by Sophie Davis
This was the Upper East Side of New York, where everyone had their problems – in my age bracket it was usually parents and the pressure they brought – but I just couldn’t see that as an excuse to be an utter disaster all of the time. I had no sympathy for those of my classmates who thought snorting their parents’ money up their noses was an appropriate coping mechanism. There were people in the world with real problems, real issues. My peers had no idea what it meant to be truly hungry, except maybe Lydia Gromsley. Her collarbone could cut glass, but she chose to starve herself; and Nelson Mandela she was not. They had no idea what desperation, hopelessness, true despair felt like.
I drank half of my coffee on the way to class while vibing to Jay-Z. New York, a concrete jungle where dreams are made indeed.
I made it to AP Shakespearean Literature several minutes before the bell and took my chair in the back row. It was a weird quirk, but I didn’t like people sitting behind me. Whenever I went out to eat, I always requested a corner table or booth. This infuriated my mother since she liked me to be “seen.”
“Lark, looking gorgeous as usual!” One of the Eight, Camilla Stories, slid into the seat next to me. She was the type who made this comment to absolutely everyone; it was her standard greeting.
“Not too bad yourself, Cam. Love the shoes – are those the new Jimmy Choos?”
“You know it,” she said with a wide smile. She loved when I picked up on these things.
“So you went shopping without me?” I admonished with a fake frown. “Poor form.”
Though she might not be the person I called when I needed a shoulder to cry on, Cam made an excellent shopping buddy, and was actually one of the few in our group I really considered a friend. She was a blast to hang out with, always in a great mood, and had the sort of infectious energy that would take a quiet night into a full-on adventure in no time.
“My mother felt guilty for not inviting me to St. Barts with her man-friend. What’s a girl to do when she comes home to the personal shopper from Bloomingdale’s in her living room with a selection of the latest – send her home?” Cam asked with mock-seriousness.
“Touché,” I replied with a laugh. “You can make it up to me, though. I need a dress for Taylor’s party on Saturday. Come help me pick through your rejects at Bloomie’s tomorrow night?”
“Duh, of course. I have to make sure you don’t get the same dress I did!”
My eyes went wide with feigned horror. “God forbid. If that happened, the next thing you know the four horsemen would come galloping up 5th Avenue.
Cam regarded me quizzically. She wasn’t the most brilliant diamond in the collection. I considered explaining the reference to her, but figured it was pointless.
A moment later the tiny frown lines in Cam’s forehead disappeared, and a conspiratorial smile caused her lips to curl. “If we are going shopping tomorrow, does that mean you’ll be disappearing after school again today?” she asked, leaning forward, a hopeful gleam in her eye.
Cam was as desperate as the rest of the Eight to know where I’d been spending my afternoons. That, however, was one facet of my life that was mine and mine alone. Living under a giant magnifying glass has taught me to be selfish with my personal life. I needed to slink out of the spotlight every so often; otherwise, I’d probably burst into flames from the scrutiny.
“Maybe,” I said offhandedly, “maybe not. Guess you’ll have to wait and see.”
“Ms. Stories, Ms. Kingsley, if you are finished discussing the meaning of life back there, I’d like to get started,” our teacher, Mr. Houser, said, cutting off any retort Cam might have made.
I turned to face forward, winking at Cam as I did. “The floor is yours, sir,” I replied.
My intention had not been to sound cheeky, but apparently the class thought it had. Snickers were audible from every corner of the room.
“Thank you, Ms. Kingsley,” Mr. Houser said.
I smile and mouthed, “Sorry.”
As Mr. Houser began droning on about the Bard’s poetry – seriously, yawn – the sheepish smile became a full-on grin as my thoughts turned to the afternoon I had planned.
Twenty-four hours after receiving the keys to Kim’s Petworth apartment, I was loading my laptop bag and the backpack with my toiletries and a change of clothes into the Corolla’s trunk. Leaving my larger suitcase in the car had been a calculated decision. The parking garage where I’d left the car was guarded and patrolled by an aged security guard during the day, and gated and padlocked at night. The bedroom at the hostel was wide open. I carried my laptop with me wherever I went and had slept with it beneath my pillow to ensure it didn’t disappear. But the suitcase would have been cumbersome while wandering the city.
Driving up Georgia Avenue, I was all optimism and sunshine. Today I was a glass-half-full kind of girl. The more I thought about my new apartment, the more I liked it. Stumbling across Kim’s ad was a stroke of luck, really. Much like finding the car.
Kim had reassured me at least five times that the neighborhood was safe, and the demographic was mostly young professionals and college coeds. But most importantly, the apartment was all mine. No parents hovering over my shoulder, watching my every move, constantly appraising me. I was finally free to become my own person, develop my own interests, and make my own mistakes.
The sun was high overhead, a blindingly bright orb projecting oppressively hot rays of sunshine down onto the city, unimpeded by clouds or the skyscrapers that most cities were known for. I had both the driver’s side and passenger’s side windows rolled down for maximum airflow. The vehicle did have air conditioning, but the air it pumped out through the vents was a malodorous mixture of burnt hair and skunk. Every time I smelled it, I seriously wondered whether the previous owner had been involved in a hit-and-run with one of the furry creatures. And if the animal was still stuck under the car.
Once on Gibson Street, I managed to parallel-park the car without hitting anything more than the curb, a fact that made me proud of myself. In my previous life, a car wasn’t a luxury I’d had, so all things driving were new to me.
I grabbed my messenger bag from the front seat and slung it across my chest. I wagered it was a safe bet that I could carry all my worldly belongings into my new apartment in one trip. My new neighbors might wonder if I was a pack mule, but whatever. I had to jiggle the key in the truck lock a couple of times before it turned and the lid popped open.
“Damn it,” I swore under my breath. I’d been forced to slam on the brakes several times while navigating the city streets, apparently causing my bags to shift in the process. My train case, which had been snugly tucked in front of the wheel well, was now wedged in the opposite corner of the trunk with its contents strewn across the mat.
I swore a second time after realizing that my brand new bottle of body lotion had leaked shimmery, pale-yellow goo all over the place.
“Two trips it is,” I muttered. The contents of my train case and the mess the lotion had made would have to wait. I grabbed the backpack and suitcase, slammed the trunk closed, and played the jiggle game with the key again in order to lock the car. I pulled and pulled on the handle of the suitcase, but it was jammed and I couldn’t get it to budge. I sighed, resigned to carrying it too.
I hoisted the bag off the ground as best I could, though I was barely able to keep it from scraping along the pavement. By this point, sweat was dripping into my eyes and down the length of my spine, settling in the waistband of my shorts. I blew a breath upwards, trying to dislodge the dark strands of hair clinging to my forehead.
“Need a hand?” a deep voice called from somewhere behind me.
“No, thanks,” I called back without bothering to turn around. I gave a dismissive wave over my shoulder and started towards the porch steps.
“Are you sure? I don’t mind. And you look like you could really use the help.” The voice was deep, amused, and definitely male.
“I’m fine,” I replied. “No damsel in distress here.
”
Of course, as I said this, my messenger bag smacked me in the back of my knee, causing it to buckle. Had that been the only thing that I was carrying, I probably would have been able to catch myself. Unfortunately, the combined weights of the suitcase and the backpack tipped me over the edge. And the next thing I knew, the sidewalk was rushing to meet my face.
Strong fingers closed around my upper arms, sliding down the sweat-slicked skin before getting a firm hold. At nearly five-six I was above average height for a girl, but the guy caught hold of me and set me on my feet with minimal effort.
“Thanks,” I muttered, doubly embarrassed that he’d nearly seen me eat pavement and that I was a sweaty mess.
Reluctantly, I turned and met his gaze. The guy was tall, six-four, maybe. He was tan, like he’d just returned from some exotic tropical locale. His warm brown eyes shone with amusement, but he spared me the humiliation of openly laughing. Without asking, he lifted my suitcase, relieving me of the burden.
“Where you headed?” he asked.
I pointed to the row home directly in front of us. “405 Gibson,” I said.
“You renting Kim’s place?”
“How did you know?” I asked, suspicion sparking.
“I live on the first floor. I’m starting GW law next month, but I interned at a firm this summer to get some experience. Kim was nice enough to spend the last three month being my personal tour guide. The whole Paris thing coming together was really a coup for her, but I know she was scrambling to find a renter. She was really excited that you answered her ad.”
I relaxed. At least one of my neighbors was friendly, I thought.
We began walking up the front steps. The guy used his key to unlock the downstairs door and then held it open for me to enter. Self-consciously, I led the way up the staircase, cognizant of the fact that sweat was trickling down my legs and he was basically face-level with my butt. Kim had explained that the house wasn’t equipped with central air, but there was a wall unit in the apartment.
“My name is Asher, by the way,” the guy offered from behind me.
“Raven,” I replied over my shoulder.
“Like the bird,” my new friend commented.
“Uh huh.” After a lifetime with the name, I was used to the comparison.
At the door to apartment three, I fumbled with the key ring. The non-descript gold key fit poorly in the lock, leading me to perform the same wiggle routine I’d used with the Corolla’s trunk.
“Here, let me,” Asher offered after my attempts failed. He took the key from me. “You need to press really hard while holding the knob, then turn both at the same time.” He demonstrated the maneuver. And just like that, the door popped open. “Mine’s the same way.”
“Thanks.”
“Where would you like your things?” Asher entered the tiny foyer without waiting for an invitation.
“Um, just set them down there.” I pointed to a spot next to the kitchen counter.
Asher set my suitcase down, then stood, hands on hips, in the small kitchen. The sight was almost comical. Asher was too tall, too broad-shouldered for the smaller-than-average appliances. His flip-flop-clad feet covered an entire square of the linoleum floor.
“Well, thanks again,” I said, hoping he would get the hint.
He ran one hand through his sandy blonde hair, causing several pieces to stick out at odd angles. Slowly, he spun in a small circle, taking in the apartment’s interior. “Kim left all of her stuff for you.”
“Um, yeah. I’m new to the city, just moved here, and don’t have any furniture or anything.” For some reason, the fact he’d obviously been in the apartment before bothered me.
“Are you starting school soon?”
“Just working for now,” I replied evasively.
“Cool. Where?” Asher smiled, giving me a great view of his straight white teeth. I remembered my middle school years, when my own crooked teeth had been saddled with braces until they were perfectly straight.
“Not sure yet,” I admitted reluctantly.
“There are a lot of cool bars and stuff around here,” Asher replied quickly. “I bet a girl like you could make a lot of money bartending.”
“A girl like me?” My hackles went up.
The cool, confident demeanor slipped for a brief moment. His cheeks colored, a barely visible red underneath his tan. “Sorry. It’s just that cute girls usually make good tips.”
“Oh.” Now I was the one embarrassed. “I’m only eighteen, so bartending probably won’t work out. I’m not worried, though. Something will; it always does.”
“Right. Well, if you need anything, you know where to find me – apartment one. Just knock.”
“Thanks.”
Once Asher left, I moved my bags to the bedroom, then trekked back downstairs to clean up the mess my toiletries had made in the trunk of my car. In addition to the smears of lotion that now decorated the trunk, the contents of my train case were covered in the slimy substance.
“Great,” I muttered, wiping my hands on my khaki shorts. I collected the bottles of hair products and various makeup that had spilled and rolled all over the trunk, and placed them into the plastic grocery bag I’d brought with me. The tube of serum that I used to style my new shorter hairdo was noticeably absent.
“Please tell me I didn’t forget you at the hostel….” The stuff wasn’t exactly cheap, and the humidity in D.C. made it an absolute necessity.
I crawled up on the bumper to reach into the corners of the trunk. There was a two-inch gap at the back, where the lining didn’t quite meet the walls. I dipped my fingers into the space, blindly feeling for anything that may have lodged in it. My fingers brushed something smooth. It wasn’t my styling gel, but it didn’t feel like the spare tire either, which was the only thing that should have been under the carpeting.
Curious, I scooted further in until my butt was actually inside and my head was wedged under the lid. I peeled back the corner of the carpeting. The inside of the trunk was dark, making it hard to see what lay beneath the lining. I fumbled clumsily, groping for whatever it was my fingers had brushed moments earlier. Wedged in the very back corner of the trunk was a small leather book.
I sat up straight, knocking the back of my head against the trunk’s lid in the process.
“Oww!” I exclaimed loudly, rubbing the sore spot with one hand.
The book was the size of a paperback, but instead of a pretty image and embossed lettering, the front cover was solid green. The leather was soft, like the interior of an expensive car. A gold clasp held the front and back covers together, but wasn’t much of an attempt at preventing prying eyes; when I slid the small button from left to right, it popped open. On the first page, the word “Journal” was printed in large script that reminded me of calligraphy. Below that, “Property of” was printed, followed by a blank space for the owner to write her name. Only, the space was, well, blank.
I hesitated before flipping through the subsequent pages. Reading another person’s innermost thoughts was voyeuristic. What if some rando found my new journal? Granted, all I’d written about so far was the druggie who’d shared my room at the hostel and renting Kim’s apartment – not exactly top-secret stuff. Still, a journal was personal and not for a stranger’s eyes.
After several more seconds of internal debate, I decided against reading the contents. Maybe later I’d change my mind; but for now, at least, I wouldn’t succumb to curiosity. I shut the journal, but before the clasp could reengage, a heavy envelope dropped from between the pages and into my lap. It was the type of envelope that came with expensive stationery, thick and textured. The creamy exterior was blank and crisp.
I turned the envelope over in my hands. The flap on the back was tucked inside instead of sealed shut. For some reason, my heart began to beat faster and my fingers trembled. I swallowed thickly and carefully opened the envelope. Inside, a single sheet of thick cream-colored stationery was neatly folded in thirds. The conte
nts were heavy, alerting me to the fact that there were more than words inside the folds. Before I could debate the moral issues involved with prying further into someone else’s belongings, a slim white card and set of keys slipped from inside. The card was plastic and roughly the size of a credit card. Two words were printed in all caps: THE PINES.
“That your car?” a heavily accented voice asked, startling me so much that I actually jumped, once again bumping my head on the trunk lid.
“Excuse me?” I looked up to see a short, squat woman standing on the sidewalk. She had a pudgy little boy clinging to one hand and a boxer who was testing the strength of his leather leash in the other.
“That your car?” the woman repeated, nodding her head towards the Corolla.
“Yes, ma’am, it is.” Obviously. I’m sitting in it.
“You need to get a visitor’s parking pass if you want to park it on the street for any length of time. They ticket cars with out-of-state plates here.”
My shoulders relaxed. The woman was being nice, trying to help me out.
“Oh, okay. Thank you.”
She nodded, then tugged the dog’s leash and continued on her way.
Deciding that I was attracting too much attention sitting in the trunk of my car, I tucked the envelope back inside the journal and snapped it shut. I grabbed the grocery bag full of my lotion-covered toiletries with my free hand and used my elbow to close the trunk. With my hands full, the wiggle routine with the trunk lock was difficult. After several tries, I took it on faith that the car was indeed locked. Not that it really mattered, now that all of my belongings were safely stowed inside my new apartment.
Unpacking took all of five minutes. I’d only brought a handful of shorts, polos, tank tops, and my two favorite sundresses with me to the city. By the time colder weather came later in the Fall, I planned to be making enough money to buy new jeans and sweaters. Once I was done hanging all of my clothes in the closet, which was way too big for what I had, I set my laptop on Kim’s roll-top desk in the same spot she’d had hers.
