Eve’s smile disappeared.
Margot glared, nostrils flaring, then motioned for Raymond to follow her into her office.
Eve knew she was in trouble but had no idea what for.
Margot strode back in, wiping her nose. “Who were you talking to just now, on the phone?”
“Keith Wilson.”
Margot leaned down and bared her teeth like a foo dog.
“Let’s get a few things straight. I call Keith Wilson, not you. And I eat lunch at Da Silvano, not you. You and that little slut made me look like a fool. I had serious business to conduct with Massimo and all he thought about was the little lost heiress and his hard-on.”
A tiny blob of saliva landed on Eve’s cheek.
“I’m sorry, I thought I was doing my job—”
“You don’t know what that means!” Margot interrupted. “I started without a pot to piss in. I built all of this.” She waved her arm in the air, and Eve kept her eyes averted from her pits. “With no help from Mommy or Daddy. Your first day of work and you’re eating at an expensive restaurant? How spoiled can you be? You think you just sit around drinking champagne with your friends, flirt with artists, then pick up the phone, and voilà!” Margot slammed her fist on the table, making the pads jump.
“Keith wants the Fischl,” Eve squeaked.
“Oh, he wants the Fischl, does he?” Margot replied. “Well, he can’t have it!”
Eve blanched.
“As I’ve been saying, I sell him art, not you!” Margot’s face was as red as her dress. “Now he’ll never get it.”
What was she going to tell Keith?
“He is getting one of Massimo’s, isn’t he?” Eve asked hopefully.
Margot turned and walked away.
* * *
• • • • • • •
India closed her eyes, feeling the marijuana seep into the furthest reaches of her consciousness. Finally she could think clearly. That note. India recognized his thick creamy stationery. It was from the Pineider store near the Trevi Fountain. Her mother had had some as well, with smaller cards and envelopes in jade green.
Perhaps Massimo would still smell like Prosecco and linseed oil. Every man, woman, and beast had their particular odor. Eve was smoke and apricots, Justine more floral. Dino grapefruit and olive.
Her father had smelled like an addict’s nervous sweat and the Drakkar Noir he used to cover it up.
India drifted into thoughts of her father, remembering a visit to her grandparents’ in Rhode Island, in their old mansion overlooking the sea. She knew it had been in September, because she was two weeks late to start third grade. Kiki stayed behind with her parents and her father had driven her back to the city. On the way he had pulled off the highway at a Burger King. She was thrilled. At eight years old, India had never been to a fast-food restaurant. Her father had let her order whatever she wanted—she had a Whopper and a Coke. Then he said he had to run a quick errand and told her to stay put for a bit.
After a few hours, the manager had come over to inquire why she had been alone in a booth for so long. India made something up about a game with her father. It was dark when he returned. She did not ask where he had been, because she knew he’d been doing drugs again.
* * *
• • • • • • •
Oh my frigging God, it’s like Calcutta in here!” Eve said, clomping into India’s apartment.
It was true. Couldn’t India afford an air conditioner?
Eve unbuttoned her mechanic’s shirt and sat down in her black bra and cutoffs. She reached out as Justine passed her the bottle of white. “Margot ripped me a new one after lunch.”
Eve described Margot’s livid face, how molecules of spit had landed on her cheek. Raymond had explained that Massimo was hideously behind schedule on the paintings for the show. How hysterical it was making their boss. Eve stopped to swallow a big gulp of wine.
“Why was she angry at you?” India inquired.
“Massimo’s boner at the restaurant pushed her over the edge.”
They were all silent for a moment.
Justine hoped working at a prop warehouse wouldn’t be so complicated.
India stood up and played a bar of something familiar on the piano. Then she wandered over to the garment rack and rearranged a few ball gowns.
Eve lit up, exhaled, and leaned back on an elbow. “Adults say they want us to grow up”—she gestured with her cigarette—“but they just want to keep us down.”
“How old do you think Margot is?” Justine asked.
“Old,” Eve replied. “At least thirty. Speaking of old, where’s the note from you-know-who?”
India ignored her and took a joint from a carved sandalwood box. She lit it; exhaling, she traced the carvings. A gift from Morocco, to her mother, years ago. India stretched her legs on the pillow in front of her. She lay her fragile figure on the pillows and closed her eyes.
The phone rang, startling Justine.
Eve got up to get it, then leaned in from the kitchen holding the receiver toward Justine.
“Hey,” Clay said, “can I come over?”
“Please!” Justine said, the receiver under her chin. Clay was so polite all the time, never wanting to impose. Even if they hadn’t seen each other in days.
He asked if she needed anything from the bodega.
“Smokes?”
“Camels, right?” he asked.
“Benson & Hedges.”
Justine hung up.
She walked back into the living room.
“Clay’s coming,” she said, trying not to sound too excited.
Eve handed her a glass of wine. “Do you mind if he sees my tits?”
* * *
—
They downed another bottle, but the pot was wearing off. It had been at least an hour and the sky had darkened. Justine was wondering if she should call Clay back, when the buzzer finally rang. He was breathless at the top of the stairs. Justine kissed him, then he hugged her.
“I’ve missed you so much,” he said into her shoulder.
She held on to him.
“Clayton, baby doll!!” Eve shrieked from the living room.
“Everyone’s pretty fucked up,” Justine murmured.
“Yeah, welcome to India’s,” he said, looking past her into the living room.
“Do you have any beer?” he said, throwing a pack of Camels on the table. Hadn’t she said Benson & Hedges? No matter, Clay was finally here, and she could live with another brand.
Eve was hovering over the turntable in the living room. The needle hit hard, and “Blue Monday” began to play. Eve stood up and frowned at Clay.
“You look terrible, you need a weekend at the beach,” she said.
“I’ve been working really hard,” Clay said. Justine realized he was proud of it.
“That’s ridiculous. You’re in high school, for fuck’s sake!” Eve rolled her eyes and started dancing in her Sophia Loren bra.
Justine handed Clay his beer. He did look pale, Eve was right. Why on earth? If Justine were in his position she’d never work. She’d hang out here all day, smoking and reading poetry, maybe even write some.
India gave a sluggish wave from the floor, curled on her side, her hair streaming over the silk pillow.
“It’s so great to be here,” Clay said, cracking open the can.
Justine wanted to ask why it had taken him so long but didn’t want to sound like a nag.
Dino came in through the door, loosening his tie with one hand, a beer in the other. “Ciao ciao, kitten boy,” he purred. “Oooh, now the party’s starting.”
“Good evening, Dino,” Clay replied, not smiling.
“Don’t ‘good evening’ me. How’s work, honey, with all those sexy little boys in their suits?”
Clay gave him a sour look.
Dino ignored it and tossed his pin-striped jacket aside. “I’ll get you, my pretty! Where’d you put my snow, ice princess?” he asked India.
India shrugged.
“Oh pwetty, pwetty pwease, tell poor Dino?”
India took a deep, steadying breath and pointed.
Dino clapped in delight. Opening the piano lid, he took out a shard of mirror and a velvet bag.
Seven years’ bad luck, thought Justine.
Eve sat cross-legged at the table as Dino cut five lines of coke on the glass. He handed Eve the straw, and she snorted a little up each nostril.
Clay bent over the table and did a line, his face reflected in the mirror like Narcissus at the pool.
Justine watched his technique carefully. He handed her the straw and she bent low over the mirror, inhaling the powder. It pushed into her brain and there was a rushing sound in her ears, like the inside of a shell.
Her pulse was throbbing through her veins. What time was it? Fuck, already nine. She’d be up all night.
Dino stood up, kicked off his loafers.
“Dance with me,” Clay said to Justine, jumping up. The bass of “Blue Monday” pounded; it was the best dance song ever.
She joined him.
Eve started dancing again too.
“Here, kitty kitty,” Dino said, blowing Clay a kiss, rubbing his fingers together and slinking toward him. Dino cocked his hips to one side like an Italian film star about to wade into a fountain. Clay moved toward Justine, who wrapped her arms around him and danced closer. The coke was trembling through her.
Eve cranked up the music. How does it feel? To treat me like you do?
Justine would have her way with Clay tonight on the futon. Was the coke making him horny? How long were they going to dance before she could pull him into her bedroom? Didn’t Eve have a curfew?
Clay whispered in her ear, “Let’s get out of here!”
She agreed and ducked into her room. In the mirror her face looked crazy, pupils enormous like a cartoon character’s, her nose twitchy and rabbity. Where was he taking her? Her hands shook as she pulled off her dirty tee and put on a silk tank top—a favorite secondhand special. It still smelled of someone else’s perfume. Everything was magnified, the pores on her face visible, she could feel her skin suck in air. She grabbed a comb to tease her hair, and microscopic cuticles stripped back, furry scales ripping from the cortex. Was she hallucinating? It’s not the side effects of the cocaine, I’m thinking that it must be love . . . She teased her hair higher into a knotty yellow pile, gave the sculpture a shot of Aqua Net, shoved her feet into her flats, grabbed her fake ID.
Clay and Justine tore down the stairs and burst onto the street.
She grabbed him and they kissed. Stumbling and regaining her balance, she heard a coughing sound.
A prostitute stood a few feet away. Sequined bustier, torn fishnets.
“What’s so funny, Romeo?” the hooker taunted. “How about a ménage à trois?”
Justine stared at the greasy pink lips, the massive blond Afro. Those lashes had to be glued on.
Clay tugged her away.
“Go ahead, pretty boy, turn your ass on me!”
Justine sucked in her breath; the hooker’s hands were a dead giveaway, she was a man, not a woman.
“You think you’re so hot!” the hooker spat toward them. “But you’re not and you’re the real thing!” She cackled as Clay pulled Justine down the street.
* * *
• • • • • • •
Eve left India’s a few minutes later. The coke was making her jittery, but her mind was clear as a bell. Clay and Justine were probably going to Danceteria or the Underground, or someplace wonderful that Eve couldn’t go. Actually, that could describe all of New York City.
As Eve headed down the stairs of India’s apartment building, she felt a familiar sinking feeling in her chest. Justine was living the life she wanted. These were Eve’s friends, this was Eve’s city. Justine had slipped in as if she had always been here. And she was having more fun than Eve ever had.
And Justine hadn’t gotten expelled from boarding school. And why was that? Because Justine had had permission to be at the Bowie concert, and Eve had not. Justine had been allowed to smoke, and Eve had not. If only her parents had been more lenient, Eve wouldn’t be forced to break the rules. Didn’t they realize that?
Eve did a calculation as she headed toward Tenth Avenue. Two more years and she would be in college. That meant about eight hundred days until she was free of her family. Eve glanced around to make sure no muggers were lurking in the shadows. The neighborhood was foul, but she’d live here in a second if it meant freedom.
* * *
• • • • • • •
Clay hailed a cab on the corner of Eleventh Avenue. “Seventh and A,” he told the driver. “Please,” he added.
Clay leaned closer and they started making out. The wind sped in one window and out the other as they hurtled downtown. Justine’s pulse was pounding so hard she felt like an artery in her throat would erupt. She clutched Clay’s shoulders as they kissed, she was convulsing. The cab driver’s eyes were on them in his rearview mirror, flicking away each time she looked up. She pushed Clay off, gasping for breath out the window.
“It’s the coke,” he said, stroking her back. “Dancing’ll help.”
They pulled up in front of the Pyramid Club and Justine flashed the bouncer her ID. A dirty door covered in stickers led to a narrow room packed with people. She held Clay’s arm as he pushed his way toward the bar. Transvestites gyrated on its surface, as shirtless bartenders with superhero pecs handed people drinks between their dancing legs. There was Wonder Woman, a Darryl Hannah mermaid, and a sexy squaw with a tomahawk and Cabbage Patch doll papoose, all grinding to the beat.
Clay ordered but all she heard was Coke. Coke! Coke! Coke! The word reverberated in her head with the throbbing bass. The floor heaved as if she were at sea. A black stiletto stepped in front of them, a thick yellow python coiled around the guy’s torso. He wore a blond wig and had a beauty mark. Clay handed Justine a drink—it tasted like cool twisted toffee. The snake’s head hovered, its forked tongue flitting at Clay.
“She likes you,” the dancer said in a husky voice.
Clay stuffed a bill in the dancer’s G-string.
“Thanks, preppy.”
“Anytime, Marilyn,” Clay replied, and took a sip of his drink.
Justine’s hand was shaking, rattling the ice cubes.
“Let’s dance,” he said, and they shoved their way through the crowd to a staircase leading to a basement dance floor. She stumbled into the primordial throng, the only girl for miles.
Her drink sloshed all over her tank top. She wasn’t wearing a bra.
Clay took the glass and vanished.
The colored lights streamed over her face like rays of the sun. She closed her eyes and raised her arms over her head. The song was the best she’d ever heard. There’s seventy billion people of Earth, where are they hiding? The cocaine coursed through her organs in time with the pounding bass. Her eyes stung, she was pouring sweat. A voice inside her head called her name. Where are they hiding? She clenched her teeth to stop them from chattering. Her hands were shaking like falling leaves.
Justine! Someone tapped her shoulder.
She opened her eyes. “Stanley?” Her voice sounded so far away, it could not have been her own. She flung her arms around his skinny, sweaty body. “What are you doing here?”
Something about a cheap room in the East Village, his father and a shotgun, escaping on the bus. It felt like a hallucination, Justine felt her wet shirt clinging to her, she was going to fall over.
“Are you high?”
She chewed into her lip, trying to remember where she had come from. “Spilled.
”
“I came with Ted but I can’t find him either,” Stanley shouted into her ear and danced in a wriggle around her. “Give me your number.”
She patted her hips in vain.
Stanley’s eyes darted around the crowd, burly shoulders jostling around him.
“Be right back.”
Dancing with myself . . .
A strobe went off. Justine looked at her legs. Small bluish lice made of lint clung to them. They were crawling up her body. The strobe jolted everything into a stop-motion film and she was falling through slices of light.
Two men were making out next to her. One was old, bald, and unshaven, in a poufy strapless. The other was a delicate boy in a tank top and shorts. She couldn’t tear her eyes away, their tongues roiling in each other’s mouths.
Stanley reappeared out of the crowd with a pen. Holding his skinny wrist, she etched her number in blue jags on his arm. But it looked wrong. Stanley stuck a piece of paper in her jeans pocket, and then he was gone.
Clay came back, slipping his arm around her, and the two of them moved in a sweaty sync. For a few moments they were the only people in the world.
The crowd jostled him and Clay glanced around, noticing the men kissing. He stared, and in a second he pushed past Justine, past the crowd, clawing people out of his way as he tore up the stairs. Heart like a hammer, Justine hurried after him, reaching the top stair to see a commotion by the front door as Clay stumbled out.
On the sidewalk he punched a metal gate on a bodega and it shook like thunder.
He lurched away.
Justine tried to ask what was wrong but her teeth chattered so hard she couldn’t get the words out. She needed to come down off her high, right now.
“My dad!” Clay said. “That fucking tranny was my dad!”
She shook her head. No. Not that old guy with the skinny kid?
Clay slumped against a graffitied wall, his eyes glowing jade. Then he slid down, covering his face.
She touched his hair, soft as down and damp with sweat. The coke was still ricocheting through her body, her hand was unsteady.
Age of Consent Page 20