Bad Idea- The Complete Collection

by Nicole French

  “Look, Layla, I don’t know what’s going on between your friends and your family…it’s not really my business either—”

  “That’s not what I meant,” I start to protest, but his dark, piercing eyes silence me as he continues.

  “It isn’t my business,” he repeats. “You don’t know me. But since you brought it up, it sounds like you’re behind on things enough that your friend feels like she has to step in. So I’ll say this, and then I’ll shut the fuck up about it so I don’t sound like your dad or something. Don’t fuck with your money. I’ve been there, owing money and not being able to eat, and it fuckin’ sucks. If you need help, ask someone—your dad, your friends, whoever’s willing. Don’t be so proud you just screw yourself later, all right?”

  He holds my gaze for a beat as a rush of blood rises in my face. Finally, I tear myself away and sit forward so that his arm falls from around my shoulder. I take a few deep breaths, trying to push away the hot tears and shame of knowing he’s right—they’re all right—down where I can ignore them again. I feel like an idiot. How immature must he think I am, that he has to give me life advice? I wanted him to look at me like an adult...but I literally stuck my tongue out at Quinn like a little kid. How grown up am I?

  “It’s nothing to worry about,” I insist once I’m able to look at him again. I force a smile. “Really. Quinn’s kind of a drama queen, and sometimes I am too. Please don’t worry about me. What else did you do this morning?”

  Nico cocks his head to the side, measuring my response before he decides to let it go. I’m already figuring out that Nico is not the kind of person who will press you to talk if you don’t want to. He has patience that my friends and I don’t have.

  The train emerges from the underground tunnel, elevated as we pass a cluster of tall brick tenement buildings. I’ve never been inside buildings like them, even though there are plenty in plain view everywhere you go here, lining the periphery of the island and most of the outer boroughs too. But anyone who has ever watched music videos knows they look like a prison on the inside, with shitty florescent lighting, thin walls, small windows.

  “Projects,” Nico says knowingly, catching me staring at the buildings.

  I turn. “I know.” I pause for a moment, and then a question bubbles up before I can stop it. “Do you live in the projects?”

  He snorts, and I immediately feel foolish all over again.

  “No, sweetie, I don’t,” he says kindly.

  I want to explain that I didn’t necessarily ask because he’s not white––didn’t I?––but because he said he knows what it’s like to be poor. It never occurred to me before now that maybe he still is. These buildings line the edges of the island almost all the way around. Why wouldn’t he live in one?

  Nico’s hand slips up my back and squeezes my shoulder. Great, now he feels sorry for me. But my curiosity, that stubborn bitch, gets the best of me.

  “Did you ever live in one of them?”

  I don’t know what made me ask. Something about the way he talks about his family, sharing bedrooms, or the way his mother doesn’t seem to be able to do much for herself anymore. Or maybe it’s just the look on his face when he saw the buildings. A shadow lurks under that bright smile. I want so badly to know this man sitting next to me on the train, but I don’t know how to do it besides ask the questions, dumb or not.

  As if on cue, Nico’s expression darkens as he looks back at the buildings receding into the distance.

  “No,” he says carefully. “But…I might as well have.”

  “What does that mean?”

  He chews on his lower lip for a moment, considering. “Tell me something, NYU. How many bedrooms did you have in your house growing up?”

  I frown. There’s that moniker again, and this time it feels like a designation, a reminder of the difference in our social...I don’t know what to call it. Stations? Upbringings? I want a word that won’t sound so permanent.

  I don’t want to do this—we’ll get nowhere comparing that sort of thing, and it will make me look like a spoiled brat. Which, compared to him, maybe I am.

  “What does that have to do with anything?” I ask.

  “Just tell me, baby,” he cajoles. “I won’t judge. But it matters.”

  I look back at the tenement buildings, now almost out of sight, and then back at him.

  “I know what poverty looks like, if that’s what you’re getting at,” I say carefully. “I’ve seen the favelas—the slums—in Brazil. I’ve driven through places where people live in houses literally built out of crumbling bricks and metal scraps they steal off railroad cars. Whatever’s inside those buildings, I promise it’s about ten times better than those people live.”

  “You think those favelas—” he pronounces the word carefully, testing out the unfamiliar accent, “—are worse than the projects?”

  “Yeah, I do,” I contend mulishly. “I’ve seen kids there running around the streets with open sores all over their legs. Half the women are forced into prostitution because they can’t make enough money as maids to eat. People ‘disappear’ all the time, and the cops won’t go there because the gangs are stronger than they are. You know, when my dad was a kid, most of the favelas weren’t even included as part of the city, so they didn’t even get basic services like water, electricity, and sanitation. So yeah, I think it’s worse.”

  “People die in the projects here,” Nico counters. “There are some places here that a pretty rich girl like you should never, ever go by yourself because you might disappear too.”

  He leans in, close enough so that his nose is almost touching mine, and his sooty eyes burn with a kind of intensity that holds me still even though I want to turn away. I shake my head, trying my best to break the connection. It doesn’t work.

  “I get it. There’s poverty everywhere. But it’s real life, not a rap song. I’m sorry, but you can’t tell me that a building with plumbing and lighting and walls that are all of the same material is worse than the worst living conditions in a developing country.”

  Nico shakes his head and rubs his face. “Layla, that’s not what I’m saying,” he says, clearly a little frustrated. “My mother was born in a place like that. She grew up in a ghetto outside of San Juan. Trust me, I know it’s better here.”

  I frown. “Then what’s your point?”

  He presses his full lips together. “Just that it’s not really fair to make those comparisons in the first place. Just because those buildings have basic utilities doesn’t mean they’re safe. And just because someone calls one of them ‘projects’ doesn’t mean they’re hell on Earth. Have you ever actually been inside one of those buildings, NYU?” he asks, his voice dropping into a decibel that’s almost menacing.

  The man who shoved the testy investment banker against a wall like he was as light as a scarecrow is back, and I don’t want to be on his bad side. I gulp, and I swear I can feel Nico relishing my discomfort.

  “No,” I admit.

  “So answer the question, NYU. How many bedrooms did you have in your house growing up?”

  “Five,” I admit, my voice small as I focus on folding my scarf in my lap.

  Nico sits back in his seat and waits until I finally look to see his face, half satisfied, but half…resentful? Regretful? I can’t tell.

  “We had one,” he says as the train dips back down into the tunnel system below the city. We turn away from the window and face the inside of the car, which is old and covered in graffiti, and mostly emptied of people now that we’ve passed through Harlem.

  I gape, but not at the vandalism. “You had one bedroom? Weren’t there, like, four of you in that place?”

  “Five,” he corrects me. “Sometimes six if my mom had a boyfriend. My sisters slept on the Murphy bed. Gabe slept in the bedroom with our mom or on the floor until he was seven; then he got my spot on the couch when I left.”

  I’m the only child in my family. My parents have three extra bedrooms that sit empty in o
ur big suburban house, kept sparkling for relatives who never come to visit. Nico’s family had one to share. Jesus.

  “How old were you when you left?” I ask, unable to conceal the awe in my voice, along with the guilt.

  “Fifteen,” Nico says in a heavy voice.

  “That’s young,” I remark, and he blinks and straightens slightly.

  “Um, yeah. I was in a program for a few years that...brought inner city kids to the country to see what that’s like. But eventually I came back to Hell’s Kitchen and got my shit together enough to go to school for a little while. You know the rest.”

  It’s clear by his tone that he doesn’t want to linger on this story, but I can’t help myself. “And your mom still lives in that apartment?”

  He rubs hands together impatiently. “Yes. Layla, I don’t really want to talk about my past anymore though, all right? My point was just that things can be bad here too. My family didn’t even have it as bad as some, but a lot of people who live in those buildings over there, they still had it better than us. ‘Projects’ is just a word, baby. It doesn’t tell you everything.”

  I nod, now wanting more than ever to know more of his story, how he grew up. I want to know how a family of five could get along living together like that for years. I wonder if it’s even legal. But somehow, I know that pressing the issue will probably only make Nico withdraw further, and that’s the last thing I want.

  Instead, we let the rumble of the train and the hum of other conversations fill the new silence that grows between us. As we sit back on the hard subway seats, I can’t help but wonder just how much of his life in New York Nico has spent in train cars just like these. I also wonder if he has ever wanted to leave.

  The Cloisters is about a ten-minute walk up a hill from the second to last stop on the route. As we trudge up the snowy drive, a large tower comes into view. It doesn’t actually look so much like a castle as like the Roman-style basilicas in Europe and, as it happens, Brazil. A large tower rises above a square-shaped building, in the center of which is an outdoor garden space guests can roam during the spring and summer months.

  We walk around the gated building and locate the entrance on one side. Once we’re inside, Nico pulls out a season pass to show the ticket-booth attendant and hands over the “suggested” student fee before I’m able to take out my wallet.

  “You didn’t have to do that,” I say while I attach the small “M” clip to my sweater. I tuck my hat and mittens into my satchel and sling my overcoat through the straps.

  “Please,” he says. “You’re my date, and you’re just a poor college student.”

  In light of our earlier conversation, I can’t help but feel guilty that he’s paying despite my obvious privilege compared to his family, but I shake it off as he grabs my hand and tows me into the museum like he owns the place.

  He knows it as if he owns it too. I have my very own tour guide, because Nico has memorized just about every piece of art in the museum and all the trivia to go with it.

  “So, get this,” he rambles as we walk around the stone interior. “The museum is constructed from parts of five different medieval buildings from Europe. The rich guys who funded the place—Rockefeller, I think, and some other cats—actually purchased parts of churches and abbeys in Southern France and had them shipped over here, brick by brick, to reconstruct. On the tip of fuckin’ Manhattan. Is that crazy, baby, or what?”

  I have to agree that it is, and look on in awe as we walk in and out of the various buildings—the cloisters for which the place is named—peering at the medieval art and sculptures that adorn every room. We are mostly alone; few people want to make the trip up here in the snow, I suppose. Nico eventually steers me into a large room where the walls aren’t lined with paintings, but with tapestries.

  “These are my favorites,” he informs me, guiding me toward the first in a large series of woven works.

  “Oh!” I cry in delight and surprise. “Hey, I know these! These are the Unicorn Tapestries. We read about these in my art history class last year.”

  Nico stands behind me and rests his hands on my hips as we examine the first tapestry in the series, The Start of the Hunt. Like the others in the room, the tapestry is massive, some twelve by fourteen feet, according to the placard next to it.

  “Amazing, isn’t it, sweetie?” His deep voice rumbles with pleasure, and I have to fight myself not to turn around to look at him instead of the art. “Look at all the detail. Can you imagine how long it took to do this by hand?”

  It’s as detailed and intricate as any painting. The tapestry portrays eleven men and their hunting paraphernalia, all with a somewhat confused intent to kill the mythical creature that’s spearing one of the dogs in the side with its horn. The creature doesn’t want to be trapped or chased—that’s obvious, and the irritation on its face is just as clear as the befuddlement on those of its captors, maybe from the fact that they had even located a mythical creature to begin with. The desire to kill it—the most rare and valuable animal in the world—for nothing but sport is obviously the paradox of the story.

  Nico keeps hold of my hand as he escorts me to the next few tapestries in the series, which cover the progress of the hunt, the unicorn becoming more and more trapped as the hunters got their act together. The fifth tapestry, of which only a few torn fragments are present, consists of a woman who appears to be taming the unicorn to the point where it’s oblivious to a dog biting its flank, thus allowing for its capture and death, portrayed in the sixth, bloodiest tapestry. We study them as Nico pulls me in front of him and wraps his arms around my waist. We’re quiet, almost as if paying respect to the fallen beast.

  “The myth is that a unicorn can only be tamed by a virginal maiden,” Nico says as he leans his chin on my shoulder. “What do you think, sweetie? Could you tame a unicorn?”

  “Well, first I’d have to be a virgin, wouldn’t I?” I respond somewhat wryly. “Unfortunately, that ship has sailed.”

  “You’re still a lovely, virtuous maiden,” Nico says as he sets a soft kiss on my neck. “You could probably tame a wild beast if you met him.”

  Again, I have to resist the urge to twist around in his arms. I really wish I could see the look on his face as he says that, but I’m scared what he might see on mine.

  “Is that a challenge, Mr. Soltero?” I’m joking, but inwardly I’m begging for it to be true.

  He growls in return, a deep, pleasant vibration against my neck. “You’re welcome to try. Come on, milady. Let me show you the garden before they close.”

  On our way out, I glance at the seventh and final tapestry: The Unicorn in Captivity. The unicorn, apparently back from the dead, sits happily tethered to a tree, completely encircled by a fence. It looks happy to be there, as if all it had wanted all along was to belong to someone. Still, the pitiful size of the fence makes its happiness pathetic, and I wonder briefly if that was what Nico thought of when he joked about being tamed by a virtuous maiden. I hope not.

  Chapter Fifteen

  Nico

  I really need to tell her. But when she looks at me like that, like she really wants to tame the beast within, the beast she doesn’t really even know yet, I don’t want to say that this whole thing needs to stay casual, that I can’t get into anything serious right now. I want to throw myself onto my knees and tell her she’s basically already tamed me. That I’m hers. If she wants me.

  Fuck me. What am I supposed to do when she looks at me like that?

  We walk out into the deserted courtyard that looks out onto the Hudson River. The temperature is dropping, and I have an arm around her waist as we stride around the grounds. It’s not easy since we’re both wearing these giant parkas, but I make it work.

  “Usually this is a really nice garden,” I tell her. “They do all this landscaping to make it true to the way things looked back in the medieval times. Same flowers, same patterns.”

  I don’t know why I feel like I have to be a tour guide. Maybe
it’s because I don’t have anything else to give her but my city. I know everything about New York, but I don’t have the money to show her all the fancy things about it. All I can offer is what I know. The deals, like attending the Met on donation only or the cheap Pakistani food you can get in the garage off Houston. The secret spots in Central Park that the tourists never find. This city is the only thing I can give her, but this city is all I want to escape.

  “Do you like to garden?” she asks. “Since you spent all that time in the country?”

  The country. Shit. I’m already regretting telling her that white lie. Yeah, I was out in the country for a few years as a teenager, but it wasn’t on some homestay holiday. I shake my head, wanting to put that piece of bullshit behind me. She doesn’t need to know.

  So instead I play it off like a joke. “In New York? Oh, yeah, I got a farm on my fire escape. They call me Old MacDonald, NYU. E-I-E-I-O!”

  She giggles with me while I sing out, loud and clear, about cows and horses and whatever other barnyard animals I can think of. God, I could listen to her do that forever. It makes me forget about the obvious differences between us, about the nasty fact that we come from completely different worlds.

  “You know, I have an idea for you,” she says once I’m done.

  Our breaths come out like ghosts while we walk. The temperature is starting to drop again, and the sun is falling down to the bluffs across the river. It’s still pretty early, but the sight of it puts me in a bad mood. It means I’m going to have to say goodbye to her soon and go back to my real life. Another night checking IDs and collecting money. You get an extra shift, you take it. Work, work, work.

  “What’s that, baby?” I ask, not wanting to spoil the moment.

  “Well,” she says slowly. “I was thinking about what you said last night. About wanting to be a firefighter and all that.”

  “Yeah?” I’m a little suspicious, but curious too. I’ve been burned too many times by the FDNY. All I ever wanted was to be one of those dudes on the trucks, but for whatever reason, I’ve never been good enough for them.