Know Me (Truthful Lies Trilogy - Book One)

by Rachel Dunning

  I’ve never been able to get that idea out of my head: And he’s always been Tolek Two-Face to me since then.

  Xavier is similar, I guess, but the two-facedness in him is not part of his essential nature. The way, I believe, it is with Tolek. Xavier’s double-naturedness comes about because of his Mujer (a certain white powder better known to most as Big C or, Savva’s fave term for it, California Corn Flakes.)

  While Tolek Two-Face shouted and raged, I slid away from him and answered the door. Mr. Bernstein scowled him down and asked, “Everything OK, Blaze? This schmuck giving you drek?”

  “No, Mr. Bernstein. We’re good. I think...Tolek...was just leaving?” I looked at Tolek.

  “We NOT OK!” Tolek said. He put his pointed finger an inch from my noise, and said, “Is NOT over, Błażej!” (Tolek, like many of the Polish Greenpointers who knew me before I moved to Bushwick, knew me by my birth-name, the one before I changed it.)

  Then, before leaving, he glared Mr. Bernstein down like he was a turd on the sidewalk, and then left in a storm.

  I never heard from him again. I guess he must’ve found some other tussy who didn’t mind his feely-feeliness as much as I did.

  Since that day, Mr. Bernstein has always equated Tolek with everything bad in the world, or everything bad in my life for that matter. In some way, maybe even for Savva’s death.

  But he’s wrong on that last count. That one was all me. I know that to my very core.

  And I have to live with it.

  -3-

  Annnnnnnd...we’re back.

  I knock on Deck’s window and startle him awake. He rolls it down, rubs his eyes.

  “Did you think I was NYPD?” I say.

  “I was thinking more on the lines of Latin Kings or TBO Gang.”

  “Nah, you don’t find those types here no more. And besides, that’s more East New York side.”

  “That’s not too far from here.”

  “You sure sound like a wuss for someone who’s lived in Brooklyn all his life.” I realize I don’t actually know if this is true, I just assumed it because he has a light Brooklyn twang to his speech. “That is true, isn’t it?”

  “Born and raised,” he says proudly, exaggerating the accent. Bohhwen an raised.

  I take a guess where he comes from—a snide guess. “You know Brooklyn Heights doesn’t count as Brooklyn. In a few years, maybe even Williamsburg won’t.”

  “Nope, I’m all working class. Canarsie.”

  “Damn, that’s even worse than East New York!”

  “No, it’s not.”

  “I’m just kidding. I never been there so I wouldn’t know. Is it really all working class?”

  “Some of it, yeah. We weren’t quite working class though, more like ‘upper working class.’”

  I laugh. “Sounds like us.” I lean my elbows in his window, rest my chin on my wrist, look up at him. I guess I must have a pretty dreamy look to my face, because that’s how I feel right now.

  Let me just say this here: This dude has eyes that are unmatched in anyone I’ve ever seen. I mean, yeah, I’ve seen that shit in movies and Photoshop pics and stuff, but not up close. Not for real. You seen Alexandra Daddario—the badass babe from those Percy Jackson flicks? Well, Deck’s eyes are like hers. They’re so light, almost ghostly.

  “Where you from?” he asks.

  “Greenpoint.”

  “I thought only the Poles lived there.”

  “Mm-hm...” I wait for the penny to sink.

  He looks confused. “Ryleigh is not a Polish last name.”

  “I changed it. I didn’t want to be stereotyped when people spoke to me. Because, I, like you”—I do my best to exaggerate the Brooklyn—“am bohhwen an raised.”

  Now he’s the one who laughs. “I see.” He taps his steering wheel, looks up ahead. “So what’s your real name then?”

  “Well, technically, Blaze is my first name. Only, in Polish, it’s pronounced Buwhazhay.”

  “Boo—wahh—ssay?”

  “Buwhazhay.”

  “Booyah—shay.”

  I can’t help cracking up. “Let’s just stick with Blaze.”

  “That I can pronounce. And at the risk of sounding corny, Booyah-shay is one helluva sexy name. No kidding.”

  My cheeks prickle, and I look down to hide it. “Now, my last name is a different story. That one I only tell people who I know really well.”

  “Well, I hope that’s us soon.”

  I’m stunned for a second. “Uhm, yeah, me too.”

  “So? What is it?”

  “Huh?”

  “Your last name. Tell me.”

  Aw, hell. Why not. “Kieliszewski.”

  His eyes bulge. “Hell, I’m not even gonna try and pronounce that.” Silence for a second. “So, that’s the reason you changed it—the stereotyping?”

  “Mostly. I’m American, born and raised. Besides, I got tired of all the Ke$ha and Dorota comments when people discovered I was Polish.”

  “Who?”

  “Ke$ha—the singer? The one where the S in her name is spelled with a dollar sign?”

  “Not her—although I had no idea she was a Pole—the other one.”

  “Dorota? That’s Blaire Waldorf’s housekeeper in Gossip Girl.”

  “Oh. I never seen it.”

  “Me neither, I’m more of a Breaking Bad and True Blood fan. But one of the girls I went to school with looked a little like her and, well, you know kids... It got outta hand and so a few Dorota scenes from Gossip Girl went viral in the school. That’s how I got to know about her.”

  “I see. And that was enough to have you change your name?”

  “As I said, you know kids. They can be pretty vicious little bastards.” He looks at me, the question plain on his face. “And, yes, I was also one of the people who teased the Dorota chick!”

  “Thought so!” He laughs.

  “The Poles are just stereotyped here. You ever see Sophie in 2 Broke Girls?”

  He shakes his head.

  “Yeah, well, I just felt like people would equate me with all the freaking moronic characters on TV and movies. The Big Lebowski?”

  His lip twitches up, and he suppresses a grin.

  Me: “Oh, you’re a Lebowski fan?”

  “It’s a classic.”

  “OK, I confess, it is.” I’m struggling to suppress my own grin. Then, spontaneously and together: “‘Shut the fuck up, Donny!’”

  “So, why Ryleigh of all names?”

  I look down a second. “I never met my father. All I know is that he was Irish. At least that’s what my mom says. I know Ryleigh ain’t a true American last name either, but what is? This whole country is made up of immigrants. But it’s sure more American than freaking Kieliszewski!”

  “Yeah, I guess. I don’t know what the origin of Cox is.” He looks at me. Waits. Then, “You’re not gonna comment on Carl Cox?”

  “Nope.”

  “Oh. Surprising.”

  “Why?”

  “Well, everyone I meet in this crowd always feels the need to comment on me sharing a surname with Carl Cox—like it freaking means something and, well, I just expected you to do the same. You know, because you’re a DJ?”

  “You see how stereotypes work?”

  “Yeah, uhm, touché.”

  “And if you must know, I figured that’s exactly what people did to you, so I decided not to mention it.”

  His eyebrows go up. “Oh, cool.” He smiles. “About your pops, why did you never meet him? If you don’t mind me ask—”

  “I don’t mind. I hate it when people don’t ask. It’s quite simple actually: He and Mamah fell madly in love, they had sex. I was conceived. And he blew the scene. Never to be found again.”

  “Jeez. I’m sorry.”

  “What for? I’m not. If he was an asshole then he was an asshole. Maybe Mamah coulda gone searching for him, but I think she never bothered. She’s proud that way. Anyway”—I stretch my arms—“whether he was a
prick or not, I’m still half Irish, and, like I said, it sure as heck beats Kieliszewski as a last name.”

  “Was Ryleigh your father’s last name?”

  I lift my shoulders, drop them. “Dunno, my mom never told me. She didn’t want me to go looking for him, I guess.”

  “Would you have? If you had the chance?”

  “Nah, I don’t think so. Like I said, if he’s an asshole then he’s an asshole. I ain’t gonna go chasing behind his ass if he decided to leave a kid behind. And what would I do if I found him? ‘Oh, hi. I’m the kid you never wanted.’”

  “Yeah, I hear you. Well...” He sighs. “...fathers can be assholes sometimes. But Ryleigh’s a cool name. That other one, well, forgive me if I don’t remember it. So how do you do it? Change your name, I mean.”

  “Pay sixty-five bucks or something, fill in a petition, attach a birth certificate. Then they print it in the newspaper unless you can prove your life is in danger. My mom took care of it for me, ’cause I was a minor when we did it.”

  “And she didn’t mind?”

  “No. She appreciates that I consider myself fully American. It’s different when you were born in a country—it’ll always be your home. She’s real understanding that way.”

  He heaves in a breath. “Yeah, moms are that way.” He presses two fingers into his eyes, then taps the steering wheel. My ears start hurting from the cold.

  “Hey, um, I didn’t expect you to fall asleep in your car, you know. If you wanna come and crash on my sofa-bed it’s totally cool.”

  “Will you crash next to me?”

  A fist to the gut. But one which fills me with air instead of taking it.

  “Uhm, sure. Why not? I also need to get to sleep eventually.”

  He answers me with a deep kiss that gets my heart racing, a kiss that makes me forget I still do need to sleep.

  And I do. I so do.

  “This is so crazy, you know?” I look down at my feet.

  “What?”

  “This! All this kissing and...I mean, we met at a club for chrissake! And we’re acting like...”

  “Like we’ve known each other for years.”

  “Something like that.”

  “It is crazy,” he confirms. “Now, are you gonna let me get out my car, or should we continue kissing here?”

  “Hmmmm, the conundrum.”

  “Oh, yeah, you’re definitely American. I haven’t ever heard a Pole use the word conundrum.”

  “Do you actually know any Poles?”

  “OK, busted.”

  He gets out the car, intertwines his fingers in mine. We swing our arm as we walk to the elevator.

  I’m thinking all sorts of things I shouldn’t be. I tell myself I should get to know him. I tell myself to get the hormones under control. I’m thinking of the sun going down through my windows; of The Boom Circuits playing Everything and Nothing on my speakers. I’m thinking of my silhouetted body being undressed by his. I’m thinking of his lips on my skin, my naked breasts. I’m thinking of gasping for breath, his hand between my legs...

  But, when we enter my loft, the physical need for sleep takes over me.

  Declan lies on my sofa-bed. I lie next to him and hold him. His hand engulfs mine. I feel him doze off, breathing deeply. I kiss his ear, then his neck. “Goodnight, or good afternoon, Declan Cox,” I say. He’s already asleep, doesn’t answer. It doesn’t take long before I join him.

  -4-

  Judging from the golden light fading in through the windows, I guess it must be around four-thirty P.M. when I wake up again. Declan’s on his back, looking up at the ceiling, his inked arm—the right one—behind his head. He looks rested. “Good morning,” he says. “Wanna grab some supper?”

  I sit up, clear my throat. “Sure, why not. I’m just gonna jump in the shower.”

  “Only if I can as well. I mean, after you of course.”

  I laugh, because I wasn’t averse to him joining me in the shower either—which I end up thinking of endlessly while the hot water sprays over my head and shoulders.

  Declan grabs a bag from his car and jumps in after me.

  While he showers, I turn my phone back on. It’s been off since I started the set. It starts going crazy with blinking lights and beeps and notifications:

  Congratulatory messages for a great set, forwarded to me by Xavier. Randy’s been getting them all morning, he tells me. Then there’s a message with a link. Xavier tells me to visit it.

  I do.

  It’s a forum. And the title on the page is:

  HEAVENLY: HOTTEST NEW DJ? YOUR OPINIONS:

  One user (“Skitz-O”) disagrees. Says:

  I disagree, Heavenly’s stile[sic] is stale. Her excessive dependence on automatic effects is overused. Beatmatching doesn’t make someone a DJ. Neither does mixing one song into another. Let’s face it, Paris Hilton taught us that.

  Heavenly’s [sic] taste is also questionabel [sic]. She’s trying too hard. The 90s r over. And as for my trip? She ruined it. I’m really bummed that the two other DJs didn’t make it. I beleive [sic] it was Uncle Trouble? I hope House Market can recover from this. It was a mistake I don’t think randy [sic] will recover easily from.

  The phone feels heavy in my hand. But, like someone staring at a gory body in a car crash, I keep reading.

  Username “Trippa” says:

  @Skitz-O

  Quit trolling. You come in here week after week bitching about Randy’s parties. Last month you bitched about the very DJs you’re praising this week! I’m gonna ask an Admin to ban you. You’ve overstepped yoru [sic] boundaries. Your comments are not constructive and don’t help anyone.

  So, in the interests of slightly more constructive points on her set, here are a few pros and cons for Heaven-Leigh’s gig last night (note the spelling of her name, folks):

  - A seven hour set. Impressive.

  - She mixed local talent into freaking HOUSE MUSIC. I mean, local Indie bands. That’s slow rock. This is unheard of. I assume that’s all her own pre-made mixes, done on her own time, because you just can’t beatmatch Bushwick indie (70, 90 BPM?) with House (120 - 128 BPM) on the fly.

  And she did that all night. So how much music is she mixing in her spare time? How many bands is she seeing a week? How many songs is she downloading, then cutting, to be able to play a 7 hour set and not go stale and fall into all that Kaskade and Guetta crap we’re so tired of hearing at our underground parties?

  Her Magic Set showed a dedication I haven’t seen since back in the nineties. (And, yes, I’ve been raving since then, FYI. Before, during, and after Giuliani.)

  IMHO, this girl (how old is she? 19? 20?) is gonna make it big. I mean, Kaskade big (yes, I have nothing against Kaskade—just not at my underground parties.) And she’s home-grown, folks. Right here from Brooklyn from what I heard!

  Ten bucks Randy signs her up for his new label. Fuck it: A hundred bucks.

  So, now the cons:

  She was nervous. It was apparent. She played to the crowd but didn’t embrace it. No biggie, the music came out cool, but our scene is all about the unity, and I think she needs to improve on that.

  Perhaps a little too old school. Then again, this is more a question of taste. The original stuff was cool though. At least thirty percent of her gig was stuff I’ve never heard of before, so she’s probably making her own original tunes in her spare time.

  Now, I know this has nothing to do with the set, but, hey, I’m just gonna put it out there: Thank FUCKING god we finally got some female talent at these damned parties! And, er, can I get a hoot from any other dudes who think she was freaking smoking hot!

  Heaven-Leigh, send me your number if you’re reading this. Let’s hook up. ;)

  “I’m twenty-one,” I say at my phone, as if “Trippa” were listening.

  “Skitz-O” says a bunch of other negative things, including “Hot? Yeah, if you like that skank white-trash look three degrees removed from screwing your half-brother.”

 
I decide to skip the rest of his (or her) comments.

  Then, Username “Lucy-Sky”:

  HOT. I mean, this is as big as A-Trak winning DMC World Champs at the age of 15 in ’97!!!

  Username “Darth”:

  Oh, pahleese! A-Trak was a turntablist, a prodigy. Vinyl and “pretend DJs” who hit a button on a deck these days and have everything run on auto-mix will never be “the next big thing” because the skill level needed to mix in the 21st century is, well, as Skitz-O said, Paris Hilton bullshit. And Disco Mix Club Championships are only for vinyl DJs.

  I will admit though, mixing that local indie rock with deep house—and calling back to all that old school Detroit and Chicago stuff—I haven’t seen that done before. I, too, was impressed. (And I’m also an old-skool nineties raver FYI, Trippa.)

  So I’ll give Heaven-Leigh my thumbs up. (And, yes, she definitely is a beauty, too. But I put her more at 22 years old or so.)

  “I can also do vinyl, you prick. And Auto-Mix my ass, you mother—”

  “Say what?” Declan’s voice gives me a start. I turn and see him rubbing his wet hair with a towel. He’s put on a gray sweater that does nothing to hide his macho chest.

  I’m still so zonked and stunned by the comments on my phone’s browser that I just blurt out the following: “I need to know how you got so huge!”

  He looks at himself, almost a bit surprised. “Trev’s huge. Not me.”

  “So what’s the answer?”

  “Football. Weights. Work?” He shrugs.

  I park that one for later. I don’t care how, I just care that.

  “You said something when I came in.”

  “No, uhm”—I laugh—“it seems I’m an internet sensation...”

  “Really?” He takes the phone from my hand. After reading for a bit: “Who is this fucking asshole?”

  “Oh, that Skitz-O prick? Forget him. Read the others.”