Glitter Gets Everywhere

by Yvette Clark

  And just like that, it’s the last day of term. If we were in New York, we would have finished school in June. I can’t believe how long the school summer holidays are in America. What I really can’t believe is that I won’t be sitting next to Jessica in September. We’ve been best friends since we met at age four at our “interview” for Haverstock Girls’ School. She let me try on a princess dress she’d found in the dressing-up box, and I shared my snack with her. A teacher asked us each to say a rhyme we knew. We were supposed to recite “Twinkle, Twinkle,” or “The Itsy-Bitsy Spider,” but I said “cat and hat,” and two girls laughed at me. Jess shoved them during playtime.

  Imogen and I each have to go and see Mrs. Brooks on our last day. Imogen says it’s like having to meet with the prison governor before they’ll release you.

  “We will miss you next term, Kitty, but I look forward to welcoming you back in January. It’s a marvelous opportunity to spend time living overseas. As we say here at Haverstock Girls’ School, ‘Non sibi sed toti.’ Not for self but for all. Inspiring words, I’m sure you’ll agree, and words you will carry with you during your months in New York. Does your new school have a motto, dear?”

  “Care, connect, compassion,” I say.

  “Oh, how lovely.” She doesn’t look impressed. “Shouldn’t that be ‘caring, connection, and compassion’? Well, never mind. I’m sure it is a wonderful school. Good luck, Kitty.”

  She pulls me into a warm hug, and I’m taken back in time to the day we returned to school after Mum died. I was surprised then by how soft and comforting it felt to hug her, and I’m surprised all over again.

  I’ve decided to take as little as possible with me to New York, limiting my packing to a few books, photos, my color charts, stuffed animals, and some clothes. Since I’ve worn a school uniform five days a week for the last six years, I don’t have many clothes, although weirdly, Imogen’s wardrobe is overflowing. Twinkle, my tattered stuffed cat, will be traveling in my carry-on bag. Kate gave her to me when she came to visit me in the hospital on the day I was born. Twinkle was my first and best present. We’ve been through a lot together, and I wouldn’t dream of putting her in the hands of careless baggage handlers and on conveyor belts that could malfunction. I’ve thrown up on Twinkle quite a few times over the years, and Dad said we should throw her away, but Mum always came to her rescue. She would put Twinkle on a delicates cycle in the washing machine before lovingly perching her on the radiator to dry. I would sit anxiously watching Twinkle’s cream body tumble around inside the machine, her sweet upside-down face appearing at the washing machine window every so often. One of Twinkle’s glassy green eyes has fallen off, and her cream fur is matted, but I wouldn’t change her for the world. I’d contemplated making her a patch when her eye fell off. She’d look like a sweet four-legged pirate.

  “Where are all your clothes, Kitty?” says Imogen, interrupting my mental patch design by rummaging around in my suitcase. “And why are you bringing five stuffed animals? Isn’t stupid Twinkle enough?”

  A few years ago Imogen had taken Twinkle and hidden her from me for hours. I’ve never seen Mum angrier with her.

  “Get out of my case,” I say, shoving her to one side.

  I sneak into Imogen’s room later to look in her bags. Under layers and layers of clothes, makeup, and framed photos of her and Josh, I find her ratty old purple poodle called Fifi, which she’s had forever. Imogen isn’t as cool as she likes to think she is. I smile as I carefully cover Fifi with T-shirts and jeans.

  The house seems oddly quiet without Cleo, who moved to Gran’s house the day after my birthday so that we could see her get settled into her temporary home. Who’d have thought that a small cat’s absence would leave such a big gap? Gran and Cleo seem to be getting on quite well together, considering Gran doesn’t really like cats, although she has threatened to ban Cleo from the living room for scratching the furniture.

  “I don’t want that cat going upstairs either, Kitty. You’ve spoiled her by letting her sleep on your bed. Now she expects me to do the same and completely ignores the lovely bed I bought her from the pet store. I wonder if I can return it. It cost twenty-five pounds. Also, she mews outside my bedroom door all night, and I can hear her, even with my earplugs in. Infuriating animal.”

  “Good girl, Cleo,” I whisper into her silky black fur. “Just keep doing what you’re doing, and she’ll let you in eventually.” Cleo gives a knowing little meow in reply. I bet that by the end of the month, Cleo will be sleeping on Gran’s bed.

  “I wish you were coming with us, Gran.”

  “I’m far too old to be gallivanting off to New York, Kitty. I’ll be fine here, and I’ll come and visit you soon. Anyway, before you know it, you’ll be back here with me.”

  I stroke the back of her hand, which seems more dry and papery than I remember it feeling. The veins are navy blue and raised against her skin. The plain gold wedding band, which is the only jewelry I’ve ever seen her wear, is surprisingly shiny though.

  “I’ll miss you, Gran.”

  “I’ll miss you too, darling.”

  We sit like that on the couch, Cleo on my lap and me resting my head on Gran’s shoulder, until the sun dips, the room darkens, and Gran gets up to turn on the lamps.

  During my last visit to Sam, he gives me the contact details for a therapist in New York City named Dr. Natasha Feld.

  “Just in case you feel like talking to someone while you’re away, Kitty. All true New Yorkers have a therapist. It would almost be weird not to.” He grins. “I haven’t met her, but one of my colleagues was at college with her. He says she’s great. So how are the preparations for your move to the Big Apple? All packed?”

  “Imogen and Dad are so excited about going. It’s annoying.”

  “Why is it annoying?”

  “It’s like they’re ready to move on. We shouldn’t be moving on. We should be staying put.”

  “You need to allow yourself to be happy, Kitty. Laura used to say that happiness is the greatest gift a person could give. Your dad is trying to give all of you that gift. You should give yourself permission to accept it.”

  That sounds like something Mum would say. I don’t speak and just stare at him instead. I’ve tried this type of conversational standoff with Sam a couple of times before, but I’ve always talked first. Well, not today. As if he knows that I’m not budging, Sam continues,

  “Your grief is the natural counterpoint to your love, but there is real joy in living, Kitty, and your mum would want you to seize it with both hands.”

  “I don’t want to be joyful,” I say.

  “That’s understandable, but someday you will. Grief doesn’t follow a set pattern, and it’s different for everyone. It can come and go, hitting you between the eyes when you least expect it. You just need to let it be.”

  “This isn’t making me feel better,” I tell him.

  “I’m not here to make you feel better, Kitty. Remember, we talked about that. I’m here to bear witness to your pain and to help explain the journey you are on when I can.”

  “Sam, can you do me a favor and go and visit Gran while I’m in New York? Please check on her once a week. I’m worried about her being lonely, even though she won’t admit it. Kate’s said she’d go to see her, and I’m going to ask Mrs. Allison as well.”

  Sam promises he will, and that evening I enlist Mrs. Allison.

  “I know that Gran seems tough, but she isn’t really,” I say, unsure of how Mrs. Allison will respond to my request.

  “Oh, I know Eleanor’s softer than she would like me to think,” says Mrs. Allison. “Don’t you worry, Kitty, dear, I’ve already got plans to invite her to Zumba. Also, the vicar told me about a new club they’re starting at the church called Aging with Attitude. Doesn’t that sound fun?”

  “I guess,” I say doubtfully. “Maybe you could go on an outing together? She likes the theater.”

  “Excellent idea, Kitty. I’ll get us tickets for Mamma
Mia! as a surprise. Everyone loves ABBA, don’t they? It’s a shame that Pierce Brosnan won’t be in it. He was gorgeous in the film.”

  I was thinking more of a Shakespeare play at the Globe theater. I don’t think Gran loves ABBA or Pierce Brosnan, whoever he is.

  I can’t get to sleep on our last night in London. I miss Cleo, who should be curled in the crook of my legs, and my bed feels empty without the stuffed animals, who are already packed in my suitcase downstairs waiting by the front door. Only trusty Twinkle is still with me. I think of the hundreds of nights I’ve slept in this bed and all the mornings waking up in it. Tomorrow will be my last waking up in my own bed for months. The pillow I’m lying on is the one I cried into when Mum got ill, and the one I used to battle Imogen with during our frequent pillow fights. I can picture Mum sitting on this bed reading to me and then singing me my favorite bedtime song that she made up for me, her voice like a hug.

  My sweet Kitty, it’s time that you sleep tight

  Wrapped in lots of love just like every single night

  So lovely Kitty, have the sweetest dreams

  Wake up in the morning to the golden sunbeams

  Until then Kitty, close your pretty eyes

  I’ll see you in the morning under bright blue skies

  Chapter Fourteen

  Lady Liberty Green

  “Start spreading the news. I’m leaving today, I want to be a part of it, New York, New York.”

  “Dad, please stop. People are staring.”

  The other passengers on the 9:32 a.m. Heathrow Express are looking at my father with expressions ranging from bemused to amused. One businessman seems positively angry and mutters into his cell phone about “some bloody idiot singing on the train.”

  “We should have traveled by boat,” Dad says, thawing the man’s frosty glare with a smile and a nod. “How cool would it be to sail into New York Harbor under the watchful gaze of Lady Liberty? We’ll have to go and visit her tomorrow. I have a brilliant first day planned for us. The Statue of Liberty was one of your mum’s favorite things in New York. Kate said she has some lovely photos of Mum in front of it just after they graduated from university.”

  In spite of myself, I am excited to see New York. Fueled by books, images of the city are imprinted into my mind. From Eloise to Tales of a Fourth Grade Nothing via Harriet the Spy, no other city has loomed so large in my imagination, but arriving at John F. Kennedy Airport is a disappointingly unglamorous first experience of the city that never sleeps. The beigey-gray walls and grubby-looking carpet are at odds with my mental image of the gateway to New York City. I wonder if Dad has noticed the walls are the same color as pigeons. I had pictured JFK to look more like a nightclub, with flashing lights, velvet sofas, and sumptuous carpets that would cushion your every step. They could at least play Jay-Z over the speakers for ambiance, or Frank Sinatra for the old people.

  “What is the reason for your visit, sir?” asks the terrifying-looking agent staring at us suspiciously as he examines our passports and Dad’s visa.

  “I’m here with my family on a temporary work assignment.”

  “And how long do you intend to stay in the United States?”

  “Just until the end of the year.” Dad smiles winningly.

  The agent looks at the three of us with disapproval and stamps our passports in silence, eventually returning them to Dad with a small nod. We walk away to collect our suitcases, feeling bizarrely guilty.

  The bags take ages to arrive. To pass the time, I watch a friendly-looking beagle accompanied by an unfriendly-looking police officer making the rounds of the arrivals area. The dog is wearing a jacket with a small American flag on it that says “K9 Protecting America.”

  “He’s looking for drug smugglers,” says Imogen, “or bombs.”

  The dog, who must have heard my idiotic sister say two of his trigger words, makes a beeline for us, wagging his tail. He starts to sniff my purple flowery backpack.

  “Do you have any fruit in your bag, miss?” asks the officer, who I’m sure has a gun on his belt, or is it called a holster?

  “Fruit?” I ask as the dog stares at my bag. If he could point his paw, he probably would. “Why, does your dog like fruit?”

  “Bringing fruit or vegetables into the United States is prohibited,” says the officer sternly.

  I start to ask him why on earth it’s illegal to bring a cucumber or a pear into America, but Dad nudges me and opens my bag. The officer removes books, headphones, Twinkle, a pencil case, my diary, and there, at the very bottom of my backpack, is an apple. The dog wags his tail smugly, and the officer gives him a treat and points at the nearest trash can, where I drop the apple in shame. We’ve attracted quite a crowd with this little sideshow, and I notice a couple of other British tourists scrabbling around in their bags before discreetly disposing of bananas and other fruit contraband.

  “I think they should have arrested you, Kitty,” says Imogen as we wheel our bags outside. “Made an example of you for trying to smuggle illegal goods into the United States.”

  Imogen is every bit as annoying in New York as she was in London.

  When we walk out of the terminal building we’re smacked in the face by a wall of heat and humidity. Welcome to New York in August. We join the long line of travelers waiting for a yellow cab, and I feel a sudden pang for the friendly black cabs of London. By the time we get to the front of the queue, we’re all pink and damp, especially me. Our T-shirts are glued to our backs. Even my ordinarily fragrant-looking sister is sweating rather than glowing.

  The taxi ride from the airport into Manhattan is hideous. The cab driver veers wildly across lanes without checking in his mirror first. Perhaps he prefers not to know if he is seconds from death. I can guarantee that I am seconds from vomiting in the back seat.

  “They don’t seem to do mirror, signal, maneuver in this country, do they?” says Dad through gritted teeth as we make another deranged three-lane traverse. The driver’s latest antics are heralded with a fanfare of horns and rude hand gestures from other drivers.

  “Can you slow down a bit, mate?” asks Dad. The cab driver responds by swerving violently to the left.

  “Dad, I think I’m going to be sick,” I say.

  “It’s okay, love. We’ll be there soon. Let me open the window and get you some fresh air.” Dad winds down the window, and the cab is filled with a blast of steamy August air.

  “Dad, can we have the window closed? It’s messing up my hair. Kitty’s fine.”

  “Please leave it, Dad. I really think I might throw up!”

  “Imogen, the window is staying open. Kitty is clearly unwell. Don’t worry about your hair.”

  The cab driver seems to have worked off whatever anger he had toward the traffic or life in general and begins driving much more calmly. Either that or he heard me say I was about to throw up and decided it was better to slow down rather than spend twenty minutes trying to clean up an English girl’s barf.

  “Wow!” says Imogen, and I lean over Dad to look out of her window. Unfolding beside us like the Emerald City appearing at the end of the Yellow Brick Road is the Manhattan skyline in all its glory. It’s backlit by gold in the afternoon sunlight and looks impossibly small, like an intricate model inside a snow globe. I want to pick it up and shake it. The whole place glows.

  “Eight million people live in New York City,” says Dad. “Isn’t it amazing, girls?”

  “It’s beautiful,” we chorus and the three of us grin at each other and squeeze hands. The hot air is turning the back of the cab into a steam room, so now that I don’t feel like barfing, I close the window.

  “Welcome to New York!” says the cab driver, breaking his silence of the last ninety minutes and turning around in his seat to beam at us.

  “Please face the front,” Dad says.

  We drive across the Brooklyn Bridge to enter Manhattan. On the left-hand side, standing majestically in New York Harbor, as if she’s been waiting there all this t
ime just to greet us, is the Statue of Liberty. She’s smaller than I’d expected and a beautiful green, which would make an excellent addition to the Farrow & Ball palette. I can imagine the description on the website—“this exquisite shade of green is reminiscent of the oxidized copper of New York’s iconic statue. Lady Liberty Green sits happily in both contemporary settings and period homes and is ideal for use in entrance halls and dining rooms.”

  Driving through the streets of the city is like being in a film. There are hot dog stands on each corner and a constant surge of people wherever I look. Throbbing music comes from somewhere, and the streets are pulsing. We drive across a highway, a game of baseball improbably taking place between skyscrapers, the Freedom Tower looming in the background, and pull up outside a tall apartment building. So this is where I’ll be living. I step out of the car and am back in the sauna. I swear the air even tastes hot. Because we are by the river, it’s breezier, but rather than being refreshing, it’s as if someone is pointing a hair dryer at my face. We go through the revolving doors into a pristine marble lobby and are immediately plunged into an icebox of air-conditioning. It’s a relief for precisely a minute, and then I start getting goose bumps on my arms and have to rummage through my bag for my sweatshirt. These extreme swings in temperature are definitely going to make me ill.

  A friendly-looking doorman welcomes us to the building and hands Dad a manila envelope with the keys to our new apartment. My ears pop on the way to the twenty-fourth floor, likely the combination of the plane ride and this speedy elevator, but when we walk into the apartment, it’s my eyes that pop at the view. There’s a wall of six oversize windows, which look out onto the Hudson River and a park below. The park has a circular lawn busy with New Yorkers sunbathing, playing Frisbee, walking dogs, picnicking, and running. Why would anyone choose to run in this heat?

  I peer down nervously, and my stomach lurches. I’m relieved when Dad takes one look at my face and tells me that there are child locks on the windows, and they will only open a tiny bit. It’s not that I’m scared of heights exactly, but I often have an urge to throw something off a balcony or over the side of a bridge. On a family day out to visit the Tower of London a few years ago, Mum told us that it’s called the “high place phenomenon” and is perfectly normal.