curfew and Justine was exquisite. But she always was. Eve needed to get used to being a Picasso next to a Botticelli.

  TEN

  Justine rolled down the window of the taxi as they careened down the FDR. The cold air swept across her face. Rushing past her were the glossy black of the East River, the silver Queensboro Bridge, and the cherry-red Pepsi-Cola sign. The New York skyline twinkled and glistened, reflecte
d in the shimmering surface of the water.

  The driver got off at Houston Street and drove past boarded-up tenements, twenty-four-hour bodegas, and a take-out joint called Cuchifritos. Justine had no idea what that meant, but she loved how it felt on her tongue. Cuchifritos. It sizzled like Pop Rocks.

  “No, straight on Houston, then down Wooster!” Eve hollered through the Plexi divider, then slumped back in her seat. “These drivers don’t know their way around. Like, what if I just landed from Tokyo, or . . . Wait, no! Left on Wooster! Oh my God!”

  The taxi bumped over the cobblestones and stopped. Justine stepped onto the curb over a grimy puddle. She looked around. One of the streetlights was out, another blinking like a strobe. Columned buildings with darkened windows leaned over the deserted street.

  This was nothing like Bleecker Street, with its bohemian cafés and worn brownstones. It reminded Justine of the waterfront near the theater in New Haven, lined with warehouses instead of apartments. Clay lived in this industrial neighborhood? Her respect for him increased.

  “Is my hair trashed?” Eve asked, slamming the door in frustration.

  “Complete disaster. First aid required.”

  Eve pulled a can of Aqua Net from her bag. She aimed it at her coiffure, sprayed, then threw it back in her purse. She squinted at the buzzers. “Do you see Bradley?” There was no door, just an elevator that opened onto the street.

  Justine pointed to a label. “What’s the Earth Room?”

  “A whole loft full of dirt. It’s really cool,” Eve said, eyes running up and down the buzzers’ labels. She pressed one hard, and the elevator opened, spilling fluorescent light onto the sidewalk.

  The elevator was so clanking and rickety that Justine could hardly believe it was functional. As it heaved reluctantly upward, Justine heard the pounding bass of a Human League song. After a couple of unpromising groans, the door opened to reveal a huge loft with Corinthian columns illuminated by hundreds of votive candles. Dancing kids were everywhere, and beyond them were brick walls hung with paintings of nude figures, the light flickering across their pale bodies. A claw-foot tub stood in the middle of it all, full of ice and beer.