by Tucker Shaw
I nodded.
“Sometimes I just don’t understand you,” she said, folding the money into her wallet. “When are you going to figure out who you really are?”
Later that same evening, after a silent dinner of frozen tofu potpies, and after Mom and Dad went down to the Lancer Lounge for their nightly round (or two) of manhattans, I sat on the floor in our cramped living room and looked at the pictures in Teen Vogue. It was the first time in a long while that I had a brand-new magazine, and I loved the smell of it. Usually the magazines I read at the library were already wrinkled and torn. But this one was fresh, with stiff, glossy pages and no smudges.
There were pages and pages of swimsuits (“for all body types”—if your body type was skinny), purses (“for all occasions”—as if I had occasions), and beautiful models posing with perfect, shirtless Abercrombie-esque boys. There were reviews of nail polishes (and removers), a profile of Elle Fanning, party pictures from the Grammys showing Rihanna and Katy Perry pretending to make out, a quiz—“Do You Know How to Say No?”
The main fashion spread was a countdown of the top ten most stylish movie stars of all time, with tips on how you could look like them. It went on for pages. Number 10 was Angelina Jolie in a slim suit, next to a model in a similar suit from Marc Jacobs (as if). Number 9 was Jennifer Lawrence in suede pants and a T-shirt, next to a model in skinny brown jeans and a $350 T-shirt. Number 8 was Emma Stone in a gingham “picnic dress.” (Jeez, I wish someone would invite me to a picnic like that someday.) J-Lo in an over-the-top sequined party dress. (For a party that would require an over-the-top sequined number.) And so on. You get the idea.
On the seventh page of the spread was someone I’d never seen before, a tall, slim woman in an old-fashioned black-and-white photo taken on a deserted street in what looked like New York City. She wore a long, strappy, black evening gown. Hair piled high. Pearls, like three strands or maybe more, draping down her back. A tiara. Sunglasses, too. Big and black and movie-star-ish. She was standing at a building under a sign that said TIFFANY & CO., looking in one of the display windows, with a pastry in her mouth.
What was she looking at?
3. Audrey Hepburn was one of the most famous movie stars of the 20th century, and one of the most stylish. She was known for her simple, youthful, sophisticated look. She was serene but bright. She called herself awkward, saying she had gangly legs and a goofy face, but we disagree. She was simply enchanting.
Enchanting. I remember saying it to myself, over and over, marveling at the word. I could barely turn the page; I was transfixed.
It was a funny feeling. I mean, I’d seen so many pictures of beautiful women in beautiful clothes before. In advertisements. On billboards. On television. In magazines. But this one—this one was different. Was it her posture? Was it the dress? Was it the street, Fifth Avenue in New York City, a place I’d only been on day trips with Mom and Dad when she went to visit her editor and Dad and I got ice creams in Central Park?
Enchanting. I knew immediately that I wanted to be enchanting, too. Maybe that’s who I am, Mom. Maybe I’m enchanting.
I tore the picture out of the magazine and held it up next to my face in the bathroom mirror. I looked at Audrey, with her perfect posture and flawless skin and elegant updo. I looked at myself, with my droopy eyes and boring haircut and fleshy stomach and a zit nestled in the crease of my nose. I looked back at Audrey. Enchanting Audrey. Droopy Gemma.
I folded up the picture and put it in the shoe box. It’s still there. And I still look at it every day. And every time I do, I hear Mom saying: When are you going to figure out who you really are?
She died six months ago. Just a week before my sixteenth birthday.
Back on the sidewalk, I feel a flash of fear as it stabs through my stomach—what if I’m the only one who comes? What if Trina and Bryan blow me off? I feel conspicuous. Another taxi splashes past. I consider hailing it and catching a bus back to Philly. If I get home before dinnertime, Dad might not even notice I’ve been gone.
Another flash of fear: Just how big of a freak am I? Standing in front of Tiffany’s at dawn in a floor-length black gown?
Seriously. If my classmates from Washington Irving High School in Philadelphia saw me right now, it would only confirm what I’m sure they already think: that I’m a hopeless, boyfriendless, vintage-clothes-wearing loner who’s never been to Forever 21 or H&M and therefore knows nothing about fashion or style or how people should dress. They don’t know, or care, about things like Christian Dior. Or the difference between “the New Look” and “Mod.” Or Charles James or Cristóbal Balenciaga or Pauline Trigère or Diana Vreeland or Funny Face or Roman Holiday or Sabrina or anything else I actually care about, least of all Audrey Hepburn.
“Isn’t she the one in On Golden Pond?” one girl, a particularly obnoxious one, said once. “My grandmother loves that movie. She forces us to watch it whenever we visit her at Shady Meadows.”
“No, that was Katharine Hepburn,” I said. “They weren’t related.”
“Um, whatever? You know, you should try this century out for a change, Gina.”
“Gemma. It’s Gemma,” I said, but the girl was already gone and I was talking to myself, which seems to happen a lot. More than ever now since Mom died and I have one less person to talk to.
Or maybe I’ve always talked to myself, come to think of it. I remember Mom telling me that I used to talk to my stuffed animals when I was a kid. And sometimes she’d point it out when I was talking to myself over my homework or while I was riding in the car with her.
“Gem?” she’d say. “Are you having one of your imaginary conversations again?” And she’d laugh, and I’d feel silly but not embarrassed, because she was my mom and she thought my imagination was important.
Since she’s been gone, no one really points it out to me anymore. It’s my responsibility to notice when I’m talking to myself now.
It’s my responsibility for a lot of things, which sucks. It kind of pisses me off sometimes. Did I ask her to die so that I could have more responsibility? Did I ask to be the one to have to take care of the apartment? Did I ask to be the only person who my father talks to anymore? Did I ask for him to text me every twenty minutes, where before just one short conversation a day would be enough? Is it my fault he doesn’t have any friends and just sits around the living room reading her books or asking me what I want for dinner or, always hovering, asking me if I need to “talk”?
And you wonder why I ran away.
Or whatever you call this.
Funny how when you’re dressed up like Audrey Hepburn and standing outside Tiffany’s in New York City, even a siren in the distance can sound like a song. You don’t really think that there’s probably a tragedy attached to it, like someone dying.
5:25 A.M.
Another taxi, only this one stops across the street. A girl emerges. A young woman, I mean, in a khaki trench coat and matching flats. Trina? Could it be? I start to smile, to raise my arm for a wave. But she doesn’t see me. She ducks into the service entrance just a few doors down from the Bulgari jewelry shop.
Not Trina.
They’ll come. Of course they’ll come. Bryan for sure. He’s coming all the way from Beverly Hills, excuse me, Bel-Air, California. And as far as I knew last night, he still hadn’t told his parents that he was leaving for New York. “What they don’t know won’t hurt them,” he’d said.
“You’re such a rebel,” I’d said.
Of course he’ll come. See you tomorrow, he’d texted last night. I can’t wait. He’s my most reliable friend.
Friend.
Can you call someone you only know from the Internet a friend?
5:30 A.M.
I smooth out my skirt and wonder what my mother would have said about my dress.
I think she would have said it was silly. That my obsession with Audrey Hepburn was superficial. That I shouldn’t try to dress like anyone else, or act like anyone else, or talk or walk or dr
eam like anyone else. I’m sure of it.
Who needs Audrey Hepburn when the world has Gemma Beasley?
Of course she would say that. Moms say those kinds of things to their kids all the time even though they are totally unrealistic. I guess they’re trying to make us feel better about ourselves. But seriously, who would want to be Gemma Beasley instead of Audrey Hepburn? Still, I guess it was kind of nice to hear.
Mom was so smart. Always reading, always writing. So determined to write the “great American novel” or the “great feminist novel” or the great whatever novel, so long as someone somewhere would read it and recognize her for the massive talent she wanted to be. Before the bank took over the farm in the country and we moved to the one-bedroom apartment in Philadelphia, she’d spend hours—days, even—out in her “writing shack,” which was really an old barn that my dad had outfitted with bookshelves, a desk, and a woodstove. She used a typewriter. She said it was how all the great novels were written. Computers made things too easy.
“Ideas, Gem,” she’d say. “I need ideas! What’s in your head today? What’s in your imagination?” And I’d tell her: The cats, I thought, spoke in a secret language to one another. My grandmother—was she secretly a sorceress, mixing up love potions in the basement? What if I had a long-lost twin sister living in a sprawling palace on the outskirts of Moscow? Was there a space-age jet pack hidden out in the woods that I could strap on to fly down to the Amazon rain forest and pick exotic flowers for the afternoon?
“Oh, Gem,” she’d say, laughing and smiling while I squirmed on her lap, unable to contain my imagination, “you are a natural storyteller. One day you’ll grow up and the whole world will hear your stories! Maybe we’ll even write a book together! And I will be so proud of my little Gem.” And she’d kiss me on the forehead and ask me to tell Dad to start dinner.
“What are we having?” I’d ask.
“What’s your favorite?” she’d reply.
“Fried clams!”
“Gemma, I love you so. But where you got your love for seafood I’ll never know.”
It was true. Mom and Dad couldn’t stand seafood, but I loved it. Still do. Lobster, tuna, salmon, mussels, shrimps, even raw oysters. I’m the only one I know who likes those.
Things changed, of course. They always do. After the foreclosure, when we moved to the apartment in the city and my mother started working at the thrift shop for minimum wage, she stopped asking me about my imagination. She’d scowl when I’d try to tell her the stories I’d made up. She’d shake her head, tired, and tell me I was just being foolish. “Don’t waste your time on stories,” she’d say. “They won’t pay the rent.” Then she’d tell Dad to take her down to the Lancer Lounge. “I need a drink,” she’d say. “I’m not happy.”
Who knows if she was already sick by then? I didn’t, and I don’t think Dad did, either. I’m not even sure that she did. But one night, just a week before my sixteenth birthday, she threw up blood after coming home from the Lancer Lounge.
Like I said, things change.
I pull my smartphone out of my clutch and bring up Trina’s e-mail from last night.
Subject: You were right.
And not just you, Gemma. Everyone was right. Miles is a beast. A rat. I would elaborate if even thinking about him didn’t make me sick to my stomach. What I need is a grown-up. You know, a man who will give a girl $50 to go to the powder room. Lol.
Do say you’ll forgive me for neglecting the Tumblr lately. I’ve been so busy, darling, working double shifts to save up for New York. Do say you’ll forgive me, do.
I can’t wait to get out of here, Gemma. I just don’t belong here.
All love, dahling,
Trina
Bad news, but the e-mail makes me smile. I wonder if she talks like that in real life. Like, at work at the restaurant. Can you imagine? “Would you like a side salad, dahling?” Or, “Do try the shrimp special. Do.” She almost sounds sarcastic, but I know she’s not. At least I think she’s not. Maybe it depends on who she’s talking to.
Fifty dollars for the powder room. That’s what Holly Golightly did. Or at least that’s what she said. The men she went out with gave her fifty dollars for the powder room. I remember reading on some website someplace about how hanging out with rich men who gave her fifty dollars for the powder room pretty much made Holly Golightly a prostitute, but I don’t see it that way. Holly was just a smart, resourceful girl, one who managed to put herself into situations where rich men would give her money for things as simple as going to the powder room. It’s not like she asked them for money. I think they just gave it to her for her companionship. For how she made them feel just being by her side—fabulous. Important. Enchanting, like her.
Besides, what was she supposed to do, say no? She needed the money. She was on her own. Everyone needs money.
Which I can totally relate to. Needing money, that is. Things have been pretty tough since Mom died. I picked up some of her old shifts at the thrift store to help Dad out. They pay me in cash, seven dollars an hour, which I keep in my shoe box. How else could I afford this trip? Besides, I don’t think any rich Brazilians like José da Silva Pereira are in my future.
5:35 A.M.
I wave away another cab. I guess there aren’t a lot of people out this morning. You always hear about how the competition for taxis in New York is so fierce, but here I am waving them away.
Still twenty-five minutes until my friends get here.
It’s funny how I talk about Trina and Bryan like I know them, because I don’t. Not unless you count being Facebook friends and e-mailing one another and texting and talking on the phone and on Skype and sharing a Tumblr page as “knowing” one another. But I do.
I guess I feel closer to them than I do to anyone in my so-called real life.
Our Tumblr page is called Oh Yeah, Audrey! Actually, if you want to get technical, it was really my Tumblr page before they joined in. I started it after Mom died, mostly as a place for me to post pictures of Audrey Hepburn. I didn’t really know if anyone else would ever see it or not. Which no one did, at first. I put up a new picture every single day, though—Audrey in a striped sailor’s shirt, Audrey on a Vespa, Audrey at the Oscars, Audrey in a cowboy hat.
I showed the Tumblr page to Dad right after I launched it.
“How much does it cost?” he said.
“It’s free,” I said. “Don’t worry.”
“I don’t get it,” he said. “What’s the point?”
“It’s like a library of pictures,” I said.
“Libraries have a point,” Dad said. “They help people. How is this little obsession of yours ever going to help anyone?”
“I don’t know,” I said. But it helps me.
“Don’t you have homework to do? Biology, maybe?”
“Don’t worry,” I said. “I’ll get all A’s. I always do.”
“That’s my girl,” he said.
But I had my doubts.
I posted new pictures to the Tumblr page every day, without fail. Sometimes two a day, or three. It’s not that hard to find pictures of Audrey Hepburn on the Internet. You should try it.
Anyway, I met Trina, if you can call it “meeting” her, when she first made a comment on Oh Yeah, Audrey! It surprised me because, like I said, I didn’t think anyone ever looked at it. Underneath a photo of Audrey in pretty much the same strappy black dress I’m wearing now, she wrote: Thank you, dahling, for not calling the above picture a little black dress like everyone always does. That dress is hardly little. Audrey doesn’t wear a little black dress until she goes to Sing Sing to visit Sally Tomato!
I responded: Who are you and why are you living in my head?
Obviously, Trina doesn’t actually live in my head. Trina Belen lives in Denver, Colorado, which is a place I don’t know anything about, but who cares? She doesn’t know anything about Philadelphia, either, and we talk mostly about Audrey Hepburn anyway, which is totally fine by me because it’s pretty m
uch all I ever want to talk about these days. We’ve seen all of her movies, or at least clips. They’re all over YouTube. Talking to Trina about Audrey Hepburn is like talking to myself, only not exactly. She knows all the same things I do, but she doesn’t always see them the same way. Like, Holly Golightly insists on calling Paul Varjak, her handsome upstairs neighbor, Fred. Holly tells Paul she wants to call him Fred because he reminds her of her brother in the army, whose name really is Fred. Trina just doesn’t understand why Holly would do that. But to me it makes perfect sense.
“She misses him,” I told her.
“Whatever. I miss my brother in Afghanistan. But I don’t call other people Timmy just because Timmy’s not around.”
Just last month she told me he’s been gone for three years. “I barely even know him anymore,” she said. “Of course, he’s all my parents can talk about. Tim this and Tim that. They don’t even call him Timmy anymore, the way they used to. But the way they talk about him, like he’s some kind of god or something, it’s like they’re talking about someone else.”
“He’s still your brother, Trina.”
“Whatever. It’s like nothing I do will ever be as great as what he’s doing. I work all the time, too, busting my butt at the restaurant. Does anyone notice that? No.”
“That sucks,” I said.
“Well, I can’t expect them to notice. It’s not like they aren’t working sixty-hour weeks waiting tables, too. It’s a family curse, I guess.”
“All of you?”
“Yep. Me, my sister, and my parents. Not at the same restaurant, though. Or I should say restaurants. Mom and Dad each have two jobs. No one will give them a full-time schedule so they pick up shifts from two different places. Each.”
“Wow,” I said.
“It sucks,” she said. Then, after a pause, “I bet I won’t even recognize him when he comes home. If he comes home.”
