Oh Yeah, Audrey!

by Tucker Shaw

  I love being able to joke and be light about this with Dusty. Dad is always so serious whenever we talk about Mom, and I never talk about her with anyone else.

  “Tell you what, Gemma, whenever you’re in need of an annoying mother fix, I’ll just send mine over.”

  “What’s your mother like?”

  “Oh, I don’t know,” he says. “She’s kind of flaky. She’s cool, I guess. We’re pretty good friends.”

  “Friends?” I say. “How can you be friends with your mother?”

  “I know. It’s weird, but that’s what it’s like with us. She acts like she’s my age most of the time. But I never really see her that much. She spends most of her time going out or traveling or whatever. I’m never even really sure when she’s going to be in town or not. Like tonight, I’m pretty sure she’s in Switzerland with her boyfriend.”

  “Her boyfriend? Your father?”

  “No, no. My parents are divorced. Mom got the New York apartment, and she kept his name, too. Doors open when you’re a Sant’Angelo, you know.”

  “I wouldn’t know. Nothing happens when you’re a Beasley.”

  Dusty squeezes my hand. “I love Beasleys,” he says.

  I smile, but I’m not sure I buy it. I wonder if he’d love Beasleys if he really knew who we were. Who I am. A girl who sleeps on a futon because her family can only afford a one-bedroom apartment.

  We stop at the corner of a wide boulevard and wait to cross. “Houston Street,” I say. “I didn’t know we were in Texas.”

  “It’s pronounced HOW-ston,” Dusty says. “Don’t ask me why, because I have no clue.”

  “Oh,” I say. “HOW-ston.”

  We cross quickly, and I start to notice my toes pinching in the tips of my shoes. Not pain, really, but, well, you know the feeling. I’m glad when Dusty slows our pace again on the other side.

  “I love summer evenings in New York,” Dusty says. “It’s so much better here than in London.”

  “London?”

  “That’s where my father lives. I usually spend the summers there. Not that I want to, really. I mean, it’s nice and all, but New York is . . . New York.”

  “London. Does your father work with a lot of English musicians or something?”

  “Yeah, some. But really, everyone goes to London to record these days.” Dusty looks at me. “Wait. How do you know what my father does?”

  I shake my head, embarrassed for a moment. “I, um, well, my friend Bryan looked you up. On your Facebook page. He told me. Do you get to meet rock stars all the time?”

  “Ha!” Dusty smiles. “Dad doesn’t see many of the artists much anymore, except when they come to the office for meetings. He’s pretty much an office guy now, dealing with money and contracts and schedules and stuff. Or, I don’t know. All I know is he’s in that office all day with all those gold records hanging over his head. Literally, on the wall. Someone else does the real musical stuff. At least, that’s what it seemed like the last time I went over to visit him, last summer.”

  “Do you have any brothers and sisters?”

  “Nope, just me. Actually, it’s just me in the apartment most of the time. Which is weird, because it’s a huge apartment.”

  “That’s kind of sad.”

  “Not really,” Dusty says. “I mean, it’s not like I’m an orphan. And not only that, I’m a Sant’Angelo! You can do anything if you’re a Sant’Angelo.” I’m not sure, but it sounds like sarcasm in his voice, which makes me feel a little more sad for him.

  “Or a Golightly,” I say.

  “A what?”

  “Golightly. Holly Golightly. Holly was the name Audrey Hepburn’s character chose when she moved to New York. I don’t know if that’s the reason doors opened for her, but it was better than Lulamae. At least, she thought so.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “Holly Golightly, from Breakfast at Tiffany’s. She ran away from home in Texas, where her name was Lulamae and she was married to this older guy named Doc. But she just knew she didn’t belong there, that if she stayed in Texas, her whole life would go by and she would get old and die without ever seeing anything. So she got on a bus one day for New York City, and she picked a new name, found some great clothes, met some fancy people, found an apartment, and the rest is . . . well, she took care of herself. Herself and Cat.”

  “Cat?”

  “That’s the name of her cat. Cat.”

  “Original.”

  “She said she didn’t want to give it a proper name, because it didn’t really belong to her. Because no one belongs to anyone else. That’s how she felt. Anyway, she took care of herself somehow. She had to get out of her old life and get into a new life and that’s how she did it.”

  “Wasn’t her family pissed?”

  “Yeah, I think so. Her husband came to find her, but he seemed more hurt than anything, really. Especially when she told him she wasn’t going home with him.”

  “That’s kind of harsh.”

  “I suppose. But you can’t just sit and spend your whole life in a place where you don’t belong, you know.” My mind drifted to an image of my dad, sitting at our kitchen table, waiting for me to come home.

  “So how did she pay for herself?”

  “She made it work. She met some people.”

  “People just gave her money?”

  I don’t want to get too deep into Holly Golightly’s cash flow. “Something like that.”

  “And she wasn’t, you know . . .”

  “What?”

  “Did men give her money for . . .”

  “She wasn’t a prostitute, if that’s what you mean. Although she did talk about going on dates with men who would give her fifty dollars for the powder room. I prefer to think they just paid her for her company.”

  “Sounds kind of fishy to me,” Dusty says.

  I don’t know how to answer.

  And Dusty doesn’t say anything for a few moments, either. “Well, whatever you call it, it sounds pretty impressive. To make it in New York City without a real job and everything. And for men to give you money for—just for going to the bathroom. I guess that’s a pretty sweet deal.”

  “Haven’t you ever seen Breakfast at Tiffany’s?”

  “Would you still have gone out with me if I hadn’t?”

  I laugh.

  “Don’t answer that,” Dusty says, and quickens his pace. “The restaurant’s just up here on the left. I’m starving.”

  8:30 P.M.

  We walk into a restaurant, a huge, bustling bistro with low booths and mirrors all around. The room is full of soft, sparkling light, bouncing from the overhead chandeliers. People sit in small groups over glasses of wine, laughing and toasting one another.

  “It’s called Josephine,” Dusty says.

  “Josephine,” I repeat.

  “Yeah, it’s pretty popular these days. It’s not easy to get a table here at the last minute, so I hope they have room for us.”

  Dusty approaches the host stand, where a handsome man with a closely cropped gray-and-white beard, wearing a white shirt and black tie, says, “Reservation?”

  “We don’t have one,” Dusty says. “But we’d like a table for two, please.”

  “I’m sorry, we don’t have anything,” says the man. He starts tapping into his computer. “If you want to wait, we’ll have something at, let me see—”

  “No, we’d like to sit now, please,” Dusty says, his voice rising. I can feel tension from the host.

  “Sir, we are completely—”

  “Do you know who I am?” Dusty snarls. “Sir?”

  “I—”

  Dusty leans over and whispers into the host’s ear. I look around and smile stupidly at the couple standing behind us, feeling uncomfortable.

  The host jerks his head back and his eyes widen. “Of course, Mr. Sant’Angelo,” he says. He smiles at me and holds out his hand. “Right this way, please.”

  Dusty shakes his head and gestures for m
e to follow the host. “Go,” he says gruffly.

  I go, shoulders stiff.

  The host takes us immediately to a corner table next to the front window. He signals to a busboy, who rushes over with water.

  “Mademoiselle,” Dusty says as I take a seat with my back to the wall.

  “What did you say to him?” I whisper as I sit.

  “I just reminded him what would happen to him if he didn’t seat us right away.” He smiles, just this side of sinister. “Don’t worry,” he says, and his face softens back to normal, slate-gray eyes sparkling. “I just want tonight to be perfect. For you.”

  My stomach turns as he says this, but I decide to let it go. Until then, the evening has been perfect. I exhale, take a sip of water, and pretend to read the menu, which is in French, which means I can’t actually read it, but I still pretend to.

  When the waiter comes over and introduces himself as Claude, pronouncing it Cloood, I’m relieved when Dusty offers to order for us.

  “We’ll have the tour des fruits de mer,” he says, sounding Parisian.

  “Very good,” the waiter says.

  The tour is a three-tiered platter of shrimp, crab, smoked mussels, and raw oysters, piled over crushed ice and seaweed. Little silver dishes of cocktail sauce and shallot vinegar are nestled in, too, and slices of lemon wrapped in green gauze. Dusty spritzes the oysters with lemon and picks one up. “To you,” he says, toasting me with it.

  I click my oyster shell on his and, together, we slurp.

  We devour the tour, matching each other oyster for oyster, shrimp for shrimp, crab leg for crab leg, locking eyes and laughing. It’s the most delicious thing I’ve ever tasted.

  Next, the waiter brings over two plates of steak with salty, thin French fries. Dusty asks if I’d like a glass of wine and I say no, thanks, so he orders two glasses of sparkling water instead.

  “You know what it is about her?” he says, as he slices his way through another morsel of steak.

  “What are you talking about?” I’ve eaten all of my French fries already and haven’t even touched my steak yet. “About who?”

  “Audrey Hepburn. I mean, what was her name again? In the movie?”

  “Holly Golightly.”

  “Yeah. I think I know what it is about her that makes people like her. Makes you like her so much.”

  “You mean, besides the fact that she was incredibly beautiful and completely charming and had the most amazing clothes?”

  “Yeah, besides that. Look, Gemma, I don’t think being beautiful and having great clothes is all that special. Look around! There are beautiful people all over this room and none of them seem all that special to me.”

  “I don’t know,” I say. “Maybe they are special.”

  “But are any of them as special as Audrey Hepburn? I mean, Holly Golightly? If you ask me, it sounds like she had something more. Like she could make things happen.”

  “How do you mean?”

  “She just seems to know how to get things done. She wasn’t waiting for someone else to take care of her. If she’d wanted that, she would have stayed home in Texas. But she said screw it, I’m out of here, even though things would be hard and she’d have to take care of herself. And she did. She handled things her way. I admire that.”

  It’s probably the most words I’ve ever heard Dusty say all at once, and the way they fall out of him, it’s like he means them. Which makes me really like him.

  Or maybe I should say: Which makes me finally admit that I really like him.

  I catch my reflection in one of the mirrors. My shoulder strap is turned over, so I straighten it.

  “That reminds me of you. You make things happen. You got yourself here.”

  It just might be the best compliment I’ve had all day.

  I ask him where the ladies’ room is. He points to the back of the restaurant. “I don’t have fifty dollars on me, though,” he says. “Unless you accept debit cards.” He smiles.

  “Funny,” I say as I stand up, and I can’t help smiling back.

  While I’m gone he orders a plate of profiteroles—little pastries with ice cream and chocolate sauce drizzled over the top. Before we eat them, I take a picture and send it to Bryan, Trina, and Telly.

  9:10 P.M.

  Bryan: That dessert looks amazing. When are you going to be done with dinner?

  Me: Maybe, like, 45 minutes?

  Bryan: That means an hour in New York time.

  Me: I’m sorry. I didn’t know this was going to take so long.

  Bryan: It’s OK. We just finished dinner at 21 Club. See you when we see you.

  9:40 P.M.

  Is it OK? I really want to show you this place,” Dusty says. “We’ll just stop in for a minute.”

  I look at my watch. “OK,” I say. Bryan and Trina will be fine.

  “It’s on the roof,” Dusty says as we pass the eleventh floor in the elevator. “Sort of.” We’re in a building a short car ride from the restaurant, in a neighborhood Dusty told me is called Chelsea. There were a few cabs on the street when we got out, but it’s not as crowded as SoHo.

  “What do you mean, ‘sort of’ on the roof?”

  “You’ll see.”

  We exit the elevator at sixteen, and Dusty leads me down a deserted hallway with peeling paint to a door with a big sign saying DO NOT USE EXCEPT IN CASE OF FIRE. ALARM WILL SOUND!

  “Push it.” He smiles.

  “What? The alarm will go off!”

  “Have you ever set off an alarm before?” he says. And so I scrunch up my shoulders and push.

  Nothing. Not a sound.

  We walk out onto the roof, and the city is sparkling around us. In the distance, I can see the Empire State Building lit up in red, white, and blue. I can hear, faintly, what sounds like a guitar and several people singing, but I don’t see any party.

  “Are you sure this is the right roof?” I ask.

  “I’m sure.” Dusty leads me across the roof toward a water tower. I hear the music getting louder.

  “We’re here,” Dusty says.

  “We’re where?”

  He points to the water tower. “The party’s in there.”

  “What?”

  “I was here last week,” Dusty says. “You’re not going to believe it. It’s, like, the ultimate speakeasy. Who needs a secret party in a basement, when these guys throw a secret party in a water tower!”

  “Isn’t that kind of wet?” I ask, hoping my sarcasm covers up my anxiety.

  “Good one, Gem. No, the water tower has been emptied and refilled with people. Hipsters! With suspenders and mustaches. And girls with feathers in their hair.”

  “How do you get in there?”

  He points to a ladder leading up to a small opening that’s been cut out of the side of the water tower. Through it, I can see feet, and light flickering between them.

  I shake my head.

  “What?”

  “I hate heights.”

  “Don’t worry. The ladder is secure. It’s bolted into the tower. And I’ll be right behind you to catch you.”

  “My dress,” I say. “I mean, your dress. It’ll rip on the ladder.”

  “Come on. Do you think Holly would have skipped a party in a water tower on a roof in New York City because she didn’t want to tear her skirt?” He stands behind me and corrals me toward the ladder. “You’ll be fine. I’m here.”

  He has a point. I hike up my skirt and start climbing, being careful not to look down.

  “You found it, homie!” says a guy in suspenders and a fedora as we crawl into the water tower. “This must be Gemma.”

  I look over at Dusty.

  He answers my question before I can ask it. “I told him you were coming,” he says. “I told them I was bringing the coolest girl on the planet. Derek Blackbird, meet Gemma Beasley.”

  “Charmed,” says Suspenders.

  I’m charmed, too. It’s like magic up here.

  We are in a tiny round room with a
very high ceiling. Built into the walls are shelves lined with bottles of liquor. A small bar has been constructed off to one side, and on it stands a tattooed woman. She is singing in French; I don’t understand the words, but the sounds are sad. Next to her stands a guy with a guitar. Surrounding them are about twenty people, men with waxed mustaches and women with loose ponytails and dresses cinched tightly at the waist. They’re crowded into the room, if you can call it a room. They’re chatting, flirting, swaying with smiles on their faces, even though the song sounds so sad.

  Dusty hands me a glass of something. I sip it, but it tastes bitter. “It’s called absinthe,” he says. “Sip it slowly.”

  “Did you know you’re breaking the law, Gemma?” Derek Blackbird says.

  “What?” I turn around to Dusty. “What is he talking about?” I hold out my glass to Dusty.

  “This whole party, the whole thing, is illegal,” he says, pushing my glass back to me. “We’re all trespassing. We could go to jail. All of us.”

  “But how did they do all the construction and everything in here, if it’s illegal?” I ask.

  “Isn’t it great?” he says. He leans over to whisper in my ear. “You’re a beautiful outlaw, Holly Golightly.”

  My eyes dart around the room. Everyone here seems so perfect. This feels so harmless. How could this be illegal? I picture myself being arrested, riding in the back of a squad car to a police station, and calling my father, explaining to him that yes, I am in New York City, and yes, I’m with a strange boy, and yes, I was picked up at an illegal party in an abandoned water tower on the roof of a building. I close my eyes for a second and remember. I’m not myself, I’m Holly Golightly. She would stay here.

  “Don’t worry,” Dusty says. “I’ll take care of you.”

  “Great dress!” says the singer. Everyone turns to look at me, nodding in agreement.

  I smile dumbly. The music starts back up, this time a happier tune, a bouncy melody that everyone seems to know the words to. A few of the partygoers form a circle, and a bald guy with a beard and knickers gets in the middle, dancing a little jig while the others clap. I sway back and forth, and Dusty sways with me. Soon he’s spinning into the center of the circle, trying to imitate the bald guy’s jig. I laugh and pull out my phone to take a picture.