Pearl

by Deirdre Riordan Hall

  One guys whistles. Another says, “Meow.” A third calls, “Hey, baby, you lookin’ for a good time tonight?”

  My eyes fix on the cement in front of me. Just as I pass them, a hand paws at my waist. I jerk away.

  “Come on, I’m as gentle as a pussycat. Here, kitty kitty, here,” the guy calls.

  I hustle toward the subway entrance behind the library—where I spent so much time when I was younger. Patience and Fortitude, the lion statues, stand sentry as if they’ve been waiting for me. I imagine them scaring off the guys who catcalled me. Then a memory tumbles into focus. My mother had left me in some room, with some creepy dude. I’d fallen asleep, and I woke to him tugging my pants down. I hate her. I hate her so much I want her back, want to lash out at her, to shake her, and to have her witness and bear my rage.

  I shout into the dark subway tunnel, “Get out of my head. Leave me alone.”

  Minutes later, I choke on tears as the doors seal me in the train car. I cry openly on the subway, sobbing as the train rushes below the city where it all began. A shadow crosses into the flickering light of the carriage. I look up. A bum hovers over me, wearing a tattered jacket down to his knees and a hat with holes in it.

  “You OK, miss?” he asks in a kind voice.

  I search his eyes. He’s as lost as I am. How do I find my way when I was given the wrong directions? I wonder if he was raised by a crack addict or if he is one. Was he abused and used until he was left with nothing? I’m off course, without a map or a compass. My tears dwindle. I’m literally in a dark tunnel.

  And somewhere, I hope, there’s a light at the end of it.

  A crackly voice announces my stop.

  “I’ll be OK. Thanks,” I say, hoping that we both will.

  I slip into the dorm just before midnight. Moments later, laughter tumbles down the hall and Kiki stumbles in, half her afro damp and her eyes glassy. I hear the others shouting for her. Then Roxie’s voice rings, “Come on, you can sleep when you’re dead!”

  Kiki stops short when she spots me. “What happened to you?”

  “Didn’t feel good.”

  “You missed the rest of the part-ay. They invited us out next weekend. A new club. Dante is pretty hot, huh?” she adds, but her voice softens as she looks me up and down.

  “And Matteo, damn right delicious,” Roxie says.

  Yet there’s Grant.

  After I get into bed, I pull out a letter he wrote me when he arrived in Scotland. I’ve read it at least a dozen times. It tells of the trouble with his dad and the relief of escaping to his family’s cottage out of the city. He describes the kind of quiet only the sea offers, in words that make me feel the ripples of placid water after a storm. I read the last sentence over and over: I wish you were here.

  Chapter 37

  As recollections of my childhood amass like ranks of soldiers ready to open fire, I hurry through the week, determined to dodge the bullets in my mind come the weekend. I want to let go, to feel young, wild, and free, unburdened by the past.

  On Saturday, Kiki and I get ready again. “You have to wear this,” she says, passing me her favorite strappy black dress, topping it with a faux-fur vest—much like one my mother had—and tall black boots.

  “Are you sure?” I ask.

  “Of course.” She surveys my attire. “Smoky eyes,” she says. “But we’ll go with a light gloss on your lips this time.”

  “You’re like my own personal stylist and fashion guru.” I think of my mother before her designer clothes slowly disappeared from her closet as she sold them off. “You’re like a sister, Kiki,” I say, giving her a squeeze.

  “Sister from another mister. I always wanted one. Instead, I have three brothers. Although, they come to me now when they want to go out and look good for the ladies.”

  She dons a studded miniskirt, a cappuccino-colored tank with lace down the front, her signature gold hoops, and strappy heels.

  With our crew assembled, we hail a taxi, which delivers us to the Meatpacking District and another trendy club housed in a converted old warehouse—places I imagine my mother used to frequent with her celeb status.

  Dante appears, followed by Matteo, wearing a V-neck and jeans that make him look delectable. “What happened to you the other night?” Matteo asks, twisting a piece of my hair in his fingers.

  “I didn’t feel well,” I say. “Too much to drink.”

  As he ushers us past the bouncers, he whispers, “I have something better for tonight.” We pass the pumping dance floor, and Matteo leads us upstairs to a private VIP room with a sweeping view of the club and DJ.

  Kiki passes around champagne. “Pop, fizz, cheers,” she calls. “Let’s start this party.”

  After we dance and down two bottles, Matteo pulls me onto his lap and kisses my neck, nibbles my ear, and whispers how beautiful I am. “I want to kiss you inside and out. I want to lick you, to taste you, tickle you . . .” He slides me onto the leather banquette and pulls a baggie out of his pocket. He pours white powder, which I’m sure isn’t crushed pills, onto the glass table and divides it into long, thin lines. He takes a long sniff and passes a rolled bill to me.

  I’m effervescent from the champagne, and I don’t think twice. I inhale deeply and feel a tingling sensation. My teeth go numb, and a smile identical to Sorel’s parts my lips. I start laughing as if I own the night, this club, like nothing can stop me. I stand up and dance on the banquette. Matteo joins me as the others vulture the remaining lines on the glass table.

  My body moves in time with the music. When the DJ mixes one song seamlessly into the next, I don’t stop. Instead of thunder, there’s laughter in my ears, and I feel as light as a feather. A few other friends of Matteo’s enter the area, two girls, also unmistakably models, accompanied by three other guys. I twirl and turn to the heavy beat.

  When my champagne glass is empty, Matteo takes the opportunity to pull me close; a long kiss wets my lips. I never want him to stop. Everywhere he touches my body ignites with energy that doesn’t belong to me. There’s momentum and velocity to my delight; everything that does and doesn’t matter tumbles swiftly away from me. The music, the flashing lights, and the trickery of my own mind possess me.

  “I know who you remind me of now,” he says.

  “Who’s that?” I ask.

  “Kate Moss. Dante, doesn’t she look like Kate Moss?” he shouts to his friend.

  Dante lifts his face from Kiki’s neck, where he kissed her delicately. “She does.” He nods affirmatively.

  I feel desirable and dazzling.

  “We’ll start calling you KM instead of PJ,” Kiki jokes. “Do you have any more of that stuff?” she asks unabashedly.

  Matteo takes the baggie out of his pocket and says, “I thought you’d never ask.”

  Another line and another jolt of energy charges through my body.

  Kiki pulls me up to dance with her on the table. She unzips the back of my dress as she kicks off her shoes. She unbuttons her shirt to reveal a black lace bra. She slides her hands on my shoulders from behind and breathes in the sloping curve of my neck, then licks it with her tongue. She and I dance in a rhythmic, sexy way, forgetting ourselves, the world—everything but the two inches of space that close between us. I’m not sure where my body ends and hers begins. She pulls me toward her and plants her lips on mine, soft, sensual, a woman’s kiss. She pulls away, and we continue to dance, her bare skin brushing against mine and our lips meeting from time to time until the song ends.

  When we step down, Matteo kisses my tattoos, my shoulder, and my lips. Dante cuts another line on the table, and Kiki, topless, kneels by his side. Matteo draws me over to the table.

  “One more?” he asks. We each take another hit.

  I lift my arms overhead and spin, losing track of Matteo and what day it is, what happened last week and the year before that. Histor
y erases itself, and I am free.

  I join Kiki, Dante, Haruki, Reesa, and Roxie on the banquette, and rapid-fire conversation pings from person to person. We hardly listen to anything but the sound of our own self-important words. My pulse throbs in my ears when, across the room, I spot Matteo making out with one of the girls who came in earlier.

  Seeing Matteo and the girl kissing cuts through me with a deep reminder of betrayal. The moment comes crashing down. I don’t feel glamorous anymore. I feel used. Sorel’s coarse words rip into my mind: “You’re washed up.” They sting all over again. Doubly so with thoughts of Grant.

  Fueled by drugs and crushed by rejection, I slide my feet back into Kiki’s boots and storm out, rudely bumping into Matteo as I exit. Kiki and the others rush after me.

  Once on the relatively quiet street, Kiki bursts out, “Come on, PJ, that’s what happens, it’s no big deal.”

  I don’t answer, consumed by how meaningless it all is. I peer into the endless darkness formed by the long corridor of buildings.

  “Plus I thought you had a boyfriend anyway,” she says pointedly.

  Grant bursts into my distorted mind. Grant. Oh dear, Grant. “What have I done?” I put my fingers to my lips, still tasting like champagne and Matteo.

  Haruki interrupts my fretting. “Actually, sweetie, that was perfect timing, we have exactly twenty minutes to get our asses back to the dorm.”

  Back at Parsons, too wired to contemplate sleep, we climb to the roof. Kiki pulls out some powder from Dante, and I do another line, once more seeking that feeling of lightness, that erasure of being. My body strains to keep up with my mind and my mind with my body. I teeter to the edge of the roof and look down. Cars and taxis whiz by, shouting drifts up from below, and laughter crackles from behind me.

  I feel alone. I am a girl on the edge, on the edge of the past, present, and future, on the edge of love and lust, on the edge of truth and deceit. I tilt forward and back, wavering on heels and inebriation. I look down and then up. Falling is terrifying, but so is flying. A shooting star races through the sky. Just before it disappears, I make a wish and step away.

  Chapter 38

  We retreat to the patio, chain-smoking and going over our night, avoiding the tender issue of Matteo kissing another girl and me kissing Matteo. None of it matters, except for one reason, Grant. I admonish myself for being under the influence of my own stupidity and struggle with whether or not to tell him.

  “That dance was H-O-T hot, ladies,” Haruki says as he exhales a plume of smoke.

  “You’re gay,” Kiki says.

  “So are you,” he counters.

  “Bi,” she says, correcting him.

  “Whatevs,” he says, rolling his eyes.

  “But our PJ most certainly is not,” Kiki says.

  She wrests my attention. “What?” I ask, confused.

  “You’re not gay. In case you ever wondered. Not even bi,” Kiki remarks.

  “What are you talking about?”

  “It was a sweet kiss, but you didn’t quite put your heart in it,” she says, referring to her lips on mine.

  Everyone laughs.

  “No,” I whisper. “Because my heart belongs to someone else.” The kiss with Mateo stains my mind. I wonder if, like Shale said, I can layer a coat of paint over it, hiding the mistake.

  A chorus of “Oohs” brings me back to the conversation.

  “He’s patient and kind. I would give anything to be with him right now.” I look up at the black canvas of night sky and wonder if the stars will ever return, if Shale ever saw them again, if I will.

  “You should call him. What’s the time difference?” Haruki says wistfully, as if he too would like the guy I described.

  “Yeah, why don’t you ever talk on the phone?” Kiki asks.

  “He doesn’t have a phone where he’s staying for the summer,” I say. The dark night presses me toward sleep. I close my eyes, listening for Grant’s voice. I imagine the conversation, but before I can follow the thread of thought across the sea, I blink my eyes open and the sun has come up.

  A sparrow pecks at a crumb next to a cracked terra-cotta planter. Haruki and Kiki snooze on a lounge chair, back-to-back, Haruki’s eyeglasses askew. I close my eyes again, hoping the summer ends soon.

  With just under a month left in New York, the weeks speed by like an accelerated three-ring circus. In the center, the ringmaster, Kiki, doles out potions for all of us eagerly awaiting performers: Haruki, Reesa, Roxie, and me. We entertain her with outrageous stories and dance until the sun pierces the night.

  Then, still wired, we go to class, thinking we’re everyone’s gift to witty and enlightening conversation, creativity, and amusement. Afterward, we crash until the sun sets and then repeat: drinks, drugs, dancing, and rooftop mischief.

  When the deadline for our final projects approaches, I’m spent and unstable, like I’m eroding, pieces of me falling away in sandy clumps, revealing guilt over the night with Matteo. Insecurity and inadequacy duel within me. I have a stack of half-finished letters, each starting Dear Grant, but the rest of the words come out in a tangle.

  Creatively bereft, all the ideas I came up with for my final during the hours of gabbing prove elusive, as if I can’t quite snatch what made them so brilliant to begin with. I push my notebook away.

  Kiki chews on the end of her pen and complains that her project isn’t coming along as well as she hoped either. “What we need . . .” she says with a wink. “Come on, I know where we can go.”

  “Not Dante’s?”

  “Nope. This will be fresh and direct,” she says knowingly.

  The cab brings us deep into the East Village, and the streets look too familiar, like the buildings whisper and try to lure me into the channels of the past. I hold my breath. I hesitate, with one hand on the door.

  “What’s the matter, PJ? This is where Dante and I went. It’s fine.” Kiki leads me up the cement steps of a building that looks greenish in the streetlights. The strata of graffiti color the wall in the vestibule. The old building smells like rotted wood, ashes, and boiled cabbage. Kiki rings a buzzer, and we climb to the third floor. She gestures in the direction of the peephole, and the door opens after the clicking sound of a series of locks.

  We enter a clean apartment where a toddler, wearing nothing but a diaper, rides on a toy that looks like a little fire engine.

  “Sawyer will be right with you,” says the woman who answered the door, and then she excuses herself. Kiki crouches down and entertains the toddler. I try to blend in with the wallpaper, having the oddest feeling that I’ve been here before, but that could just be my brain warping stale memories with my present reality.

  Shortly after, an older man emerges from a back room, wearing striped pajama bottoms and what looks like a brand-new white T-shirt; the folds from the package run down the front like tiles.

  “Junior, it’s almost time for ni-night,” he says sweetly to the little boy.

  Kiki stands up and smiles at Sawyer. “I came by here the other day with Dante,” she says.

  “I remember you; no one could forget you, that hair and your beautiful smile. You light up the whole room.” He doesn’t say this in a sleazy way; he actually seems like a sincere and gentle person.

  When he turns to me, it’s with unmistakable recognition. “JJ, is that you?” He steps closer.

  I shrink into the ancient wallpaper.

  “I haven’t seen you in ages; in fact, you haven’t aged. I thought you and I decided you were finished with this stuff,” he says.

  The room spins. I press myself against the wall.

  “This is PJ,” Kiki says, correcting him. “Don’t worry, she’s cool. A good friend.”

  He studies me a moment longer, then says, “My mistake. You look just like someone I used to know a long time ago.”

  I need to l
eave, but, familiar with these transactions, I know I have to be careful. I swallow hard and feign a smile. “Yeah, I get that a lot. It’s nice to meet you. Do you mind if I use your bathroom?” The afternoon with Mitch and Sorel careens into my mind. I feel sick all over again.

  I close the door, thick with layers of peeling paint. Sudsy bath toys linger in the bottom of the tub, and the clean scent of bubbles fills the air. I don’t dare look in the mirror. I won’t let myself cry. But I need to breathe, because my life is on rewind and fast-forward at the same time, preventing me from simply inhaling and exhaling.

  When I come out, Kiki says, “Ready?

  She buzzes as she hails a cab. “That guy is getting old; he thought you were someone named JJ, that’s weird, huh?”

  “No, it’s not.”

  Kiki looks at me as if I’m not right in the head.

  “JJ was my mom.” The city blurs by through the rain-soaked window.

  “Strange coincidence,” she says, apparently not realizing the truth, probably unable to conceive that someone’s mom—my mom—would go to a dealer’s house to get drugs. She probably imagines they were high school buddies or on the same tennis team. Her mom sends weekly care packages filled with snacks, soap, and other goodies.

  Back at the dorm, I want nothing more than to forget the exchange at Sawyer’s. I want to escape planet JJ-PJ and the possibility that there really is no difference between the two of us.

  I do a line and start to sketch out my project, but concentration shuns me. Kiki takes a hit of pot because she complains about the same thing. Before long, my sketchbook, a mess of black lines and wrinkled paper, harasses me with failed attempts.

  “This sucks,” I say, gripping my head in my hands.

  Kiki passes me the bowl confettied with pot. “You need to balance it out, the ups and downs,” she says knowledgeably.