Harley, Like a Person

by Cat Bauer

  “You from Lenape?” Oliver asks me.

  “Yes.” I try to smile a Tori smile. It feels fake.

  “Lenape sucks.” Oliver gulps down more beer and burps.

  I nod. “It truly does.”

  Oliver grins at me. “I like this girl.” He turns to Evan. “Wanna play a tune, bro? Everybody's been waiting.”

  Evan chugs his cup of beer. “Sure.”

  I follow them into the living room. Evan gets behind the drums and takes off his jacket. His arms are toned and bulge out of his T-shirt. Oliver picks up a guitar and starts playing riffs. An amplifier squeals. A guy with a shaved head and tattoos gets behind the keyboard. Another guy with spiked black hair picks up the bass. Oliver nods his head and together the four of them explode into song. Nothing like Johnny Bruno's snoozy folk tunes.

  I watch Evan behind the drums, his blond hair flying. He is really good, and I am thrilled that I am here with him. People stare at me, and I know they wonder who I am, but no one comes over to talk. Fine. I am too shy to talk to strangers anyway. I wonder if everyone here is rich.

  Then this girl with long black hair and white, white skin slinks over, puffing on a joint. “Wanna hit?” Her lips are deep red, and her eyes match her black hair. She looks like Morticia in The Addams Family. She holds the marijuana out to me. She has a silver ring on every finger, even her thumbs. I hesitate, then take the joint.

  “Thanks.” I'm not sure what to do with it.

  She watches me. “It's really good.”

  My heart is racing, but I am curious. I raise the joint to my lips and take a puff. I am an expert inhaler now; I've been practicing with the Marlboro Lights. I concentrate on not coughing. “Nice,” I say, blowing out a cloud of smoke. I wait to see if my brain starts frying, but I don't feel a bit different. Maybe I'm one of those weirdos who can't get high. Morticia nods to me to take another hit. I inhale again, this time a little longer, then pass the joint back to her.

  “I'm Jessie,” says Morticia. “Oliver's girlfriend. Are you Harley?”

  I'm surprised she knows my name. “Yes.”

  “Evan's told me tons about you. You're an artist, right? I've never seen him so gone for somebody.”

  This bit of news gives me a boost. Evan's been talking about me! Jessie puts the joint to her lips. I watch her moves. She does not exhale right away, but holds it in for a long time. She passes the joint back to me. I mimic her and take a deep, deep breath. The smoke smells sweet and exotic. It stings my lungs. My ears buzz. I start to hand her back the joint. “Take another hit,” she coaxes. “It's really good.”

  I place the joint against my mouth again and inhale. I hold it in for a long time, then breathe out slowly. I perfect my technique. Hardly any smoke comes out. I pass the joint back to Jessie. She takes a quick puff and hands it back to me. I inhale. No coughing, no choking. I think I've got it down now; I am gulping in smoke like an expert.

  “You're not Evan's usual type.” Jessie has a scratchy voice, like she smokes a lot of cigarettes. “Usually he ends up with these vacant blondes. I think he gets that from his old man, Q.C.”

  “Really?” My turn. I take another hit. My head is starting to spin. “Well, I usually end up with these dark Italians.” I toss the words out like a pro, as if Evan is my first blond in a long line of brown-haired men.

  Jessie laughs and laughs, like I have said the most amazingly witty thing. I start giggling, too, although there's really nothing funny at all. “I know what you mean!” she says. “I go for those dark broody types myself!” She is cracking up.

  Her laughter is making me laugh. “Right!” I giggle. “The broodier, the better!” We are smoking and laughing up a storm.

  “Feelin' bummed?” Jessie shrieks. “Call Jessie, she'll talk you off the ledge!”

  Now we are absolutely roaring, we are laughing so hard. The last time I laughed like this was with Carla in the old days. I decide I really like Jessie a lot. I decide that I really like being here a lot. The band is sounding better and better. In fact, everything seems fascinating suddenly. Then I realize: I have crossed the border into Wonderland. Go ask Alice. I am stoned.

  The music has stopped and Evan is now at my side. I wonder how long he has been standing there. I collapse, giggling, into his arms.

  “I like your girlfriend,” Jessie informs Evan, passing him the joint. Girlfriend. Girl. Friend. I am Evan's girlfriend. It's a wonderful word. Friend who is a girl. No, it's something more than that. I am Evan's friend. Means nothing. I am Evan's girlfriend. I analyze the word over and over. My mind has turned into a dictionary. I start laughing again.

  “Yeah, I like her, too.” Evan takes a quick puff. He glances over at me standing there, cackling at nothing. He grabs my hand. “It's loud down here. Let's go upstairs.” He winks at Jessie. “Catch ya later, Jess.” She smiles back, but her eyes are far away.

  I am still chuckling as he leads me through the smoky haze, stepping over a jungle of bodies and empty bottles and up the carpeted steps, where the bedrooms are. I imagine we are on an African safari, wandering through the wild brush, looking for an empty tent where we can spend the night. Oh, wow. I am really stoned.

  It's quiet upstairs, like a church. Evan opens a door. He mumbles, “Sorry,” and closes it quickly. He opens another door and peers inside. He tugs my hand and whispers, “Come in.” I hear Evan click the lock on the door behind me. He turns on a little light. The shade is made out of colorful fragments of glass. “That's a real Tiffany lamp,” he says. I nod like I know what he is talking about. I am standing in a huge white bedroom with an enormous white king-size bed. The walls are white. The carpet is white. The furniture is white. There is a huge framed painting over the bed, all white.

  I stare at the lamp, and the colors start to move. I pick up the lamp. “Hey, Tiffany,” I say to the lamp. I hold the lamp up to my eyes and peer through the colorful shade. Now I am inside one of my paintings, looking at the room through a kaleidoscope. I move the lamp around and watch the colors change. I will paint this later, I remind myself. Don't forget.

  Evan lies down on the bed and pats the space beside him. “Come over here, you.” I set down the lamp and float over to the bed. I sink into the huge, fluffy mattress. I have never been on such a soft bed. Aha. This is the princess-and-the-pea test. There is a panel of experts downstairs, waiting for the result.

  I lie down next to Evan. Hmmm. I cannot feel the pea. I cannot feel anything. I am a princess with a blank face, awkward and stiff. He strokes my hair, and I start to melt. Yes, now I can feel the pea underneath the twenty-third mattress. Evan leans over and kisses my lips. I put my arms around his neck. He feels strong. He moves on top of me. His fingers start to unbutton my shirt. His hands are feathers on my neck, my belly; my body tingles. He reaches behind my back to unhook my bra. He hesitates. I think I am supposed to stop him, but I don't want to. He releases the hook in one expert move, then kisses my neck, my throat. We are both trembling. He reaches down and fiddles with the button on my pants. This I am not ready for. I stop his fingers with my hand. “Not yet,” I murmur.

  “Okay,” he whispers, and his lips once again touch mine. I kiss him for hours and hours, it seems. I cannot get enough of those lips, that tongue.

  Finally he lies back and just holds me in his arms. “I better take you home.”

  The blue Camaro slides up to the front of my house. Two minutes to eleven. Cinderella is back from the ball with both glass slippers on her feet. I see Peppy sneak a peek from behind the iron curtain. I swear, that woman hasn't moved since we left.

  Evan turns off the engine and sweeps me under his arm. We kiss, but my heart's not in it. All I can think of is my mother with her binocular eyes. I slip out of Evan's embrace.

  “My mother is spying on us.”

  “Let's give her a show.” Evan kisses me again. I can feel Peppy's eyes burn through the window and right into my brain.

  “I can't.”

  Evan sits up. “That's okay.
” He is compassionate, as I now understand the word. I straighten my clothes and run a brush through my hair. I get logical. There's really no way Peppy can see inside the car. I hope I'm not going to be one of those paranoid people.

  “I had a really great time tonight, Evan,” I say as I open the car door. “Thanks.”

  “I'll call you.”

  I stand there with the door open, looking back at him. I feel daring. I put my knee on the passenger seat and lean into him. I smack a big fat kiss right on his lips. Have a gander at that, Peppy-poo.

  Evan laughs. “You devil.”

  I run up the stairs to the porch. Peppy opens the door as I reach the top. Evan's Camaro starts up and roars away. I step into the house.

  “Did you have a good time?”

  “Wonderful.”

  “He seems like a nice boy. If he got a haircut.”

  I give Peppy a hug. “Oh, Mom. I'm in love!”

  Peppy smiles. “Sshh! Don't wake your father.”

  “Good night, Mom.” I peck her on the cheek. “Good night, Harley.” Peppy clicks off the front-porch light. I tiptoe upstairs, too excited to sleep. If she only knew.

  It's lunchtime. I could not concentrate all morning, just thinking about Evan. I am truly, madly, passionately in love. I drop The Complete Illustrated Works of Compassion, by Harley Columba, off at Ms. Minelli's office, but she is not there. I leave the paper on her desk, then head toward the Pond Hole. I see Evan talking to a bunch of rowdies.

  “Hey, babe. Where've ya been?” Evan throws his arm around me. Here I am, standing on the Pond Hole steps, immersed in the center of the elite. Last week I was just passing through and today I am the nucleus. I wish that Carla would walk by. If they could see me now …

  “Oh, I had to write this poem so Minelli wouldn't give me a detention.” I toss this off over my shoulder. Detention is a status thing with this group.

  “A poem? Cool.” Evan lights a cigarette and hands it to me. I take a drag. With each puff I feel myself drift farther away from the person I used to be. Sometimes I miss that girl, the old me. Even though I sit on one of the high stone steps, smoking like an expert, a piece of me is outside of it all, watching. People make their way back from lunch. The rah-rahs clamber up the long driveway so they don't have to walk through the center of this crowd. A punk or two approaches and abruptly changes direction. Indies march straight up the middle, as if to say, I don't care who you people are. Sometimes the elite snicker behind their backs. I wonder if they ever made fun of me and Carla in the old days. It seems so long ago.

  “… you wanna go?” I realize Evan has been talking to me.

  “I … I didn't hear you.”

  “I said, you wanna go to the Spring Ball? I know it's weird and all, but a couple of people are going—”

  “YES!” I shout. Everybody looks at me. I lower my voice. “I would love to.” Is this boy perfect, or what? I never thought Evan would be the type to go to some stupid high school dance.

  “Get excited, Harley, why don't you?” Evan grins at me like I'm five years old and he just handed me a lollipop.

  I squeeze his hand. I, Harley Columba, am actually going to the Spring Ball. Wait until Carla hears about this.

  I must move quickly. There are important things, like a new dress, to consider. The good ones were snatched off the racks weeks ago.

  “Mom?” Peppy is ironing Roger's handkerchiefs. I swear, she's an indentured servant, the things she does for that man. “Mom, Evan's asked me to the Spring Ball, and I need a dress.”

  “When is it?” Peppy doesn't even look up. The iron spits steam from its nostrils.

  “Saturday.”

  “Why don't I make you a dress? We'll get some nice material….”

  “Oh, Mom. A homemade dress? I'd be humiliated.”

  “Do you have the money for a dress?”

  “Twenty bucks. Enough to buy a zipper.”

  Peppy sighs. “You are supposed to be grounded, young lady.”

  If anybody ever said, “Oh, I'm so happy for you, dear,” I would drop dead, I swear. I will strike a deal. “What if I promise to do the ironing for an entire month?”

  Hiss. Thump. Hiss. Thump. The iron flattens the handkerchiefs into perfect white squares. “I'll split it with you.”

  “YES!” I jump in the air. “Let's go to the mall right this second.” The mall is a half hour away, too far for me to go alone.

  “Tomorrow.”

  I do not push it. Tomorrow is better than never.

  I am in the library. Miss Wrigley is humming behind the counter, scribbling students' names on yellow Postits and sticking them on books like she is preparing birthday presents.

  “Hey, Miss Wrigley.”

  “What can I do for you today, Harley?” she asks, like if I wanted a first edition of Tom Sawyer she'd pull it out of her carpetbag.

  “Could I please see the New York City telephone book again?”

  Miss Wrigley scratches the back of her hair with her pen. “Oh, dear. I think I might have returned it….”

  “Really?” It took over a week to get it the last time, and I don't have any time to lose. “I need to see it again. It's sort of important. I should have told you….”

  Miss Wrigley frowns. “Actually, it could still be here. Maybe I just thought about bringing it back. Wait a second.” She zips off into the depths of the back room and reappears immediately with the fat Manhattan White Pages held high over her head like a trophy. “Got it!”

  “Thanks.” I smile at her and carry the book over to a table. I flip to the section where it says “Manhattan—Residence.” I run my finger down the S's, lose my place, and start again. Between Shamir and Sharkey I find it: Shanahan. I stare at the name. Shanahan, in black and white. I skim the column. No Sean, but three entries for “Shanahan, S.” I scribble down all three addresses and phone numbers on an index card and stick it in my pocket, close to my heart.

  We are in the mall. Packs of girls roam the corridors, searching for boys and accessories. I am the only one here with a mother. I walk a little in front of her so it is not so obvious we are together. But I really don't mind; Peppy took off work early to bring me, and for that I am grateful.

  We pass by a jewelry store. In the window is a pair of delicate earrings, hand-painted roses entwined in gold. “Oh, Mom, look. Aren't they beautiful?”

  Peppy glances at the earrings and keeps walking. “Too expensive.”

  “Yes, but aren't they pretty?” I swear, Peppy is so suburban. If it's not on sale at Sears, it means nothing to her.

  “Come on, Harley. It's getting late.”

  I know exactly what I want: a little black dress. This will be tough. If it were up to Peppy, she'd have me in ribbons and floral prints. She is so far out of the loop, it's embarrassing.

  We walk into my favorite store. Videos play overhead on monitors. Dance music blasts. I love this place. There is a whole rack of little black dresses. I grab three and head for the dressing room. Peppy sits outside the door in an overstuffed chair like an armed guard, ready to veto my selections. This is a woman who wouldn't let me shave my legs until last year.

  I try on the first dress. I don't really want it, but it is so risqué that by the time I get to the last one, Peppy will be ground down. I emerge from the dressing room and strike a pose.

  “Absolutely not, Harley Marie.”

  “But, Mom—”

  “No.”

  That's okay. I try on the second one. Same response. I slip the third dress over my head. I step up to the mirror and smile, no teeth, only lips, like a sphinx. “Ooo, girl.” I wink at myself in the mirror. “You are hot.” I turn sideways and press my palms against my stomach. I thrust out my chest. Yes. It looks better than I dreamed it would. I twirl and leap out of the dressing room. “Ta-da!”

  Carla, not Peppy, sits in the overstuffed chair.

  I blink. She is real, not an illusion, and does not disappear. Peppy and Ronnie stand on either side of her.
No one speaks. For a second I am off balance. Then I realize: Carla has wandered into my den.

  “Why, hello, Carla,” I purr, growling underneath. “Hello, Ronnie. Long time no see.” The music pounds in the background to the rhythm of the tension in the air. I wonder if Carla asked Ronnie about our mutual father. I doubt it. Here we are, four women with the same secret. I imagine, many years ago, Sean Shanahan delivering the harlequin to his little blue-eyed daughter. Ring! The doorbell chimes. Ronnie sobs on the front lawn, holding baby Carla in her arms, begging Sean to come back. Roger answers the door. In a drunken stupor, he punches Sean in the face and tells him never to set foot in Lenape again. Peppy grabs the harlequin doll and hides it away in the storage area to give to her love child when she is old enough to understand.

  “I hear you're going to the Spring Ball with Evan.” Well, well. Carla is actually speaking to me. She is green, she is so envious.

  “You heard right.” I delight in rubbing it in.

  “That dress is cute on you, Harley.” Ronnie looks uncomfortable.

  “What do you think, Mom?” I am clever. I see an opening and make my move. I must have this dress. Peppy will not want to be shown up by Ronnie.

  Peppy frowns. For a second I think she is going to disappoint me. She sighs one of her famous sighs. “I suppose so, Harley. Though it still seems too old for you.”

  “Thank you, Mom!” I give Peppy a big hug. It is like hugging an ironing board.

  “They grow up so fast, don't they, Patricia?” I see Ronnie's hand tug on Carla's blouse, a signal that she wants to make a quick exit.

  “Some faster than others.” Peppy gets in a dig. Columbas two points, Van Owens nothing. Now I know why Peppy hates Ronnie. Scandalous. Carla is four months older than me. If Sean Shanahan is my father, that means Peppy had an affair with him while Ronnie was pregnant. Juicy, juicy, juicy.

  “Well, we'd better get going, Mom.” Carla flips her hair and, I swear, lifts her nose in the air. She turns to me and rips out a zinger. “They say I'm up for Princess of the Ball. We're trying to find me a pair of shoes to match my outfit. You should see my dress, Harley. It is so incredible. You can't believe how much it cost. We got it at Frangelica's.”