“Is it okay if I—”
“It’s cool,” she said, moving her tray aside. “Mary, right?”
“Maria.”
“I’m Tracy. This is Danae, Cassidy, and Rebekah.”
“Hey.” Already I was wondering if I said something wrong. None of these girls was smiling. They looked older than me, and their makeup and hair were all perfect. Even Tracy’s black fingernail polish didn’t have a single chip. Maybe I should’ve just kept walking.
“You’re in my homeroom,” Danae said, as if she were accusing me of something. “So, what kind of music are you into?”
“Oh, um—pretty much everything—”
“Reggae? Smooth jazz? French hip-hop?” Danae shot back. Rebekah, tall and freckled, snorted a laugh.
“Mainly just, you know, rock music.” I swallowed. Suddenly I didn’t feel like eating. “Nirvana. Jeff Buckley. Liz Phair. Sonic Youth—”
“We just saw Sonic Youth.” Tracy came to my rescue.
“Oh my gosh, they were so boring.” Cassidy giggled. “It was, like, two hours of guitars going rrrrrwwwwwaaaarrrrr. And then we had to go back and be nice to them.”
“My dad works at Sony,” Tracy explained. “He gets us backstage passes.”
“Please.” Danae shook her head, chewing a mouthful of cafeteria cheeseburger. “Explain Sonic Youth to us. Because we were so, like, whatever.”
“They’re, um …” I stabbed a dried-out french fry with my fork. Dory, where are you when I need you? “They’re, like, kind of experimental. Sometimes their songs are just, like, noise. But they have regular songs, too. Like on Dirty. And Goo. And, um, Daydream Nation is good, too. It’s, uh … I think they just have a lot of feedback because it’s like … maybe they’re trying to make it up as they go along?” Yeah. I suck at this.
“Guys, you have to admit, it was better than when my dad got us tickets to Mariah Carey,” Tracy said.
“No! I love Mariah Carey!” Rebekah protested.
“You would.” Danae rolled her eyes.
“Whatever.” Rebekah shoved Danae. “You’re the one who listens to the Spice Girls.”
“No comment,” Danae said, closing her eyes. “It’s well-crafted modern pop.”
“Next time I get Sonic Youth tickets, I’ll give them to you,” Tracy told me.
“Is your dad getting us into the R.E.M. show next month?” Cassidy asked.
“It’s a done deal,” Tracy said.
Cassidy squealed. “I love Michael Stipe!” She clapped her hands. “Ooh, I can’t wait to meet him. He’s so cute!”
“Ew, no.” Rebekah crinkled her nose. “He’s bald.”
“Bald guys are hot,” Cassidy said. “I’m into Moby, too.”
“Cass, you are officially weird,” Rebekah said.
“Okay.” Tracy stood up, crumpling her lunch bag. “Ten minutes till sixth period. Who’s ready to go out for a smoke?”
I hurried to finish my french fries as the rest of the girls gathered their purses and trays and stood up.
“See you around, Mary.” Tracy smiled at me, and I realized I wasn’t invited.
Dear Dory, I wrote as the subway slung my handwriting all over the page. Why do we need Algebra I, let alone Algebra II? Didn’t the Rocky movies teach us that sequels are bad? Also, today’s lunchtime pop quiz: Explain why Sonic Youth is not boring. My rich, gorgeous classmates hung out with Kim, Thurston, Lee, and Steve, and all I got was this lousy T-shirt.
The subway ride down from the Upper East Side to the Spring Street stop was pretty long, but it gave me time to catch up on my homework. It was probably a good thing my budding social life looked pretty bleak. I couldn’t slack off if I wanted to stay at Prince. Already I was under the gun; I had a week to read Their Eyes Were Watching God before the midterm, when all the other kids had had an entire month. And figure out quadratic equations. But I could sit there on the subway with the other New Yorkers with their papers and their paperbacks, sipping their coffees, pretending like I didn’t even notice that we’re on a train underground going what felt like eighty miles an hour. And that was pretty cool.
As cool as the subway ride was, I liked walking in the city even more. I liked the big brick buildings in SoHo; I liked the people with their sidewalk stands selling jewelry and hot dogs and cheap bootleg CDs. I liked watching the people—the kids with Mohawks carrying guitar cases, the guys in Jets jerseys unloading trucks, the women walking dogs dressed in little outfits. I probably saw more people in one afternoon as I walked home than I ever saw in my entire life in Millville.
I got to the apartment and made the final climb up the stairs. I could smell spicy food cooking, hear Oprah coming from behind the doors, voices speaking in Spanish and laughing. But the fifth floor was strangely quiet. As I got closer to our door, I could hear women’s voices. Women shouting. I pulled the long chain out of my shirt collar, the one with the apartment keys and the emergency subway token on it. When I unlocked the door and opened it, the voices got louder. I stood in the doorway, hesitating.
“I mean, Jesus, Nina, two weeks!” The voice was edgy, almost hysterical. My mother’s voice. “What am I supposed to do? I don’t know how you expect me to—”
“Victoria, you’re not the only person in the world who—” The other voice, the calmer, quieter voice, got even quieter. I couldn’t hear what she was saying. I closed the door behind me. Travis was sitting on the futon, plucking an electric guitar that wasn’t plugged in to anything. The strings made faint plinking noises, almost like a toy.
“Hey,” I whispered, tiptoeing over. “What’s going on?”
“The landlord,” Travis whispered back. He looked up at me. “You play?”
“Guitar? No.” I always wanted to. A few years ago, my grandmother was cleaning out her house, and she found an old acoustic guitar in the attic, gathering dust. She put it in a big pile of stuff she wanted my dad to haul off to the Salvation Army, but I persuaded him to let me take the guitar home. I asked him to book me a lesson at the music school across town, but when the day came, he forgot about it and went to work. It was too far for me to walk, and I couldn’t bike with the guitar. Dad apologized and booked me another lesson, but he forgot that one, too. After that, I didn’t ask for any more lessons. And now the guitar sat in the hall closet of our house in Millville, gathering more dust.
“Here. Sit down.” Travis patted the futon next to him. I sat, and he slid the guitar into my lap. It was heavier than I thought it would be.
“Hold it like this.” He propped it up and put the pick in my right hand. “Now press down on the strings with your left hand, like this.” He made my hand into a claw and pressed my fingertips down on the strings.
“Ow!”
“Now strum with the pick.” I strummed. The notes buzzed out, nowhere near how I thought they would sound. Travis moved one of my fingers. I pressed harder and strummed again. This time, it sounded better.
“There you go. That’s pretty good,” he whispered.
I had to let go. “It hurts!”
“You’ve gotta build up your calluses. I’ve got pretty heavy strings on here, too.” He took the guitar back and played a quick succession of notes. I couldn’t believe how fast his fingers moved on the strings.
Just then the bedroom door burst open, and we both looked up. A tall woman with sleek black hair and a scarf swept over her shoulders walked out into the kitchen. My mom was behind her. She looked like she’d been crying.
“And you must be Maria.” The woman looked at me. “I’m Nina Dowd, an old friend of your mother’s.”
“Pleased to meet you.” I stood up and shook her hand, out of politeness. Her name sounded familiar. I was trying to remember when my mother had mentioned her before, but I couldn’t. I didn’t know why, but I felt like this woman was the enemy.
“You just started at Prince Academy, right?”
“Yes, ma’am.” Behind Nina, in the kitchen, my mother lit a cigarette. Nina. She was the one who
owned the boutique where my mother worked—that’s what it was. It was in one of her letters, maybe two years ago. I’m working in my friend Nina’s boutique. Part-time, so I can still do my art.
“My late husband’s alma mater. How do you like it?”
“Today was my first day.” Wait a minute. Suddenly, I remembered. Nina Dowd. She was my grandmother’s friend, the one whose telephone number my grandmother gave me when I left. The one I was supposed to call if I needed anything. Okay, so how was it remotely possible that my mother and my grandmother had the same friend? Maybe there were two different women named Nina Dowd. That made way more sense.
“Ah, well, it seems you’ve emerged in one piece.”
“I guess so.”
“Victoria.” Nina ended our conversation abruptly. “I have an appointment. You know where to reach me.” She turned back to face me. “Maria, it was lovely to meet you.”
“Likewise,” I said. She walked out the door in a cloud of citrusy perfume. As soon as she left, my mother started crying. Travis leaped off the couch and went to put his arms around her.
“What happened, babe? What is it?”
She buried her face in his chest, shaking her head. I felt like I should leave. Like something was happening between the two of them that I shouldn’t be watching.
“I thought I was getting better.” She was choking on tears. “Wasn’t I doing better?”
“You’re doing great, honey,” Travis murmured. “What did she tell you?”
Mom sniffled and straightened up. She smiled a strange smile.
“Nina,” she said, her voice dripping, poisonous, “is selling the building. The new owners are raising the rent.” She shook her head. “I can’t believe it. I’ve been living here since 1987, and she’s never raised the rent once. Not once. And now she’s going to let somebody waltz right in here and take the shirts off our backs.”
“How much are you paying now?” I asked.
“Two hundred and fifty a month.”
“Does she know how much these new people are gonna raise it?” Travis asked.
“Maybe it’s not that much,” I said. Mom shook her head, wiping mascara off her cheeks. I was already calculating in my head. I was happy to help out with the rent. I could ask my grandmother for some money to make up the difference, and then, once I got caught up at Prince, I could get a part-time job.
“Fifteen fifty a month.”
“Fifteen hundred and fifty dollars?” Travis exploded. “For this place? That’s bullshit!”
“Are you sure?” I asked. “That seems like way too much.”
“It’s the way the whole city is going.” Mom looked at me warily. “You get a mayor like Giuliani, who decides to get tough on crime and turns Times Square into some kind of amusement park, and all the people who moved out to the suburbs because they thought the city wasn’t safe decide to move back because now they turn on Regis and Kathie Lee or whatever and, oh, it looks like so much fun. ‘Look honey, no more hookers! Let’s go see a show and take the kids!’ But it’s fake! It’s cheap and plastic and fake, and now it’s happening down here—used to be, you couldn’t walk through this neighborhood in broad daylight without having to look over your shoulder. But, I’m telling you, Rivington Street’s gonna end up just another theme-park ride, like Times Square. Someplace only trust-fund babies can afford. Someplace they can come play Make-Believe Artist until they decide to take over their parents’ companies. But it’s totally phony. It’s Bohemians of the Caribbean!”
Travis laughed. Mom kept ranting.
“You think it’s funny?” Mom ripped a paper towel off the roll and blew her nose. “Think about all the people we know who stuck it out down here all these years, and now they’re losing their stores and apartments from the rent going up.”
“What happens to them?” I felt nervous again, imagining us like the people I’d seen on the streets. Homeless. At least I had Millville to go back to, even though I didn’t want to. But Mom and Travis couldn’t exactly come move in with my dad.
“What happens is that they have to leave the city,” Mom explained. “Move out to the boroughs. Or New Jersey. And I’ll be damned if I’m moving back there.” My mom was born and raised in New Jersey. But, according to my dad, she and her father, my grandfather, didn’t get along. Her mom died when she was little, and her father remarried a woman who ended up being the classic evil stepmother. It was strange to think that I had a grandfather I’d never even met.
“We could go stay at my dad’s place for a while,” Travis offered. “Out in Forest Hills. At least until I can get a job again.”
“What about the boutique?” I asked.
“Huh?”
“Yeah, what about the boutique.” Travis gave Mom a funny look.
“I mean … this is the same Nina who’s your boss, right?”
“Right. How did you know that?”
“You wrote about her. In a letter you sent me,” I reminded her. “Anyway, she can’t expect you to come to work when you don’t have any place to live.”
“Oh, believe me, Nina’s taken care of everything. Out of the goodness of her heart.” Mom’s voice got sarcastic again. “She’s offered us an apartment in Brooklyn. At the bargain-basement price of four hundred and fifty dollars a month.”
“We can pull off four-fifty,” Travis decided. “And Brooklyn’s not so bad. The guys from the band used to live out there, before they moved to LA.”
“Parts of Brooklyn aren’t so bad.” Mom rolled her eyes. “It’s the apartment above Citygirls.”
“You gotta be kidding me.” Travis laughed.
“What’s Citygirls?” I asked.
“It’s a—” Mom grimaced. “Strip club. It belonged to Nina’s late husband.”
“It’s right under the BQE!” Travis exclaimed. “Between that and the music, how are we ever gonna get any sleep at night?”
“Oh, you sleep through everything,” Mom scoffed. “Jackhammers, thunderstorms—”
“What’s the BQE?” I interrupted.
“Brooklyn-Queens Expressway,” Mom explained. “You’ll get to know it intimately. We have to be out of here in two weeks.”
“I refuse to be depressed about this,” Mom announced after we’d all moped around the apartment. I joined in the moping wholeheartedly once I looked up the nearest stop to the new apartment on the subway map and realized that my ride to school had just doubled in length.
“We’re ordering out for dinner.” She yanked open a kitchen drawer and got out a stack of menus. “You two order anything you want. Order everything. I don’t care.” She handed the menus to Travis and grabbed her purse. “I’ll be right back. I’m going to get us some drinks.” Mom whirled out the door. As soon as it was closed, she flung it open again.
“And put some music on, for Pete’s sake,” she added, then left again.
“All right.” Travis smiled. “Here, find us some food.” He handed the menus off to me and leaped over the edge of the futon toward the stereo. A blast of guitar came out of the speakers. The Ramones. Travis cranked it even louder and started to pogo dance. He pogoed back into the kitchen, right into me.
“Knock it off, I’m making dinner.” I elbowed him. There were too many choices. New Dragon Chinese, Burritos-to-Go, Mikoto Sushi, JJ’s Pizzeria, the Hummus House.
“Let’s get something from everywhere,” Travis said, already breathless. He pogoed into me again, and I shoved back.
“Okay, Mosh Pit, just because we’re getting kicked out doesn’t mean we should destroy the place.”
“Yes it does!” Travis was jubilant.
“Will you stop bouncing and help me order dinner? What do you want, anyway?”
“Pancakes.” He laughed. “Pancakes and pizza and a Burrito to Go!”
“Oh my gosh, it’s, like, twenty till two!” Mom giggled, shoving the empty food containers into a trash bag. “What time do you have to be up for school?”
“Six thirty,” I said
. We both burst out laughing. Travis ended up drinking the beer she bought, even though she offered me one—since I wasn’t driving, she said. I decided to stick to the spicy Jamaican ginger beer my mom bought for herself. Nonalcoholic, for that pure-cane-sugar buzz.
“I guess I should let you get to sleep,” she said. “It’s only your second day.”
“I’m not tired, though.”
“Me neither!” She tossed the trash bag into the corner. “Let’s learn how to Pony!” She put another tape in the VCR. Mom had a whole stack of these tapes of old dance shows from the sixties, like Shindig! and Hullabaloo. We’d already learned the Mashed Potato, the Watusi, the Hully Gully, the Hitch Hike, and the Swim. Now she pressed play and we tried to follow the smiling girls in Patty Duke hairdos showing us the steps. Pretty soon we were falling into each other and laughing again.
“Shh, we’re gonna wake up Travis,” I cautioned.
“Don’t worry about him. Seriously, he really has slept through jackhammers.” She turned the TV down anyway. “So, I haven’t had a chance to ask you what you think.”
“I think we’re going to have to practice a lot more if we’re going to take this show on the road.” I pointed at the girls doing the Pony flawlessly on the screen.
“No, silly.” She laughed, bumping my shoulder. “What do you think about Travis?”
“I like him. He’s nice.”
“I know. And he’s so hot. Wait till you see him play guitar.”
I concentrated on the TV so Mom wouldn’t see me blushing. It was embarrassing to hear her talk about Travis being hot.
“But do you think he’s too young?” she asked. “He’s only twenty-two. I’m, like, two years younger than his mom. Is that too weird?”
“I dunno.” Truthfully, it didn’t seem too weird at all. Maybe because my mom seemed so young herself. “He’s younger than Dad, that’s for sure.”
“Honey, everybody’s younger than your dad,” she said. “How is the old man, anyway?”
Supergirl Mixtapes Page 4
