“Hey,” Phaedra says when we reach her room. “I’m just about ready to go.”
Phaedra’s room is darker than the rest of the house. The floors are made of planks of worn, dark wood, and the walls are papered with patterned wallpaper that looks Indian or Thai.
“I’m excited about your dad’s show,” Phaedra says, slinging a super-soft-looking leather tote bag over her shoulder. “I love going to openings.”
“Me too,” Izzy says.
Izzy perches on the edge of Phaedra’s king-size bed, texting. Phaedra’s bed is unmade in a way that looks inviting and sexy, not sloppy like mine or Willa’s. Instead of a closet, Phaedra has a free-standing antique wardrobe. I’m trying to memorize everything I see. These are the choices that Phaedra Bishop makes in her own space. And I’m surprised by how much I like Phaedra’s style. Her taste is so rustic. It occurs to me that my mom would fall in love with this room, too.
“Oh, and by the way, my mom wants to meet you, Sadie. It turns out she used to know your dad or something,” Phaedra says, checking out her reflection in the mirror. Then she turns to face us. “Ready?”
—
“Mom! Mo-om!” Phaedra calls as Izzy and I follow her down the stairs.
On the third floor, Phaedra knocks on a door and screams, “Mom, don’t be naked, we are coming in!”
The master bedroom looks like a hotel room, all matching and bland.
“Stacey! Wonderful to meet you!” Phaedra’s mom says, stepping out of her walk-in closet. She’s wearing a black dress and high heels.
“It’s Sadie,” Phaedra corrects.
“Nice to meet you,” I say.
“I’m Lucy,” she says, clasping my hands in hers. She looks exactly like Phaedra, except older. The diamond studs in her ears are so big they sag a little. “We are huge fans of your father’s work. We’ve met him a few times over the years because we are collectors. We know Michael Meyer well. I used to work in a gallery ages ago, long before you girls were born. It doesn’t even exist anymore.”
“Oh, wow,” I say. “So you know him?”
“Listen, Stacey,” she begins.
“Mom, I just told you, it’s Sadie.” Phaedra rolls her eyes.
“Right. Of course. Sadie,” Lucy tries again. “I’m on the board of City Art Works and our annual fund-raiser gala is next week. It’s a really wonderful organization and we raise a lot of money every year at the event. This year it’s being held at the Park Avenue Armory.”
I don’t answer because I don’t understand anything she just said. It takes me a minute to realize she’s waiting for a response. So, I venture, “Oh, really?”
“We’d love it if you and your father would come,” Lucy continues. “There are two seats available at one of the best tables.”
“One of the best tables?” I repeat, trying to keep up.
“You have to come,” Izzy jumps in. “It’s gonna be amazing. And I’ll be there. And Phaedra obviously. You’ll know people.”
“It’s been sold out for months,” Lucy continues. “But we’ll make room for Allan Bell. It would be such an honor to have him. Ask him about it tonight.”
“Ask him what?” I ask.
“Mom, no, we’re not going to ask him at his opening,” Phaedra whines. “That’s embarrassing.”
“Fine. I’ll send you an e-mail and you can forward it along,” she says to Phaedra. Then, her blue eyes flick back to mine and she smiles. “Lovely to meet you, Sadie. I’ll be looking forward to seeing you next weekend.”
—
We get off the subway at Eighth Avenue and walk west. The street is busier than when I came last week. People linger in front of the big metal doors of warehouse buildings, talking to one another softly, the smoke from their cigarettes unfurling extra slow in the muggy summer air. A woman in high heels walks straight down the middle of Twenty-Third Street, as if this whole block were her private driveway.
I catch my reflection in a window and I feel a jolt of pleasure. I feel powerful walking with Phaedra and Izzy. I wonder if maybe it’s a good thing that Willa didn’t come tonight, after all.
Now, I lock eyes with my reflection. I look like the kind of girl who never gets hurt. Not the pathetic kind I was earlier who cries when her friend flakes on plans. I never want to be that girl again.
—
The gallery looks different than it did the other day. All the boxes have been put away and the lighting is brighter and more direct. Allan’s photographs hang in small black frames on the wall.
Allan’s photos are just pictures of computer printouts full of text. You can see the texture of the crinkled page and the three-hole punches along the left edge. The text looks like words but up close it’s just scrambled letters—nonsense.
We’re nearing the back of the gallery when I see Allan. He’s sipping wine from a plastic cup and wearing the same boring clothes I’ve seen him in both days, a Windbreaker and jeans.
He sees me and waves, beckoning us toward him.
“It looks amazing in here,” I tell him.
“Thank you,” he says. “Where’s your mom?”
“She’s at home,” I say, confused.
“Oh. Did you show her the e-mail? I was hoping she would come,” he says.
“I don’t remember,” I lie. “But, I want you to meet my friends.” I’m careful not to address him as Allan in front of them. “Phaedra and Izzy, this is my father.”
“Phaedra,” Allan says approvingly. “Interesting name. Daughter of Minos.”
“That’s right.” Phaedra beams.
“Phaedra’s mom thinks she might know you,” I say. “Lucy Bishop?”
Allan thinks. “Sounds familiar. Is she an artist?”
“No, she’s crazy, you’ll never remember her,” Phaedra says. “She worked for Michael Meyer in the nineties.”
“Oh, right. I know those people pretty well. Lucy . . . Lucy . . .” he says. Then he scans the room behind us. “Have you seen Marla?”
“No,” I say.
“She wanted to say hi to you,” he tells me. “I thought she was just right there . . .”
“I’m Jen,” a blond girl who has been hovering just behind Allan interjects. “I was a student of Allan’s at IACA. How fantastic to have Allan Bell as your father. What’s that like?”
I look at Allan, unsure what to say, and he looks back at me blankly.
“Tell her,” he says.
I stare at him. What am I supposed to say? The only word that pops into my mind is nothing. That’s what it’s like having him as a dad.
“It’s cool,” I say dumbly.
“You girls are all so chic,” Jen continues, blathering on as if any of us want to talk to her. “You’re in high school? I was so not as stylish as you guys when I was in high school.”
A hand on my shoulder gently pushes me aside, and a tall, bony-faced man steps in and gives Allan a hug.
Allan turns to me, his eyes not focusing on mine as he says, “Great to see you, Sadie. Don’t leave without saying good-bye.”
Don’t leave without saying good-bye? I’ve been dismissed, and it feels like a slap.
I walk through the crowd, my face burning with shame. I can’t believe how much time I spent looking forward to tonight. Choosing the right outfit and planning exactly what time we’d arrive. And none of it mattered anyway because Allan barely looked at me. His eyes skimmed across my face like a stone skipping on water.
I’m pushing through the crowd when Izzy grabs my hand and pulls me to a stop. “Omigosh, Sadie, Look who’s here!”
“Who?” I ask.
“Benji!” she squeals.
Benji steps forward out of the crowd, a beer in his hand. He gives me a warm, crooked-tooth smile.
“It’s so great running into you girls here,” he says. “I lov
e seeing students out and about. Especially doing artistic ‘horizon-rising’ things.”
“Yeah,” I agree vaguely.
“Sadie, can I ask you . . .” Benji smiles shyly. “Are you related to the artist? Bell and Bell?”
My eyes snap up to meet Benji’s.
“Um, yeah,” I say, hoping he won’t ask me to introduce them. “He’s my father.”
“Wow,” Benji says. “Interesting.”
“You didn’t know that until just now?” Izzy asks Benji.
“Well, I had wondered,” he says. “I wasn’t sure. I thought Allan Bell lived in LA, so . . .”
“Yeah . . .” I say. “I need to get some fresh air.”
“Okay, take care,” Benji calls as I walk away.
—
Outside, I lean against the exterior wall of the gallery.
A man and a woman with matching shaved heads and minimal outfits stroll past me into the gallery holding hands. Each person I see looks more fashionable than the last. Earlier, that made me excited. But now I can see the way I look to the people here: I look like a nobody. I must have seemed liked a nobody to Allan, too.
“There you are. I thought for a second you’d left,” Izzy says. She’s talking to me, but her eyes are drifting around behind me, people-watching as newcomers arrive. “This show is so amazing.”
Phaedra arrives beside Izzy. She doesn’t stare at people as they come in like Izzy does. Instead, everyone who comes in stares at her. I watch her for a second and I almost can see her enjoying the attention.
Izzy pulls out her phone and takes a selfie, angling the camera so that the gallery is in the picture behind her.
Suddenly, I wish Willa were here instead of these two. But then our fight spins through my mind, the dial landing on the mean things I said to her, and my stomach seizes with guilt.
“Are you okay?” Phaedra asks me, sensing the shift.
“Yeah.” I swallow. “I just . . . I was supposed to call my mom. I think she’s waiting for me.”
Even though it’s a lie, as soon as I’ve said it, it feels true. And thinking about my mom widens the toxic pit of anxiety that’s growing in my chest. I lied to her about coming here tonight, and for what? So that I could get in a fight with Willa? So that Allan could blow me off? So that I could linger around the gallery like a pathetic hanger-on? I miss her so much it aches. Now, I’m terrified I’m going to cry for the second time today.
“I have to get home,” I blurt.
“Already?” Izzy asks, looking perplexed.
“I promised my mom I’d get home early.” I try to smile. “I’m just gonna walk to the subway. You guys should totally stay, though.”
Izzy shrugs and looks at Phaedra. “What do you want to do?”
“I could stay a little longer,” Phaedra says casually.
—
On the walk home, the sky is clotted with clouds, reflecting the orange and yellow lights of the city back onto itself. Rain is coming, if not tonight, then tomorrow.
Today feels like it was ten days combined into one. I can’t believe that it was only last night that Sam stayed over. All day, as the hours slid by, I could feel the memory slipping steadily away from me. Sam never called or texted to see how I was. What if it didn’t mean anything to him?
When I get home, my mom is sitting on the couch watching TV and eating frozen yogurt. She seems normal, which is weird for her.
“How was your night?” she asks. She’s wearing glasses instead of her contacts, which she almost never does and they make her look older than usual.
“Okay,” I say.
“Did you do something special?” she asks. “You look nice.”
I should tell her the truth. I should tell her I saw Allan earlier in the week and that he invited me to his opening. But then I’d have to tell her how he treated me, and the fight with Willa, and the pain and humiliation is too fresh to relive.
“I went over to this girl Phaedra’s,” I say. And then I quickly change the subject, adding, “Is there more froyo?”
She blinks. And then she smiles.
“Yup,” she says. “In there.”
In the freezer, I find the frozen yogurt. She got my favorite kind: vanilla with rainbow sprinkles and cookie dough.
I sit down next to her. “What are you watching?”
“Some detective show.” She sighs.
“Can I watch with you?” I ask.
“Of course,” she says, and then adds with a laugh, “I’m not following any of it. Maybe you can explain it to me.”
My mom presses play and I’ve just sunken into a comfortable position on the couch beside her when my phone vibrates. I snatch it off the coffee table and read the screen. My insides somersault in a tumble of relief and joy when I see that it’s a text from Sam.
How was tonight?
I write back: Okay not great. My mom is willfully ignoring the fact that I’m texting, but her curiosity is an electric current coming off of her skin.
My phone pulses again. oh no. are you ok? I write, I’m fine. It wasn’t bad. My dad was just busy. And I got into a fight with my best friend. But am good. Happy. Had a good night. Shouldn’t complain. And then just to make it extra clear, I pile in some emoticons. I put in two smiley faces with hearts for eyes and a starry night sky.
After a minute, he writes, That bad? That makes me laugh out loud.
My mom pauses the TV show and looks at me.
“Who is that, honey?” she asks. Even my mother isn’t disciplined enough to not want to know.
“Nobody,” I say. “Just my friend.”
“Well, are you gonna play on your phone all night or are we going to watch this show together?” she asks.
“We’re gonna watch, I promise,” I say, and I can feel myself smiling and blushing, a mix of excitement and shame. “I just have to write back really quickly.”
I have so much to say to Sam, but I have to keep it short.
I write back: I know. Gotta go tho. Ttyl. And he writes back: K. Last night was fun btw.
“Okay, I’m done, I’m ready to watch, I’m sorry,” I announce. I feel better than I’ve felt all day.
But my mom doesn’t push play yet. Instead, she looks at me really hard. Then, she reaches out and pushes my hair back off of my forehead. She lets her hand linger on my head and scans my face for something.
“What?” I ask.
“You look really beautiful,” she says.
For the second time tonight, I contemplate telling her everything. But then she turns away and pushes play and the TV bursts into action. My phone is next to me and I gently run my fingers over the screen, staring at Sam’s words again. He said last night was fun. I pick up my phone and squeeze it tight, feeling it grow hot in my hand.
Chapter 26
Returning the camera to Benji on Monday sucks. As I develop the pictures from the weekend, I promise myself that someday I’m going to have my own large-format camera. Maybe, I’ll even have my own darkroom. A darkroom would be a really fun place to make out with Sam. I push the thought away, but it only comes back stronger.
I rock the tub of developer and watch my picture emerge, the image rising out of the white paper. It’s funny, with all the technological advancements in the world, that I still think this simple, old-fashioned one is the most amazing.
Ever since he texted me on Saturday night, all I’ve been able to think about is Sam. Sam in my bedroom. Sam on the sidewalk. Imaginary Sam in my imaginary darkroom in my imaginary house, pressing me up against the wall. Sam coming up behind me where I’m standing right now and wrapping his arms around my stomach.
Someone pokes my side, interrupting my fantasies and making me jerk so that developer splashes onto my jeans.
I look up and see Izzy, smiling mischievously.
“W
hat’s up?” I ask her, trying not to feel annoyed.
“Want to come with me to Phaedra’s after class?” she asks. “We had so much fun at your dad’s thing.”
This is the first invitation I’ve gotten from Izzy that is a one hundred percent normal hang out. There’s no special occasion, just friends spending time with friends.
“Okay,” I say, feeling better about my jeans.
—
Phaedra opens the door to her house wearing cutoff shorts so tiny the white lining of the pockets hang out beneath the fringe, and an old T-shirt with the collar ripped out.
We follow her upstairs and she collapses onto her bed, starfish-style.
“I’m a waste of space today,” Phaedra says, staring up at the ceiling. “All I’ve done is eat pizza and watch TV.”
Even acting like a slob, Phaedra seems like a princess, with her clean nails and shaved legs.
“What did you do last night?” Izzy asks.
“I went on a walk with Justin,” she replies. “We had to talk.”
“Did you finally dump him?” Izzy asks.
“You broke up with him?” I ask. “I didn’t even know you were together.”
“Oh, believe me, you can totally dump people who you aren’t together with,” Izzy says. “Phaedra does it all the time.”
Phaedra sighs. “I feel really bad. He was so sweet.”
“So, what happened?” I venture.
“I just wasn’t into him in the way that I want to be into someone,” she says. “I was, like, I don’t know . . . I know this sounds awful, but I was bored.”
“Phaedra has this problem where she gets every guy she has ever liked and then she gets bored with them,” Izzy explains.
“All I want is someone to challenge me, you know?” Phaedra asks, looking earnestly wounded. “Do you know what I mean?”
I nod, even though I’m not sure I do.
Then, abruptly, Phaedra props herself up onto her elbows and says, “Sadie. My mom is serious about you and your dad coming to the gala on Saturday. Did you ask him?”
“I haven’t yet,” I say.
“Did you get the invite? I thought I sent it to you,” Phaedra says.
Summer in the Invisible City Page 12
