Restless Hearts

by Stephanie Kate Strohm

“I don’t know if I’ll ever work here,” I said doubtfully. “I’ll probably be stuck at the bodega, restocking shelves and working the register and burning sandwiches on the flat top for the rest of my days. Darius doesn’t seem that into it.”

  “I have a feeling he’ll change his tune,” she said confidently. “I don’t know, I just … I can just see you working here. It feels right. And I’m not just saying that because I’d like a hookup for free maraschino cherries.”

  “There’s Jinx,” KO said. “Let me go see if she wants anything. She’s gotta stay hydrated if she’s gonna impress the team at Joe Frazier’s.”

  “Who? Where?” I asked as KO left.

  “Boxing stuff. Jinx is moving to Philly. Don’t worry about it.” Katy waved her hand. “Back to you.”

  “Hello? What did I just say? Tonight is about you.”

  “I got enough applause earlier. I want to know what you’re going to do next.”

  “Keep auditioning.” I was surprised by how quickly I said it, but happy to realize that rejection hadn’t crushed me completely. “Broadway is where I belong. I’m gonna renew my Backstage subscription, and keeping taking classes at Broadway Dance Center, and I’ll audition for anything and everything. It might take a little longer to get to Broadway, but I’ll get there. Someday. I know I will.”

  “Good.” She grinned. “I’m really happy to hear that.”

  “You know what?” I said slowly, finally understanding something. “I think I realized what the problem is.”

  “What’s that?” Katy asked.

  “It’s revivals.”

  “Explain,” she prompted me.

  “I still love musical theatre and performing, and I want to be on Broadway, but I want to originate a role in a new musical. Or if I do a revival, I want to be part of building the show from the ground up so I can create a role that is totally my own. A show that is totally my own. I’m tired of the people behind the table having all the power. I have something to say, too.”

  “I love that.” Katy grabbed my hand and squeezed. “You’re going to be a star, Jorge, I know it. And you deserve to do that on your own terms.”

  We clapped as the Britney-medley act finished, and then Darius came out onto the stage, in full drag as Pixie Velvet. Her face was beat for the gods, with glimmering bronze eye shadow and lashes out to there. And that itty-bitty waist was snatched in a blue-velvet rhinestone bodysuit.

  “Is that the jumpsuit you were working on?” I asked Katy.

  “Yes!” she squealed excitedly. “It looks so good! I love the way the rhinestones catch the stage lights.”

  “Maybe this is how you make rent money. Start charging these queens for repairing their costumes!”

  “I couldn’t.” Katy shook her head. “They’ve given me so much by letting me hang out here in Molly’s Crisis. And besides, I love it. It feels wrong to charge them.”

  We turned back to the stage. The grumpy bartender we knew and loved was gone, replaced by a queen in every sense of the word. She looked gorgeous, but more than that, she looked so free. Like she knew exactly who she was.

  I wondered what that would feel like.

  Why did I have to wonder? As the music started to play, and Pixie Velvet shook her hips in time to the beat, I sat very still in my chair, struck by a sudden realization. I could do this. I could do drag. What was stopping me from trying? Lord knew I was more than pretty enough. And had enough stage presence to fill this whole bar. I should be up there, too. But not as Jorge. As a different side of me, one I hadn’t quite discovered yet.

  But I couldn’t wait to find her.

  From the stage, Pixie Velvet belted out “I Wanna Dance With Somebody.”

  The music moved through me, in me, calling to me. Whitney was a queen for a reason.

  “Come on, Jorge!” Katy pulled me to my feet. “Put down the ginger ale and let’s dance!”

  Ginger. I liked the sound of that.

  And so we danced.

  FizzFeed

  PEPPER SMITH CLAPS BACK AT FASHION WEEK BS

  Absolute Icon Pepper Smith keeps it real on Instagram

  Tatiana Trang

  FizzFeed Staff

  Legend Pepper Smith came for Fashion Week on Instagram, and as always, she held nothing back. Last night, Pepper posted a gorge B&W photo (so classic!) of herself posing on the High Line with an absolutely savage caption. Pep wrote that “I’ve decided Fashion Week is over. Haven’t seen a single show this year and don’t plan to see any.” But before you freak out about NYFW getting canceled—check out what she wrote next: “Fashion shouldn’t just be a week, inaccessible to all but the privileged few.” That’s the Pepper we know and love! And I think we can all agree that she. Is. Right.

  Pepper signed off with a sweet note to her followers, saying, “This city is your runway. Walk it.” And walk it she did. Pepper came ready to slay in a color-blocked swing coat with faux fur collar, a bold lip, and, of course, her signature specs (we love a girl who rocks glasses!). This look has us literally dead. The only thing brighter than the city lights is Pepper herself!

  Check out her post on Instagram yourself—and get ready to walk your runway!

  Instagram was an absolute load of rot. Sighing, I rolled over in bed, narrowly avoiding squishing the Jacques Torres chocolates I’d been consuming for the better part of an hour. Could I have been any more of a cliché? The king-size bed at the Five Seasons may have been dressed with the finest of luxury linens and the truffles were divine gourmet confections, but at the end of the day, I was still just a girl, lying in bed with chocolate, refusing to get out of her pajamas after a breakup.

  Ending things with Jules had absolutely been the right call—as soon as she mentioned her mother, I knew we were over—but it had knocked me for more of a loop than I’d expected. Especially after I saw on Instagram that she was moving to Philly, so even if I wanted to make things work, it was no longer an option. I found myself missing her at the most random moments, like when I drank my morning coffee and thought about the ungodly amount of cream she took in hers, or when I’d seen a short blonde woman in a leather jacket in the lobby and nearly jumped out of my skin. Since then, I had taken to my bed, like a Victorian woman who had been prescribed a steady diet of gourmet chocolate to restore her constitution. I hadn’t even made it to any of the New York Fashion Week shows, which I ordinarily loved. Not even the not-affiliated-with-NYFW Rex London show at Lacy’s I’d been so looking forward to. Instead, I’d been holed up in here like some lovelorn shut-in with impeccable taste in both confectionery and luxury hotels.

  This was not how Pepper Smith operated. I needed to get it together.

  Maybe after one more truffle.

  And perhaps a nap.

  My phone vibrated from somewhere in the sheets. Ugh. It was probably that ghastly YouTuber again. I never should have kissed him. Honestly, I had no idea what I had been thinking. I kicked my phone farther down in the bed, muffling it with a duvet, resolving to deal with Auden Grace later. Or maybe never. He’d get the message eventually.

  The last of the evening sun was spilling into my room, tinting everything pink. For the first time in far too long, I managed to haul myself out of bed. Pulling on a Five Seasons robe over my monogrammed silk pajama suit, I made my way over to the windows. From my room, I could see all of Central Park and the city spread around it.

  There really was no place in the world like it.

  New York as land of opportunity was a bit of a cliché. It made me think of some grubby Victorian urchin in a newsboy cap, pulling himself up by his bootstraps to find fame and fortune. The reality, of course, was that the story wasn’t quite so simple. New York boasted the greatest income disparity in the nation, and it was quite a bit easier to pull yourself up by the bootstraps if they happened to be Hermès.

  This, however, was true: New York was the ultimate place to reinvent yourself. In a city of eight million people, there were countless lives to slip in and out of, always
a chance to become someone new.

  How lucky for me, however, that I was born Pepper Smith.

  Of course, who Pepper Smith was, exactly, could always change. A new haircut, a new address, a new business venture … all these changes, no matter how seemingly small, cobbled together, could result in a brand-new identity.

  Most people feared starting over. Me? I relished it. There was nothing quite like the promise of possibility.

  Perhaps a change was exactly what I needed after Jules. It was for the best, really, that I hadn’t let her get too close. It was better not to let anyone get too close. After all, it was harder to change when too many people were tied to an extant version of you.

  Maybe it was time to become someone new.

  “THAT’S IT. PAULY, I CAN’T take this anymore. Get off the highway. Now.”

  The tires screeched slightly as Pauly turned on the blinker and crossed two lanes of traffic to make it to the exit, the cars behind us honking their displeasure. Pauly and I exchanged a glance in the rearview mirror. Dad had never made a request like this before.

  “I cannot drink one more cup of this Comfort Motel coffee!” Dad roared. “I have hit my limit! The limit is here, Pauly!” Dad indicated the limit, which was apparently about level with the brim of his fedora. “The limit is here, and I have hit it!”

  “Understood, boss.”

  The man had lost his mind. I didn’t think cheap motel coffee would be what pushed him over the edge, but here we were.

  “There’s a place called Rise and Grind just a couple minutes away.” Figured I’d better use my phone to find Dad some real coffee, STAT. “They’ve got five stars on Yelp.”

  “Let’s hope their beans are better than their puns,” Dad grumbled.

  Rise and Grind turned out to be in a little white wooden building not far off the highway. It had a drive-through, but Pauly parked in one of the spots right in front. Dad was out of the van before it had even come to a complete stop.

  “Maybe I should invest in a portable fancy coffee machine,” Pauly mused, the two of us alone in the van.

  “For your sanity, that might be a good call. You want anything?”

  “Nah, Josie, I’m good.” He waved me away. “Try to hurry your dad along a little if you can. I want plenty of time to check out Asheville before we have to head to the venue. Did you know they call it ‘Bee City USA’?”

  “I did not.” Wow. We were headed to Pauly’s personal Disneyland. “But no problem. I’ll hurry Dad along. He loves being rushed. And told what to do. And—”

  “Point taken.” Pauly chuckled as I hopped out of the van.

  “Don’t worry, Pauly,” I said. “We’ll get you to those bees.”

  The man deserved at least that much. How he’d put up with my dad on the road for all these years, I’d never understand.

  By the time I got into the shop, ordered, and collected my iced coffee, Dad was sitting at a round table in the window, sipping elegantly from a large, cream-colored ceramic mug.

  “Got this one for here, huh?” I slid into the wooden chair across from him. “I’m not sure how well that jives with Pauly’s get-to-Asheville-to-see-some-bees schedule.”

  “I’ll take most of it to go. I just needed a couple sips from something that didn’t taste like cardboard. Sometimes, it’s the little things you miss the most when you’re on the road.”

  “Mmm.”

  We both looked out the window then, watching the cars travel back onto the highway, where we’d be heading soon.

  “But as I’m sure you’ve started to learn, Josie.” Dad set his cup back down in the saucer. The pretty design on top of the latte was still mostly intact. “It isn’t just the little things you give up when you go on the road. It’s hard to unpack every night, never feeling quite at home. It’s hard to keep your energy up for the same show night after night, especially when you’re tired after driving all day. It’s also hard”—he paused—“to form any kind of relationship, romantic or otherwise.”

  I looked up quickly. He was very deliberately avoiding eye contact.

  “Dad. I don’t know what you think is happening, but if you’re referring to what I think you’re referring to, I promise, there is nothing going on between me and—”

  “I ran into Boone this morning as he was bidding his lady friend adieu.” Dad took another sip. Wow. Okay. So we were just putting it all out there. “I know Pauly had thought there was something between the two of you …”

  “There isn’t. Wasn’t. Never was.” One kiss on a beach wasn’t a something. “All I care about is what Boone Wyant does onstage. Whatever he does offstage makes no difference to me. And I don’t need Pauly to get me a boyfriend. I’m not looking for that right now.”

  “Good. I just wanted to make sure you hadn’t been … hurt.”

  I think this was Dad’s way of showing he cared. He was kind of dancing around it awkwardly, but for him, I knew this meant something.

  And maybe, what it really meant, was that he was trying. Trying to make our relationship something more than “pull up on the tempo here” and “watch your tone there.”

  “You have a real voice, Josie. Potentially a once-in-a-generation voice.” I stared at him, openmouthed. Dad had never heaped this kind of praise on me before. “I think, with dedication, you have the potential to far surpass your old man. In terms of talent, success, everything. Everything you’ve always wanted can be yours, Josie. But only if—and this is a big if—you focus.”

  “I am focused, Dad.” It was wonderful to hear him say these things, but also so frustrating. What had I ever done to make him think I lacked the focus necessary to become a star? This had always been his thing, and I’ve never understood it. “I know you didn’t really get the Pussycats, but I always gave them my all. Just like I give everything my all when it comes to my music. Have I been anything less than professional on the tour so far?”

  “You’ve been extremely professional.”

  “Thank you.” At least he could acknowledge it. “And if you’re still harping on about Boone, I told him, very clearly, that we were never going to happen. And also, clearly, from last night, he got the message.”

  “Understood.” Dad held up his hands. “I just don’t want him to distract you. I’m happy to ask him to leave the tour.”

  “You don’t have to do that. It’s fine.” Asking Boone to leave the tour felt more embarrassing, like admitting I’d been hurt by him. And I hadn’t been. I could keep it completely professional. He would just be another opener, nothing more. “I’m not distracted, not by Boone or by any other guy. Or anything else, for that matter.”

  “I’m glad to hear that.” Dad sighed. “Listen, Josie. I know I’m hard on you, but I’m hard on you because you’re good. And I want you to be great. And I think you can be.”

  “I appreciate that, Dad. But I also need you to start seeing me as someone who believes in her own greatness and wants it even more than you do. I’m going to be a star, Dad. I know it. And I’m not going to let anything—or anyone—stop me.”

  “Well, good, then. I’m glad to hear it.” Dad smiled—really, genuinely smiled—and I remembered how it felt to dance around the room as a little girl while he played the piano, with complete and utter abandon, just happy to be making music with my dad.

  But I was starting to wonder if it might be time for me to make music on my own.

  “You know, Dad,” I started, unsure how to say this, exactly, “I’m beyond grateful for this opportunity. And I’ve learned so much from touring with you. But—”

  “You’re thinking about heading out on your own,” Dad finished for me. “Don’t look so shocked, Josie.” He chuckled. “I saw the look on your face when you sang at Tiny’s. You’re an artist who needs creative control. No surprise—you are my daughter, after all.”

  I had been expecting dire predictions that I’d fail. That I wasn’t ready to be on my own. That leaving the tour would be a career-ending mistake.

/>   This level of support was the last thing I expected.

  But it felt good.

  “I mean, you know, don’t leave me on the side of the road or anything,” I joked. “I’m not ready to go quite yet …”

  “You’ve got a spot behind the microphone on the Myles McCoy tour for as long as you want it,” Dad said sincerely. “And whenever you’re ready to head out on your own, I’ll be sitting front-row center on your first night.”

  “Thanks, Dad.” I reached out and took his hand. “That means a lot.”

  After holding my hand for about two seconds, Dad stood up. “Well. Shall we?” For us, this had been a lot of father-daughter feelings time. “Pauly’s probably lamenting the state of our schedule out there.”

  One to-go cup later, we were settled into our customary positions in the van and back on the highway. As we drove toward Asheville, I was excited to see what our next stop held in store. And from there, we’d head on to Pigeon Forge, Knoxville, and then, finally, Nashville. Music City.

  Somehow, I doubted Boone’s job offer was still on the table. But I didn’t need it. And I sure wasn’t going to let him stop me from seeing what opportunities there might be for me in Nashville. He didn’t own that city. Who knows, maybe it would be a good place to get started. It was certainly worth checking out.

  But even with all these new destinations before me, and Nashville coming closer and closer, I couldn’t get New York out of my head. It seemed like the kind of place where I could become a star. Find myself. Find my voice.

  It seemed like the kind of place that could be home.

  “WHAT’S IN HERE?” KO PRETENDED to stagger under the weight of the cardboard box in his arms. “Dumbbells?”

  “Shoes! They’re just shoes!” I protested.

  “That’s precious cargo, KO!” Jorge scolded him jokingly. “You better get Miss Keene’s fancy footwear all the way uptown without a scratch.”

  “I’ll take good care of them.” Carefully, KO navigated the towers of boxes, heading to the door. “I promise.”