Asleep From Day

by Margarita Montimore

  “People show you who they are,” she said. “Hell, you just told me who you are. You’re all charm and spontaneity until shit gets real. Then you’re a dick. I get it. You want to build yourself up by making someone else feel small. But I won’t be that someone.”

  Theo’s face went queasy. He grabbed onto the bridge’s shoulder-high railing like he was on a lurching ship. “That’s not who I am. Cole was trying to offer his condolences. A good friend of mine died recently. I’ve been—it’s been . . .” he sank his teeth into his lip, composed himself. “It’s still no excuse to be so rude to you. I feel awful about it. I want to punch the guy who talked to you like that. You shouldn’t be made to feel small, you should be . . . and I know this is cheesy to say, but you should be on a pedestal.”

  What could she say to that? Was this enough? Her hurt simmered away into sympathy, anger softened into forgiveness. “Well . . .” She stood close enough that their arms brushed together. “There’s a street performer back there who has a pedestal. Maybe she’d let me borrow hers?”

  Tentative smiles and the needle found its groove. The song resumed.

  “Let’s make it all the way across this time?” He offered an arm.

  She took it.

  For a while neither said anything as they walked and the air was still strange between them.

  Astrid pretended to look straight ahead, eyed Theo peripherally. “I don’t know about you, but I think this awkwardness sucks,” she said. “I mean, there’s been a little weirdness from the moment we started talking, but it was the good kind and I’d like to go back to that.”

  “And how do you suggest we do that?”

  “I have a few ideas, all of them probably terrible.”

  “Let’s hear ‘em.”

  “The first is, we keep talking, non-stop, about any minor, inconsequential thing that pops into our heads.”

  “And the second?”

  “Completely the opposite. We don’t say a word until enough time passes and things are back to the good kind of weird.”

  “I have a third idea,” he offered.

  “Let’s hear it.”

  “How about we don’t script it and let things be whatever kind of weird they’re gonna be?”

  “I guess that could work, too.”

  They continued in silence. She ran her thumb across the suede of his sleeve as softly as she could to evade notice.

  Halfway across the bridge, they passed a couple in their thirties looking over the railing. The woman wore a bright blue straw hat, which perfectly matched the sky and her sundress. She kept one hand firmly on her head to keep it from blowing away.

  The man pointed to something on the water.

  Astrid and Theo stopped to look. A group of kayakers crossed the river pulling a long plastic banner behind them. Red letters spelled out, SUZANNE, WILL YOU MARRY ME?

  The man got down on one knee and took the woman’s hand. She nodded, brushed tears off her face with her free hand, didn’t even notice when her hat blew off and sailed over the water like a miniature UFO.

  It was a lovely scene to witness, but also filled Astrid with suspicion. Wasn’t this the kind of thing that only happened in movies? But even Theo seemed charmed by the moment. His face momentarily dropped its mask of mischief and relaxed into the role of pleased bystander.

  Neither of them mentioned the proposal as they passed the happy couple.

  Theo pointed at the ground. “Hey, do you know about these numbers?”

  Astrid looked down at a yellow line with ‘124’ painted beneath it. “Is it some kind of measurement?”

  “It’s a Smoot.”

  “A Smoot?” she echoed and raised an eyebrow.

  “Allow me to play tour guide. The story goes, Smoot was an MIT student pledging some fraternity. One night, he was carried here and used to measure the entire length of the bridge. Hence, Smoots. I can’t remember exactly how many make up the bridge, three hundred and something. And one ear.”

  “And one ear?”

  “That’s what it says on the other side, where the numbers descend. Next time you walk across, have a look. Oh, and there’s also ‘Halfway to Hell’ painted in the middle with an arrow pointing toward MIT, and ‘Heaven’ painted under the 69 Smoot. You know, college kids.”

  “Huh.” Astrid watched for the next Smoot, a few steps away.

  “It’s become such a popular local thing, when the markers start to fade they get repainted. We’re talking decades now. The Smoot is here to stay.”

  “It’s also a fun word to say. Smoot.” Astrid pursed her lips to let the vowels hang in the air. “Thanks for that.”

  “For educating you on a bit of Cambridge trivia?”

  “No. For getting us back to the good kind of weird.”

  “Don’t jinx it, missy.”

  Eventually, the Boston tree lines and Citgo sign of Kenmore Square grew larger, they passed the final Smoot, and the bridge gave way to tidy residential streets.

  Theo and Astrid stopped at a corner beneath an overpass and shared a synchronized look that asked, now what?

  “Well, I hope that was worth missing work for,” he said.

  “Definitely.” She nodded, kept bobbing her head until she became aware of it and stopped.

  He glanced at his feet and put his hands behind his back like a shy little kid. Astrid’s stomach flipped as opposing impulses duked it out inside her—one to lunge toward him, the other to run away and spare herself future disappointment. She resisted both urges.

  “So now that you’ve had your walk across the bridge, are you done with me?” he asked.

  Something about his directness took the wind out of her.

  “No. Are you . . . done with me?” She didn’t have the guts for eye contact, so instead she watched an old lady emerge from a brownstone a few doors down, pulled along by a giant Dalmation.

  “No,” he answered.

  “Well . . . that’s good.”

  She braved a look at him and a timid smile, which he reflected back at her.

  Her ribcage a slingshot, her heart a stone shot across the city. Please be one of the good ones.

  “Where to next?” he asked.

  “Your turn.”

  “My turn to what?”

  “To choose. The bridge was my idea, so now it’s up to you to decide where we go next.”

  He pressed a finger into his upper lip. “Hmm . . . Well, you barely touched that muffin I got you. Either you don’t like lemon poppy seed or maybe you thought I was trying to poison you, but either way I’d guess you’re pretty hungry. So how about some food?”

  “Sounds good.”

  “I’m thinking someplace right around here, really fancy and exotic . . .”

  “Deli Haus?”

  “You stole my punch line.”

  “You know what they say about great minds.”

  Deli Haus it was.

  The small Kenmore Square diner was at basement-level. A short set of crooked steps led to a narrow doorway plastered with fliers for upcoming punk, ska, and indie rock shows. Inside, a petite brunette with a nose-ring and barbed wire belly button tattoo greeted them. She showed them to a booth, set down a couple of menus, poured them coffee, and returned to the front counter.

  “I love this place.” Astrid sighed and inhaled the smell of frying meat and burnt coffee. She took in the cracked pale green vinyl booths, the peach Formica tables. “I haven’t been here in so long.”

  “Sounds like you haven’t done a lot of things in so long.”

  “Um . . .”

  “I didn’t mean . . .”

  Eyes widened, she waited for him to continue, but he hid behind his laminated menu.

  “Maybe,” Astrid leaned across the table, flicked his menu, “I’m selective about who I do a ‘lot of things’ with.”

  “I’m sure you are,” came the muffled reply. A short cough and he slowly lowered his menu. “So you were saying? About not being here in a while?”

&
nbsp; “Right. Anyway, the thing I love about this place is that it always feels the same. The only thing that changes is the art.” She gestured to the walls dotted with a local photographer’s black-and-white snapshots of abandoned houses. “And the music.” She made a face at the noise coming over the speakers, female voices caterwauling in German accompanied by bongos.

  “Sounds like angry beatnik kittens,” he said. “So, Miss Astrid O’Malley, how hungry are you?”

  “Not starving.”

  “Why won’t girls ever admit they’re hungry on dates? Not that I’m saying this is a date,” Theo quickly continued. “I’ve just always wondered. Hypothetically.”

  It was Astrid’s turn to hide behind her menu. “Different reasons. Could be nerves, which can wreck an appetite. Or they might be scared to eat something that’ll give them bad breath or indigestion or make a mess. There’s also . . .” She took a long sip of coffee as she found her words. “ . . . something, I don’t know . . . kinda intimate about eating with someone. You’re in close proximity to this other person while putting food in your body, watching each other perform this basic life function.”

  “So . . . does that mean you won’t share a Velvet Elvis with me?” he asked.

  “Of course I’ll share a Velvet Elvis with you.”

  They both lowered their menus.

  “And, of course, we have to get fries,” he said.

  “Absolutely. Salty to balance out the sweet.”

  While they waited for their food, a tall curvy woman with purple hair came into the diner. A flash of recognition and she rushed over to Astrid.

  “I’m so glad I ran into you. I have the best news. Simon just got fired from Cinemania!”

  Astrid breathed in and was overwhelmed with the scent of sandalwood oil.

  “Nadia, oh my god! Hi . . . This is Theo.”

  Nadia mumbled a hello and turned back to Astrid. “Can you believe it? First a sex scandal gets him booted from teaching and now the loser can’t even hold down a shitty job in retail.” Her green eyes, tilted at a feline angle and rimmed in thick black liner, widened with malicious glee.

  “That’s too bad, I thought he was getting back on his feet.”

  “Oh stop, you know you love seeing that smug bastard fail. Apparently, his boss caught him trying to smuggle a rare Polish Suspiria poster and fired him on the spot.” She sneered. “Guess he’ll have to find another naïve girlfriend to freeload off of.” Nadia checked her watch and looked around. “You haven’t seen Cujo, have you?”

  “I haven’t.”

  “Okay. I’ll check Nuggets. He said he wanted to get the new Switchblade Symphony CD.”

  She turned around, trailing black lace, the metal tips of her pointy boots clicking against the floor tiles as she left.

  Theo leaned back and let out a low whistle. “What’s the deal with Spooky Girl?”

  “My friend Daphne’s close with her, both kinda big into the goth scene here. Nadia can be nice, she just gets . . . passionate about certain things.”

  “Such as others’ misfortunes?”

  “Not everybody’s. Just Simon’s.”

  “And Simon is . . .”

  She cleared her throat and fidgeted in her seat. “Someone Nadia and I both dated. Not a good guy. Let’s leave it at that.”

  “It’s nice of Queen Schadenfreude to give you progress reports of his suffering.”

  Astrid scratched at a dried coffee stain on the table. “I don’t ask her for them, but she thinks I’m as pleased to hear about Simon’s misery as she is, so she passes on every piece of negative gossip about him. I guess she gets a morbid thrill out of it. If it helps her deal with the break-up, I figure it would be mean to tell her to stop . . . though I wish she would.”

  “You’re such a good friend.”

  “Oh stop being sarcastic.”

  “I wasn’t being sarcastic. That’s the whole problem with our generation. We can no longer recognize sincerity . . . Be honest, though. If this guy was such a tool he was involved in a sex scandal—” His nose twitched in distaste.

  “According to Nadia. I don’t know the details.”

  “Either way, you have to enjoy getting her updates at least a little.”

  Her mouth fought a smirk. “No comment.”

  Theo changed the subject. “Have you ever noticed it’s impossible to walk around this city without running into someone you know?”

  “I have noticed that, yes. Especially today.”

  “It’s like Boston’s the world’s biggest small town.”

  “Yeah, that sort of thing rarely happens in New York, I guess because it’s so much larger and spread out.”

  “I think it’s more than just size. Something about this city lends itself to synchronicity.”

  “Velvet Elvis.” A thick white plate with a fried peanut butter and banana sandwich was set between them, followed by a platter of fries.

  “You better grab your half fast, because I am hungry,” Theo warned.

  Despite not admitting it, so was Astrid.

  “Salt on the fries?” she asked.

  “As much as you can handle.” His eyes gleamed with innuendo.

  “I can handle plenty, don’t you worry.” She coated the plate in a sodium flurry.

  They took large bites, sipping water out of frosted plastic tumblers, and finished the food in a matter of minutes.

  “That was good. Oh, you have some peanut butter on your face. Here, let me get it.” Theo reached across and smeared something on the tip of her nose.

  “Thanks.” She laughed, wiping at it.

  The waitress came back over, all jutting hipbones and bored sulkiness.

  “More coffee?” she asked.

  “I’m all set. Astrid?”

  “No, thanks.”

  She picked up their plates and tilted her head at Astrid. “You have something on your nose.”

  Astrid kicked Theo under the table.

  Their check was brought over, the square of paper floating down like a feather.

  Theo reached for his wallet, but Astrid held out her arm, palm facing him. “Stop.”

  “ . . . in the name of love?” he asked.

  “Let me get this.” She took out her own wallet. “You can get the movie.”

  “What movie?”

  “It’s my turn again. I think we should see something at the Copley.”

  Astrid counted out some bills and left them on top of the check.

  A dark room with Theo. Her nerves nearly short-circuited at the very thought of it.

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  ..................

  SATURDAY, SEPTEMBER 25, 1999

  SALLY AND I HAVE THIS odd connection: we always wake up simultaneously when we sleep under the same roof. Every time, our eyes open within a few minutes of each other. We discovered this as kids after a few sleepovers (“we have special powers!”). Which made us think we might have other special powers (“maybe we can read each other’s minds!”). This wasn’t the case, but it didn’t stop us from playing countless iterations of The Psychic Hour in which one of us would try to guess what the other was thinking (“It’s a two-digit number.” “71?” “No, but almost! 73!” “We’re psychic!”). Though we never had any moments that would’ve been featured in a Time-Life book, we still continued to wake in unison.

  Sally’s first morning in Cambridge is no exception. Despite being up late the night before, we both shuffle into the kitchen just after nine, where Zak is arranging a spread of Dunkin’ Donuts coffee and bagels.

  “Zak, if you’re doing this to get me into bed,” Sally says with her mouth full, “it’s probably going to work.”

  He chokes on his coffee mid-sip, dabs at the spilled liquid camouflaged by his black T-shirt.

  Daphne pokes her face in the doorway, looking like a disembodied head, her cherry hair in two buns held together by chopsticks. “Almost done eating? Good. Time for our field trip.”

  “Where are we going?” Sa
lly asks.

  “Allegedly, to get costumes for Willy Wonka’s Magic Christmas,” I reply.

  “‘A Midsummer Night’s Wonderland,’” Daphne corrects. She explains the party and its theme to Sally.

  “If you don’t feel up to it I’ll stay home with you,” I say.

  Sally shoots me an as if look. “Will I be able to get good and fucked up at this party?”

  “It’s practically required,” Daphne assures her.

  “Then I’m in.” Sally abandons her half-eaten bagel and pushes her chair back. “Let’s go.”

  Yay?

  Garment District is housed in two floors of an anonymous brick building in a desolate section of Kendall Square, near the MIT campus. Inside are endless color-coded racks of previously worn clothing, shoes, hats, wigs, knickknacks, dishware, and used records. The ground floor is less organized, offers a giant room filled with mounds of clothes. A chalkboard on the wall proclaims anything retrieved from these piles costs a Dollar a Pound. This is where we look for our costumes.

  The four of us start at opposite ends of the room.

  “Think gauzy, sparkly, forest-y, elfin, earth tones, nudes, that sort of thing,” Daphne directs, sifting through clothing. “Unless you’re going more for a Wonderland look. Then it depends on the character. But you know the story.”

  “What about this?” Sally holds up a beige silk blouse.

  “Not sheer or shiny enough,” Daphne dismisses.

  I point to a silver tulle and lamé monstrosity. “This?”

  “Better.”

  We find enough odds and ends to meet Daphne’s criteria and spend the afternoon assembling our costumes. It’s easiest for Sally, who’s petite and doe-eyed, and digs up a blue mini-dress and white apron to make the perfect Alice. The rest of us opt for Midsummer Night’s Dream looks, with varying degrees of success. Zak resembles something between a centaur and figure skater, in a brown Lycra vest, leggings, and small horns glued beneath his hairline. My cheap butterfly wings and metallic tutu make me look more like a cracked-out ballerina who’s been attacked by glitter and silver body paint than any elegant nymphish creature. Daphne trumps us all, naturally, in an ensemble that’s little more than leaves of green and bronze taffeta strung together with glass-beaded wire, strategically wound around her body.