As I exit the cab, tossing a wad of crumpled bills at the driver, I sway in the cold air, grabbing on to a metal trash can for support, and lean in, the smell of rotten, decomposing food rising up to meet me. I double over, retching, wiping away strands of bitter-tasting bile with one hand while passersby ignore me, their eyes sliding quickly away. When I feel well enough to stand up straight, I stay motionless for a minute, building up the strength to move forward until I can make my way up the stone steps and through the swinging doors.
The lockers are at the back of the first floor, and I trudge toward the rows of gray metal. With every step I feel increasingly unsure, my sneakers coated in lead. I’m shoving some books into my bag when the bell rings and bodies begin pouring into the hallway, surrounding me like fluttering, spastic wings, their chatter an insistent buzzing. I hold on to the door of my locker, the hall swaying around me, when a voice cuts through the nausea, and Julian’s face appears in front of mine. Today he’s wearing an olive-green T-shirt with the Smiths album cover The Queen Is Dead on it. His hair is dirtier than ever, his eyes deep as graves.
“Hey,” he says, looking me up and down, his eyes coming to rest on my face. “Are you OK? You’re not looking so good.”
“Great,” I manage to mumble tonelessly, swinging my locker door shut with a bang. “Whatever.”
“Wait,” Julian blurts out in obvious confusion, his forehead creased. He places one hand on my arm, his touch burning my skin. Some kind of alarm goes off inside my skull, and I bristle, shrugging off his hand and pulling my knapsack over one shoulder, the sudden weight steadying me. Julian takes one step closer and I back up, the room spinning. “Cat, I didn’t mean it like that—I mean, you always look nice.” He stops, blushing deeply before continuing on, two high spots of crimson coloring his cheeks. “Look, I was just trying to see if you were—”
“Listen,” I snap, “why don’t you just go back to pretending I don’t exist, all right?” There is a moment of silence in which I am aware all conversation has stopped, and that people are watching us with fascination that borders on glee. A whispering, the sound of paper catching fire begins, crackling through the silence. I catch a glimpse of Alexa Forte out of the corner of my eye as she walks by with one of her minions in tow, and the sound of their hushed voices burns my skin like a thousand paper cuts.
Julian coughs once, and clears his throat with a raw, ragged sound. “No problem,” he says in a voice that sounds half strangled, his eyes now slightly distant, frozen over. Now it is my turn to fall silent. I swallow the words that sit heavily in my chest unsaid: Wait, no, but, so . . . Even as I stand there motionless, I know I am making a huge mistake, that things are unfolding fast, way too fast to stop them, to take it all back and start from zero. There’s nothing I can do, so I choose to do the simplest thing, the thing I do best—I leave.
I push through the crowd with sharp elbows, not caring if I hurt anyone, my face scorched with embarrassment. I think of miles of sand dunes, red and black rocks shimmering in the heat, my anger reflected in the barren landscape, those violent colors. Without turning back, I know that Julian is watching me. The quick staccato steps of my boots reverberate in my ears, and I breathe a sigh of relief as I turn the corner, his eyes falling away.
* * * *
THE PLINKY-PLONKY SOUND of the ice cream truck rings through the hot summer air, thick as the tar melts on the rooftops above my head, and the truck makes its way down the block, filling the neighborhood with a lingering music. The air, heavy with summer blossoms, is soft and languid, caressing my bare arms.
Vanilla and chocolate swirl drips onto my palms, hot concrete under my legs. I sit with my father on the front stoop outside our building, before we moved all the way uptown, before the money, the divorce, when the word SoHo meant “home.”
My mother exits the front door, pushing her sweat-dampened hair back from her forehead. She sits down next to my father, taking his hand in her own and bringing it up to her lips, softly kissing the skin of his palm, her eyes closed. Inside, there is dinner waiting: a roast chicken fragrant with lemon and herbs, mashed potatoes to soak up the delicate juices. A decanter of white wine sparkles in the setting sun streaming over the scarred wooden table.
My father listens carefully, nodding as he licks at his double cone, the mirror image of the one in my own small hands, interjecting a series of hmms and oh reallys as I chatter on happily, my whole world reduced to simply this: the sun burning red and hot orange along the tops of tall, concrete buildings, the feel of ice cream soft and cold on the heat of my tongue, my father’s low voice a rumble in my ear as color flies across the darkening sky, the lights of the city resembling a strand of gemstones, shining and brilliant, as they whisper my future into the gathering night.
TWELVE
I DUCK INTO THE SUBWAY on the corner of Seventy-Seventh and Lexington, descending into the hot, stale mouth of the station. My stomach still feels queasy, and I take a sip from the bottle of iced tea I bought at the newsstand on the way to the train, trying to clear away the lingering taste of bile. I need to go to the club and pick up my money for the week from Christoph and run an idea for a party by him, something I could easily have done when school let out, but the thought of having to eat lunch by myself again among the whispers and sideways glances was enough to propel me downtown without thinking twice. Every time I close my eyes, there is a flash of Julian’s face, and a feeling of regret swoops over me so intense that I almost turn around and walk back to school to find him. Maybe I should have given him a chance to explain instead of just cutting him off and walking away. My stomach sinks to my boots, and I sigh as the train pulls into the station, the rushing movement of the cars lifting the hair from the back of my neck.
When I exit the station on Eighth Avenue, I turn on Twenty-Seventh Street, heading past the familiar rows of empty warehouses that precede Tunnel, my pace quickening. I climb the front steps, ring the buzzer for entrance and step inside. I stand for a moment in the instant nightfall, waiting for my eyes to adjust. I make my way upstairs past the dreaded bathroom and into Christoph’s open office, light flooding in from the two big windows that face the street. I feel my pupils contract, and I blink like I’m coming out of a stupor.
The walls are painted the gray of storm clouds, and the room is full of black lacquered furniture that looks like it comes alive and stomps around the office in the early hours of the morning. Christoph is seated at his desk, bent over what looks like a stack of bills, wearing a pair of steel-rimmed glasses I’ve never seen before. His blond hair, which I can see in the light is shot with streaks of gray, is pulled back in his trademark ponytail, his perpetually tanned face only half visible. I watch as his head comes up, alert, his posture rigid. His face relaxes as he realizes that it’s just me, and he runs a hand over the top of his head, smoothing his hair down, then pulling his glasses off and throwing them onto the desk in one fluid motion.
“Ahh . . . Cat,” he says, grinning, pushing a stack of paper off the high-backed chair next to him and patting the seat, motioning for me to sit. “To what do I owe this unexpected pleasure?” Christoph says the word pleasure like it’s something illegal, rolling the word around in his mouth and savoring it like wine, a valuable and rare vintage.
I sit down, crossing one leg over the other, my face frozen in a smile. I never know what to say to Christoph and I can’t really figure him out. There’s something impenetrable about him that makes me afraid to look him in the eye. He’s old enough to be my father, and in real life I’d be completely grossed out, but somehow, over the past few months, my life has slid far away from anything approximating real, and so Christoph, like everything else in the shadowy dream world I inhabit when the lights go down, has somehow become a possibility.
“I just came by to . . . umm . . . get paid,” I blurt out. “And to talk to you about this idea I had for a party in the basement.” I take a huge gulp of air and then keep talking, afraid to stop, of the dead air that wi
ll rise between us. “I was thinking of doing a petting zoo—you know, club kids body-painted as zebras and tigers, suspended in cages over the dance floor, hay everywhere . . .” Christoph is squinting, his eyes the palest shade of blue, like jeans that have been washed a hundred times in a caustic mix of bleach and lye. I’ve thrown only two other parties, which both kind of tanked, so I’m nervous, afraid he won’t give me another chance.
“That last one wasn’t too . . .” Christoph’s brow wrinkles, and his voice trails off into nothingness.
My cheeks flush and sweat breaks out under my arms. The last party I threw was pretty sparsely attended, most likely because I still haven’t gotten the hang of actually getting out there and promoting. After a year, even though I’m well known in the scene at this point, I still have to force myself to approach people, a fake smile on my face, my lips curling awkwardly away from my teeth. I want so much to be like Sebastian, gliding across the dance floor instead of standing in the corner all night thrusting invites at any random stranger who passes by, but I can’t seem to get the hang of it, no matter how hard I try.
“I know,” I say. “But it takes a while to get established, and I think this petting zoo thing could be really . . .”
My voice trails off as I notice Christoph’s eyes traveling along the length of my body. He leans back in his chair, hands folded behind his head, holding my eyes with his own.
Please don’t let me fail at this, I think, whispering the words over and over in my brain. So far I’ve failed at being a daughter, a student and probably a friend. I can’t bear to fail at anything else, and these parties, as meaningless as they are, this place, is all I have left.
“Aren’t you on the invite for Sebastian’s outlaw party next week? That thing with the truck?” Christoph smiles a half smile, as if the thought of Sebastian amuses him. He’s wearing a soft black sweater that looks like cashmere, and a pair of jeans so broken in that they’re almost destroyed, the legs frayed open artfully at the knee and thigh. He seems absurdly comfortable with his body, as if he lives in his skin as effortlessly as his jeans.
“Yeah, I’m on it—he asked me a few nights ago.” I look down at the ends of my scarf, wrapping the red strands around my fingers and choosing my words carefully. “But I was thinking of doing this one a week after—I’m not trying to compete with Sebastian or anything.” The truth is, I can’t compete with Sebastian. I’m just some little upstart who’s thrown two little parties in the Chandelier Room, which, because it’s so small, is where Christoph puts all the promoters he’s not sure about yet, who sometimes works the door of the VIP, and Sebastian is fast on his way to becoming a downtown legend. Whether Christoph is aware of this fact or not, I’m certainly not going to bring it up.
“Let me think about it,” he says brusquely, picking up his glasses and bending toward the stack of papers on his desk, which I take as my cue to leave. I stand up, throwing my knapsack over my shoulder, and wait there awkwardly, unsure if I should remind him about the money he owes me or if I should just leave and worry about it later. Just as I’m turning to leave, Christoph lets out a large sigh and mumbles something unintelligible in German. Every time I show up to get paid, it’s always a production. I can never tell if he remembers exactly why I’ve come in the first place, and sometimes I just stand there uncomfortably before he unlocks the drawer and counts out a pile of crisp bills. In this way, Christoph reminds me of my father.
“Wait, Cat, I have your money,” he says, raising one finger in the air, then leans back and reaches into the front pocket of his jeans, retrieving a gold ring that jangles in the air. He opens the top right desk drawer and removes a large, green metal box, unlocking it. He reaches in and grabs a stack of hundreds, counting out five with a series of brisk movements, the bills falling from his hands as easily as a bank teller. He holds the money out, leaning toward me with a smile.
As I take the cash, Christoph grabs my wrist, gripping me tightly, his fingers closing around my flesh, his expression curious as he registers my surprise, the way my eyes widen at his touch. His eyes restlessly roam my face like they’re looking for something that has been lost, and my stomach is tense, pulse revving the way it always does when I’m surprised or touched without warning. I don’t want Christoph to be touching me, but at the same time it’s all I want, to be touched, and I can’t untangle my own response enough to make sense of the wave of fear and excitement that rips through me. I want to run, but my feet are nailed to the floor, my tongue swollen and wordless. After what seems like years pass, he releases my wrist and settles back in his chair as if nothing has happened. He returns to the stack of papers on his desk and begins scribbling something with a fat gold Montblanc pen that reminds me of a large expensive crayon, his pen moving determinedly across the page as if I’m no longer there at all.
I turn around, dazed, as if I’ve walked out of a movie theater into afternoon sunlight, and shove the money into my pocket, crumpling the bills as if to annihilate them completely. Although the paper is crisp and new, the bills feel slick, almost dirty in my hand. As I retrace my steps out of the club and push open the front door, I’m hit by a wave of exhaustion so intense that I want to sit down right there on the dirty metal steps strewn with champagne corks and cigarette butts, and cry.
The money bulges in my pocket, pushing against my skin uncomfortably, but the weight of it is somehow reassuring, slowing my pulse. Tonight I will order in from the Thai place in my neighborhood, the scent of lemongrass and cilantro wafting like spicy, exotic incense from the open plastic containers. I will go to the grocery store and pull items from shelves: dishwashing liquid, soap, a bag of apples, a jar of spaghetti sauce, and when I reach the cashier and pull the thick wad of bills from my pocket, I will feel worn out from the effort and so much older than my seventeen years. I will watch as mothers push their children down the aisles in metal shopping carts, noticing the way their small legs dangle down into the open air, how one mother will draw her little boy to her breast, gently wiping his upturned face. Her movements will be both tender and delicate, and my heart will constrict in my chest as I force myself to turn away and concentrate instead on a display of ramen noodles, a shrink-wrapped package of juice boxes, a bag of Twizzlers. Despite my earlier efforts in the day to get up and do what is expected of me, to do something right, nothing has changed. As I stand there in front of the club, I’m aware that I’m on a treadmill, my feet traversing the same patch of dirty ground again and again, heading nowhere at all.
The thought of going back to school, of sitting in class and trying to stay awake, pretending I’m interested in epic battles or the vast intricate codes of geometry, seems pointless, and I raise a hand in the air as a cab, yellow and pulsing in the afternoon sunlight, makes its way down the street. I climb into the backseat and lean my head back as the buildings flash by, replaying the past ten minutes in my head and wondering just what Christoph was thinking when he reached out for my hand, his eyes locking on mine.
THIRTEEN
WHEN I GET BACK to my apartment, it’s blissfully empty, a smiley face and a series of xxooxx’s scrawled below the note I left for Giovanni this morning. The building is quiet and still, the bed made, pillows on the couch plumped. The bed looks so inviting that I immediately pull off my boots and fall into it, pulling the blanket up under my chin, and plunge into dreamless sleep, the day disappearing in a rush of blackness that sweeps me under its wide, comforting wings.
I wake to the sound of the phone ringing loudly on the bedside table, and I half open one eye, glaring at it. I snatch the receiver from the cradle to quiet it, hugging the piece of hard plastic to my chest before raising it to my ear and whispering tentatively into the receiver.
“I see someone’s taking a nap,” a girl’s voice chuckles softly, seductively. The voice is unfamiliar, delicate and sarcastic all at once, and I sit up, rubbing my eyes with one hand. “I also see that someone never made it back to school this afternoon. Tsk tsk.” She makes a s
harp clicking sound with her tongue, voicing her obvious disapproval, the noise echoing through the wires and producing an instant headache.
“Who is this?” I ask, clearing my throat and coughing lightly as I lean on one elbow, squint and peer at the clock, which reads 4:45 p.m.
“Don’t tell me you’ve forgotten me already.”
There is a moment of silence as I flip through my mental Rolodex, coming up completely blank, and then the answer appears like a sudden jolt of electricity to my brain, shocking me into wakefulness.
“Alexa.” I don’t know why I didn’t realize it sooner—maybe because I was in a sleep so deep it practically qualified as a coma.
“In the flesh.” She laughs softly on the other end of the line, and I sit up a bit straighter, leaning against the white wooden headboard I’ve had since I was ten, trying to focus. My head feels like it’s full of static, white noise, and my thoughts are meandering through my brain as if they have all the time in the world to sort themselves out. “Well. So to speak.”
“What do you want?” I ask her, the irritation in my voice plain. I’m tired and grumpy, and I hate being woken up by a ringing phone more than anything in the entire world. It could be President Reagan on the line, and I’d probably tell him to call back later.
“Well, that’s not a very friendly attitude, now, is it?” Alexa’s tone is playful, but I can also hear the steel in her voice, a line of metal spikes beneath the candy floss of her words.
White Lines Page 8