by Dana Czapnik
“No, I’m good.” I look at Alexis across the table. She’s got warm brown eyes and an open face that somehow reads as innocent and jaded simultaneously. She’s gotten much prettier as the years have progressed. Not that anyone at our school has noticed. Everyone on the street does, though. Which has its pluses and minuses. But the thing about Alexis, the thing that makes her special, is that she’s interesting. I know I have so few friends at school because I don’t fit in. But maybe it also has to do with the fact that I think I need to fall in love with a person in order to be their friend.
* * *
Geraldine brings over two plastic champagne glasses and sets them down on our table and pours a little champagne into each.
“Good thing you girls are twenty-one, right?” She winks at us with her good eye and walks away.
“So,” Alexis says, putting the champagne glasses off to the side, “before we toast, you have to tell me your favorite moment from the past year. I know it wasn’t hooking up with Percy.”
“Definitely not.” I think on it for a sec. “I think it was when we went to see Nirvana at Roseland.”
“Nirvana?” She scrunches her face like she just sucked on a lime.
“It wasn’t Nirvana. It was the night. It was just me and Percy and James, no other girls. And we were, like, at the outside of the crowd, right? But it was super packed in tight, so everyone was crowd surfing. At one point Percy said he was gonna do it, but he was too heavy for me and James to lift up, and no one else was helping, so we stopped trying. But then he turned to me and said, ‘I bet we can get you up there. Wanna go?’ It was so loud he had to lean into my ear, and his mouth was, like, right there against my face. And even through my high, I felt a surge of adrenaline, you know? Have you ever felt that while stoned?”
“No.”
“There’s something about it—the brain has to work so hard to stimulate your adrenal glands. It’s like a surge of a new, different high on top of an old one. So, he and James lifted me up and pushed me into the crowd, and the next thing I know, I’ve got hundreds of hands on me. I’ve heard that when girls go crowd surfing, all the guys holding her up use it as an excuse to just cop free feels everywhere, but I didn’t register anything like that. Nirvana was playing “Something in the Way.” I closed my eyes and listened to it and I just let my body go and be absorbed by the people beneath me. I have no sense of how long I was up there. It felt like a long time, but it was probably just thirty seconds or so, and suddenly there was a break in the crowd below and I opened my eyes and caught my bearings as I fell and I landed on my feet in a crouching position. When I stood up, I was face-to-face with a guy with long black hair and a goatee, and he said, ‘I tried to catch you, but then you didn’t need it.’
“Anyway, afterward we just wandered uptown and hung out for a while at the fountain at Lincoln Center, and we all made a wish on some pennies and dropped them in. I didn’t wish for anything grand or outside the realm of possibility. I just wished for Percy to walk me home that night with his arm around my shoulders. And he did. I’m not even sure what was so great about the day. It’s not like something monumental happened. I just really liked the way I felt. There was something about that collection of moments. I was . . . okay with myself.”
“That sounds nice,” she says and nods quietly.
“What about you? What was your favorite moment?”
“Meh, forget it.” She closes her eyes and shakes her head.
“C’mon, you can tell me.”
She hesitates. “Okay.” She straightens her back and shoulders. “So . . . did I ever tell you I think my mom . . . my mom might have . . . a drinking problem?”
I’m not sure what to say. “No,” I whisper.
“Well, she’s not, like, a mean alcoholic or anything. She’s held down her job as a housekeeper on the Upper East for, like, forever, so she’s high functioning. And she doesn’t abuse us. You can hardly even detect it when she’s drunk. But sometimes she’ll go on benders. They don’t last long, and she doesn’t go out and do crazy shit like in the movies. Most of the time she’ll just sit in her chair in the living room, drinking and sleeping and crying—añoranza, kid. I’m telling you, it’s real. I’ll clean her up before my brother gets home from work, ’cause a son shouldn’t see his mom like that. The thing is, I’m not angry at her, like some kids with addicts for parents. I’m not mad. I just feel sorry for her. Because she works so hard and she’s so sad. And then the fact that I feel sad for her makes me feel even more pity for her, because how awful must it be to have a child who feels sorry for you? I never want my kids to feel that way about me.
“Do you know my mom has been talking about going to Disney World as a vacation for as long as I can remember? She’s applied for, like, every Disney vacation sweepstakes they offer in those Valpak envelopes we get in the mail. I don’t even know what it is about that place that she’s so obsessed with. Maybe it’s like that line from Breakfast at Tiffany’s—like, nothing can ever go wrong at Disney World. So, she turned thirty-nine in September, and I spent the whole summer saving up to take her out for her birthday, since it would be the last one for a while I’ll probably be home for. Plus, I know she’s scared of turning forty. I told her to take off work, and she called in sick, which was the first time she’s ever done that. And she called school and told them I was sick. I obviously couldn’t afford to take her to Orlando, so I took her to Rye Playland for the day. Have you ever been?”
I shake my head.
“You thought Coney Island was bad—Rye Playland is the most busted, depressing place in the whole universe. It’s like the dreamscape of a suicidal clown. It’s dirty and it smells like spoiled fish and all the people there are trashy and all their little kids run wild like they’re on crack and everyone cuts the lines and no one throws out their straw wrappers in the trash cans, they just drop them wherever they open their straws. Like they’re some god of that tiny patch of pavement, free to do whatever the hell they please. Where is the decency? But none of that seemed to bother my mom. She had the time of her life. We went on this one roller coaster called the Dragon, and on one of the drops I looked over at her and she was smiling really hard. I’ve never seen her smile like that. Ever. We went on every ride in the whole goddamned park. I was so nauseous by the end of the day I threw up in a freakin’ porta potty. But I didn’t tell my mom. I didn’t want her to worry about me. It was her birthday.
“Watching her on that roller coaster, that was the best moment of the year for me. One day I’m gonna make so much money, I’m gonna buy my mom a cute little house in some leafy suburb and I’m gonna send her to one of those really fancy rehab places where all those Hollywood celebrities go when they’re trying to kick a heroin or cocaine habit, like Passages Malibu. And after she’s all better, I’m gonna send her every year to Disney World and I’m gonna pay for that special ticket where she gets to bypass the lines.”
Most of the time, Alexis and I live in the same world. We complain about the same teachers. We listen to the same music. We ride the same tagged-up trains on the same monthly student subway passes. We wear variations on the same clothes. We watch the same TV shows and have the same general cultural touchstones. And then sometimes she says something, and it’s like I’ve reached the end of the bungee cord and I’m snapped back to reality.
She looks out the window onto the empty street, and I watch her face, trying to read her expression. We’ve been friends for so long, and she’s kept so much of herself hidden from me. Is it ever possible to know someone else’s heart? Or for someone to know yours?
“Wow.” I sigh. “I’m an asshole. My favorite day involved going to a stupid concert. Your favorite day actually meant something.”
“Yours meant something to you too.” She shrugs her shoulders and stirs her spoon in her mug, the metal clinking against the ceramic because there’s no liquid left in there. “We’re talking about the same thing really, just taking different ways to get there. We’
re both chasing a feeling of weightlessness.”
“Like in a game.”
“Yeah—when you’re on fire.”
“And you can’t miss.”
“Yeah. That feeling. That’s the one.”
1994
journey to the end of the day
“Take a bite of this snatch sushi.” The tiny tuna hand roll Max holds in front of my face looks like the inside of a Georgia O’Keeffe flower.
“I don’t eat fish.”
“Shame. It’s delicious.” She pops the roll in her mouth and chews with it open. She motions toward A Bismol Barbie as she swallows. “I think it’s too high. What about you?” She doesn’t wait for my response. “Violet,” she screams across the room, “Barbie is too high.”
“Christ, I can hear you.” Violet’s paint-splattered overalls swim around her body as she walks toward us. “C’mon, Loose. Let’s lower it.”
We walk to opposite sides of the canvas and carefully pull it off the wall and rest it on the floor.
“How much lower you want it?” Violet asks.
“I don’t know. Like an inch, maybe?” Violet shoots me a look. I know what she’s thinking: This bitch is having us redo all our work for just one single inch. “I know I’m being picky, but, like, this has to be perfect, Vi.”
“I didn’t say anything.” Violet marches up her ladder, following orders. I do the same.
* * *
Out in the SoHo sunshine, Violet thumbs the side of her nicotine patch, peels away a bit of the corner, and scratches at the residue of rubber cement still left on her skin. “Sorry this sucks so bad.”
“Are you kidding? I’m getting paid a hundred bucks to hang out in an art gallery all day. It’s kind of awesome.”
“You’re right. It’s awesome for you. But it really sucks for me.” She bites the skin around her thumbnail and spits. “You know the Clash T-shirt she was wearing on that New York magazine cover featuring new political artists? That’s my goddamned T-shirt. She doesn’t even like the Clash.” She pauses. “Everybody loves tiny pretty girls with straight hair. Even ones with a fuck-you aesthetic and a big, dirty mouth. Maybe especially so.”
“You think that’s why she got this show?”
“No.” Pause. “But it helps to be photogenic.” Violet bites at her thumb again. This time, when she pulls it away from her mouth, a tiny sliver of blood pools in the nail bed. “Shit, I gotta get a cigarette.”
We walk up to Broadway and stop in a coffin of a convenience store. Violet buys a pack of straight Marlboros.
“What are you doing?”
“I’ve gone two weeks, I need some real carcinogens.”
“But you’ve been doing so good.”
“Not really. All I think about all day and night are cigarettes. You haven’t truly kicked them until you’ve stopped thinking about them.”
“Does that apply to all addictions?”
“Yes.” She lights it up and rips the patch off her bicep and throws it into the trash can on the corner. It’s possible that one can form an addiction to a person. There is a narcotic quality to love—the dopamine, the serotonin, the adrenaline. There is no reasoning with the brain while all the neurons are soaring. So I totally get how a nicotine patch might not work. If I was able to get just a tiny taste of Percy all the time, all I’d want is more Percy and more Percy. Much better to go cold turkey.
“I gotta move outta my place.” Violet interrupts my thoughts.
“Why?”
“The city sold our building to a private developer.” She shakes her head. “Two hundred artists out on their asses. Never-Never Land is over.” We start walking aimlessly along Broadway.
“What are you guys gonna do?”
“Well, Shaw’s lease is up, so we’re thinking of pooling our resources temporarily. I think we found a place in Hell’s Kitchen.”
“What about Max?”
“She’s golden. She just got a patron to put her up at the Chelsea Hotel.”
“Can’t you do that?”
She laughs bitterly. “It doesn’t work that way.”
“So you and Shaw are moving in together? That’s kind of a big move. I didn’t realize you were that serious.”
“We’re not really moving in together. He spends most of his time at his bandmate’s place in Astoria, which is why he’s giving up his apartment, but the nights he’s working the bar, he’ll stay at my place, and he’ll contribute a bit toward the rent and stuff so I can afford a place on my own.”
“That’s cool.”
“Max doesn’t think so. She thinks the second I move in with him, I’m going to stop making art and start making babies or something. She thinks that all romantic relationships between men and women benefit the man and hurt the woman. So offensive. Not only because that puts my ambition on blast but because it implies that my art comes from a place of loneliness and ache. That is so belittling to the work I’ve been doing. And it also means that in order for me to be a successful artist, I’d have to live forever without finding a person. And, you know what? I believe in love, okay? I know that’s, like, as uncool as saying, ‘I like the Olive Garden.’ But, whatever. Their breadsticks are amazing, and who doesn’t like a never-ending salad bowl, so fuck off. Besides, Shaw and I don’t have enough money to be anything other than what we are, and I don’t even like kids. Whenever I spend any time with a baby, I’m always totally dumbfounded by the fact that every single person walking down the street was once one of those things. It’s really shocking if you think about it—that we were all babies.” Violet flicks her butt into the sewer, and it slips perfectly between the grates. “Ugh, I can’t wait till I’m thirty-five.”
“Why?”
“Because by then, everything will be over. I’ll either be a success or a failure, and whatever it is, I’ll know it. Either I’ll be famous and happy with some guy with a matinee jawline who can’t commit but looks killer in the black-and-white stills we’ll have scattered about our loft or I can just throw in the towel and marry some business-casual moron and move to the suburbs and eat processed cheese all day and watch Thelma and Louise over and over until my eyes explode. That’s what my sister did. Nick’s this inoffensive, ordinary guy who doesn’t think too much about anything difficult or taxing and loves his La-Z-Boy in their wood-paneled, carpeted basement. And they have a dining room table with a chandelier over it and semi-comfortable matching chairs, and she worries about things like what she’s going to make for the school bake sale and which is the best weed killer. Why can’t I be happy with that? How much easier would my life be if that were my version of happiness? Because I can have that. Anyone can have that. But whenever I visit her out there and eat her food, I come home and have this insane urge to shoot up the darkest black tar heroin I can find or fuck the first person I see on the street or plunge myself into the Hudson just so I can confirm I’m still alive.”
“Your sister makes a mean cheesecake, though.”
“Yeah, she does. You’re right—she does. And you know what? She’s happy. She’s genuinely happy. She’s got the thing that everyone wants—the loving husband, the cute kids, the house with the two-car garage. The fact that her life looks miserable to me is . . . all my problem.” She takes a deep breath and exhales slowly, with her eyes closed. She motions across the street. “Hey, I wanna buy you a present.”
We run across the middle of Broadway and narrowly escape the onslaught of cabs. When we open the door to Shakespeare & Co., a little bell jingles. I have a thing for bookstores with bells on the doors. Whenever I step foot in one I feel transported to a bookseller’s on a quaint street, pre-penicillin, where the books are all hand bound and the words inside them feel like a just-discovered treasure.
“Philosophy,” Violet says to the guy behind the register. She doesn’t say “Hello” or put it in the form of a question. Her voice remains in a neutral octave, her true speaking voice. She doesn’t smile or flip her hair to the side. Violet doesn’t pretend
to be sweet or temporarily dull her serrated edges for random social exchanges. She doesn’t peddle pleasantries. And this probably does not win her points with most people, especially members of the opposite sex. But it wins her points with me.
The guy behind the counter tells her to go upstairs, so we do.
In the Philosophy section, Violet can’t seem to find the book she’s looking for. “So strange,” she says, bewildered. She walks toward the back of the store, but I don’t follow her. Something in the background distracts me. There’s an instantaneously recognizable voice behind me, muffled.
All atmosphere around me blurs as I walk toward the voice. Inching my way through the stacks. I pick up a book—I don’t know what book it is, I don’t look at it. It might be upside down. It might be in Japanese. It might not be a book at all but a small, rectangular bomb. I hold it up to my face and peek over the other books on the shelf.
Snuggled in the pit of Percy’s shoulder is Lauren Moon. They’re sitting on the floor, resting against the entire career catalogue of Milan Kundera. He has The Unbearable Lightness of Being open and he’s reading to her, very quietly. Her lips are puffy and cherry red, like they’ve just been kissed very hard and with meaning. I had heard a rumor in school that she and Brian Deed had broken up and he was very bent out of shape about it. I guess Percy finally gave Brian the punch in the balls he’d always promised me . . . except I’m the one who feels the hit to the gut.
Her straight auburn hair is tinged with blond, drunk on the first sunlight of spring. It falls around her face. She’s wearing a soft white V-neck T-shirt with a small pocket on the left. She’s thin and not particularly well endowed, but she’s proportional in the way that you’re supposed to be to make white T-shirts look sexy as opposed to dowdy or . . . athletic. On her chest, blond freckles are scattered and a hollow silver heart necklace from Tiffany’s that seemed to bloom like dandelions around the necks of all the girls in the know this year dangles delicately, its clasp having fallen down toward her clavicle. Percy’s hand tenderly reaches up and moves the clasp to the back of her neck, where it belongs, and lingers there. He gazes at her with an honest and naked powerlessness. And then he kisses her, and all I see is the back of his head and her hand, with long, clean fingernails and clear polish, grasping his forearm. So he had an ache in him all along, as it turns out. I never knew.
