by Grey, R. S.
I didn’t have time for dinner because I cut it too close at the airport. I wolfed down a packet of peanuts like a rabid squirrel midflight, eyeing my neighbor’s bag greedily while he took his sweet time, eating them one by one, obnoxiously crunching them with his front teeth. After warring over a shared armrest for half the flight, I think it was retribution on his part.
“Yup. I’m eating. Just working a lot.”
“Oh? Well, that’s good. Is Carly still working with you?”
He means Carrie.
“Yes.”
“What does she do again? Does she make the shoes?”
Yes, Dad. She’s a cobbler.
“Costumes, actually. Dresses.”
He’s not listening to me. Now that we’re in the cab, he’s too busy arguing with the driver about a better route to take, talking over me until I just decide to shut up.
“Dammit,” my dad says. “We missed our turn.”
I sit in the back seat, stewing in regret. I should have stayed in a hotel. I should have waited and flown up on Friday with Derek so I could have used him like a human shield. Or, even better, I should have just not come at all.
After we finally arrive at my parents’ apartment building and I tip the cab driver heftily while my dad isn’t looking, we trek up to their eighth-floor walkup while my father starts to lay out our plans for the next day.
“Avery has time for breakfast if we wake up early and go to her, so I hope you didn’t plan on sleeping in?”
There’s a long pause and I realize he expects an answer from me.
“Uh, no. I’m fine with an early breakfast.”
“Good, because then we can walk with Avery over to the theater for rehearsals. After that, your mom and I have to get to work.”
This revelation presents a classic conundrum for me. I should want them to leave and go to work and get out of my hair, but in reality, I’m upset that they didn’t even consider taking the day off to spend time with me. We haven’t seen each other in a year. It hasn’t felt like that long, but I checked my calendar, and it’s true.
A year.
In their apartment, my dad fixes up the sofa bed and I glance around the room. Not much has changed since I was last here. Their apartment isn’t so much a home as it is a shrine to my sister. Her production posters are signed and framed and hung on the walls. Her official headshots rest on the TV stand beside a basket filled with fifteen remote controls. What could they possibly need them all for? Who knows.
I doubt I make even one appearance in the place, but I’m wrong. On the fridge, half-hidden behind a magnet for Anthony’s Pizzeria, they’ve hung a photo of me from my high school graduation. They weren’t there when I graduated from college—Avery had a big audition—so this is it, apparently. Chubby-faced Whitney with a pepperoni pizza covering her hair.
I want a shower, but my dad shakes his head and warns that my mom is a light sleeper these days. Wonderful. I’ll just carry airport gunk on my person until the morning. After he goes to bed, I stand at the kitchen sink, cast in shadow—“Light keeps her up too.”—as I rinse myself off as best as possible, using my phone’s flashlight propped against the backsplash. I wash off my arms and lean over to rinse my face, but that’s about all I can manage without standing up on the counter and shoving my foot under the faucet.
As I brush my teeth in that dark lonely kitchen, spotlighted by my phone, I feel an overwhelming sense of hopelessness.
It’s silly.
I don’t know why I expected anything to be different.
Time and time again, I foolishly allow myself to be let down by my parents, and that hurt only makes me angrier. The vicious cycle loops around on itself. How do they still have the capability to inflict damage? Why do I give them that power?
I finish up at the sink, and then I dig around in my suitcase for a change of clothes. Everything is a jumbled mess because I packed last minute and I can only find one sock knotted around some underwear, so I give up and decide to sleep in my dirty peanut-salt-covered airport clothes like the heathen that I am.
After I climb under the sheet of the sofa bed, I rest my head on the lumpy couch pillow and call Derek.
“Hey,” he says, answering after the first ring.
His voice is a melody, one syllable that rips straight through me. I love him for answering right away. It’s like he’s been waiting by the phone for my call. It’s like we both hate that I’m away even though I was with him just a few hours ago. He insisted on driving me to the airport. We kissed at the security checkpoint until a little boy yelled, “Ew!” and we broke apart, laughing.
“Hi,” I whisper, knowing my parents have paper thin walls.
“How was your flight?”
I want to tell him about my seatmate, and my dad, and the sink bath, but I can’t do it.
I sit there, silent, throat closing tight.
“Whitney?”
The concern in his voice strikes a chord, but I will myself not to cry.
“Sorry,” I whisper, hoping he can’t tell I’m upset.
“That bad?” he asks, knowing.
“No,” I tell him, trying to pull myself together.
This is nothing. Children are starving in the world. GET IT TOGETHER.
“I’ll be there early on Friday, but I can bump my flight up a day if you need me to?”
“No. It’s okay. I’m just tired and I have to whisper because my parents are asleep. I’ll talk to you tomorrow, okay?”
And then I hang up quickly, knowing it’s for the best.
He texts me.
Derek: Send me your parents’ address when you get the chance.
* * *
After what feels like only a few hours, I’m awoken by the sound of my parents moving around the small apartment. My dad tries—and fails—to be quiet as he makes a pot of coffee. Cling. Clang. Crash. It’s like he’s never been in a kitchen before. My mom has the TV on in their bedroom.
I sit up and wipe my eyes, abandoning the notion of sleep.
My mom steps out of their bedroom, an older version of Avery. Her blonde hair is cropped short at her chin. She’s thin with a round attractive face that she covers in heavy makeup, fully subscribing to the theory that more is more.
“I was just about to wake you up. We’ll need to get out of here soon.”
“Can I shower really quick?”
“I don’t think there’s time. Avery just called and said she’s in a rush.”
What’s another layer of filth, right?
I go into their bathroom, wash my face, brush my teeth, and change into a sweater and jeans, and when I return, I find them at the door of the apartment, waiting on me. Toes tapping.
They’re wearing matching t-shirts. Rush is printed in white—the name of my sister’s musical. Her signature is scrawled in the left-hand corner, over the R. Immediately, my gaze catches on the rolled-up piece of fabric in my mom’s left hand. It’s the same bubblegum pink color as their t-shirts.
Ah, of course.
My dad takes it from her.
“Here, your mom got you a shirt.”
It’s held up in front of me like he’s checking the fit.
“I’ll put it on later.”
I might as well have just told them I’ve been convicted of murder with the way their faces fall. After battling the lumpy sofa bed for half the night, I have no fight left in me. I put the shirt on over the sweater I’m already wearing and the three of us leave the apartment.
On the mat, outside their door, a courier has dropped off a dense bouquet of blood red roses. I lean down quickly to snatch the accompanying note. It reads:
A rose for every time I wanted to kiss you during parade rehearsal. I think you still owe me…
I smile to myself, pocket the note, and carry the flowers back inside so they’ll be the first thing I see when we get back.
My parents assume someone sent the flowers for Avery. I don’t correct them.
Down on the New
York sidewalk in our matching pink shirts, we draw the stares of everyone we pass. After a subway ride and short walk later, we find ourselves in the theater district. On the way, I’m treated to a bastardized summary of Avery’s musical. Apparently, it’s a parody of American sorority culture, hence the name Rush. Avery is one of the leads, an incoming freshman hoping to land a coveted spot in Kappa Zeta come bid day. She faces off against an arch-nemesis (a sassy rush captain) and finds love along the way (in the form of the sorority’s hunky house boy). My mom thinks it’s very cool how inclusive the cast is. “There’s even a girl from Spain!”
I stare wistfully at oncoming traffic just before I spot Avery standing in front of a diner with a black backpack slung over her shoulder. She’s scanning the crowd, looking for us, and when our eyes lock, she runs straight for me, wraps me up in her arms, and spins us around. I moan that I’m going to be sick and she finally stops, stepping back to hold me at arm’s length.
“God, I miss you. Why don’t you visit more?”
We both know the answer to that, so I don’t bother with a reply.
She gives me a once-over. I smile sheepishly, hoping I don’t look half as tired as I feel.
“How are you so grown up!? You’re supposed to be my baby sister, but you’re not a baby at all. You’re freaking gorgeous. Look at these cheekbones.”
She squishes my face in her hands. My lips pucker like a fish. She is the only person on the planet I would allow this from.
“I think she needs to eat more,” my dad points out with a frown.
Avery rolls her eyes, ignoring him, and takes my hand to steer me toward the diner. We use the lead on our parents to our advantage.
“I see they forced you into the t-shirt,” she says with a wink.
“It wasn’t worth the fight.”
“Why are you staying with them, anyway? Do you want to stay with me tonight? Please? Come! It’ll be fun.”
“I don’t want to upset them.”
“Oh, believe me. I know. It’s your life motto.” I frown and she rolls her eyes, not pressing that issue. “Whatever, just think about my offer, yeah? I’ve got extra space. Well, kind of. You’d have to sleep with me on my twin bed.”
My dad catches wind of our conversation inside the diner and shakes his head. “Absolutely not. That commune isn’t even safe enough for you. I won’t have Whitney there as well.”
“It’s an actor’s co-op, not a commune.”
“Not now,” my mom reprimands my father as we slide into a booth near the window. The red upholstery is sticky with syrup from a previous customer. “Avery has enough stress already. I don’t want any arguing today. Now, Avery, tell us how your dress rehearsals went last night.”
And that’s that.
There’s not a single moment of the breakfast that doesn’t revolve around Avery. Oh, she tries hard to curve the conversation toward me, but my parents swivel the spotlight right back on her. I’m actually okay with it. This is comfortable, like slipping on a worn pair of shoes. I sit and listen and eat, content to be an understudy.
We don’t even have the check when Avery looks at her phone and curses.
“I’ve got to get going. Dave wants us all there extra early today. We have press.”
She leans over and kisses my cheek and when she leaves, she takes all the energy with her. After that, there’s an overwhelming feeling of What now? None of us makes eye contact. I rearrange the sugar packets. Fortunately, it doesn’t last long. My parents have to get to work, after all. I have a day to myself, and I make the most of it. Right after I yank off that bubblegum pink t-shirt.
* * *
The next day, my parents and I spend a tense, awkward morning together in their crockpot of an apartment. We stew in each other’s space. I suggest we go out and sightsee, but my mom thinks it’s better if we stay in. We have a big night ahead of us, she reminds me. The musical starts at 7 PM and my mom wants to ensure we get there with plenty of time to find our seats. After, we have late dinner reservations at a restaurant my mom keeps describing as “very fancy” while giving me a pointed look.
It’s like she thinks I’m going to roll off my sofa bed, slide on some shoes, and proclaim myself ready to go.
A long walk outside by myself around the city at lunch time is the only thing that keeps me sane.
“Did you reserve a table for five at dinner?” I ask later, sitting at the window to use the natural light to apply my makeup.
“Yes. Avery might bring a guest.”
No. She won’t. I suggested she do that because I’m a wimp and haven’t told my parents about Derek. Even now, as we stand on the sidewalk, underneath the theater’s marquee, I still haven’t spilled the beans, and I realize this was slightly poor planning on my part right as Derek steps out of a car, stands to his full height, and straightens his suit jacket.
My heart leaps into my throat.
He really came.
He flew all the way to New York to be here for me tonight.
I glance over at my parents and they’ve noticed him as well. Everyone has. The carpet that leads from the street to the theater entrance has been roped off for arrivals. We, of course, came in off the sidewalk, ushered by a coordinator who immediately marked us as unworthy. Sort of. She did tug my arm as I passed.
“Who are you? A blogger? Do you act? If you want photos, you’ll need to enter from the street.”
I decided to take the compliment before setting her straight.
Some of the other guests arriving to the theater are milking that short walk up the carpet for everything it’s worth. Step. Pose. Smile. Smoldering glare. Flash, flash, flash. Derek ignores the photographers as they start snapping away frantically. He ducks his head down and keeps his eyes straight ahead.
I doubt the paparazzi know exactly who he is. After all, he’s not a fixture in New York society, but that doesn’t stop them from angling to get a good photo. Snap now, research later.
With quick strides, he moves past them, heading to the door of the theater, then he looks up and halts. A few feet from him, I stand with my parents.
He smiles. Flawlessly suited, hair freshly trimmed, features in perfect harmony. Warmth spreads through me, and for half a second on that busy sidewalk, there’s only the two of us, exchanging a silent greeting.
His eyes quickly scan down my dress, a short simple black thing, unassuming except for its tight fit. I have a wrap covering my shoulders, not enough to battle the cool New York temperatures, but at the moment, I don’t feel a thing.
My parents look at each other, then over their shoulders, trying to determine who he’s looking at because surely it can’t be me. Then he turns, walks straight for me, and leans down to plant a kiss directly on my mouth. It’s unexpected. Brief, but sweet. And just like that, the last two days are wiped clean. They’re nothing compared to how he makes me feel. My cheeks grow hot as the cameras continue flashing. Derek wears a proud smile. I want to poke his side and berate him for drawing so much attention to us, but then I realize we’re being watched by more than just the press.
My parents are gaping, eyes wide, utterly confused.
“Um…Mom, Dad…this is Derek,” I say as he turns to them.
My mom shakes her head. “Are you…I’m sorry, are you a friend of Avery’s?”
She apparently missed the part where we exchanged saliva.
Derek smiles and stretches his hand out toward her. “I’m Derek Knightley, Whitney’s boyfriend. It’s good to meet you both.”
After shaking my father’s hand, he suggests we move inside—since the cameras are still flashing away—and my parents do exactly as they’re told. I’ve never seen them so awestruck.
“I’m sorry, did you say you’re Whitney’s boyfriend?” my mom asks, trying to clarify things once we’re in the lobby.
Does she have to look so surprised? Honestly.
My dad is even more confused. “Whitney didn’t mention anything.”
My neck grows
hot. I rip off my wrap and tuck it under my arm.
“How about a drink? Does anyone want a drink?” I ask, scanning around the lobby for a bar. There, across the room.
I don’t wait for replies. I just smile and say, “One for everyone? Okay! Be right back!” then dash in the opposite direction. Leaving Derek alone with my parents after the world’s most awkward introduction is cruel to say the least, but I make a silent promise to make it up to him later.
Once I’m in line at the bar, I glance back and see the three of them are carrying on a conversation just fine. Or rather, Derek is. My parents look utterly enraptured.
By the time I return, carefully balancing four glasses of champagne, everyone seems like old friends.
“I could have helped you,” Derek says, quickly taking two of the glasses out of my hands before I accidentally spill the whole lot down the front of my dress.
“It’s okay.”
“So Derek.” My mom stares up at him, eyes twinkling. “You said you’re staying at The Plaza? Avery was just there last month for a meeting with her agent.” That segue back to Avery is impressive even by my standards. “I wonder if you know him? Martin Branch?”
“Why would Derek know Avery’s agent?” is the question I ask in my head before downing half of my champagne.
“No, I’m afraid not.”
“But you must know quite a few people in New York City, what with your family…”
Being so rich and all is what my father is hinting at.
Another big gulp of champagne slides down my throat. At this rate, I won’t be able to walk come curtain call.
“You grandfather is Charles Knightley?” my mom asks when the conversation lulls.
Derek nods.
My mom turns to me. “Avery, you—” She laughs, having caught her mistake. “Whitney, you know Charles a little, don’t you?”
“Some.”
Derek is glancing down at me, brows furrowed. I can’t imagine what he thinks of this exchange.
“Whitney and my grandfather are very close,” he amends.
