“Hey Stel. Stella, this is Pippa. Stella’s a wardrobe stylist,” Talia says. “David’s mentoring Pippa.”
Stella raises her eyebrows, amused. “Wanna come help me lug the rest of the clothes in?”
I follow her down the hall. She asks me how I met David and I tell her about the program. “Wow, two weeks in New York when you’re—what, 16?”—I nod. “That’s kinda awesome.” She pauses a minute as if contemplating this. “I wish I would’ve done that when I was your age. Then again, I had this boyfriend. I never would’ve left him for two weeks.” I tell her about Dylan and the two-week communication ban. Her eyes grow wide. “That’s … interesting,” she says, which does not make me feel very positive about the ingeniousness of our idea. Outside the service elevator, a pile of black garment bags is lying on the concrete floor. “Here,” Stella says, draping a bag across my outstretched arms and grabbing the last two from the floor. Back in the studio, she lays the garment bags on top of the others, and I do the same. She disappears into the storage closet, reappearing with a wardrobe rack. “You can help me organize the clothes,” she says.
“Sure,” I say. I’ve seen stylists at some of Dace’s shoots, but the clothes were nothing like the ones we’re pulling out of the bags and sliding onto the metal rolling clothes rack. Feathers and fur, snakeskin and crocodile leather adorn many of the items. Not exactly available at the Gap. “Where did you get all these?”
“Showrooms. Half this stuff never actually makes it to stores, and definitely not outside New York, but it’s aspirational, you know? David wants to do a jungle theme.”
“So cool,” I say, as Stella unpacks a pair of spiky stilettos. “So you have to do this much work just for a test shoot?” Dace has done test shoots before, when she changed agencies, but they were never like this, never so elaborate.
“David takes his test shoots as seriously as his magazine spreads. He’s helped a lot of girls into the business just on the quality of his test shoots. And fashion isn’t even his main gig. Actually he hates it,” she says as a tall, pale girl with dark red hair comes in.
“Jaaron,” David says, going over to her and kissing her on both cheeks. She towers over him. He introduces Talia, then Stella, then me, and I give a small wave.
He tells Jaaron what he’s thinking for her test shots and then shows her where she can change—a small, no-frills bathroom in the corner. Stella starts handing her outfits and David goes back to setting up his lighting, explaining to me why he’s positioning the lights where he is. “Let’s do a white-balance check,” he says, handing me a white piece of paper. I stand where I think Jaaron would and hold it chest-high. He snaps a few shots and then nods.
“Do you want me to hold the bounce card?” I offer.
“No way, that’s what Talia’s for,” he says as Talia moves into place, smacking David on the butt with the bounce card.
“Oh,” I say, disappointed.
“Greene. What I want you to do is shoot alongside me. That’s what you’re here to do—be a photographer, right?”
I’m stunned for a split second but recover, totally stoked. “Um, yeah, that’d be awesome.” My excitement overshadows any nervousness, and I grab my camera from my bag at the door. I sling the strap over my neck, slip the lens cap in my bag and stand behind David until he tells me where to go.
We shoot for a couple of hours as Jaaron cycles through Stella’s wardrobe choices. The seamless changes to contrast or complement each outfit’s predominant color. David’s camera’s hooked up so that his pictures automatically appear on the computer. When David says we’re good, Talia goes over to the laptop to look at the selections and asks if I want to give her my memory card to see my shots on the screen. I do, self-consciously, and she pops it in the back of the computer, then cycles through the shots. “Not bad,” she says, though I don’t even know what kind of taste she has. It’s a bit like when the sales girl at American Eagle Outfitters tells you the jeans you’ve just tried on look good on you, even though you know they’re a size too small, because they’re cutting off your circulation and giving you serious muffin top. Still, I’m flattered, and then Jaaron points to a few she wants Talia to clean up so she can use them in her portfolio, and that feels really good. Unbelievable, actually.
While Jaaron goes into the bathroom to change, Stella and I start putting the clothes back in her wardrobe bags, and five minutes in, when we look up, Talia and David are gone. Another 10 and the place is spotless. Stella looks at her watch. “I’m gonna go,” she says. “Maybe I’ll see you around?”
“Should I wait and say goodbye?” I ask. “It feels awkward to just leave.”
“Yeah,” Stella says. “It felt awkward the first time he did it to me, too. But you should just go—he and Talia might be hours. I’m sure he’ll call you.”
She doesn’t expand, so I help her carry her stuff out to the elevator and down to the street, where she grabs a cab. “You need a ride anywhere?” she asks and I shake my head. She closes the door to the cab and it joins the whizzing traffic on Hudson. I’ve just arrived at my first stint of free time in the world’s greatest city.
I wait for a break in the traffic and hurry across to the other sidewalk, then walk over to Christopher Street. There are trees planted in metal boxes along the sidewalk that look sort of like the fake trees I saw when we did the Warner Bros. studio tour in California a few years ago.
I look at the doors across the street. Three doors from the corner, and there it is.
Dad’s apartment. The photograph I have of it is in black and white, and in my mind the door to Dad’s apartment building was blue. I don’t remember if Mom ever told me the color or I just decided that’s what it was, but in front of me, it’s a rusty red shade. I can see the number on the door, but I stay on my side of the street to take it all in. Four stories. Dad lived on the second floor. I snap a few pictures, lower the camera to check for traffic and cut across the street until I’m standing in front of the three steps. To the left of the door at the top of the steps, there’s one of those metallic boxes that lists all the tenants’ names, with a black square button beside each. I walk up the steps to get a closer look, scanning the list for Emmy’s name. Emmy Masterson. But instead, my finger stops on E. Greene.
Evan Greene. His name is still on the buzzer.
“You beat me,” a voice behind me says. I turn and smile at Aunt Emmy, who’s standing at the bottom of the steps. I step down to the sidewalk, and she immediately pulls me in for a hug, squeezing me tight, then lets go and I take a step back. Even though I only see her once, maybe twice, a year when she comes to visit us, she looks so similar to Mom that it’s almost like being with Mom—only a younger, cooler version. She’s wearing dark jeans, black ankle boots, a camel-colored coat with a high collar, red leather gloves and she’s got this gorgeous red leather bag slung over her shoulder. Even though Mom was the model, Emmy has always seemed more glam to me—I guess from living in New York? Or having the job she has, which does not involve scooping kitty litter or wearing a uniform that pluralizes a noun with a z. She’s only a bit taller than me, but lean like Mom. Her brown hair’s blow-dried straight and smooth. She reaches into her handbag and removes her keys. “Oh, I have something for you.” She pulls out a change purse and hands it to me. It’s all patchwork, various squares of fabric sewn together, a brass clasp at the top.
“Wow, awesome.” I turn it over in my hands. There’s got to be at least two dozen different patches of fabric, all different colors. Some plain, some with the signature Cs.
Emmy’s a handbag designer at Coach.
“I made it. It was a prototype we didn’t end up using. Too time consuming to make. And time is money,” she adds in a deep voice, I assume, imitating her boss. “So this is one of a kind.”
“I love it,” I tell her, running my hands over the patchwork.
“So, this is it,” she says, as we walk up the steps. “I just want to change my shoes and use the bathroom, and then
we can go for dinner, cool?”
I nod, then point at the buzzer. At Dad’s name. “His name’s still on the buzzer?”
“Oh yeah. I always forget about his name still being there. Except when I order takeout.”
“Why—why is his name still there?”
She holds a finger to her lips. “Rent control. If you never give up your apartment, they can never increase the rent.”
I stare at Dad’s name, those white raised letters on the black strip of label-maker sticker, and try to imagine what it would be like if he were still here. If we were heading into his apartment, instead of Emmy’s. If … what? Dad lived in New York, dividing his time, the way so many artists do: Award-winning photographer Evan Greene divides his time between Spalding and New York City.
Emmy’s lived in Dad’s apartment ever since he and Mom moved to Spalding, after I was born. Emmy’d been living in New York for a year or so at that point, but in some tiny apartment in Queens with, like, 17 roommates, so she jumped at the chance to move in when Dad left the apartment.
Emmy unlocks the main door and I envision Dad doing the same. We walk down a narrow hallway, four rows of eight metal mailboxes on the left wall, and past a bright blue elevator door, which Emmy points to. There’s a ragged white piece of paper, duct-taped to it. In thick black marker, it says OUT OF SERVICE. “The elevator used to work … back when your dad lived here. I think.” She shakes her head and laughs, then adds, “Now it’s a walk-up. Thank god I’m only on the second floor.” We tramp up the stairs. Emmy pulls open the metal door, which leads into a hallway with four doors on one side and four on the other. I follow her to the end of the hall. Apartment 2D. The door’s cream colored, with a peephole right below the number. Emmy releases two locks, and I take a deep breath as she pushes open the door. This is it. Where Dad lived, all those years ago.
I don’t know what I’m expecting but you can see every corner of the apartment from the doorway. The kitchen to the right (which consists of a white fridge and stove and a tiny counter in between), couch and coffee table in front of us, bed beyond that in front of the window, two doors to the left—one opens into the bathroom, and the second is the closet, its open doors revealing racks of clothes, shoes at the bottom and a top shelf is filled with handbags and scarves.
As Emmy kicks off her boots, I try to envision Dad here. His shoes by the front door. His favorite Tisch coffee mug in the kitchen. His slippers by the bed. His camera on the coffee table. I pull my camera out of my bag and set it down on the coffee table, just to bring the imaginary scene to life.
“Can I get you something to drink?” she asks, opening her fridge. I peer over the ledge, curious to see what she keeps inside. It’s near empty, save for a bottle of wine, some packets of ketchup and a box of baking soda.
“Water?” she asks, grabbing two glasses from the cupboard and filling them from the tap. She hands me a glass and I take a sip, then walk over to the couch. The wall is a collage of photos and art—a painting, a poster, a photo of my grandparents, my mom and Emmy when they were just little girls. And then I see it. A New York street scene. In the distance, a woman, her silhouette.
“Your dad took that of your mom,” she says, pointing at the woman in the background. “It was hanging here when I moved in. I kept it. A little piece of your mom and your dad with me here in the city.” I stare at the photo, this photo of Dad’s I’ve never seen before. One of the only. When he died, I spent hours, days, really, going through his photos. All the albums he and Mom kept, all the photos on his computer, boxes of photos from his time in New York. I practically memorized them all. But this one, a new one. I grab my camera from the table and focus in on the photo on the wall.
“You ready to go?” Emmy asks. She’s changed into leopard-print ankle boots.
I nod, sling my camera over my shoulder, grab my bag and follow her out of the apartment and back down the stairs.
Aunt Emmy asks me what I want to eat as we head out of her apartment building.
“Something super New York.”
“Everything is super New York,” she says. “But I get it. How about sushi?” We walk down the street, through Washington Square Park and I feel proud of myself for actually knowing where we are.
We get to Sushi Q, which has only a half-dozen booths. While we wait for a table, I consider how everything seems shrunken here. And packed. Like you’re always in the place to be—and so is everyone else. Five minutes later, we slide into a booth. A guy stops at our table. He’s rocking the tattooed, buttoned-up, beard-boy look. He makes small talk for a few minutes, while I pretend to study my menu, and then he puts his cap on and walks past.
“Who was that?” I ask.
“Oh, I dated him a few times.”
Emmy’s never been married—mostly because she never has a boyfriend for longer than three months. She calls herself a seasonal dater—she gets a new boyfriend with each equinox, just like a new coat. Mom says she’s a commitment-phobe—and that she always breaks up with her boyfriends first because she’s afraid they’re going to break up with her. But maybe Emmy just likes her independence.
Once we’ve ordered, Emmy asks me how the camp is going, and I tell her about Ramona and Savida and a few other people, and then I finally work up the nerve to ask her about David. “Do you see David much?”
She takes a sip of her green tea. “Basically never.”
“But it’s so crazy—he was Dad’s best friend and you’ve lived across the street from each other all these years, but you never see him?”
“That’s New York.”
“But what about when Mom and Dad would come to visit? Wouldn’t Dad want to see David? Why wouldn’t you all just hang out?” I say, thinking about how when Mom’s old friends come to visit, all her friends get together. It seems … weird that Dad and David and Mom and Emmy didn’t all hang out. But Emmy just shrugs and pops a piece of sashimi in her mouth.
“Besides, he’s cute and talented.” I pause, realization dawning, and I point at her. “You dated him.”
She shakes her head, laughing. “No. Never.”
“Huh. Well then, you should date him.”
She rolls her eyes. “I don’t think so.”
“Well, why not?”
“Why does it matter? Oh honey, let’s talk about something else.” She takes a bite of her handroll.
Mom doesn’t like David, Emmy doesn’t like David. It doesn’t make sense. I sip my tea, debating whether to defend David or try to get to the bottom of why she doesn’t like him either, but then Emmy’s telling some story about when Mom and her were little girls, and I’m laughing so hard that tea starts coming out my nose. Maybe I’m being too suspicious about David. Maybe there is no story.
CHAPTER 8
When I get back to the dorm that night, Ben’s waiting for the elevator, a copy of Photography for Dummies under his arm.
THINGS YOU MAY NOT WANT EVERYONE AT PHOTO CAMP TO KNOW
That you know absolutely nothing about photography.
“You probably shouldn’t flash that around,” I say.
Ben’s eyes are only half visible under his blue plaid driving cap. He looks down at the book. “Oh, come on, like it’s going to matter.” He shakes his head. “Sorry about today. Windows that open. Things you don’t think about.”
“Maybe things you don’t think about, but I should’ve thought of that. But anyway, it was fun. And what do you care, it’s not like you want to get into Tisch anyway.”
“Yeah, but isn’t everyone in this thing kind of a shoo-in now?”
I look at him like he’s crazy, and a group of students burst through the door of the stairwell into the lobby, laughing. I move out of the way as they head out onto the street.
I turn my attention back to Ben. “A shoo-in? Hardly.”
The elevator doors open and Ben holds the door as I get in. It’s just the two of us.
“What floor?” he asks.
I tell him 11. He pushes 10 too.
“So come on. Spill it,” I say finally.
“Spill what?”
“The real reason you’re here. You clearly don’t care about photography or Tisch, so what gives?”
There’s a long pause, and for a moment I think Ben’s just going to totally ignore my question. But then he says, “My dad’s Marvin Robertson.”
I stare at him. “Should that mean something to me?”
“As in Marv & Harv Productions? Do you know the Countdown movies?”
“Everyone knows the Countdown movies,” I say as the doors open onto the 10th floor.
He gets off. “Wait, your dad’s Marv?”
He turns back to face me. “Yeah. You want to get off?” He holds his arm across the door so it won’t close. I debate for a moment—there’s no way I’m going into his dorm room, but I want to know the whole story—then step out into the hall.
“So your dad,” I prompt him.
“Right. My dad’s Marv. Harv’s—well no one calls him Harv, it’s Harvey—he’s my uncle. My dad’s brother. My grandpa started the company for them when they were kids. They took it over when they turned 18. Been making movies ever since.”
“If you’re trying to impress me …” I say, but don’t finish it. Because I am kind of impressed, actually. But I’m not about to admit that to him.
“I’m not. I was just … trying to explain.” He actually looks kind of embarrassed, and I feel bad for being so harsh.
“Well, why is your last name Baxter?”
“Baxter’s my mom’s last name,” he says. “My mom and dad divorced when my brother and I were young, and my mom got custody and changed our last name to Baxter. My dad and her—they’re not exactly friendly.”
“OK …” I say slowly, trying to piece it together.
I realize we’ve been standing in front of a door for several seconds now. Ben points to the door. “This is mine.” He unlocks the door and I peer in. “How’d you score a single?”
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