“Is it the drawback?” KO asked. “That’s the tell?”
“Bingo,” Jinx confirmed. “You’ll have him knocked out in no time. That’s why they call you KO. Right, Katy?” Jinx’s smile was warm and open as she leaned her head against KO, tucked up so cozily under his arm.
“Right!” I smiled, and then laughed, too loudly. Jinx joined in, laughing delightedly, and so did KO, who mostly looked confused.
“Well, I should probably finish warming up,” KO said. “Katy, I reserved a seat in the front for you, right next to Mom. You can’t miss her. She’s wearing a sweatshirt with my face on it.” He rolled his eyes, but I knew how much he loved his mom’s support, face-sweatshirts and all.
“And I’m sitting on your other side!” Jinx cheered. “Let me just grab my jacket, and then I’ll come find you.”
“Actually, Jinx, can you help me stretch out my traps first?” KO asked, placing a hand on his shoulder as he rolled it back a few times.
“Oh my god, of course. Are they bothering you again?” She scooted behind him and placed her small hands on his shoulders, massaging them deeply.
“Ooh yeah, Jinx, that’s perfect.” KO closed his eyes and lowered his head. “That’s the spot right there.”
“Well … great, then!” An awkward smile was frozen on my face. “Definitely gotta … gotta get those traps! And I’ll just, uh, go … over here …”
As I awkwardly side-shuffled away from them, they didn’t appear to even notice I was gone, lost in their massage reverie.
Massaging was probably a totally normal part of boxing. And stretching a trap definitely seemed really important. And it’s not like I could do this for KO. I didn’t know how to massage a trap. I wasn’t even sure where his trap was! But watching Jinx touch KO had woken up some weird, jealous girl part of me that I didn’t recognize, and I definitely didn’t like.
The slice of ninety-nine-cent pizza I’d eaten on my run to the train churned uncomfortably in my stomach. I bobbed and weaved my way through the crowd until I found my seat next to Mrs. Kelly.
“Katy!” She pulled me into a hug, squashing my face against the KO face screen-printed on her white sweatshirt. “How’s our boy looking?”
“Great,” I said. “He looks great.”
And he did. Even with the excited pre-match chatter, I could pick KO’s laugh out of the crowd. I followed the sound and found him at the side of the ring, Jinx wrapping his hands as he got ready to put on his boxing gloves. They were both laughing over some shared joke, KO more relaxed and confident than I’d ever seen him before a match, and he looked down at her like …
Well, like he looked at me.
THE MORNING AFTER THE DANCE call, I shimmied around the back room of the bodega as I took inventory. I must have heard “Put On Your Sunday Clothes” about fifty times last night, but I still couldn’t stop listening to it. This bish may not have had a parasol, but my world was all a smile, baby.
Something tapped me on the shoulder. I practically jumped out of my skin as I turned to confront my assailant.
“Ma!” I shouted. She winced at the noise. I took off my headphones to yell at her at a normal volume. “Don’t sneak up on me like that!”
“Sorry, sorry, m’hijo.” She held up her hands in apology. “So? How did it go?”
She waited in front of me expectantly. In the tiny stock-room, there was barely room for both of us. I leaned back against the paper towels, trying to get a little space.
“How did what go? Reading that amazing issue of People you left me?” I asked innocently.
“Very funny. I saw you leave the house with your lucky green audition shorts last night. Does that mean you made it through to the dance call?”
“Do you realize how messed up this is?” I faced her with my hands on my hips. “You leave me secret audition notices like we’re in some kind of Nancy Drew mystery, you follow me into the stockroom while I’m doing inventory to ask how it went … Is this all just ’cuz you don’t want to talk to me when Dad is around?”
“Your dad is still having a hard time accepting your … lifestyle.”
“He’s had literal years to get used to the idea. And I hate that phrase.” I rolled my eyes. “ ‘Lifestyle’ makes being gay sound like being into cats. Or macramé. Like it’s a choice.”
“I’m sorry. I didn’t know that. I’m learning, okay?” Ma said earnestly. “Will you tell me about the dance call? It’s so important to audition well. You know, when I was a Rockette, we had to audition at the open call every year, even if we’d been in the show before.”
“Yeah, Ma, I know.” Ma and I had always been able to bond about our love of dance. She’d taught me my first-ever kick-and-turn combo. I was barely walking, but I had the best turnout in the history of toddlers.
“So? Did my baby kill it?” she asked.
“What do you think?” Even though we were still in a weird place, I couldn’t stop myself from sharing with her how proud I was. Ma would have been living for how I slayed last night. She always lost her mind at curtain call for my shows in high school, screaming louder than everybody else’s parents combined. “Obviously he killed it.”
I always killed it at dance calls, and last night was no exception. The dance call had been held in another big black box space, the same bald man sitting at another black piano. There must have been at least thirty of us there, with even more milling about in the hallway, either waiting to go in or lingering after finishing up with the previous group. After checking in with the monitor, I safety-pinned the number she gave me to my crop top, and rolled my lucky green audition shorts up one more time for good measure.
When you’ve got legs like these, you don’t hide ’em away behind dance pants.
I took a spot front-row center, because, hello, they weren’t giving out trophies for being shy. If Ethan Fox wanted to see me, then he was going to see me. The choreographer broke down the combo, and from the first time through, I knew I had this in the bag. When God handed out gifts, she didn’t just give me a cute butt and a gorgeous face, she also gave me a freaky-good ability to remember choreography.
Strong arms pop up, melt down, collapse the body, legs open and close, kick, kick, point, put on the fake bowler hat, turn, chest roll, fan kick, pose!
If I had enough space, I could turn out the whole thing perfectly right here, right now.
I’d stayed front-row center for every run-through, even as they started cutting people. But not me. By the end of the night, they’d only invited four of us in my group to callbacks on Monday, where we’d actually read some lines from the script. There was still a long way to go, but I’d already gotten past so many other people. This could really happen. Me, a working actor on Broadway. The thing I’d wanted for my whole life.
Just call me the Man of La Mancha, because it wasn’t such an impossible dream.
Mom squealed and pulled me into a hug, bringing me back to the present. It had been so long since I’d been close enough to her to smell her perfume, and the faint whiff of grease that clung to her from spending too much time near the flat top in the bodega. I started to pull away, but she clutched me tighter.
Too tightly.
I wasn’t ready to have our big family reconciliation moment in a room the size of a closet stuffed with paper goods and nonperishable food items.
I knew I had to forgive my parents; not because they deserved it, but for my own mental health. I couldn’t keep carrying around the burden of all my bad feelings about them. But forgiveness was a lot easier in theory than in practice.
When my parents had kicked me out, I’d been in such shock, I could barely even process it. Instead of dealing with my feelings, I ignored them. I felt safe cuddling up with Katy, singing show tunes and bedazzling sweatshirts. The only thing I wanted to feel was that safety, not the hurt from what my family had done. Later, when my parents had come downtown to Katy’s to invite me back home, I’d been angry, but also pathetically grateful that they wa
nted me back—that they were trying, at least a little bit.
But Mom and Dad’s trying had begun and ended with asking me to come home. We’d been living together like this for years, tiptoeing around all the things we didn’t want to talk about. My parents had still never apologized. And I’d been pushing my pain down, down, down, until I almost couldn’t feel it anymore, because I had to. It was the only way I could survive. But I was tired of pretending that waiting for a “sorry” that was never going to come wasn’t killing me slowly, one piece at a time.
“I miss you,” she said quietly. “I miss us. I miss the way things were, before all this.”
“I miss you, too.” That much, at least, was true. “But being gay isn’t an ‘all this,’ Ma. It’s just me. Who I am. So there’s no going back to the way things were. There’s only forward. We have to figure out a new way to be.”
“I’d really like to. Figure out a new way.” Ma leaned back and looked up at me. It was what I wanted, too. But if Dad kept treating me like a ghost, and Ma wouldn’t talk to me in front of him, it would be hard to figure anything out.
“So? The dance call?” She squeezed my arms.
“I really did kill it,” I said, smiling. Broadway was always safe territory. Maybe this was how we would find a new way forward, by talking about my career. “I’m moving on to the next round of callbacks on Monday.”
“Of course you are, m’hijo. Because you got it from your mama.” She pinched my cheek.
I had gotten so much from her. My sense of rhythm. My love of the spotlight. My understanding of the importance of accessorizing.
But if I couldn’t share all of who I was with her, then did any of that even matter?
“Hey, Ma!” Joaquin, one of my older brothers, popped his head into the stockroom. “What’s up, little bro?”
“Baby!” Ma exclaimed with delight. Now that they’d all moved out, anytime one of them came home, Ma practically busted out the confetti. “What are you doing here?”
“I brought you something.” Joaquin leaned down to kiss her on the cheek. “Chef sent me home with some rib eye.”
“Are you walking around with raw meat in your bag?” I asked.
“I wrapped it up!” He pulled out a ziplock bag with a very rare, bloody steak. “Unfortunately, this is the closest I’ve gotten to any protein,” he said sadly. “It’s still nothing but washing produce. I’ve scrubbed so many beets my fingers are permanently stained.”
“Prep cook today, executive chef tomorrow.” Ma patted him on the cheek. “Look at my boys, the chef and the Broadway star.”
“Chef must like you if he sent you home with that steak,” I said. “Everyone knows meat is the sign of true love.”
“Shut it.” Joaquin pushed me into the paper towels. It was a playful shove, but like all my brothers, he was so much bulkier than me I fell right over.
“No pushing, chicos,” Ma scolded. “Well? Should we go have dinner? Maybe I’ll call the rest of your brothers.”
“It’s not that much steak, Ma,” I joked.
“Still. It would be nice. To eat as a family,” Ma said hopefully.
As a family.
Maybe tonight, it would feel a little more like that.
SOME PEOPLE MIGHT HAVE SAID fall in New York was too cold for swimming, but one assumed those people didn’t have SoHo House memberships.
I held my breath and dove under the water, admiring my newly lavender nails as I executed a neat breaststroke. Bless whoever decided to keep this rooftop pool heated and open year-round, because this was absolutely divine. I suppose I could have taken Leo up on his invitation to join him at the Malibu house, but honestly, what would I do in Malibu? There was nowhere like New York. The energy of this city was practically addictive.
I rested my elbows on the edge of the pool, looking past the plush striped lounge chairs to the rooftops spread out before me. How should I make my perfectly Pepper mark on the city? Although I was certainly enjoying a literal float at the moment, I wasn’t one to metaphorically float through life. Many people moved to New York in the hope the city would change them.
I came to New York in order to change the city.
If I really thought about it, I supposed I was itching for a room of one’s own, as it were. I could have written for the New Yorker, like dear Jia, or done a TED Talk, like darling Brené, and perhaps I would do both of those things, but that couldn’t be all I did. After doing that awful Chloe’s hideous podcast interview, I couldn’t stop thinking about the idea of having my very own platform, instead of simply expressing myself through another’s. If Chloe “Please Buy This Tomato Leaf Candle” van Sant had enough people interested in what she had to say, surely my audience would number in the thousands.
Not that I had any interest in a podcast. Good lord, no. Any fool with an iPhone and an NPR tote bag could have a podcast. When one thought of Pepper Smith, one thought of exclusivity, and that was exactly how I intended things to remain.
“Your grapefruit matcha spritzer, Miss Smith.”
The waiter deposited my drink at the side of the pool, the pretty pink color fizzing invitingly in the glass.
“Thank you so much, Pablo darling.” I smiled at him. “Grapefruit is very hydrating, you know. When I was in the Hamptons last summer, Gwyneth told me it was absolutely essential to remain hydrated while submerged in chlorine. It can completely strip your hair and skin of its natural oils. Do keep that in mind, Pablo.”
“I will, Miss Smith.” Goodness, he really had a very nice smile. I took a sip of my drink through its black paper straw, contemplating just how handsome he was. Probably a poor idea to get romantically involved with someone at SoHo House, but the idea was tempting.
I was in New York to focus on my career, but the idea of a bit of romance wasn’t entirely distasteful. I was an excellent multitasker, after all. Perhaps I should invite that gorgeous blonde from the park out to dinner …
“Pablo, darling,” I called as he turned back to the bar with his tray. “Would you mind awfully taking a picture for me?”
“Of course not, Miss Smith. Earlier this morning I took … well, quite a few pictures for Miss Cabot. I believe I have a better grasp of angles now.”
From everything I’d heard about her, Alexandra Cabot would be terribly demanding about photo angles. Resolving not to pester Pablo too much—if I needed a true fashion shot, I could always call Mario—I pointed to my phone on the lounge chair, and he grabbed it as I arranged myself on the edge of the pool, a darling pair of tortoiseshell cat’s-eye sunglasses perched on my nose. As Pablo snapped away, I posed, making sure to show off the lovely one-shoulder neckline of my swimsuit to its best advantage.
Pablo handed me the phone to examine the pictures, and I smiled.
Even without a filter, they were perfect.
“SO YOU THOUGHT IT WAS a good idea to get in a car with a stranger. In the middle of the night,” Dad said. He wouldn’t even look at me. Dad sat in the passenger seat of our tour van, the back of his head radiating annoyance. After the epic lecture he gave me last night, I would have thought he’d have tired himself out by now, but apparently not.
Dad had been waiting for me in the lobby when I got back. The poor front desk clerk got to hear almost an hour of “What were you thinking?” and “Do I need to tape your door shut to keep you from sneaking out?”
Technically, I didn’t sneak out. I just left.
It was a distinction Dad had definitely not appreciated.
Pauly turned the volume on the radio up ever so slightly, the sounds of Steely Dan filling the van. He was probably tired of the soundtrack of Dad chastising me, which had been playing on repeat throughout our drive to Cleveland.
Me too, Pauly. Me too.
“It wasn’t a car,” I replied. “It was a pickup truck.”
“Don’t be smart, Josie. Actually, be smart. I expected you to be much smarter than that.” I crossed my arms against the seat belt and slumped backward, feeling all
of about five years old. “What happened to ‘I’m from Riverdale, I can handle myself’? You know how people don’t get murdered? From Riverdale or anywhere else? They don’t go to truck stops with strange boys, no matter how cute they are.”
“He’s not that cute,” I muttered.
Lies. He was that cute. Dangerously cute. So cute that I had kind of forgotten about stranger danger in my need for human conversation and chocolate chip pancakes.
“I just don’t know what you were thinking.”
I wasn’t thinking. That was the problem.
That, and a smile I still couldn’t forget, even several hours into this unpleasant lecture.
“I don’t know, I just … I felt like I knew him. I told you he was playing the same venue after us.”
“Doesn’t mean you know him,” Dad snorted.
“And he’s a fan of yours, Dad.”
“I don’t care about that! I’m sure I have plenty of fans who are murderers! Well, maybe not plenty,” he amended. “But some. I’m sure I have some. Excellent taste in music doesn’t mean you can’t be a murderer.”
“Pauly, can we pull off at the next rest stop?” I asked. “I could use a break.”
“Oh, excellent, Pauly, yes, let’s pull off at the rest stop,” Dad said. “Who knows what kind of poor decisions Josie could make at a rest stop on the side of the highway? Maybe there’s an unmarked van she could hop into!”
“Dad, I’m sorry, okay?” I snapped. Luckily, Pauly put on his blinker for the next exit, because I really did have to pee. “You’re right. I shouldn’t have gotten in the car of somebody I don’t know. From now on, it’s early bedtimes and no human contact, okay?”
“You can have human contact between the hours of eight a.m. and ten p.m.,” Dad said. “With the people in this van.”
“Very magnanimous, Dad, thank you.”
“It is indeed magnanimous. Pauly’s an excellent conversationalist,” Dad said as we pulled into the parking lot.
“What do you know about bees, Josie?” Pauly asked as he parked neatly between two Priuses.
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