I can feel my cheeks going red, so I turn away from him, but not before sharing his smile. Why I feel embarrassed, I don’t know. But he’s right. I haven’t even thought of myself as a musician in months. Especially considering how little I play these days. Like . . . neverish. It’s funny that I just said that to him like it was nothing. Like it’s just a natural part of who I am. No big deal.
“Cool,” he says, still smiling. It’s like he just read my mind. That’s an unnerving thought.
“That’s why I like a lot of old stuff,” I say. “Some new stuff too, but you have to really seek it out. The radio is such a joke.”
“I know, right? It’s like every song that gets played is the music equivalent of a Big Mac. Mass appeal. Mass marketing.” He shakes his head and keeps scrolling. “Not into hip-hop?”
Oh, no. Is that bad? “Some,” I claim.
“I’ll send you some tunes. Good stuff. Old and new. Talib Kweli. Eric B. and Rakim. Some Childish. Not the corporate shit. I’ll set ya up.”
You can set me up anytime. Oh, man. He better not be able to read my mind.
“You’re into Radiohead,” he says. This is a statement, not a question. And I can’t tell if he thinks this is a good thing or not. Well. Whatevs. I’m such a devoted Radiohead fan I refuse to be all sphinxy about it.
“Yep. Seen them in concert four times.” I may be cramming my foot right in my mouth, but I ask, “Do you like them?”
“I do. I’m not in love with them, but I like them a lot,” he says. Then he starts typing. Apparently, he’s now in another program. He’s beautiful and awesome, but I do feel a tad uncomfortable with his easy commandeering of my space. If a stranger walked in right now, they’d surely assume that this is his room and I’m his semiwelcome guest.
“Have you heard this?” he asks and then plays a song that he must have just found. It’s clearly “Climbing Up the Walls,” but not the version I know. A woman sings lead, and it has some kind of reggae arrangement.
“No.” I’m kinda loving it, but I’m not sure if I should admit that. Is he suggesting this cover is better than the original? Because he would be wrong about that.
“Badass, right?”
“Yeah. I mean, I’m still partial, but it’s an interesting take. To make a reggae version of this song.”
He turns to me, and I see a flash of something in his eyes. Something I don’t like.
“What do you mean ‘interesting’?”
“Nothing. Just . . . interesting.”
“Is there something wrong with a black artist singing a Radiohead song?”
Where the hell did that come from?
“NO! Why would you think that was what I meant?”
“Because you can’t seem to tell me what you meant.”
Why does he get so defensive?
“I just never imagined it like this. I think of that song as sexy and tense. But I always associate reggae music with easygoingness. I’m sorry! Clearly I was wrong.” At this moment, I decide to take back my space. I shove Dari out of the chair; he doesn’t even bother to protest. Hands shaking, I scroll through my songs until I find Radiohead’s “Climbing Up the Walls.” I blast it loud enough for the neighbors to call 311 to report me if they’re feeling bitchy. Then I run to the bathroom and slam the door. I kick said door a few times, leaving a dent, and I grab a vase. I’m about to smash it when I stop myself. What is wrong with me?
Fuck, shit, fuck. What am I doing? This is the one person I never ever wanted to scare away. And now I’ve done this. Over a goddamn song?!
I pace back and forth and try to catch my breath. Today has been a day. One of those days. I am so sick of having those days. I just want to have a normal freakin’ day with no disasters and no outbursts and no humiliations. Doesn’t have to be every day. Just one whole day without that triad of terror would be nice. It might even be heavenly. After a few seconds, the volume goes back down. I decide to stay in the bathroom. Once I hear the apartment door close and know that he’s safely gone, I’ll come out. But not before then. I cannot be humiliated again today. Enough is enough.
I sit waiting, and I don’t hear a sound. Now I’m getting kind of annoyed. He needs to go. I don’t want to hide all night.
My phone vibrates. I look down. It’s a large file. I’m about to delete it, assuming it’s another ad for Viagra, when I see the sender. The message simply says: “Listen.” I open it. It’s a song. “This Woman’s Work” sung by Maxwell. I play it and I’m transported. I lie on the bathroom floor and close my eyes, my head against the phone, absorbing this beautiful song. So beautiful I can’t believe anybody would be willing to share it with me. I start thumping the rhythm out on the floor, feeling tingly, but I stop myself. I ignore my urge to play along. No. It’s best to just listen. When the song ends, I open my eyes so I can replay the whole thing again, but when I do, I see that Dari is now lying next to me on the floor.
“Nice, isn’t it?” he quietly asks.
Why is he here? Why is he wasting his time on a mess like me? I think about telling him to leave. I think I should chase him away so he doesn’t get wrapped up in my problems. But I don’t. I guess I’m just too selfish. I don’t want him to leave. Ever.
“Let’s go somewhere,” he says, and he pulls me up gently.
“I thought you would’ve left,” I say, trying to conceal my shame.
“Why? I just learned that you have quite a passion for music. That’s a good thing.”
* * *
We climb the stairs and I feel giddy. Like I’m getting away with something naughty when we’re really only walking up to a renovated train track that is now the High Line.
At the top, Dari moves fast, like he’s searching for one specific spot. I don’t complain, though I’ve never been up here before and it’s a little weird and the people here right now are a little weird as well. But I trust him and I do my best to keep up as he trucks through. It’s like when I was little and Mom and I would go to F.A.O. Schwarz, except right now Dari is the kid and I’m the mom. I’d pull her arm, dragging her along, as I ran through the clusters of tourists, dodging baby carriages until we reached my favorite spot: the giant piano dance mat. On a good day, you might catch an associate giving a live demo. On a bad day, it would be powered off and lifeless. There was a movie in the eighties or nineties where this guy got to dance on it long enough to play most of a song, but they wouldn’t let you do it that long in reality, because I tried. The last time I went there was a few years ago, and I was by myself. They’d replaced the piano mat with a miniature version of Hogwarts Castle. I left, got an ice-cream cone from Mister Softee, and sat in the park for a while, needing the sugar to soak up my sadness. I heard that the store is now closed for good. Oldest toy store in the world and they couldn’t pay their rent anymore. New York City real estate. Nothing good can stay.
Dari stops abruptly. There’s a large glass wall in front of us. Below you can see the busy traffic of Tenth Avenue whizzing by.
“Watch this,” he says and he jumps up as high as he can, like he’s trying to reach the top of the glass, and he yells something. I couldn’t understand a word of it.
“What?”
“Exactly! You couldn’t hear it!”
“Okay.”
“I made a wish. I threw it out into the universe. Well . . . out to Tenth Avenue. Your turn.”
“Are you serious?”
“Yes!”
“I don’t like yelling. It makes me feel stupid.”
“You’re not stupid! Just do it!”
I start shaking. What is he trying to do to me?
“What is the worst that can happen?”
I try to think, but my mind is blank and I can’t breathe.
“Lily, let yourself feel free for two fucking seconds!”
I inhale and exhale and then I scream at the top of my lungs:
“I WISH I WAS TWENTY-ONE YEARS OLD AND LIVING IN ROME!”
Unfortunately, at the moment I
decided to yell my wish, I forgot to jump, traffic had briefly stopped, and there wasn’t any wind at all. So everyone within a mile radius probably heard me. Dari stares at me with this goofy look on his face: shock and amusement. A handful of people down on the street look up at us. Am I gonna vomit? Am I gonna pass out? Again? This day is just the worst.
“Hey!”
Oh my God, some weirdo on a bike is yelling up at me.
“Why Rome?”
Did he really just ask me that?
I look at Dari. He just shrugs.
“Why not Rome?” I shout down at the weirdo.
“Of all the places in the world, you couldn’t pick something more exotic?”
“How do you define ‘exotic’?” Dari yells down at him. “Third world? Bad plumbing? Black or brown folks workin’ at fancy resorts?”
“I wasn’t talkin’ to you!”
Dari’s jaw tightens. I know he wants to keep arguing, but instead he just turns away.
“How old are you right now?” the weirdo asks.
“No more questions,” I shoot back.
Dari has moved up to a higher point and stands on a bench. I follow him as I hear my weirdo yelling up at me one more time, “Where ya goin’? I can take you to Rome, if ya want. You’re eighteen, right?”
I join Dari up on the bench.
“You know what I’ve noticed?” I ask him.
“What’s that?”
“We both freak out super easy.”
He laughs.
“Look there. Can you see where I’m pointing?” He directs my attention east, through a few buildings. I realize then that up on the bench, we’re pretty high up above the ground.
“Yeah, I think so.”
“Can you see the mark?”
I squint and then I think I see what he means. Someone’s tagged it, but I can’t make out what it says.
“Yeah. How’d they get up so high?”
“I hate that guy.” He sits down. I try to squint once more to make out what it says, but I can’t so I sit with him.
“Who did it?”
“This asshat from my old school. Goes around stickin’ his mark everywhere. Link168. So original. Like anybody cares. Like ‘Link’ will ever be famous.”
“What was your old school like?”
“It was school. Like any other. Well, not as fancy as yours. Ours. But it wasn’t a bad school.” He watches me from the corner of his eye. “Can I ask you something?”
Uh-oh. “Yes.” My voice creaks, and I take yet another deep breath.
“Is that photo of you connected to your old-ass ex-boyfriend?”
Of all the questions in the known universe that Dari could’ve asked me at that moment, he picked the worst one.
“Yes.”
Dari nods. Sometimes when he nods, it means he’s satisfied and you’re off the hook. But not now. His right eyebrow is raised. He’s getting warmed up.
“He took that picture?”
I stare back over at the glass wall, longing for my conversation with the bike weirdo to resume. Anything but this.
“Sometimes you do things that seem fine at the time because of . . . love, or something.” I hate myself, I hate myself, I hate myself . . .
“You loved him?”
“I did. I was stupid.” So stupid, so stupid, so stupid . . .
“Not to sound like a parent or anything, but he seriously took advantage of you. He’s a piece of shit. Another thing. I don’t want you to call yourself stupid anymore. You’re the smartest person I’ve met in a long time. My standards are quite high.”
I swallow hard and try to concentrate on the air, the smelly garbage from below, the loud clatter of cargo trucks speeding by. Anything to not go back into that painful place. It’s like this tiny room in my head that I’ve locked up tight. Dead bolt and chain. But I walk by it, try to run by it, and no matter what I do it’s still there. It could open at any second.
“If you could take back one thing you’ve done in your life, do you know what it would be?” I ask him, desperate to shift the focus from me.
“Is that yours? Being with that pervert?”
Why are we still talking about my life? “I don’t know exactly. I think it’s too hard to narrow down to just one single thing. And what if some of the bad choices have led to good things by accident? It’s kind of a hard question to answer.”
“Not for me,” he says.
“No? What’s yours, then?”
A tired-looking middle-aged man walks toward us.
“Kids, park’s closing in five minutes. Better make your way out.”
“Thanks,” I say. Dari says nothing. I stand and make a show of gathering my bag and my jacket though this only needs a few seconds of my time. I hope this will encourage Dari to get up and join me. It does not.
“I—I think we have to leave now, Dari.”
He sighs and rubs his head. I keep expecting the park guard to come back and yell at us. After another minute or two, he finally stands.
“The last time I saw my mother, I told her she was a selfish bitch.”
* * *
It’s about two a.m. Dari sleeps soundly in the guest room. I am on the computer, unable to sleep. I hate insomnia, and I hate it even more tonight because I know what it means. I hope I’m wrong, but I’m usually not. Dammit. I do not want to be obsessed with Dari. That is the last thing I want to be feeling right now. I just can’t help thinking about it. Being with him. The possibility of it. The beautiful unknowability of it. He’s so mysterious and beautiful and sexy and weird and sometimes volatile, but so am I. At least I’m those last two things. But to be in a relationship with him, to be his girlfriend? That would be so . . . normal. I didn’t realize how much I’ve been craving a normal bond with a guy.
I just wish I could calm myself down and stop imagining what might not be real at all. I’m just setting myself up for pain, and I’m sick of it. But I can’t help myself. I can’t stop thinking about the diner after the High Line, and his smile, and how he insisted that he pay the check. Oh my God, how can I be a feminist—and I am definitely a feminist!—when something so old-fashioned totally turns me on? I’m such an embarrassment. He said I’m smart. But maybe he doesn’t think I’m pretty. Or not pretty enough. What is pretty enough? Are pop stars pretty enough? Supermodels? I don’t even know what his type is or if he has one. I should ask what his ex-girlfriend’s name is so I can look her up on Facebook. No, that’s creepy. Besides, she’s probably gorgeous, and I’ll just hate myself even more. And I’ll hate her. And I might hate him. I hate this I hate this I hate this!
I have an overwhelming urge to go into the guest room and watch him sleep. No. No, no, no, no, no. I’m not going to be a nutball stalker. Never again. I have to let him be. If he wants to come to me, he will. I hope.
* * *
7:37. I open my eyes and I’m exhausted, but I can’t sleep anymore. I wonder how late he sleeps in. Should I wake him? No, that’s crazy! Maybe I should read for a while. Watch TV? Oh, man. I feel just as nutty as when I went to sleep.
What was that? A tiny click. Did I hear? Yes. I did.
I bolt upright, throw on my robe, and run down the hall to the guest room, and he’s already gone. I open the door to our apartment, which I know I just heard close, but I don’t see him.
I flop on the couch and turn on the TV, not seeing anything. So I figured he probably wasn’t actually into me, but I didn’t expect him to just leave. No good-bye. Nothing. Did I offend him? Probably any number of things I did yesterday could’ve offended him. But then again, he could’ve left before. He could’ve left before we got on the damn ferry. But he didn’t. Why now? I love his strangeness, but right now, I wish he could be just a little bit predictable.
Megan McCormick sits in mouthwatering anticipation of the Peking duck she’s about to eat on Globe Trekker. I’ve seen this episode about sixty times, and I’m learning nothing new from yet another viewing, but it makes me feel less alone.
I briefly think about calling Mom, but that would be about as sad as it gets. And she’s probably leading a morning meditation or something else I would hate, anyway. She might not be allowed to use her phone there at all. Some of them have rules like that. Whatever. It’s fine. I shouldn’t complain. I like being solitary. Sometimes I actually like loneliness. That’s the problem with getting your heart wrapped up in things. The dumbest stuff starts to carry way too much significance. You think about things way too much. You imagine a hole being filled that rarely bothered you at all when it was empty.
My phone buzzes.
Sorry I vanished this morning. Had to get home to deal with the old man. I’ll come by later on?
As soon as I read these words, I smile and the whole world feels fifty shades brighter. Dammit. I do not want to be in love.
YES PEOPLE
He dunks his head in. Opens his eyes. The cold burns at first, but then he adjusts. How long can he hold his breath in ice-cold water? He stares at the bottom of the bowl. Scratches and scorch marks. He wonders what Izzy may have done to burn the bottom of a bowl.
He comes up for air. Didn’t last too long. Maybe thirty seconds. Maybe forty.
The ice has melted. This water hasn’t been ice for a few hours now. Dari hasn’t moved from this spot. Not to smoke. Not to pee. If he moves, he is afraid of what his hands might do.
He lets the droplets of water slide down his face onto his neck. Things changed this morning. He changed them.
* * *
8:10 a.m. Dari comes home knowing he will walk into hell, but not knowing which circle of the inferno he’ll be on. How deep his hell will go.
He doesn’t bother with deception. No pretense of sneaking in. Too late for that. He opens the door and his father sits on the sofa drinking his oolong tea and reading the New York Times.
Dari stands in the foyer, waiting.
Without looking up, of course, his father says, “You might as well come in.”
But Dari just stands where he is, staring at him.
“Scared?” he sneers. This is too much.
“Is it possible for us to ever find a middle ground?” Dari asks this in his lowest, most composed and intelligent-sounding voice. His father puts down the newspaper, removes his glasses, and rubs his eyes.
The Truth of Right Now Page 10