“Buckle up,” I sang. She glared at me and fiddled with the radio for the whole drive into Providence.
“All these stations suck,” she complained as I took a right onto Atwells Ave.
“Stella’s got some classical tapes in the glove box.”
“Forget it. We’re almost there.”
I parked the bug around the corner from the salon, and we met Monty by the back entrance. He looked like a fish out of water in the mid-summer sunshine, dressed in sweatpants and a black t-shirt that had probably fit well before he grew a paunchy beer gut. He yawned and rubbed his stubble.
“You look hungover,” Miyu said.
“I may have had one too many last night,” he admitted. “But I’m willing to suffer for the sake of art.”
We followed Monty into the same storage room that I’d sat in for over an hour, drunk on Long Island iced teas and mythologizing a distant piece of history. As I picked up a soapy sponge and started dissolving the dust matted on the aquarium’s thick glass, that history began to feel less ephemeral and more like something tangible—something I was connected to. I didn’t dare hope to be as legendary as Harry or Dorothy or Akiko, but with each swipe of my sponge I could feel myself pulling their history into the present and pushing it forward. My mind slipped into that same clear, focused space I’d come to relish when picking locks or forcing my body out of a straitjacket.
“Did your mom design the aquarium herself?” I asked Miyu.
“Less talking, more scrubbing.”
The three of us spent the morning and a chunk of the afternoon getting that tank to gleam like it did in Akiko’s heyday. Once we got the first layer of dust off, Monty attacked the glass with a bottle of Windex while I smothered the tarnished brass with smelly industrial polish. Miyu climbed the ladder to the top of the tank and brought down the wooden lid, sticking her fists through the two handholes that had once allowed Akiko to pick the padlock that trapped her in the tank.
“That thing probably needs to be replaced,” Monty said.
I cringed. Typically, I was all for salvaging pieces of history, but the lid looked like a piece of driftwood, grayed and faded with age.
“Don’t be silly,” Miyu said as she knocked on the lid with her pale fist. “This is solid cherry. A few coats of varnish and it’ll be good as new.”
And, as usual, Miyu was right. By the time we left the storage room of Salone Postal, she’d turned the grayed lid a deep, rich brown with subtle hints of red. The glossy varnish shined so intensely I could see my reflection in it.
Miyu gazed at her handiwork with a smirk on her face. “Tomorrow, we practice with the real deal. Then, we go shopping for koi.”
***
I thought performing would get easier, but I suppose I should have taken Akiko’s habit of pulling out her own hair as a sign that it might not. The night before my first performance in the aquarium, I couldn’t sleep. I stared at the ceiling, listened to a few mellow jazz records, and drank two cups of chamomile tea. Instead of sleep, I found myself getting up to pee three times and exchanging more cryptic texts with Stella.
Is it a guy? she asked.
>Et tu, Stella?
>OMG OMG who else thinks it’s a guy?
>No one. Forget I said that. It’s not a guy because it’s not anything. Just me listening to jazz records and reading a bunch of books.
>I don’t believe you, Ginge. *sigh*
>Wait – did you think my thing was a guy because YOUR thing is a guy?
Another long, suspicious pause.
>Sorry, Ginge. Gotta go.
Clearly a pattern was emerging, but I didn’t have room in my pre-performance brain to worry about it. I threw my phone on the bed and stretched my shoulders. My lungs drew in a deep breath, preparing themselves for oxygen deprivation. The elements of escapology had become my new reflexes. When I didn’t have anything better to think about, I found my mind inventing locks to mentally pick. As I paced around my room, each step of my routine flicked through my mind on an endless loop. Miyu and I had spent a week running through it more times than I could count. I pictured Miyu kneeling on the narrow platform at the top of the tank with big plastic bags full of koi.
“Ick,” I said as she ripped open one of the bags and poured in a bug-eyed fish. The creature’s orange splotches made it look like a bad piece of abstract art. “I know the koi were one of your mom’s signatures, but do we have to use live fish? Isn’t the escape impressive enough on its own?”
Miyu rolled her eyes. “I’m letting you add your lame jazz music to the routine. If you want to keep that, you need to compromise on the koi.”
I thought about calling her bluff and ditching the jazz, but I’d already picked out the perfect song and spent a wad of my Café Italiano earnings on a faux-antique gramophone. Instead, I played the animal rights card.
“I feel bad for them,” I whined. “Isn’t it going to freak them out each time I get in there?”
“They’re not like people, Girl Scout. They don’t have memories. By the time you crawl out of the tank, they’ll have forgotten you were ever in there to begin with.”
Lucky bastards. “Ugh. Fine.”
The night of my performance, I wished I’d protested harder. My nerves didn’t freeze up like the first time around, but I felt queasy staring into those glassy, oblivious fish-eyes as Miyu and I rolled the tank into place, wheels grinding against the floorboards of the stage. Were they trying to tell me something?
I adjusted my robe and repositioned the bobby pins in my hair.
“Don’t tug on them, Girl Scout, or they’ll fall out,” Miyu whispered.
Naveen sidled up behind me, and I let out a little Eeep! of surprise. “My band won’t stop talking about you,” he said. “I think they want to be part of your act.”
See? People like you! Ginger called out joyously, her impish voice echoing in my mind. I tried to relax. If I didn’t stop to truly enjoy these moments, they’d pass me by and I’d be left memory-less, like those stupid fish.
Beyond the plum-colored curtains, I could hear Monty introducing me. “And now, ladies and gentlemen, to keep you on the very bleeding edge of your seats, the Salone Postale proudly presents . . . the incomparable Ginger!”
I took a ragged breath and slipped between the curtains, clutching an LP in my clammy hands. When the applause faded, I had to remind myself to swallow.
Time to move. One foot in front of the other.
I shuffled over to the gramophone at the edge of the stage and pulled the record out of the sleeve. I closed my eyes and inhaled the musty antique scent of the vinyl. Even with my nerves clanging like frigging cowbells, I took a moment to relish this little ritual. It’s the little things, you know?
The hecklers up front started whistling and whooping when Fats Navarro’s “Nostalgia” crackled out of the brass horn. They looked practically bloodthirsty, and I swear I could feel the energy of a mid-summer Friday night radiating off of them, vibrating all the little hairs on my forearms.
I stripped down to my bathing suit and gripped the ladder to the top of the tank with my shaky fingers. A little voice hissed through my mind. You can’t do this. You’re out of your damn mind. Stop. Go back to your quiet little life. I swallowed the voice and started the climb.
Miyu was waiting for me at the top, holding the straitjacket. She slipped the canvas over my arms, and I puffed myself up before she cinched each strap. I inhaled and exhaled, prepping my lungs as she wrapped a heavy chain around my ankles and secured it with a squat padlock. Wiggling my toes, I turned to face the crowd.
That was the moment I spotted Will Kane in the audience, like a smirking omen of pure doom.
My heart flew into my throat, and my veins flooded with a mix of rage and nearly paralyzing terror. My knees buckled, but I managed to sit instead of falling off the platform and cra
cking my skull on the stage. I knew I wasn’t in the right state of mind and body to perform, but backing out seemed like the worst of all options—especially with Will in the audience. Though he wasn’t a guy I’d ever felt any need to impress, I was suddenly overcome with the feeling that I had something to prove.
Miyu’s face blanched to an unnerving shade of pale, and she looked even more panicked than I felt. I nodded assertively at her, letting her know that I wasn’t backing out. She shook her head but picked up the freshly varnished lid of the tank anyway, preparing to lock me into what had a decent chance of becoming a watery glass coffin. I shut my eyes and took a few deep, even breaths. Now or never.
I slid into the tank, letting the water envelope me and the weight of the chain around my ankles pull me to the bottom. A few of the koi brushed against my skin as they rushed to congregate at the top of the tank. The soaked canvas of the straitjacket stuck to my skin as I thrashed around, taking almost thirty seemingly infinite seconds to wriggle out.
Through the thick glass, I saw the audience react, but I brushed it aside. I pulled the bobby pin from my hair, pried it apart, and got to work on the padlock keeping my ankles shackled. A simple Westin four-pin. It shouldn’t have given me any trouble, but it did. I couldn’t get Will Kane out of my head. He was probably filming my act on his phone and already texting his stupid friends . . . Dudes. You know that weird quiet girl in my homeroom who’s friends with that smart chick? You’re not gonna believe the weirdness she’s been up to.
It was only a matter of time before I’d be plastered all over LifeScape. Then Kyle would know, and this wouldn’t be like him conspiring with me to hide a boyfriend who didn’t actually exist. He’d have to tell our parents.
As panic set in and my lungs whimpered in protest, the lock popped open, the sound muffled by the water. I felt relieved, but there was no joy, no serenity, no meditative moment of clarity. I just wanted this to be over as soon as possible. I kicked my way to the top of the aquarium and stuck my hands through the two holes carved in the lid. I had to pick the padlock completely blind, and it took me an excruciating full minute. My lungs were screaming at me, and I almost did the dumbest thing one can possibly do in a situation like this—inhale a quart of koi-contaminated water.
I shut my eyes for a moment, exhaled some of the stale air in my lungs, and commanded myself to calm down. The padlock above the tank clicked open with an almost anticlimactic ping, and relief washed over me as I pushed up the lid and climbed out of the tank. My angry lungs sucked in oxygen and then coughed up thin strands of mucus that I forced myself to swallow.
I climbed shakily down the ladder, back to the stage, and took a brief bow. The roar of the crowd brought no relief. All I could focus on was the pain in my chest and Will, now on his feet, clapping along with the rest of the salon-goers and grinning at me like he was about to ruin my life.
***
Miyu accosted me backstage as I was drying off with a scratchy towel.
“What the hell was that?” I’d never seen her look so enraged. As refreshing as it was to see her express some genuine emotion, it scared me a little.
“I don’t want to talk about it,” I mumbled.
“I can’t even tell you how much I want to slap you right now. But I won’t.”
“I don’t see what the big deal is.” I threw on my jeans, trying futilely to shrug off my shaky performance.
Miyu grabbed me by the shoulder. “This act involved real danger. I thought I was going to lose you.”
I dropped my gaze to the floor. “I’m sorry. I know it was stupid. It’s complicated. We can talk about it tomorrow, and you can scream at me some more if it will make you feel better. Right now I need to go home and . . . I don’t even know yet. But something.”
She narrowed her eyes at me. “Okay. Don’t drive like an ass. If you get into an accident, I’ll kill you.
I didn’t dole out hugs on a regular basis, but I couldn’t think of any other way to respond.
“Oh, jeezus,” she moaned. “Don’t get all mushy on me, Girl Scout.”
I laughed but couldn’t shake the niggling feeling that everything I’d worked for was about to fall apart.
“Later, Miyu.”
I ran a comb through my wet hair, ducked out the back door of the salon into the alley, and shuffled though the dark toward Stella’s bug. Goosebumps rose on my skin in the cool, late night air and made me wish I’d put a hoodie on over my t-shirt.
“Hey.”
The air in my lungs froze. I hadn’t even seen him under the dim glow of the streetlight. Leaning on the hood of Stella’s bug was the unmistakable silhouette of Will Kane.
“Oh fuck,” I said under my breath.
“That was a pretty impressive routine. It makes shooting free throws look like child’s play. I feel like a cream puff compared to you.”
His off the cuff comment boiled my panicky jitters into white-hot rage.
“You arrogant piece of shit,” I muttered as I shook my head. “You have no idea what this means to me.” He stood up, straight as an arrow, but I still couldn’t see his face. “You have things, totally normal things, that make your life okay. Well, this is my one thing but now . . . well, it’s like when they turn the lights on at the end of a middle school dance. Everyone who was slow dancing and making out stops and gets a good look at each other under the lights, and all the magic gets sucked out of the room.”
He grinned at me with his perfectly-straight, pearly-white teeth.
“Don’t you dare laugh at that dumb metaphor.”
“Mattie . . .”
Despite the fact that we’d been going to the same school for three years, I was shocked he actually knew my name. I’m not sure why, but hearing him say it out loud melted all my rage away, leaving me as brittle as antique glass. I plopped down in the driver’s seat of Stella’s car, choking back tears. But trying to hold them back was only making it worse. So there I was, crying right in front of Will Kane as he slid into the passenger seat and shut the door.
“Tell me it’s not too late,” I whimpered. “Tell me you didn’t already send a video or something to the whole freaking basketball team.”
“It’s not too late. I was actually too shocked to even think about pulling out my phone.” I almost flinched when he placed his warm, slightly sweaty hand on mine. “If you don’t want me to tell anyone about what I just saw, then I won’t.”
How can I trust you? I didn’t have the wherewithal to say it out loud. The tears turned into a flood, and I felt a flush of humiliation as I sobbed into the steering wheel. Will squeezed my hand before letting go to rifle through the glove box. He pulled out a pile of napkins and handed a few to me.
“I figured Stella would have napkins,” he said. “She seems like the always prepared type. Do you feel better?”
“Not really.” I blew my raw nose into a napkin. “How can I? I don’t even know you, and I’m counting on you to keep a secret for me.”
He coughed and grabbed the door handle. I thought he was going to take off before I screamed at him again, but he sank back into the passenger’s seat with a sigh. “I have secrets too, you know.”
I blew my nose again as I wondered what kind of secrets a guy like Will would have. Maybe he had a geeky hobby, like stamp collecting? Maybe his parents dressed as clowns and made balloon animals in their spare time, so he never invited anyone to hang out at his house?
“I have an idea,” he said. “What if I tell you something that I’ve never told anyone? That way, you know I won’t tell anyone that you’re incredibly talented and have a crazy-cool hobby. It’ll be like mutually assured destruction.”
“Mutually assured destruction,” I echoed with a nod. “I might be able to live with that. But so help me god, Will, it better not be a petty cool kid secret, like you enjoy doing calculus more than playing basketball, or you
have a thing for goth chicks.”
He laughed and shook his head. His hand slid over mine again as he coughed out two words—“I’m gay.”
I stared at him.
A tinny chuckle escaped from his lips. “That actually wasn’t as hard as I thought it would be.”
I blinked at him, and, swear to god, had to bite my lip to keep from cracking up. “But . . . you and Betsy. You’re like Ken and Barbie. You’re like a couple out of a goddamn prom catalogue.”
He flashed me a look that was almost a glare. “I prefer Bonnie and Clyde, but I guess Ken and Barbie is one way of looking at it. And she doesn’t know.”
“Oh my god. I mean . . . Oh my god.”
“I’m a colossal asshole because she’s really great.” His voice cracked right in the middle of great and he leaned back against the seat, probably willing himself not to cry in front of me. “But you didn’t know her in junior high. She was fucking insufferable.”
“Betsy?”
“She always wanted to be the center of attention,” he said. “She would start rumors and . . . invent . . . all this soap opera drama and thrust herself into the middle of it. She was the kind of girl who lived for crying in the bathroom at every school dance. It was pathetic. I figured we could date for a few years, so my friends would get off my back about the girlfriend thing, and then I would come out in high school and give her exactly what she wanted.”
“A real reason to be a drama queen,” I said as I shook my head. “Holy shit. What happened? She just randomly decided to grow up when you guys got to high school?”
“Her parents got divorced when we were freshmen. Her mom cheated on her dad and . . . at first, I thought it was just going to destroy her. But it didn’t. She turned into a whole new person—an amazing person—and one of a million reasons why I still haven’t come out.”
“What are the other reasons? I mean, isn’t it kind of cool to be gay now?”
“Maybe if you live in a TV show.” He wiped a small tear away from the corner of his eye. “Anyway, my friends are the biggest reason.”
The Art of Escaping Page 9
