Supergirl Mixtapes

  “Where are we going?”

  “Back to Brooklyn.”

  Nina’s driver made it over the bridge in record time. He pulled up in front of Citygirls and we got out. Nina went right up to the club and walked in the front door. I hesitated. She didn’t wait for me.

  When I walked inside, Nina was already arguing with a short, dark-haired guy in a tracksuit. Sitting on a stool by the door to the rest of the club was a shaved-bald black guy, built like a bodybuilder, reading El Diario. The girl I’d met before, Shawna, stood by the counter with a duffel bag over her shoulder.

  “Look, I’m sorry.” She held up her hand, her bright nails waving. “But I been here since last night, I got my sister and all her kids coming for Christmas, and I can’t work another shift—”

  “And we don’t expect you to,” Nina cut her off curtly.

  “Ricky said last time he seen her was night before last, and she cut out early then, too,” the tracksuit guy said. “That’s two days, Nina. And it’s the third time it’s happened.”

  “All right. Anthony, let’s have this conversation in your office.” She looked at me. “Maria, you wanted to earn some money. Shawna, show Maria how to run the register.”

  Anthony, the guy in the tracksuit, opened the door to the club for Nina. The music shuddered as the door opened, blasting out loud, then fading again as it closed. I caught a glimpse of a girl wearing nothing but bikini bottoms, and I turned my head. For the first time, I looked around and noticed where I was standing. The room was small, just an entryway. There was a chrome-edged counter with a strand of tinsel hastily taped to it. There was a cash register and, behind the counter, a closet with a few coats hanging up. The guy on the stool looked up from his paper, sized me up, then went back to reading, nonplussed.

  “You ever run a register before?” Shawna asked me.

  “No.”

  “It’s simple. Same price for everybody. Ricky checks IDs, so don’t worry about that. If you want to open the door for change”—she pressed a button, and the cash drawer flew open—“it’s here. Tony keeps more small bills in the back if you run out, but if he’s tied up, you can just ask one of the girls. They’re always happy to go home with twenties instead of a big wad of ones. Coat check—here’s the tickets. You put this half on the hanger, give this half to the customer.” She took a hanger from the closet and demonstrated. “Don’t worry, it’s always slow at Christmas. And if you need any help, you can ask Ricky.” She motioned to the guy with the paper. “He’s Dominican. You speak Spanish?”

  “A little French, but—”

  “Don’t worry about it.” She held up her hands in a flurry. “His English is getting way better. Listen, I gotta go catch the train—good luck, okay?” With that, Shawna bolted. And all of a sudden I was working the coat check at Citygirls. Just me and Ricky.

  “Hey,” I said. “I’m Maria.”

  “Hey.” He smiled broadly, showing a gold-capped tooth. “Ricky.”

  “So.” I took my coat off and climbed up on the stool behind the register. “I guess it’s, uh, kind of a slow day, huh?”

  “Yeah.” He chuckled, turning the page. “Too cold for titties.”

  I found a copy of Rolling Stone stuffed into a low shelf behind the counter. It was a few weeks old, but I hadn’t read it. I opened it up and flipped through, but I couldn’t concentrate. I was scared to death of having to actually talk to some guy who was coming into a bar to look at half-naked women. And I was wondering what was going on between Nina and Anthony, and why Nina so desperately needed to know where my mother was.

  I’d been sitting behind the counter at Citygirls for a good half hour when she burst through the door. My mom.

  “Ricky, hey! Where’s—” She saw me and stopped.

  “Maria—”

  “Mom—”

  Her face hardened. She turned back to Ricky.

  “Where’s Nina?”

  She flung open the door to the club. She wasn’t waiting for an answer.

  “So I guess we need to talk.” Mom sat down at the kitchen table. Her eyes were ringed black with mascara smudges.

  “I guess we do.” My voice sounded flat. I hooked my feet around the rungs of my chair. The teakettle whistled. Mom got up to turn off the burner.

  “So I work at Citygirls.” She held up her hands. “Now you know.”

  “I don’t care,” I told her. “You run a register and take guys’ coats. Big deal.” Mom set the tea in front of me. “You didn’t have to lie about it.”

  “I didn’t want you to think …” She sat down and wrapped her hands around her mug. “It’s embarrassing, that’s all. I had a good job at Nina’s boutique, but she closed it, and when she offered me this—” She shook her head. “I needed the money. Don’t tell your grandmother, okay?”

  “No problem.” That was an easy promise.

  “Or your dad.”

  “I won’t. Don’t worry.”

  “Speaking of Nina, how long have you two been palling around?” She looked at me with hard eyes. “While we’re on the topic of lying.”

  “She’s teaching me—”

  “Teaching you what? How to do my job?” Mom snapped.

  “It wasn’t like that. And why weren’t you there, anyway? They said you hadn’t shown up in two days—”

  “Hey, I’m still the mother here, okay? I told you, I don’t want Nina teaching you anything, least of all how to run a strip club.”

  “She’s not teaching me anything about strip clubs. She’s been teaching me about art and architec—”

  “What in the hell does Nina Dowd know about art?” Mom snorted. She waved her hand, slicing the air. “Forget it. After the holidays, I’m gonna get you in over at the public school. I should never have let this happen. Fun and games are over, okay?”

  “Mom—”

  “Maria. Look at me. This isn’t about me and Nina. This is about your education. I know school’s a drag. But I don’t want you throwing your whole life away just because Nina shows up in her limo and takes you to her penthouse. You think she’s gonna introduce you to people, help you out—it’s bullshit. Utter bullshit.”

  “I didn’t ask her to introduce me to anybody,” I insisted. “I don’t care about her rich friends or whatever. I don’t need her help.”

  “That’s what you think now. But you just wait. She’ll suck you into her whole psycho society scene, and next thing you know, you’re trying to live up to somebody else’s …” She waved her hand, trying to come up with the word. “Look, Maria, when Nina decides to anoint you with her friendship, it might seem really great at first, but, trust me, you scratch the surface and you’ll find a whole world of …” She stopped, swallowing hard. “Just don’t scratch the surface, okay?” Mom shook one of her cigarettes out of its pack and lit it. “Take it from me, kiddo. I dropped out of school, too. So, look around and think about it. You really wanna end up like me, working for some crazy old broad at her dead husband’s strip club?”

  “You’re doing okay.”

  “Pfft, yeah.” She exhaled, laughing. “I’m doing just great.”

  “Anyway, Nina’s not crazy,” I said softly.

  “Whatever she is, I told you I didn’t want you hanging around with her, and I meant it.” She stood up, raking her free hand through her hair. “I’m going to go lie down for a while. I’ve got a headache.”

  “Mom—” There was more that I wanted to say. I wanted to tell her that Nina was only trying to help. I wanted to tell her that, despite whatever happened between them, whatever the reason was that they weren’t friends anymore, Nina really was teaching me. She had shown me so much already; I wouldn’t know about Jean-Luc Godard or Edward Hopper or George Gershwin without her. I wanted to tell her that I’d still be stuck at Prince, with the kids making their jokes, calling me Beverly. But her eyes were so dark. Her cigarette was already forgotten in her fingers, the ash growing long and finally falling to the kitchen floor.

  “Late
r, kiddo.” She kissed the top of my head. “That’s enough drama for one day.”

  There wasn’t much time for us to get together before Gram had to go back to Gaffney for Christmas. He met me on Canal Street after class, at the big Pearl art store. He wandered the aisles with me, singing along to the songs on the overhead radio, while I filled my basket with brushes, paints, pencils, erasers, ink pens, and sketchbooks.

  “When am I finally gonna get to see some of this top-secret art you’re making?” he asked.

  “Oh, I dunno.” I picked out an inexpensive box of pastels.

  “When it’s ready.”

  Okay, I admit, I got myself into a bit of a pickle, here. When I invited Gram to come shopping, I neglected to mention that I wasn’t shopping for me. I thought I’d get Mom some new art supplies for Christmas. But before I even said anything, Gram assumed that I was buying all this stuff for myself. Now he was asking me about my portfolio, and I was lying through my teeth.

  “Do you ever sculpt? Or is it all painting and drawing?”

  “It’s mostly, um, the painting and drawing.”

  “You should draw me sometime. Lookit!” He struck a pose in the aisle, putting his fist to his chin like The Thinker. I laughed.

  “I know what you’re gonna say.” He stood up straight, smoothing his curly hair. “I should model. I get that all the time.”

  “Come on, sexy.” I looped my arm through his. “Let’s get you outta here before some nice girl tries to make you her muse.”

  “Ooh, I could be amusing.” He waggled his eyebrows at me, waiting for a laugh.

  “Not with that joke.”

  Outside, the sun was going down, and the street was packed with rush-hour cars honking and edging each other’s bumpers. Gram and I wove through the traffic, hand in hand, our breath clouding the cold air. We walked farther downtown, to the Brooklyn Bridge, and walked halfway over it. At the midpoint, Gram pulled me from the stream of commuters hurrying across the bridge, their faces buried in their scarves. We turned back to see the city, the lights coming on against the gray dusk. The wind swept off the East River, icy and stern. I shivered, and Gram held me close, wrapping me in his oversized coat.

  “You’re so warm,” I said.

  “Us fat dudes have our advantages.” He held me tighter and I laughed. It was so beautiful, looking out over the water, at the whole city, being there with Gram. Standing on the bridge felt bigger than life, like we were characters in a movie. Like the city was moving all around us, all the people, the cars, the lights, and we were part of it, but we were floating above it, too.

  I had to tell him that I’d lied to him. I thought about my mom lying about working at Citygirls. Well, not lying, exactly, but keeping it a secret. If I just came out and told Gram that I’d made it all up, that I wasn’t really an artist and I didn’t go to Pratt and I lied because I liked him so much and I wanted to be his friend, to be close to him, he would understand. Wouldn’t he? We were so close now. I had to tell him. It was so perfect here, on the bridge, the two of us together. He probably wouldn’t even care. And with the art supplies, shopping for my mom, he might even think it was funny.

  “Maria—”

  “Gram, I—” We spoke at the same time.

  “Go ahead,” he said.

  “No, mine’s longer. You go first.”

  “I wanted to give you something.” He reached into his coat pocket. “I wasn’t sure if it was too soon. You know, to get you something for Christmas.”

  “Same here.” I’d brought a present for him, just in case, but I felt weird about it, too. I wasn’t sure what the protocol was, how long you were supposed to be dating someone before you exchanged gifts. I figured if he had something for me, great; if not, well, it was just a book that Mom gave me, from a box she was unpacking a few weeks before. A copy of the country music singer Waylon Jennings’s autobiography, entitled simply Waylon.

  “Do you want this?” She tossed it over to the futon, where I sat reading an article Nina had given me on Grace Hartigan, a painter whose work we’d just seen.

  “Waylon Jennings?”

  “Your father gave it to me.” She rolled her eyes. “I guess because Lenny Kaye was the cowriter. But, I mean, seriously. I was like, I know I’m a Patti completist, but Waylon Jennings? Sometimes your dad is so weird.”

  “Yeah, he’s …” I trailed off, not in the mood to defend my dad or to agree with my mom. I started to give the book back, but I figured Gram might like it.

  “It’s not much.” He pulled a small box out of his pocket. My heart thudded. Jewelry. This was terrible. He’d gone and gotten me something expensive, and all I had for him was a book. Paperback, no less.

  “Oh!” I tore the paper off and was instantly relieved. It was a tape.

  “You wanted to know when you could hear some of my music. Well, there it is,” Gram explained. “It’s this jazz ensemble that I play with for school. I know, it’s not too exciting, but—”

  “No, no, it’s perfect.”

  “I do my best Thelonious Monk. I know, it’s not what you’re into, but it’s the only thing recent I had on tape.”

  “Stop apologizing. It’s great.” I kissed him. “I have something for you, too.”

  “You didn’t have to get me anything.”

  “It’s just a little something.” I unzipped my backpack and handed him the gift. “I thought you’d be into it.” He tore the paper off.

  “Waylon Jennings! Right on! Man, I’ve been wanting to read this. Thanks!” He kissed me and tucked the book into his coat pocket. He kissed me again and held me tight.

  “I guess I oughta go,” he said finally. “I gotta get to work.”

  “I wish you didn’t have to work tonight.”

  “Me too. Especially since I gotta be at LaGuardia at seven in the morning to catch my plane.” He shrugged. “But what’re you gonna do? Gotta make ends meet up some which-a way.”

  “I wish you were staying here for Christmas.”

  “I wish I was, too.” He brushed my hair away from my eyes.

  “When I get back, I’m gonna make some time for us. I promise. We’re gonna go out on some serious dates, you and me.”

  “Yeah?”

  “Yeah. And, uh, I was thinking you could come over and spend the night again.”

  “I was thinking about that, too.” I had been thinking about it. But I wasn’t sure I was ready to do it again.

  “I’m gonna be thinking about you tomorrow morning when I’m reading about Waylon on the plane.”

  “I hope it’s good.”

  “Doesn’t matter.” He kissed me again. “It’s from you. That’s good enough.”

  14

  Mom and Travis slept late, so instead of Christmas morning, we were having Christmas afternoon. Travis was on his second cup of coffee, holding his head like he was hungover. It was my turn to open my present from Mom. I tore the paper off. It was a heavy black box with silver latches and a handle on the side.

  “What is it?” I asked.

  “Keep opening! You’ll see!” Mom reached over and flipped the latches. I took off the lid. It was a record player.

  “Just for you! It’s an antique, but I listened to it in the shop, and the sound is still really awesome. I figured you could keep it in your bedroom—”

  “The stereo’s already in my bedroom.” I laughed.

  “I mean, your bedroom at home.”

  “My—” I stopped. Oh, of course. At home. At my dad’s.

  “I just mean, when you go home for a visit!” Mom said quickly, her hands fluttering. “It’s cool, right? You don’t already have one, do you? See, this way you can play your records in your bedroom and you don’t have to worry about your dad giving you a hard time about all that rock-and-roll music.”

  “I don’t have any records.”

  “Well, not yet! Everybody’s gotta start somewhere.” Mom reached into her bathrobe pocket. “Here, open this one next.” Mom handed me a small whi
te envelope with one of her drawings on the outside. A sketch of the city skyline in black, with fireworks bursting in color overhead. This was what I was used to. A card at Christmas, handmade, with a little money in it. Sometimes five. Sometimes a crumpled ten. Once or twice, twenty dollars. The drawing on the card was always the best part.

  “Two presents? This is way too much.”

  “No, no, it’s Christmas! Open it! Open it!” Mom was jumping up and down again. “Anyway, this is more of a New Year’s present. And it’s a present for me, too.”

  I opened the envelope, careful not to tear the drawing. Inside were three tickets. Patti Smith. Bowery Ballroom. New Year’s Eve.

  “We’re all going!” Mom plopped down on the floor in front of me. “You and me and Travis! And then, after the show, we stay up all night, and then on New Year’s Day, we go to the all-day poetry reading at St. Mark’s Church. Patti comes over and reads there, and sometimes Jim Carroll and all kinds of cool people—you’re so going to freak out!”

  “I can’t wait!” I hugged her. “Thanks, Mom!”

  “I’m serious!” She pulled out of my embrace, shaking her head. “Seeing Patti live is gonna blow your mind. We’re gonna have such a blast! I’m so glad we’re going together!” She clapped her hands, surveying the torn paper on the floor beneath the two-foot tree we’d balanced on top of the TV set. “Is that everything? Is it time for Christmas brunch?”

  “I think we passed brunch about four hours ago.” Travis cackled.

  “Travis hasn’t opened mine yet.” I slipped the package out of its hidden spot beneath the tree.

  “I didn’t get you anything,” Travis said.

  “That’s okay. I didn’t expect you to.” I handed him the present.

  Travis set down his coffee mug and ripped into the record I’d bought for him at Gram’s shop. “No way,” he murmured. “This is awesome. How’d you know?”

  “I remembered that time at rehearsal. When you were talking about her.”

  “What is it?” Mom craned her neck. “Joni Mitchell?” She laughed. “Maria, why in the world would you buy Travis a Joni Mitchell record?”