by Sofi Keren
Paige tugged the curtain open. “I was just reminiscing,” she said with a quiet smile.
“I don’t blame you. Some kids have treehouses or forts built out of cardboard. We had this place.”
“Yeah. It feels so strange that it was so long ago.”
Ria hesitated, as though she was nervous. But Paige knew Ria was never nervous.
“Do you mind if I join you?”
Paige scooted over and patted the seat beside her. “Hop on in.”
Chapter Three
They sat quietly for a while, the air full of unspoken words. Paige had thought so many times over the years about what she would say to Ria if she ever saw her again, but now none of them seemed right. She opened her mouth and closed it several times, glad for the buffer of the semi-darkness around them.
Ria cleared her throat. “I’m glad you came tonight, Paige. I’ve really missed you.”
Paige wanted to say I missed you too. But I’m still so mad at you. Why did you do it? And why did you never say you were sorry? But she didn’t.
“It was sweet of your dad to invite me. You know how much I love your family.”
“They ask about you all the time.”
“So,” she said, changing the subject, “how has it been? Playing soccer all over the world? Being on magazine covers and talk shows? Was it everything we used to imagine when we sat here telling ourselves how it would be?”
“It’s been different, of course. But still good. I’ve been incredibly lucky, and I know it.”
“I’m so glad for you, Ria. I really am. I always believed in you.”
“I know. Honestly though? I’m tired of talking about myself. Let’s talk about you. You’ve done well for yourself. I’ve seen some of the concert posters you’ve done. The first time I saw one, I was walking down a street in Berlin. We were there for a match. There must have been about thirty posters, all plastered up together on one wall. I stopped short and nearly collided with the guy in front of me because I knew, absolutely, that it was yours.”
“How could you be so sure?”
“Your style is just so completely your own. Those almost doll-like people and animals you’ve been creating and evolving since we were kids. The way you can somehow show innocence and pain and happiness and every single other emotion through their big eyes. It may as well have had your signature on it.”
“Wow. Thank you, Ria. That means a lot to me.”
“I took a picture of it and I was going to text it to you, but then I remembered that we weren’t talking anymore. I almost sent it anyway, but I was afraid of what you would text back. Or that you wouldn’t text back at all.”
“Oh.” She didn’t know what to say. She didn’t know what she would have done back then if a text from Ria had shown up on her phone out of nowhere.
“I’m so proud of you, Paige. I really am. I mean, I’ve known you were awesome since we met in third grade, but I’m glad the rest of the world knows it now too.”
Paige remembered the day they met, in the cafeteria, her first day in her new school. She’d had her lunch tray in her hands and was so scared to sit down with kids she didn’t know. She’d felt paralyzed, wanted to run and hide. Ria had seen her standing there and invited her over to her table. Like it was no big deal. She’d asked her to come over and play after school too. And they’d been best friends ever after.
“I’m proud of you too, Ria. I guess we’ve both done all right for ourselves.”
“The one regret I have,” Ria said, turning to look at Paige, “is that I wasn’t around to be there with you.”
Paige felt like she could barely breathe, let alone speak.
“Do you think that maybe, just possibly, we could start over? Try to be friends again? I know it’s a lot to ask, but I’d hate myself if I didn’t try.”
Tears formed in Paige’s eyes, and one escaped and rolled down her face. She hoped the darkness hid its track. She had thought that what was broken couldn’t be fixed, but now she wondered if maybe it could after all. Maybe they could seal up that one moment in time, the thing that split up their before and after, and bury it, grow something new on top of its grave. Be friends again. Forget they’d ever tried to be anything else. It was her best friend that she missed the most, and if she could have her back…
“I think I’d like that,” Paige said. “I really would.”
Chapter Four
Paige closed her eyes, listening to the album for which she was going to create the cover art. Her headphones blocked out all other sounds and let the music wash over her. The guys had added a banjo player this time, an interesting choice that seemed to work, even if it wasn’t exactly her cup of tea. She tried to visualize a way to represent the feeling it gave her, as voices rose in harmony over the swelling strings. Creating specifically for someone else was such a different beast than making art for its own sake. Sometimes she started with color, and she was feeling an orange glow begin to emerge. Then the finger picking of the banjo suggested clouds to her, and a ladder leading from the ground below up into the firmament.
When she’d been in school, during her moments of deepest pretension, she might have turned up her nose at the idea of one of her pieces being on something as commercial as an album cover, or a concert poster, with words superimposed on top of the image she’d created. Or maybe not. Maybe she would have argued that art with function is still art, may even be more important art. At thirty-three years old, she now knew it wasn’t possible to be a Puritan and still pay the bills. And she loved the posters she created, though she never could have predicted having this career. When The Slurs asked her to paint something for their first album, she thought it was just a fun side project, a favor for a friend with a band nobody had ever heard of. They had more of a psychedelic sound back then and she’d leaned into it, painting approximations of the band members with elongated proportions, being pulled into a black hole inside of a guitar. She’d been really proud of the piece, but didn’t think anyone would really see it. And then they blew up. She started doing all their album covers and concert posters and somehow fans of the band also became fans of hers. Now people all around the world saw her art. Even better, they wanted to buy the prints she’d started selling through Etsy. The posters, the prints, and the occasional commission from people who wanted her to create something especially for them made it possible for her to live in Indianapolis as an artist and not have to work three jobs. It wasn’t so easy for most of her friends, and she was grateful.
Unable to focus, she grabbed her phone to check her email, even though she knew once she picked up the phone that she’d get sucked in and lose an hour of productivity. She refreshed the screen and starting wading through her inbox, deleting the junk, flagging emails to come back to later. One email in particular stopped her short. It was from the Chicago Arts Commission.
She knew what this was. She’d been waiting for it, the results of the mural project she’d applied to. It was a long shot. The artist they chose would get to paint a huge mural in Boystown, the so-called gay-borhood of Chicago. Why was she so nervous to open this email? She knew it was probably one of those “thank you for applying but…” messages she was so used to. Even with all her success, some people still considered her work to be more illustration than art, though the lines finally seemed to be blurring. Artists like Tara MacPherson and Mark Ryden had carved out solid reputations in the realm of pop surrealism, a style influenced by cartoons and punk rock imagery. Not that she considered herself anywhere near their level.
Paige hovered her index finger over the email and pressed it, preparing herself for the inevitable rejection. Just open it already, and then you can get back to work.
The first few words made her gasp. “Congratulations! You have been selected…” The rest of it was a blur. She couldn’t believe it. They’d actually picked her. Tens of thousands of people would see her work adorning the side of a city building for years. And an added bonus: the job paid well.
&n
bsp; The project’s manager, a Chicago gallery owner named Cara Bless Williams, asked her to come up to Chicago soon so they could visit the project site and discuss the details.
Paige let out a shriek of excitement and hoped her neighbors in the adjoining studios didn’t hear her and think she was being murdered. With adrenaline flowing through her fingers, she wrote back, confirming that yes, she looked forward to meeting Ms. Williams and beginning work on the piece. Then, knowing she wouldn’t be able to concentrate at all for the rest of the day, she texted Brandon. Whatever you’re doing, drop it. We’re going out to celebrate, and the drinks are on me.
She immediately saw the three wavering dots that meant he was typing back. Lockerbie. 15 minutes. I look forward to destroying your tab.
He wasn’t kidding. When she arrived twenty minutes later, Brandon was already seated in one of the ancient-looking booths, holding a glass of some sort of dark liquid.
“You’re late,” he said. “I started without you. Don’t forget to give the man your card.”
“Big day?” the bartender asked her as she handed over her plastic. “Your friend over there told me to prepare for unwelcome outbursts of Irish song, and in about forty-five minutes a large order of assorted fried foods.”
She laughed. “Something like that. Some good news, at least.” She ordered another glass of whatever Brandon was drinking and an IPA for herself.
As she set the drinks on the table and climbed into the booth, Brandon looked at her expectantly.
“So, good news. Tell.”
“I heard back about that project. The one in Chicago.”
“And?”
“And they picked me! So basically, I’m going to be very big and important and I’ll be moving immediately into my all-glass modern home where I’ll make the furniture out of bubbles and cling wrap.”
“As you should,” he said, “though you will probably have to change your name now to something a little more unusual than Paige. At least a different spelling to show how truly creative you are. Perhaps Payje, with a ‘y’ and a ‘j’ in the middle. Or some sort of symbol, like Prince when he wanted to get out of his record contract. How were we supposed to pronounce that anyway?”
“It’s the sound of one hand clapping, I’m pretty sure,” she said, stone-faced.
Brandon reached over and pretended to clap her in the face with one hand and Paige pretended to be offended.
“Now, now, don’t slap a gift horse in the mouth.” She sat back in the booth, pulling her feet onto the cushioned bench. “So in other news, I think Ria and I are going to try and be friends.”
Brandon raised one eyebrow. “Really, you don’t say. Shall I issue the press release? This is news the world should know.”
“It’ll just get lost in the Friday news dump, I’m afraid. We’ll have to wait for the tabloids to pick it up later.”
“Speaking of those who want to know, does this mean I’ll finally meet the infamous Ria?”
“Maybe.” She bit her lip. “I’m not sure if we’re hanging out friends at this point or just Christmas card friends.”
He reached over as though he was going to hold her hand across the table. She looked at him skeptically. Before she could react, he snatched her phone off the table and typed in her code.
“You really need to use something other than our apartment number to protect this thing. Anyone could get in it,” he said, already scrolling through her contacts. “Ah!” he said. “There’s Ria. You’ve already put her number in here. You work fast.”
“Give it back,” she said, a little less amused. “And I’ve had her number since high school.” Paige couldn’t see what he was doing, but his fingers flew across the screen, which meant he was up to no good. “All right, you’re hilarious. Give me my phone back.” The phone dinged.
“Interesting,” he said.
“What did you do?” she demanded. “I will punch you right in your trachea.”
He grinned. “She’ll be here in half an hour.”
Twenty minutes later, Paige watched the door apprehensively. “So when did you decide you want to die today?” she asked Brandon.
“I want to meet her.” He smiled sweetly. “After all, how often does a guy get to meet a real live WNBA star?”
“You’re hilarious. You know she plays soccer.”
“Don’t you mean football? Or rather, fútbol,” he said in a terrible fake accent. “Excuse me, I think my drink needs freshening.” He got up and headed for the bar.
“That expression makes no sense,” she called after him. “You’re not making your drink fresher, you’re getting a new one.”
He turned and smiled over his shoulder and then stepped up to the bar and immediately became involved in an animated discussion with the bartender. Paige sighed. When she’d said she wanted to be friends with Ria, she meant the kind of friends who say hello if they ran into each other somewhere unexpectedly, not the kind who made plans on purpose. At least not yet.
It was hard to believe they had once seen each other every single day and talked on the phone for hours in between. Now they were nearly strangers. But that’s not so unusual for childhood friendships, she thought. Sometimes they’re so intense, but then we outgrow them, leave them behind in yearbooks and memories. She couldn’t help but wonder if that’s what would have happened to them, if there would have been a slow fade into Facebook likes and Oh yeah, we should catch up soon messages, if everything else hadn’t happened. But she was letting that go now. It was time.
When Ria walked in, Paige’s heart leapt in her chest. She really needed it to stop doing that. Ria just had that effect on people. All through high school and college, girls had thrown themselves at her. Guys too. She could have had anyone she wanted, and she often did. Paige would tease her about always dating the straight girls. While Paige had a couple longer relationships with girls Ria considered much too butch, Ria spent her time with the cheerleaders and homecoming queens. The bigger the challenge, the more she wanted them.
“How do you do it?” Paige had once asked, after Ria confessed she’d been spending time with Missy Walkens, the quarterback’s girlfriend.
“I don’t know,” Ria had replied with a sly grin. “But can you blame her? I’m much cuter than Grant Hughes. And I have much less body hair.”
“Well thank god for that,” Paige said.
But it was true that Ria had the charm that came naturally to politicians and actors. Paige wished she had it, but she just couldn’t figure out how to have that kind of charisma. It seemed like something in Ria’s bones and breath, the way she moved and spoke, that made everyone love her and want to be loved by her.
Sometimes Paige had wondered why Ria chose her as a best friend, when she could have had anyone. But then Paige reminded herself that she was pretty badass in her own right. People may have noticed Ria more than Paige, but Paige had done all right for herself in the end.
Chapter Five
Ria squinted into the bar’s dim light, so much darker than the summer daylight outside. She took off her Ray Bans and hung them on the V of her t-shirt as she scanned the bar.
Paige waived and when Ria saw her, she smiled and headed her way.
“Hey lady,” Paige whispered as she sat down. “I don’t know if you noticed, but I think people are staring at you.”
Ria looked around the mostly empty bar. There were only a few patrons but they did seem to be looking their way.
“You mean those four people? I better be careful, one of them might be TMZ.”
“You laugh,” Paige said, “but I don’t think you realize how obsessed Indy was with you during the last World Cup. You were right up there with David Letterman for best-loved homegrown celebrity.”
Ria laughed. “Well, it’s not like I have a lot of competition.”
“Hey now, we’ve got James Dean, and part of Abraham Lincoln’s childhood. That’s pretty impressive company. But seriously, I wish you could have seen the watch parties here d
uring your matches. It was insane.”
“Does that mean you were watching?”
Paige’s face colored. “I mean, yeah, of course. Like I could miss that.”
Ria grinned. “I’m glad you invited me out today. I haven’t had a chance to relax since I got home, and now we can really catch up.”
“Well technically, Brandon invited you from my phone.”
Ria’s face fell. “Oh.”
“But I’m glad you’re here,” Paige reassured her.
“So who’s Brandon?”
“My roommate. He’s over there, trying to drink my bank account dry.” Brandon waved from the bar.
“That’s a big dude. Good luck with that bar tab. Are you buying everyone’s drinks today? Because I have several dry months of training to make up for.” Ria winked at her.
“So how has it been? The retirement.”
“Shh… remember, not public knowledge yet.”
“Right. Can’t tip off the paparazzi. They’re everywhere around here.”
Ria leaned back into the booth so that her back was against the wall, her legs outstretched along the bench’s length. Paige couldn’t help but notice that she favored her left knee. She remembered when Ria messed it up in college, and Paige wondered if it was still giving her trouble.
“I don’t think it’s really hit me yet. After the Cup, we played a victory tour in a bunch of cities and did a lot of appearances and press. Did you know I got to meet Obama? Now that was a president.”
“That’s amazing.”
“He’s even better in person—funny, and not too bad to look at. It was pretty surreal. After that, I went back to my team in Seattle and played for the National League for a little while, but I guess I knew I was winding down. And now I’ve been…well… Can you keep a secret?”