We Were Beautiful

by Heather Hepler

  “We’re aren’t going to Stacy’s,” Rachel had said, putting the car in gear and pulling out of the driveway.

  “Okay,” I said. “Then where are we going?”

  “Think of it as a second birthday party,” Rachel said, “But with less pie and more fun.”

  I remember digging my fingernails into my palms, excited that Rachel was taking me with her somewhere and scared that I wouldn’t be cool enough for her friends. I was also afraid of getting in trouble with our parents.

  “Relax,” Rachel said, grabbing my hand and giving it a squeeze. She smiled at me and I knew it was going to be okay. I trusted her implicitly.

  If I concentrate hard enough, I can still almost feel the pressure of her hand in mine, her warm fingers on my cold hand.

  Cannoli Day arrives much too quickly.

  “I can’t breathe,” I say, pulling the fabric away from my face.

  “Hush,” Fig says, leading me through the crowded diner and out onto the sidewalk. She has to lead me because with the cannoli mask on, I have no peripheral vision. I pull at the fabric again, feeling hot and breathless and claustrophobic.

  “Stop,” Fig says, adjusting the headpiece that is supposed to be the cream filling spilling out of the end of the dessert. “It looks weird when you do that.”

  I snort in a non-cannoli-like fashion. “Yes, because I don’t already look weird enough dressed up as a giant Italian pastry.”

  This makes Fig laugh, which makes me laugh, and soon I’m bent over with my hands resting on my fabric-covered knees and my cream filling threatening to drop off my head and onto the sidewalk.

  “Girls!” someone hisses behind me. I have to turn all the way around to see Grace, standing with her hands on her hips. “Keep it together.”

  I nod, making my filling wobble. Fig giggles again behind me. It’s a good thing I can’t see her. I’m afraid if I could, I’d never stop laughing. But the thought of all my oxygen disappearing in an uncontrollable laughing fit is enough to sober me.

  I spend the next few hours waving at passing cars, shaking hands with little kids—who either run crying from the giant dessert or who want their picture taken with me—and trying to stay out of the way. Once my discomfort fades, I realize this may not be the worst job in the world. Dressed in the costume, I feel more normal than I have in more than a year. I can laugh and talk to people without them seeing me, and being hidden is oddly freeing. Sure, everyone is still staring at me, but this time it’s because I’m dressed like a crazy pastry, not because of my scar.

  My phone buzzes in my back pocket, and I wonder if it’s another photo from my dad. Besides Fig, he’s the only person who texts me—my mom has maintained radio silence since our awkward phone call. In addition to the sand dollar, over the past couple of days Dad’s sent me a photo of a sunset partially obscured by one of his flip-flopped feet and another of a chocolate-sprinkle donut bisected by his thumb. I try to distance myself from his texts, but I feel something shift in my heart each time my phone buzzes.

  I tell myself that I’ll check my phone as soon as I can. I’m pretty sure Grace would freak if the giant cannoli starting texting.

  Part of what makes Cannoli Day so popular is that Brunelli’s sells them for ten cents each, which is what they cost eighty years ago when Brunelli’s first opened. People keep buying them by the boxful. After one guy leaves with six dozen, Nonna puts a limit on how many people can buy. Even with the limit, it’s all Joey can do to keep the shells coming out of the kitchen so Grace and Gina and Nonna can fill them and box them up.

  Just before lunch, Cooper shows up. He and Sebastian stand off to one side, leaning against the side of the building. Fig nods in their direction. Because of the stupid headpiece, I have to turn all the way around to see them. Sebastian walks up to Nonna, who smiles and tries to ruffle his hair, but I think dreadlocks are impossible to ruffle by definition. She gives him a cannoli. Fig hands him another cannoli, and he munches on it while he talks to her.

  “So, where’s Mia?” he asks.

  Fig pretends to look around. “I don’t know,” she says. “She was right here a minute ago.” I smile underneath the costume. I really am anonymous in this thing.

  Cooper walks over to stand next to Sebastian. He grabs the other cannoli out of Sebastian’s hand and bites it, then looks straight at me. “Hey, Mia,” he says.

  Sebastian turns quickly and scrutinizes me, then he frowns at Fig, who starts laughing.

  “Hi,” I say, my voice pushed back at me by the costume.

  “How did you know it was her?” Fig asks. Cooper shrugs and takes another bite of his cannoli. He glances at me briefly, and I feel my cheeks get hot.

  “Move it or lose it,” Grace says, putting another tray of cannoli shells on the table in front of us.

  “Guess we should—” Sebastian begins.

  Fig leans toward him. “Go inside and tell Joey that you heard his minestrone wasn’t as good as the soup at Lombardi’s.” She says it softly.

  “What? So, I can get my head bashed in?” Sebastian asks. “Have you seen the size of that guy?”

  “Trust me,” Fig says. He looks at her, concerned, but then nods and hits Cooper lightly on the arm, gesturing toward the front door. I watch them walk into the diner. A little boy starts yelling that he wants to touch the giant dessert.

  Nonna decides it’s time to move Cannoli Day inside. It’s getting hotter by the second. And even if I’m not that savvy about the whole cannoli thing, I do know that hot days and pastry cream don’t mix. Fig and I walk through the diner, where Sebastian and Cooper are sitting at the counter with big, steaming bowls of soup in front of them and Joey towering over both. Fig just smiles and waves as we pass. Grace told me not to take off the costume until we were in the kitchen. Like we don’t want to spoil the illusion that the giant cannoli might be real. Fig helps me pull off the headpiece and unzips the back of the costume so I can pull it off.

  Without the costume, I immediately feel exposed again. I pull it off myself, dropping my chin and trying not to look at Fig as I put the costume back on its hanger.

  “It’s hot,” Fig says. I nod. I’m so sweaty that my hair is sticking to the back of my neck. “Come on,” she says, leading me through the kitchen and into the walk-in cooler. We stand there until our teeth are chattering and we have to rub our arms to keep warm.

  “So, how was it?” Fig asks.

  I shrug, smiling slightly. “I wouldn’t want to wear it every day, but it wasn’t that bad.”

  Fig rolls her eyes. “No, I mean seeing Cooper again.”

  “Stop,” I say. I feign a sudden interest in the wheels of cheese stacked on one of the shelves. “How do they get all that wax on them?” I ask.

  Fig stares at me long enough to let me know she’s giving me an out, but that I’m not totally off the hook. I half wonder if she got my grandmother to teach her that look. “Well, I’m no cheeseologist,” Fig says, “but I assume dipping.”

  I nod like what she said just solved one of life’s mysteries for me.

  “Tomorrow night, Sarah’s playing at The Wall,” Fig says. “You want to go?” She narrows her eyes at me. “Unless, of course, you have other plans.”

  “What’s The Wall?” I ask.

  Fig shrugs. “A hipster coffee house where they have open mic. It’s a mixed bag, but Sarah’s really good.”

  “I’ll have to check my calendar,” I say, playing along. Part of me wishes I did have plans. The thought of going out at night to a coffee house where there will be a lot of people freaks me out. At least maybe it’ll be dark in there.

  I’m really shivering now. I reach for the door, but Fig puts her hand on my arm.

  “Listen,” she says. “Cooper’s a great guy, but he’s sort of . . .” She looks around at the cheese and condiments stacked on the shelves surrounding us as if trying to find a good adjective to describe him. I raise my eyebrows. She sees the look on my face and smiles slightly. “All I mean is tha
t he can be hard to get to know.”

  “He seems nice,” I say.

  She nods. “He’s great, but he disappears a lot.” She shrugs. “Sarah says he just needs space sometimes.”

  “Did you ever? I mean, did you guys ever—”

  “If you’re asking if I dated Cooper, then the answer is no. When I met Cooper, he was . . . Well, he was unavailable.” She pushes the door open and we walk back into the kitchen. I use my fingers to comb my hair down so that it covers the side of my face. “Besides, that’s when I met Sebastian. There’s just something about a guy who can put away as much food as he can.” She grins goofily at me, and I can’t help but smile back.

  Fig heads into Nonna’s office and I pull out my phone. I open up the text and click the photo. It’s of a sign. Fish Sandwiches & Live Bait Sold Here. My dad’s thumb is across the lens of his phone. I reply with a heart emoji. It’s a deal I made with myself—I am allowed to reply, but not actually initiate contact. I slide my phone back into my pocket just as Fig comes out of the office. She motions for me to follow her to the front. Sebastian and Cooper are still sitting at the counter, now with sandwiches in front of them.

  “Can you believe this guy had the nerve to say my minestrone wasn’t as good as Lombardi’s?” Joey says, hitching his thumb in Sebastian’s direction. Fig pretends to look shocked. Joey turns to Cooper and Sebastian. “Now who has the better soup?”

  “You do,” Sebastian says, around a bite of sandwich.

  “Definitely,” Cooper says, nodding. Joey just dips his head as if that settles it, then walks down to the end of the counter and starts rearranging the tubs of peppers and onions.

  “See?” Fig says, smiling at them. Both Cooper and Sebastian grin.

  “I’m glad you came out when you did,” Cooper says. “I was afraid he wouldn’t stop feeding us.” He looks down at his plate and the remaining half a sandwich.

  “You gonna eat that?” Sebastian asks. He takes it before Cooper has a chance to answer. “You ready to head over to Eddie’s?” he asks Fig. She nods and reaches under the counter for her bag. Sebastian stands, still clutching the sandwich. He takes a giant bite. Then another.

  “Eddie’s is an art supply store over on Houston,” Fig tells me. Sebastian pushes the last of his sandwich into his mouth.

  “You guys wanna come?” he asks when he finishes swallowing. He looks from me to Cooper as he wipes his mouth with a napkin before crumpling it and putting it on the now empty plate.

  “I’ve got to work,” Cooper says. He glances over at me and then away, and I think about what Fig said about him needing space. Then he turns to me. “Want to come with me?” he asks. “I have to . . .”

  I’m bobbing my head before he finishes, making him smile. I walk back into the kitchen and grab my bag. When I come back out, Sebastian and Fig are gone, but Cooper’s standing near the front. He holds the door for me. I duck my chin a little as I pass, careful to let my hair fall across my cheek. I walk on the right side of him as we head farther downtown.

  I look at him out of the corner of my eye. Cooper seems so easy with his mouth. I never see him try to hide it or cover it or anything. Maybe when you’ve had something all your life, you get used to it.

  “Do you like dogs?” Cooper asks. He looks over at me and I nod. “Good thing,” he says. “Good thing.”

  Chapter Eight

  When Cooper asked if I liked dogs, I was thinking theoretical dogs, not actual dogs and definitely not seven of them.

  “Here,” he says. “Take this.” He hands me a leash with hooks all along both sides of it. We go from building to building picking up dogs. He takes them after we pick up three—I gratefully hand them off. Clearly you need more experience than I have navigating the narrow sidewalks with dogs going off in every direction. I have to hold them each time Cooper goes to retrieve a new one. Mostly we get buzzed in by the staff, as Cooper calls them, but he has keys to two of the places.

  “I haven’t even met the owners of most of these dogs,” he says as we walk. “Just the maid or the nanny.”

  He clips the dogs to the leash I’m holding as we pick them up. There’s a Saint Bernard and a lab and a terrier thing that barks constantly. There’s a tiny Chihuahua that gets her own leash (pink with rhinestones) and a basset hound with ears so long, they drag on the ground. We pick up a greyhound, who Cooper tells me is really nice, but a couple of sandwiches short of a picnic. After being clipped in alongside the others, he just stares at me with his sweet, vacant eyes.

  The last dog we pick up is in a basement apartment of a run-down building. An older woman comes to the door and hands Cooper the leash. At the end of it is a beautiful Irish setter. The dog is so happy to see Cooper that he just runs around him in a circle, wrapping the leash around and around his knees. Cooper laughs and untwists himself. He leads the dog back up to the sidewalk to where I’m waiting, attempting to keep six dogs under control.

  “This is Waffles,” he says. Waffles makes a chuffing noise at the sound of his name.

  “Waffles?” I ask, smiling. Cooper shrugs. “Hi, Waffles,” I say, bending down and letting him sniff my hand.

  “He’s mine. I mean, Sarah’s and mine.”

  “Is that where you live?” I ask, pointing down the steps to where the door is just now closing.

  Cooper rubs the back of his neck and looks past me. “Sort of,” he says.

  I wait for more, but he just bends down and attaches Waffles’s collar to the chain of dogs that I’m already holding. Then he rolls up Waffles’s leash and slips it into his pocket.

  The loaded leash feels like what I imagine holding a dogsled team would be like. Then he trades me. He lets me walk the Chihuahua while he takes the rest of the pack.

  “You okay?” he asks, nodding at the dog I’m holding.

  “I got this,” I say.

  “Just be careful of other dogs and people and cars and everything else.”

  “I got this,” I repeat. I mean, how difficult could one dog be?

  “Seriously,” he says. “Just be careful.” I tilt my head at Cooper. “Trust me,” he says.

  And though it seems stupid, because I don’t really even know him that well, something in his voice and his eyes makes me trust him. Or at least want to.

  “Where to?” I ask, letting the Chihuahua pull me down the sidewalk.

  “I usually take them over to the park,” he says.

  He walks beside me, so close I can feel the heat of his arm on mine. A woman is walking toward us, alternating between talking on her phone and sipping from her cup of coffee. Cooper falls back so that I can move over and let her pass.

  “Stop it,” he says from behind me.

  I glance back and see the bassett hound trying to scoop up a fallen hot dog bun. I draw even with the lady, and the Chihuahua goes bananas. She tries to lunge at the woman, and bite through her leash, her collar, and my shoe all at the same time. It isn’t until the woman is nearly all the way to the corner that the dog stops freaking out.

  “See?” Cooper says, grimacing at me.

  We turn at the corner and enter the park. Several people sit, hunched over chess games at the tables. Cooper points to the other end of the park, where there is a fence and a big sign with more than a dozen rules for dog owners. The Chihuahua pulls me toward the entrance. The other dogs and Cooper are close behind. They all wait, mostly patiently, for me to unclip them. As I do, each of them runs into the park. Once the leash is empty, I roll it around my hand and stand up. Cooper unhooks the Chihuahua, who immediately goes at the Saint Bernard, who’s holding a stick.

  “Samson is such a bully,” Cooper says. I watch the Saint Bernard, but he is just standing there while the Chihuahua turns into a barking, yapping whirlwind around him.

  “He seems pretty mellow,” I say.

  Cooper smiles at me. “Samson is the Chihuahua.”

  “Samson. It’s a warrior’s name,” I say.

  “He’s had four names in as many
months,” Cooper says. “He’s a mess.”

  The Chihuahua moves from dog to dog, attacking them or stealing their toys. More than once Cooper has to go over and grab Samson and put him in a timeout. Timeout for Samson means Cooper holds him up at arm’s length until he stops freaking out. When he’s released, he behaves for about five seconds before he starts attacking the next dog.

  “You have to give him props for bravery,” I say, watching him square off against a Doberman over a tennis ball.

  “Stupidity often seems like bravery,” Cooper says.

  I look over at him. Something in his voice suggests we might not be talking about Samson anymore. We watch the dogs play for a while in silence, but it’s not an uncomfortable one. It’s just sort of quiet. Well, quiet except for the dozens of dogs running in every direction and barking their heads off. After about twenty minutes, Waffles comes over and sits on Cooper’s foot. Cooper bends and puts his hand on the dog’s head.

  “You tired, buddy?” he asks, scratching behind his ears.

  Cooper looks back toward the park and sighs. I follow his gaze. Samson has the basset hound cornered. He’s lunging and snapping at his ears. Cooper moves Waffles off his foot, and Waffles promptly shifts to sit on mine. Cooper goes over and picks up Samson, who turns on him in an instant, trying to bite his hands and face. He holds Samson against his chest with one hand while he checks to make sure the basset hound is all right. When the dog nuzzles Cooper’s hand, Cooper smiles and ruffles his long ears. The basset hound trundles off to play a moment later, finding some doggy friends who aren’t quite so aggressive. Cooper returns to me, still clutching Samson. He puts him on his leash and holds him close.

  “I hate bullies,” he says. He turns and closes his eyes for a second and takes a deep breath. When he opens his eyes, he smiles down at Waffles, still sitting on my foot. “He likes you,” he says.

  “How can you tell?” I ask.

  “It’s the foot-sitting. He only does that when he really likes someone.” Cooper shrugs. “It’s odd, but it’s his thing.”