I try to shake off the flashback as the teacher leads us to the next point of interest. I cannot outrun or outlive the memories and the accompanying dread they introduce to my days. They keep pace with me, no matter what I do or what I tell myself. I can’t imagine living a life where I have to constantly straddle the line between the present and past.
Later that night, Kiki, Roxie, Reesa, and Haruki pass around crushed-up pills, spread into thin lines, on top of my sketchbooks. The night at the cabin with Sorel and so many other sordid memories run like lines of static, dizzying and relentless. Behind my eyes, Sorel’s there with her palm out. Charmindy’s wagging her finger. My mother stares blankly. I should say no, but as my sketchbook makes its way around the circle, white noise rushes in my ears, and the feeling of defeat crushes me. I will never escape her. Tired of fighting with my own frightened mind, I take a sniff and drop into the void.
Only it isn’t a void at all. Everything moves at the speed of light, like when taillights on the parkway blur into one long streak of vivid color. I brim with ideas and creativity. I have stories to tell and adventures to take. And it all has to happen right now and now and now.
We climb to the roof. Someone brings music, and we dance. We move and groove. We watch the sun come up and do it all over again and again and again. We are on fire. We live out loud. We are unstoppable.
When I crash, I come down hard. Starved for sleep, I drop into my bed after classes and close my eyes. My mother waits, impatiently, her leg jiggling, and then Grant appears. A blizzard makes a loud shushing noise as it fills my head, burying us all. Those two always show up when the distractions run out. My past and future, vying for my attention, for my emotions, but I have nothing to give. I’ve spent every ounce of energy on white pills crushed to powder. I finally drift off and later wake to Kiki snoring sweetly above me.
As I lie there, my vision of Grant wins, temporarily. I think back to us on the quilted bed in the log cabin, running my hands over his chest. I think of his lips on my belly and thighs. I miss him with an ache that feels like withdrawal.
Chapter 36
The summer school version of midterms subdues us. Everyone buckles down and studies. Sort of. I imbibe copious amounts of caffeine, trying to stay sharp, but the absence of amusement brings out the grouchiest, grumpiest, and most irritable in all of us. In a moment of coherence, I recall that my uncle pays for the funfest. If I fail, that would mean—what? I’m not exactly sure, but the show would be over. No more partying. No more Parsons School of Design and certainly no more Grant at Laurel Hill. No future. With the devastation of that final thought as my strongest motivation, I focus and make sure I know my contour methods and my Jeannes from my Jeans.
When we troop out of the testing room, Kiki announces, “Let’s celebrate. How about we all get dressed up and go out to dinner for a change. I know just the place.” Her smile reminds me of the adventurous and generous side of Sorel, the girl I miss. I imagine her and Pepper in Seattle, falling in love all over again.
Back at the dorm, Kiki says, “Let me style you, pretty please?”
“You don’t even need to say please. I’ve been wearing the same clothes—”
She doesn’t let me finish. “Check these out,” she says, holding up a pair of skintight vintage gold short shorts. They look like something my mother would have worn before I came along. I wonder if all the old photos and magazine clippings of her posing and playing with her band are in a landfill somewhere. There’s no photographic evidence of my childhood, other than the picture in the paper bag from Erica; I’m like a ghost.
“You’ve got the legs for those shorts; damn, they go on for miles,” Kiki says, rooting me back to the present. She pairs them with a sheer black top and a long pair of earrings. Kiki also does my makeup, with smoky eyes and red lips, her specialty. And thanks to Reesa, on one overwrought night involving a mixture of substances, my bangs are freshly trimmed and miraculously the same length.
“I know you don’t wear much makeup, but usually this is a no-no. The rule is heavy on the eyes, light on the lips or vice versa, but we’re going out. We’ll make an exception. Your eyebrows should have their own insurance policy. I never want to see you pluck them.”
I glance at the place by my bunk where there should be a poster of Frida Kahlo, but I left everything except my clothes in campus storage for the summer. What would Frida say? She was no stranger to the party lifestyle, or pain, or the need, not just the desire, to create art. And Shale? He doesn’t seem to be the group-activities type. Although I can imagine him downing a bottle of scotch or whatever it is old masters drink to stop themselves from shaking.
“You look straight off the runway. Damn, I’m good,” Kiki says when she’s pleased with her creation.
She tries on no less than a dozen outfits before settling on a short lime-green halter dress, enormous gold hoops, and black heels that make her taller than me.
“You’re the one with the legs,” I say, complimenting her.
She cocks her hip, and we take a selfie with her phone.
Our group assembles in the hall.
“Everyone looks too good tonight. You may not do the usual elevator scramble of seeing how fast we can all undress and redress,” Kiki orders, referencing a game we’ve been playing that involves us stripping down as we ride up to our floor in the elevator and switching clothes before the doors open.
“At least not yet,” Roxie answers, laughing.
Haruki waves around a bottle of tequila when we get in the elevator. “But I have this. Take a healthy sip, ladies,” he says. “Prepare yourself for anything tonight, including the runway, fame and fortune, fashion history.” The bottle goes around, and the contents decrease by half.
Full of sass and brass, we pile into a cab and then parade down Eighth Avenue, arriving at Bite. Kiki assures us it’s the perfect venue to see and be seen, with crimson lighting and red velvet seats.
Looking like a pack of models, not counting diminutive Haruki, we find an empty table.
Kiki explains that her cousin is a promoter for Bite and that they serve tapas, little plates of food to share and taste. “She’s out of town, Miami. But none of that is the point,” she goes on, “the point is to get noticed and get your drink on.” Without hesitation, she asks the server to bring us a round of cosmopolitans.
“My treat,” Kiki says, flicking her credit card to the server. “Open a tab, please.”
“The girl from hot-lanta brought the heat to New York City,” Haruki chants, toasting Kiki.
I cringe at the cost of drinks. Good thing she’s buying.
We blend in with the crowd seated around us and mobbing the bar. Kiki keeps an eye on the room at large, but also an ear on us, occasionally chiming in. I’m discussing with Reesa the test we took earlier, when Kiki interrupts. “That sounds fascinating and all, but we’re not in the classroom anymore, and anyway, that guy over there keeps trying to get your attention.” She discreetly points at a guy who is sure to be male-model material, with dark, tousled hair and brown eyes. I smile shyly from beneath my bangs and then look away.
Moments later, a round of shot glasses arrives at our table, and the server indicates they’re compliments of the hot-model guy. Everyone cheers as we knock them back.
“Go thank him,” Kiki insists, giving me a nudge.
I shake my head, frozen. “I’m not good with guys, plus there’s Grant.” Then for a moment, suspended from time and place, I picture Grant’s twinkling eyes, his smile, and everything about him—from head to toe—that makes me melt.
“Yeah, you should really go thank him,” Haruki says.
“You go thank him, you’re the one who thinks he’s cute,” I tease.
“I’m not gonna lie, he’s F-I-N-E fine.”
More laughter, and for a moment I forget about the lure of the cute model across the room. We’ve hardly nibble
d at the food we ordered, when another round of drinks appears. This time a refill of our cosmos.
“Another gift from that tasty-looking mouthful over there and his friends,” the waitress informs us.
“That’s what I call Sexy McSexpants. You have to go over there, PJ,” Roxie urges me. She wears a thin macramé band tied over her straightened black hair and a sleeveless tank and leather pants.
“You’re the hot one, you do it,” I reply.
Kiki shakes her head disapprovingly. “Come on, I’ll go with you. But first, a trip to the bathroom.” She winks at me.
I wonder where the pills and the booze come from, knowing she hints at sneaking away for a line of whatever she has stashed in her bag. Before we can shuffle out of the crescent-shaped booth, Sexy McSexpants and one of his companions come over.
“Hi,” he says with a slight accent. “I’m Matteo, and this is Dante. We’re going to a party in a little while and are wondering if you want to join us.” He looks at me, sexy oozing from every inch of his skin.
I wait a beat too long to answer, so Kiki replies for me. “Yeah, she, I mean we, would love to.”
“Nice.” He sits down after Haruki—practically swooning—scoots over.
“What are your names?” Dante asks, not taking his eyes from Kiki.
She introduces us. “I’m Kiki, and this is PJ. And that’s Reesa, Roxie, and Haruki. We’re design students at Parsons,” she says, omitting the tag word junior, which would reveal we’re just high school age.
“Nice to meet you,” Dante says.
Matteo smiles at me while sipping his gin and tonic. The strong curve of his jaw and his intense eyes tell me I’ve probably seen him in a sultry magazine ad.
“We were just going to the ladies’ room. Excuse us,” Kiki says, pulling me along. I follow her to the bathroom, and she closes the unisex door behind me.
“Look alive, woman,” she hisses. “Those two might be a ticket to meeting some important people in the fashion industry. If you learn anything from me this summer, realize it’s all about networking, networking, networking. Three-quarters of success is who you know, and the other quarter is who you party with. Let’s get it started tonight.” Her enthusiasm and convincing smile draw me directly in. She pulls out a couple of pills, crushes them flat with her credit card, and then feathers them into lines. She tightly rolls up a bill.
“Your turn,” she says.
I breathe deep.
“You’re my roommate, we’re in this together. This is our time. Come on, PJ.” She winks as we strut out of the bathroom, affectionately putting her arm around my shoulders.
Back at the table, Kiki stuffs me into the booth next to Matteo. My bare arm presses up against his. Warmth. Touch. It’s thrilling and dangerous.
Five minutes later, I’m invincible. Kiki’s words echo in my mind, this is our time.
Our voices climb as we exchange stories, losing track of how many drinks we’ve had. The guys assimilate seamlessly into our group, with teasing and flirtatious smiles. The vodka and tequila adequately lubricate us, and nothing else matters.
Matteo looks at his watch and announces, “Time to go. You in?” He looks at me again with his caramel-colored eyes, and I nod, the pills replacing my uncertainty.
Outside, Matteo saunters over to a motorcycle and hands me a helmet. Dante does the same with Kiki. “We ride,” he says.
I’ve never been on a motorcycle before. I climb on behind him, pressing my chest against his back, and wrap my arms around his waist. So much of me touches so much of him. As we dodge yellow lights, the speed of the bike matches the rush that licks me from within. I want to go faster and climb higher.
Matteo parks beside Dante on East Seventy-Ninth Street. I can just make out the lights edging Central Park. All this time back in the city, and I still haven’t set foot there. The others meet us in a cab.
We march into a swanky building with a door attendant, who doesn’t flinch when our crowd strides by him, then up to the top floor.
Models, a few actors I recognize, and designers populate the penthouse. Clusters of dangling pendant lights illuminate the high ceiling. In the center of the room, a U-shaped couch faces a stone fireplace where candles burn softly. A multicolored glass sculpture that looks like melting wax in the center of the square coffee table contrasts with the otherwise neutral palette in the room. The floor-to-ceiling windows open up onto a broad terrace with a pool and a vista of the city.
“This is Augusta Santos’s place,” Matteo whispers in my ear as Dante ushers Kiki away. My other friends huddle together, starstruck. Augusta Santos, an up-and-coming designer, made money during the Internet boom and expanded into fashion: rubbing elbows with all the names that matter and rumored to be the next big thing.
Kiki and Dante bring over drinks. She gives me a look that reads something along the lines of Holy shit, I can’t believe this is really happening, but I am playing it so cool right now. After Matteo introduces me to several faces I recognize from various issues of Vogue, he leads me outside. I’m wobbly and giggly when we take a seat in a little nook.
“You’re a student?” he asks.
“Yeah,” I say blandly, afraid if I say more my words will come out in a slur.
“But you could be a model.”
“Very funny.”
“No, really. You should come by my shoot on Friday. I can introduce you to my agent. She’d be upset if I kept a face like yours all to myself,” he says, flattering me.
“That’s very sweet of you, but—” I shake my head, disbelieving. I think of all the ways I do not look like a model, my face, my hands, and the awkwardness I feel inside my skin.
“You belong here,” he says, spreading his arm wide and gesturing toward the party. Then he nods his head as he leans closer. His breath is icy. Another inch and our lips will meet. I can’t think quickly enough. I freeze and then pull my shirt off as I rise to my feet. Matteo’s eyes widen.
“Come on,” I say, pulling him by the arm. My laughter drowns the lingering anxiety floating in my subconscious. “Let’s go for a swim.” At the pool’s edge, I strip entirely naked and then jump in. When I surface, Matteo’s figure appears even more perfectly sculpted when undressed.
Before I know it, Kiki wades in the pool too. “Just watch the hair,” she warns anyone in earshot.
Several others jump in the pool. I hear someone shout, “Incoming,” and two guys toss Haruki in. We splash and laugh as bottles of champagne make their way into my hands and out. Matteo pulls me toward him and wraps my legs around his waist. I feel every toned part of him touching me.
“Where were we?” he asks. His lips search for mine. The party noise fades away. I imagine I’m going to kiss Grant, pressing up against his trim body, and his arms closing around me. But realizing the truth, I let go and slide under the water. I hold my breath for a moment. I shut my eyes, wishing myself away from the chaos and confusion. I come up for air, the party as loud as ever. Matteo treads water by my side, his flirtatious smile fox-like.
I panic. “I should probably leave. I—” The need feels urgent yet undefinable. There is an easy way to explain: Grant. I can’t say his name, not after what just happened. I press myself up on the pool deck, grab a towel from a stack, and rush inside with my clothing.
I dress and dash out the door. The elevator dispenses me into the night. I don’t have enough money for a cab, so I walk toward the park up ahead. Although I know it’s foolish to go in at this time of night, it offers refuge from the light and blare of the city. I need to get my head straight. The only place I can think of where that might happen is Laurel Hill. Since that requires me to travel over the river and through the woods, I opt for the nearest patch of grass and the shelter of trees.
I slip into the park. My gold shorts shine in the yellow light cast by the wrought iron lamps. I follow the path so
uth, my heels clicking on the cement. At a fountain, I take them off. I root around in my bag for a penny, toss it in, and make a wish. I long to wipe my near-mistake from memory and savor Grant there instead. He drew me into his heart, and I almost ruined it.
I emerge on East Fifty-Ninth Street, replace my shoes, and plod on. Before I know it, I walk down Fifth Avenue, remembering the weekend of the funeral. This time the windows win my attention. The displays could pass Anna Wintour’s meticulous attention to detail. I stroll past the block that makes up Saks, studying the life-size dioramas, brightly lit, transporting me to the glossy pages of Vogue, my refuge. It’s like they point toward possibility, like I might just make it out of this madness.
I recollect accompanying my mother down this same avenue at Christmastime. Before the lights seemed to go out in her eyes permanently, she’d have brief moments of parenting clarity, like taking me for a walk to look at the store windows, then over to see the tree at Rockefeller Center, or listening to me read her a picture book. Her missteps were uneven then, not yet gelled into constant chaos. Even so, I had an undercurrent of fear, as I waited for a good day to quickly spiral into a bad one. Experience taught me, like repeating vocabulary on a chalkboard, this moment of happiness is fleeting; someone will take it from me.
I trace the outline of my reflection in a window. My damp hair hangs limply to my shoulders, my long legs balanced on top of heels and my thin frame distorted by the glass. I am no more than a replica of my mother. This is not the self-portrait I want to paint. Tears spill from my eyes as cars rush by.
As I continue south, the wind dries my eyes, and I shiver. Part of me regrets leaving the party. Just when I felt like I fit in, Matteo even telling me I belonged, I ran away. It’s like I’m so accustomed to bad outcomes that I create them.
Farther along the sidewalk, a group of guys gathers in front of a convenience store, sipping out of bottles in paper bags. As I click closer, their eyes land on me in my gold shorts and barely there tank, my hair a mess. I’m the picture of vulnerability. I wrap my arms around my chest.
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