I rub my arm on the spot where she grabbed me, shivering in my pantslessness. “I thought I was grounded.”
“Yeah, well.” Mom slaps my cell phone into my palm. “I changed my mind.” She bends down to scoop a pair of cutoff denim shorts from the floor. “Put these on.” I take the shorts, my mouth agape.
“I said put them on!”
“Okay!” I step into the tattered legs and slip the phone in the back pocket, afraid to disturb the beast.
“Great, you’re dressed,” she says, shoving me toward the door. “See ya!”
“Am I allowed to put a bra on?”
“Fine,” she says, unhanding me. I find one in a pile by the door and slink it through the armholes of my shirt, wary of the woman watching.
Mom holds out a hoodie when I’m finished. “You should probably take this too. In case it gets cold.” The moment I take the sweatshirt in my arms, she begins pushing—out the door and toward the hallway, down the stairs, and into the foyer.
“Wait, I need to brush my—”
“Have some gum,” says Mom, placing a pack into my hands along with my wallet. She opens the door, the daylight pouring in. I blink, adjusting, and she tosses my flip-flops onto the front porch, one at a time.
“I was going to say hair.” Mom turns back to the shelf by the door and produces a brush. I stare at her. Well played.
“I know you’re still a little mad at me,” she says as I work through the sizable snarl that has formed along the underside of my untamed waves. “And to be honest, I’m a little mad at you too. But we’ll just have to deal with that later.” After a few more painful strokes, Mom takes the brush and holds my cheek in her hand. “In the meantime, I think you’ve sufficiently wallowed. So hear me when I say, with all the love in my heart: Get the hell out of my house.”
I shake her off me. “God, do you talk to your clients this way?”
With a happy sigh, she guides me across the threshold, out into the breeze. “Honestly? There are days when I’d like to. But my clients pay me lots of money. You, on the other hand, cost a fortune.” I scrunch my toes into flip-flops, eyes squinting to fend off the daylight. “Anyhoo . . .”
“Mom, you can’t be seriou—”
She closes my lips with her fingers. “Bye, sweetie. Don’t come back before sundown.”
“But—” The door slams shut and I hear the click of a lock. I look at the pile in my hands. She gave me everything but my keys.
I stomp down my front steps. No direction seems to speak to me, so I let my legs take over, guiding me through the tree-lined streets. Wind tussles with trees, sun beaming through cracks. With each step I feel my eyes grow clearer, my limbs less heavy, skin tingling and awake.
Out in the fresh air, it’s a little like I’ve broken from a spell. I’m on the lakefront path by the docks. Shiny white boats bob in neat lines, cheerful against the rocky water. It’s blustery out, a whisper of fall in the air, and despite the hot sun I’m happy to have my sweatshirt.
The joggers are out in full force today, some pushing strollers, others chatting breathlessly in pairs. A shirtless man on Rollerblades whizzes past, half pulling, half pulled by a big dog on a leash. Coming toward me, a gray-haired couple teaches a little girl to pedal her trike, calling out directions in what sounds like Chinese. I step out of the way as the girl makes a break for it, sending the poor old folks running. I smile as I watch her go. This is a place where people are their best selves, happy and free under the enormous midwestern sky.
“Huh,” I say aloud. I didn’t come here once this summer.
I pass a patch of beach set up with volleyball nets. A few scrawny college-age guys dive after balls in the sand, unabashed by their obvious athletic ineptitude. By the water’s edge, two toddlers in frilly suits dip their toes in, overwhelmed and euphoric, with shovels in hand.
Everyone I see seems to be really living, and right here.
My legs take over again and I find myself climbing the bridge over Lake Shore Drive. A shortcut through the park spits me out near a gas station, and I head north for a while, until I see a familiar wall of brick draped in vines.
I catch the door as someone comes out and cut through the basketball court, a stray ball nearly taking me out within seconds. Something in the way I jolt makes me click in with where I am. All around, kids are practicing shots on top of shots. Through the window, I see senior citizens learning to belly dance in the movement studio.
It’s been years since I’ve set foot in the community center.
It’s strange to think, but I’ve finally found one—a wholly Priya-less place.
The weight room is home to its usual loners. The boxing stuff is still off to one corner. A stocky, older guy works the speed bag clumsily. It’s not quite the right height for him, and he can’t seem to find the rhythm. A part of me wants to step in and show him how, but I’m not sure he’s looking for advice.
As I walk onto the open mat, I get a waft of sweat and rubber and feel myself transported. For a second, I’m a smaller version of myself, all full of wordless fury. After Dad moved out, there was a long stretch when I loathed talking. I hated feelings. And talking about feelings. There was something in me, ready to burst and gush like a fire hydrant. If it opened, I wasn’t certain it would stop.
Reggie got it, anyway. He didn’t ask stupid questions. He just let me hit stuff. It was here—slowly—that I put myself back together. It’s a comfort to think about, actually. I did it once. Maybe I can do it again.
I walk toward a heavy red bag that dangles from a hook. I give it a push and watch it sway.
Maybe . . .
With a deep breath, I make myself complete the thought.
Maybe I have to let her go.
I kill time in Lincoln Park, winding along the nature boardwalk and up through the archway to the zoo. I’m pretty sure Mom was serious about keeping me out until sundown, and it’s as good a place as any.
I pay my respects to the snowy owl, the red panda, and a naked mole rat (who is, incredibly, just as ugly as he sounds). Inside the Ape House, the smell is pungent, an unfortunate marriage of mulch and shit. A mother nurses a baby in faraway corner, her back turned to the people straining to see.
Priya always got sad at zoos. I guess I can see why.
But none of that.
I’m letting go.
One tiny little thought at a time.
I suddenly remember the phone that’s been returned to me. I pull it out and see the screen lit up with texts. It does make me feel better. Less hermit-like. The messages are from Lacey, sent this morning.
The soccer girls are going to the movies this afternoon. Come if you want, and bring the stud muffin. Together we can stop chronic boylessness!
I laugh into the screen, though the mention of said stud muffin does sour my stomach a little. The next one comes with a photo.
Look what I found!!
We’re maybe nine in the picture, in matching soccer uniforms. My hair is messy and matted with sweat, while hers remains intact in the perfectly symmetrical French braids she always used to wear. She’s got her arm slung around me like I’m a prized possession. We’re both missing several teeth.
I write back.
Omg, so cute!
And sorry, didn’t see this. Ps. you’re ridiculous.
Lacey and I may never be soul sisters, but it wouldn’t kill me to make an effort. I follow up with another message.
Next time. ☺
The crowd around me gasps, and my attention returns to the scene in front of me. The mother gorilla has set down her baby, who is now toddling this way like some adorable, bizarre near human. The reflections of gleeful spectators overlap the captives—little kids pressing noses to glass and parents wielding cameras.
Suddenly I land on a familiar face.
It takes me a minute to place him. It’s the man who spoke to me outside Priya’s gate the other day. His dark eyes widen behind glasses when they meet mine.
&nb
sp; I jump. “Jesus!” The baby gorilla cackles through spread teeth, having smashed a handful of feces against the glass. I catch my breath as the mother lumbers over to scoop up the little rascal, and the phone in my hand buzzes—again, and then again. The texts are from Arturo.
911!!! Panicking.
You are still coming to the show, right?
RIGHT?? Starts at 4. HURRY!
“Crap,” I mutter, immediately running for the exit. I’m officially a jerk. I completely forgot about Arturo’s showcase. I weave through people, past food carts and rock candy stands, my flip-flops slapping the bottoms of my feet with every stride. If I hurry, I still might make it there in time. I head north, then west, toward another Cubs game overtaking the streets. Buses are rerouted, cars gridlocked. I run through hordes of fratty fans and kids on shoulders, a sea of matching jerseys and hats.
At five minutes to four I come stumbling into the theater and throw down money for a ticket. The place is packed with grown men dressed like college kids and hipster girls cracking jokes at the bar. There are no windows, so it feels like night. I note a general smattering of plaid throughout, just as Sam described, and there are several mustaches, possibly ironic. In the audience, a penis-adorned bachelorette party is already woo-ing, despite the empty stage.
“Pssst!” I look around. “Zan!”
I spot Arturo’s floating head against a wall of dingy black curtains. I push through the crowd until I reach him and he yanks me by the arm in through the opening.
“Thank God you’re here!” he whisper-yells. “I’m freaking out!” I’ve never been behind a stage like this before. Some performers are chatting and finishing up beers while others stand with their backs to the wall, humming and talking to themselves.
“Hey,” I say with as much authority as I can muster. “The people in that audience are going to love you. I’m sure you’re exactly what these fancy agents and producer types are looking for.”
“It’s not that,” says Arturo. “Sam finally listened to me and brought her mom to a show. It happens to be the most important one of my entire career, but you know, I’m not resentful or anything.”
I frown. He may be turning slightly green. “Why would Sam pick tonight?”
“She didn’t mean to. She was trying to talk me up, saying tonight could be my big break . . .” He scratches his head, looking dazed. “I guess she did such a good job her mom decided to come.” He locks eyes with me, pleading, though I can’t help.
I bite my lip and pull open the curtain to look. “Front row, to the left,” he says. They’re easy to spot—stiff and silent among the commotion. Samantha’s lips are sucked in, a crossed leg bobbing as she sits beside a pretty, older woman with short-cropped hair. I try to see the place how this put-together woman might—noting the mismatched audience chairs and mingling smells of beer-stained wood and bathroom cleaner.
Arturo shakes his head as I close the curtain. “This is a nightmare. What if she hates me?”
“Aw.” I palm his cheek, only to snap my hand away. He’s quite sweaty. “You can’t worry about that. Just . . . be funny, okay?”
“You can leave now,” he says with a sigh, pushing me back through the opening. For a moment, I’m alone on the empty stage, the bright lights blinding me. When my eyes adjust I’m surprised to see Logan sitting on Sam’s other side.
I’m sneaking toward the back row when I hear, “Zan!” Dammit. I’ve been caught.
“How’s he doing?” Sam asks as I come over, my eyes decidedly not on Logan.
Samantha and I don’t sugarcoat. “I’m gonna say, bad?”
“Shit,” she whispers to herself. She removes a jacket from the empty seat beside her. “We’ll move down so you can sit with Logan.”
“Oh,” I say, still unable to look at him. “No, no.” But it’s already done, and soon I’m lowering myself stiffly into the spot beside him.
Sam says something in Korean and turns to me. “Zan, this is my mother, Connie. Umma, this is Zan.” Connie reaches across to shake my hand, with a weak smile that has me worried for Arturo. “They sell wine here,” says Sam. “Maybe we should get some?”
“I think we’d better,” her mother agrees.
Logan and I are quiet as they head for the bar, leaving jackets in their places. After a minute I glance over. Logan, infuriatingly, says nothing. I roll my eyes, finally breaking. “What are you doing here?”
“Arturo asked me, remember?”
I cross my arms. “Well, I wasn’t expecting you.”
The lights flicker and Sam returns with her mom, each of them holding a small plastic glass filled to the brim. “He’s gonna be great,” Sam says between gulps. “Right?”
“Right,” I say as convincingly as I can manage.
After another flicker, some feel-good hip-hop starts blaring through the sound system. “Hey hey hey!” shouts a sprightly guy in skinny jeans, clasping his palms together as the spotlight comes on. The cheering ramps up and I realize just how many people are packed into this little place. After the host does his bit, he tells us to turn off our cell phones, and the energy settles. Sam squeezes my hand as the lights go out.
Silence.
After a scuffle, something moves past me in the dark. A chair screeches and someone sits. The lights come up on Arturo, sitting front and center. I didn’t realize he was going first. It must be harder to go first. I meet his stare from a few feet away. A bead of sweat slides along his hairline. Does he know he’s looking at me? And why isn’t he speaking? Speak, Arturo. Speak!
Finally, like a computer screen unglitching, Arturo’s eyes leave mine, shifting off to a point in the middle distance. Beside me, Sam is pulling on her first finger. I hear the knuckle pop.
Arturo clears his throat. “Life is weird, in’it?” he says in a thick New Zealand accent. There’s a small murmur of laughter around us. The accent in itself is funny. Arturo’s arms rest in his lap, his posture sunken. “You work hard, get yourself a nice chrysalis, and you think to yourself—You’ve done it, Glen. Now it’s time to relax.” Arturo doesn’t look as nervous anymore, but I can tell he hasn’t fully settled in. There’s a staleness to the air as people shift in seats. “And then, well . . .” Arturo shakes his head, a look of genuine pain filling his eyes. “Then someone comes along and tells you it’s all about to change. This is the Before Part, Glen,” he says, doing a voice. “No need to get emotional, Glen.” He clucks to himself. “I don’t know about you, but I quite like the before part.” He shrugs. “It’s cozy.”
He looks out meekly to the audience. “I’m a caterpillar, by the way.” There’s a little snort from a couple seats down. “Probably should have mentioned that.” Sam nudges me, a stunned look on her face as she tilts her head toward the smiling woman beside her. The laugh came from her mom.
I grin back at Sam before my gaze shifts to the bar behind her. I spot a man standing there, a beer in hand.
I look away, then double-check.
It’s definitely him. The guy from Priya’s house. The same guy from the zoo.
The audience roars with laughter. I must have missed something. When I peek over again, the man’s expression hasn’t changed. He drains his glass and sets it down, looking almost nervous as he runs a hand over his stubble.
I jump when Sam clutches my arm, laughing breathlessly. Beside her, Connie rears her head back, wiping away a happy tear. Music has started playing—a booming house party beat. I’m pretty lost, but I think Arturo is expressing Glen the Caterpillar’s metamorphosis through dance. He prances and gyrates, his face so heartbreakingly earnest. It’s all so perfectly bizarre.
When I steal another glance at the bar, the man is staring straight at me.
I jolt, and Logan leans in to whisper, “Hey, you okay?”
“Fine,” I say tersely, watching as Arturo flits about the stage, morphing into character after character, impression after impression. All people with different accents, all in their Before Parts. I’m only getting b
its and pieces, though, because the man’s eyes are burned into my vision, my breath growing shallow.
I’m not sure how much time passes before Arturo’s voice brings me back—his real voice—as a calm settles over the crowd.
“Please let her like me.” Something in the energy around us shifts, and Arturo is somehow impossible to look away from as he ties an invisible tie onstage. “You know what? No. I mean I’m praying here, right, God? Go big or go home!” Arturo looks to the ceiling, and his arms spread out wide. “I meant love, God! Let her love me! I get that it’s only a date. But goddamn—” He grimaces. “Whoops, sorry. It’s just . . . With some people, you just know, you know?”
I catch Sam and her mom in a brief, meaningful look. Sam’s cheeks are flushed, her eyes a little glassy from laughing. I’m not sure I’ve ever seen her look like that. I wonder if I’m even capable of the expression.
Around me people are still and silent, absorbed by this open view into my boss’s weird, adorable heart. My eyes float to the bar again, and the hairs on my arms begin to stick up as a piano rings out. The man is gone.
Arturo is back to being Glen the Butterfly now, fluttering and singing while the crowd claps. I listen in on the song for a moment as I scan the place— “Nothing like landing on your first bologna sandwich!” What?
I spot the man slinking behind the standing-room-only crowd in the back row, making his way to my side of the theater. He looks . . . intense? Determined? It’s freaking me out. I twist in my seat, looking for a clear path. I’d have to cross the stage to get to the main doors. But there’s a back exit.
Sam gives me an odd look as I get up. I mouth the word sorry, my eyes fixed on the man still weaving his way through the tight space in back. I lean over to whisper another apology to Connie before slipping out, and Arturo catches my hunched-over exit while belting out a long note. He doesn’t look mad. I think he’s too high on the night to care. I give an emphatic thumbs-up and rush for the exit, the sounds of a joyful crowd dampening as the door closes behind me.
Out in the alley, I check over my shoulder and hurry toward the main street. I step into a busy intersection, swarming with Cubs fans, and a crossing guard trills her whistle. “Sorry. Sorry!” I say, darting back onto the curb.
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