“Yeah, I know what that’s like,” I mutter.
“I didn’t want complications, talking, or being friends, or getting close, because if I did, well, it could hurt. I could get hurt.”
“I also know all about that.”
He presses five of his fingers against mine and then folds them together. He squeezes gently, as though not willing to let me retreat to the shadows. “When I first saw you, I was afraid you were exactly the kind of girl who could ruin me, wreck me. But I couldn’t get you out of my head. Then I got to know you, and I wanted to take the risk.” He draws a deep breath. “I want to talk and be friends and kiss and be more than friends.”
I lean close to him, my thoughts written on my lips. I kiss him gently. “I do too.”
He holds me as the darkness surrounding us crowds me with doubt. I look up at the sky, the stars deeper than a dream.
We sleep in. When Sorel emerges from her cave, midday, she doesn’t acknowledge the night before. Half-asleep, she stuffs herself with the remaining muffins, slathering them with irresponsible amounts of butter. She downs a can of Coke. Her mood simmers and foams.
We load into the car; the pep and the punch blow out with the breeze that flips the leaves of the trees over, revealing their pale, veiny undersides.
“Seems like it might rain,” Grant says absently.
The ride is quiet except for the electric buzz of Grant’s hand in mine.
As the Manhattan skyline comes into view, the rain subsides. Nerves and excitement make my leg jitter. The drive south seems to calm Sorel down, and the pleasant version of her joins us once more. She drops us off in front of Gavin’s brick building in Brooklyn.
“Home again, home again. You have to come visit me in Seattle, City Girl. I’ll call with my info when I get settled in,” Sorel says. We exchange a hug.
“Thanks for everything. You know where to find me,” I say.
Something lacking in our good-bye tells me we might never see each other again.
Pepper and Grant bump fists.
“See ya in the fall, dude,” Pepper says.
We watch them pull away. I let out a loud breath and then deeply inhale the balmy city air, a mixture of summer sweat, hot dogs from a street vendor, and ginkgo trees.
Chapter 34
Grant and I trot up the four flights of stairs to his brother’s apartment. Gavin lives in one of Brooklyn’s gentrified neighborhoods, but elevators are in short supply.
The brothers exchange a hearty hug, and Grant introduces me.
Gavin’s eyes light up. “Well, little brother,” he says, winking at me sweetly and roughing up Grant’s long hair. “Da’s gonna make you cut that, you know,” Gavin says with his thick accent, unlike Grant who’s abandoned his, except when he bellowed at Sorel the night before. I’ve also noticed when we’re making out his words are accented and seductive. My temperature increases a degree or two and not because it’s warm in the apartment.
“Nah, I’m keeping it,” Grant says. “I’m hoping you’ll style it for me while I’m here.”
The guys roughhouse for a minute. Then Gavin says, “If you want to get out on the field, never mind out of the house, he’s gonna hack, hack, hack.” He moves his first two fingers up and down like scissors.
They talk about Gavin’s job and life in the United States and about things back home, all the while guiding me across the topography of their shared life: the characters, relations, and social politics of their island world far across the Atlantic.
“Let’s go get a brew,” Gavin suggests.
“This is America, Gav. I’m not twenty-one and certainly don’t know the local barkeep.”
“Right. Well, let’s go watch some football anyway. There’s bound to be a match on telly.”
Grant looks at me. “Do you mind pub food and soccer?” he asks, clarifying. In his brother’s presence, his accent returns, like the sound of the rolling sea, the sky, all of it for me.
I’ve never been more enthusiastic about sports and food in my life. Grant and Gavin are endearing. Brothers. Family. The mature but good-natured Grant from Montreal has once again replaced the young, timid Grant from Laurel Hill, but he’s more spirited, lighter. It is like when I put my arm around him on the lawn at Laurel Hill, he suddenly knew with certainty who he was and what he wanted.
The days start with Grant and me kissing and lounging and kissing some more on the couch in the small apartment after Gavin leaves for work. Then the train delivers us into the city, and we pretend we’re tourists, visiting the museums, historical buildings, and Times Square—places Grant has never been.
Sadness filters through my glee as we walk hand in hand down Broome Street, looking for a tattoo shop Grant heard about. When I see the block letters spelling Bowery against the reflective green of the street sign, I stop.
“What’s the matter?” Grant asks, looking around.
Tears run down my cheeks.
“That’s where she was found,” I croak.
“Who?”
“My mom.”
He instantly pulls me to his chest. If he weren’t holding me up, I’d collapse to the filthy sidewalk.
“I don’t know if it’ll ever get easier.” As minutes dissolve into the drumming of Grant’s heartbeat, I realize maybe it will.
We turn into a café and get in line for coffee. The barista looks familiar, with thick, dark hair and cinnamon-colored skin. “Gino?” I ask when we reach the counter.
“Pearl?” Gino is thinner than when I saw him last. His crooked teeth need flossing. I wonder when he last looked in a mirror. “Pearl! Hey, what’s up?”
“This is Grant. Grant, Gino. We used to hang out,” I say, making introductions.
“Oh man, did we ever,” Gino says. “Remember the time we met Downey? Iron Man, right?! Crazy night. I got arrested later. Did Ali tell you? Man. That bitch is cracked. Watch out for her. She got pregnant, so you probably won’t see her around anyway. You back in the city, or what? I heard you went to juvie or something.” He doesn’t let me answer as he strings his questions together like the long line of customers forming behind me.
“Yeah, I’m good. Back for the summer.”
Gino’s coworker hands us our order.
“I’ll, uh, see you,” I say, the crowd shuffling me out of earshot. I hastily stuff a dollar in the tip jar.
“Sounds like my old friends are thick in it,” I say to Grant when we’re outside. My relief surprises me, knowing I would not have been immune to whatever trouble they’ve gotten into if I hadn’t gone to Laurel Hill. “I have an idea. How about I show you my city?”
Grant lifts a quizzical eyebrow. I want him to see Manhattan through my lens, not just the tourist spots. Like a living photo album, I relay some of the less sordid stories revealed only to me by street corners, buildings, and shops. It feels good to chase away the darker memories of my mother and fill the vacancies with tales of free popcorn and art galleries, designer knockoffs, and days spent playing hooky.
“You lived some life. I don’t know if I could keep up.” Grant bites his lip.
“I think you’re keeping up just fine,” I say, my lips landing on his.
With sore feet, we take the train back to Brooklyn.
Grant pops open an amber lager once settled at the apartment. “Gavin left a note, he’s at soccer practice with a league he joined, and invited us to watch.” He holds up the beer. “Instead, we could finish these off.” But before we do, our lips meet, our clothes are off, and we’re both thankful we don’t have to follow the rules at Laurel Hill.
Later, when Gavin comes in, I stir, wrapped snuggly in Grant’s arms. I hear a chuckle, and then the bathroom door closes. I lie on the sofa, gazing up through the window, the moonlight meeting the city light in a rosy glow. I never want to be anywhere but in Grant’s arms. There, I feel safe, c
ared for, and like an integral part of myself isn’t missing.
Nevertheless, as soon as I catch the thin strand of happiness, Sorel’s comments slither into my mind. Have they really slept together? Am I just some stupid, washed-up girl? The picture of my mother cheating on one boyfriend with another guy knocks around with my doubts. Who am I to be so lucky to rest in Grant’s arms? I imagine it all slipping away. Good things never stay.
I roll over, disturbing the blanket and stirring up Grant’s scent, a mixture of tobacco, mint, and clean. Comfort washes over me, rinsing away the dirty memories and doleful thoughts.
The next day we locate the tattoo parlor and sit for hours while fierce ocean waves color in the space around Grant’s mermaid. I think of Shale and his paintings. Their rolling wildness contrasts with the mermaid’s ecstatic smile. Above the waves, the artist adds the night sky, lit with stars. The piece covers Grant’s entire upper arm. He gives me his sad smile as I study the rushing waves kissing the shimmering stars.
“Do you like it?” he asks.
“It’s beautiful.” As I look more closely, the mermaid’s features mirror my own. If only it were possible for me ever to be that happy.
The last night before Grant’s flight breezes by bittersweetly. I lament the nearly three months apart, coming so soon after I finally snuck away from grief and said yes to life and Grant.
“I’m staying at my family’s cottage to get away from my dad. It’s doubtful I’ll make it back to Laurel Hill in one piece if we’re in Glasgow all summer together. The thing is, there’s no phone service. Do you like to write?” Grant asks while we watch our clothes tumble clean in the basement of Gavin’s building.
“Of course.” I want to capture the magic of these shared moments, saving them so that when we return to Laurel Hill, nothing between us is lost. “It’ll be like the old days. We can pine for each other from afar . . .”
“I’ll be pining for sure, my lady,” Grant says, bowing regally.
After we watch Gavin’s soccer match that evening, he goes out to celebrate with his teammates, and Grant and I return to the apartment.
Before going inside, we climb to the roof. The night cues summer, with a warm breeze, and the full moon triumphs over the city lights. Sitting on a cement outcropping, our legs dangling in space, Grant smokes a cigarette. I take one too, ignoring how my lungs sting.
He tells me about how his mom loved collecting wildflowers and seashells. He goes on. “When I remember her I think of the color purple, the shade that hovers over the ocean at sunrise.” His voice quavers, and as if to stop the tears I know to be coming, he turns and gives me a soft kiss. After a time he speaks again. “I fumbled for your heart all year. You were all I thought about, and then it was like you disappeared, even though you were still there. I don’t want to lose you again.”
I take his hand in mine in answer as we look out over the city.
Long after he falls asleep, I lie awake, worrying. I don’t want us to end. I wake him with a kiss. Fingers clutch hair, lips discover eddies and pools, legs tangle, and hands grasp skin with desperation as the night fades to dawn.
I hold it together as Grant gets into his cab and I in mine. I don’t cry until I cross the bridge back into Manhattan. Suddenly it feels like my mother’s shadow, in Grant’s absence, threatens to devour me alive.
Chapter 35
I wipe my eyes as I enter the appointed building to register for summer school. The decor, bright and bold, patterned and geometric, distracts me from the glut of memories and sweeps me up in creative passion. Throughout the airy room, large, artfully designed panels covered in swatches of fabric—printed with portraits of famous alumni who had proudly attended Parsons School of Design—garner my attention.
A spry second-year student, with spiky black hair and a dramatic shirt with buttons running up the side and a collar sweeping across the chest, guides me to my dorm. She wears designer jeans and boots similar to mine. She waves to several points of interest, and we discuss some of the more notable graduates and their recent projects.
I settle into my dorm room and unpack, but wait to select a bunk until my roommate arrives. I hear voices in the hall, and a statuesque girl, my age, with an Afro that hardly fits through the door, comes in, singing.
“You must be Pearl,” she says, her voice like polished silver bells. It’s beautiful.
“PJ,” I reply.
“I’m Dominique. But everyone calls me Kiki.” She looks me up and down. “Top or bottom?” Her long lashes flutter. “I always go for the top,” she says, winking and tossing a bag onto the upper mattress.
I make my bed while she tells me about her family, her school in Atlanta, and her dreams of making fashion history. She is one of the most cheerful people I’ve ever met, but has a wicked sense of humor and a tongue to match. “You and I are going to have fun this summer,” she says, squeezing my shoulder.
The kaleidoscope of art students behave themselves during the new-student orientation, but at the dinner afterward, we turn up the volume. I sit with Kiki, Roxie, and Reesa, two sassy girls we met earlier. Kiki, with her sweet yet confident southern accent, has the ability to make everyone feel welcome, as if we’ve been going to the same summer camp all our lives. Yet, the old, familiar feeling of being the odd girl out skids into my mind.
“Earth to PJ. Girl, I’m talking to you,” Kiki says.
I snap to attention.
“I brought some SoCo from home. You mind if these girls hang out in our room tonight?”
“Maybe you and I have more in common than I thought . . .” Because a drink sounds like the best way to chase away the emptiness of being in Manhattan without Grant and deep in memories of my mother.
The lax rules at Parsons allow students to smoke openly on the veranda adjacent to the third floor. We can come and go as we please, but have to check in by midnight. I can’t imagine how this passed my aunt’s scrutiny. Based on our brief interaction at the hotel, maybe Erica, along with Shale, put in a good word for me.
Kiki mixes cranberry juice and soda with the Southern Comfort and passes around a hodgepodge of coffee mugs and glasses. She raises hers. “To a fabulous summer of design, decadence, and debauchery.” Everyone hoots.
There aren’t many guys in the program, but a male’s head peeks around the corner of our door. “Room for one more?”
“Haruki!” Kiki squeals. “Of course. Come in. Our official gay. Come join us, honey!”
Haruki doesn’t look any older than fifteen and has the energy of a five-year-old. Like an accordion, he fits himself right between Roxie and me. Each time Kiki refills our glasses, the conversation tilts toward laughter. As the night gets older, we get sloppy and senseless. Eventually I doze off, sitting on the floor, leaning my head against the bed frame.
I nod forward, and with a jerk, I open my eyes to see the apparition of Kiki and Roxie making out. I crawl up to my bunk, imagine Grant’s arms around me, and pass out.
I wake to the first day of classes, slightly hungover; a bagel and coffee seem like the antidote. I rush to the textile lab as Kiki bounces along beside me, gushing about the impromptu party.
“Damn, that was fun. You passed out early.”
“I didn’t sleep much the night before,” I admit.
“No?” she asks, hinting at the truth. “Someone special?”
I nod, unable to suppress a grin.
“Spill.”
I tell her about Grant and the long, lonely summer before returning to Laurel Hill. “Will you distract me so in a blink we’re back together?”
“Abso-freakin-lutely.” She laughs.
The first week at Parsons flies by on the air of keen excitement. I don’t have to slog through math and history, English and Spanish. The classes on design, fashion media, sewing, and techniques hold my attention with the kind of interest Shale would envy from his stu
dents. Despite my love for all things Kahlo, I’m relieved there’s no painting, or grunting over my shoulder, involved. I build my portfolio, and although my outlook for college remains uncertain, for once, I feel hopeful about my future.
Not overloaded with homework, Kiki, the others, and I gab, get containers of takeout, stroll around the Village, and, by night, share cocktails and stories.
Each day, when I wake up, I long for Grant with a physical ache that draws my muscles tight and clouds my head like a drug. As the day bowls on, I swap it for grief over my mother. It doesn’t help that my classes take me on numerous jaunts around the city, where it’s as if Janet haunts each street and avenue. I don’t know where my memories of her stop, or if they do.
On a field trip for History of Fashion Industry, one of my classes, I notice a brand-new high-rise erected in place of the stretch of dilapidated row houses where I once lived with JJ. She’s inescapable, at least in Manhattan. Or maybe she’s like the row houses—gone, replaced with something newer, shinier, straighter. I clutch my chest, tears threatening; I have to learn to live with her or, rather, with my painful memories of her.
At our next stop, amid students taking notes, I stand on Washington Place in the shade of the Brown Building, the location of the Triangle Shirtwaist Factory fire many years ago. Police sirens blare from somewhere behind me. I instinctively glance over my shoulder. The edifice of a familiar dust-colored building looms behind me.
My thoughts crash back through time, and I slouch down a cement wall, landing with my knees pulled into my chest.
Kiki squats next to me as the teacher continues. “You all right?” she whispers. “My head pounded this morning until I had some caffeine. I never thought I’d say there’s such a thing as too much SoCo. Want to split and grab a cup of coffee or something?”
Now would be a great opportunity to lie down in my bed, nap the day away, but the truth is, aside from the memories, I welcome the tour through parts of New York I never knew and replacing the stories JJ wrote. I press up to my feet. “Thanks. I’ll, uh, be fine.”
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