Girls in Trouble: A Novel

by Caroline Leavitt

  Sara smiled. He was nice, this guy. She was starting to like him.

  “Teacher?” she guessed, looking at him.

  “Architect. I’m lucky because I’m a designer. Business is so bad now that half the architects I went to school with are driving cabs. I was the fool who held out for what I loved,” he said. He molded the air as he talked, as if he were shaping clay, and she couldn’t help but notice how large and graceful his hands were. “But you don’t go into architecture for the money.” He wanted to have his own firm, he told her, and eventually, he wanted to design his own house, build it from the bottom brick up. “Most of the architects I know like modern, so I guess I’m a throwback. I like all those old features, the wraparound porches that keep you cooler summers, that let you get some feel of outside when it rains. It’s crazy to throw out the past just because it’s the past, don’t you think?”

  They came to the subway. People were pouring down into it, jostling their way up onto the street. In ten minutes, she’d be home. “Well . . .” She fumbled for words.

  “Would you have dinner with me?” Scott asked.

  Her smile spread across her face. She tried to think about her schedule, to reach into her purse and dig out a pen or a scrap of paper. “Almost got a pen,” she said. He touched her hand, and then she felt a jolt of heat and looked up at him, startled.

  “No. I mean right now,” he said. “Let’s have dinner now.”

  They went to a Mexican place he knew in the West Village, a little hole in the wall that he said was his favorite place in the world. The restaurant had bright striped Mexican blankets on the walls and margaritas the size of soup bowls, and the two waitresses were young and cheerful and dressed in T-shirts and jeans.

  Sara folded herself onto the tiny chair, her knees knocking against Scott’s, but she didn’t take them away because she felt that same jolt of heat again. She couldn’t concentrate on the menu and, in the end, ordered the same chicken tamales Scott did.

  Scott was telling her about growing up an only child in a Santa Fe suburb. He told her how his mother used to scribble sayings from the Bible on the napkins she packed in his lunch box every day. “Almost every one of them was frightening. I remember finding ‘God has cast me into the mire,’ and she just loved ‘Fret not yourself because of the wicked.’ She used that one a couple of times. I always felt she was trying to tell me something but all she’d say was, ‘That’s between you and God.’ That was her way to get me to head for church and pray for answers.” He grinned. “It was my way to head for the local movie theater. To me, double features were very, very holv.”

  Sara laughed. The waitress set down the tamales. “Very hot plates,” she warned.

  Sara hadn’t eaten all day. She loved Mexican food, but the way this food was prepared tasted different from any Mexican food she had had before. Each dish was more fiery than the next, and her mouth began to feel raw, her stomach was in a tangle. She took a big, enthusiastic bite, and instantly her mouth felt in flames.

  “These are my favorites,” Scott said and Sara nodded. “Wonderful,” she managed to get out, and she grabbed for her water and finished it in a gulp.

  “Are you all right?” Scott said. He handed her his water. “Have more.”

  She nodded and sipped, moving her tongue experimentally. She bet she had burned a layer of skin off the roof of her mouth.

  “Okay now? Good. Now tell me about you.”

  “About me?” She played with her fork. “What do you want to know?”

  “Oh—everything.”

  She took another long, slow sip of water. Her mouth cooled, her stomach settled a little, and she started to talk.

  She told Scott about growing up in Boston, about her parents. She told him how her father was an accountant, and how he had once bought her a real cash register for her birthday to teach her math, stocking it with ten dollars’ worth of real money. “He thought it would teach me the value of money, and it sure did. I learned that ice cream cost a dollar, that three dollars could buy you more than enough chocolate to make yourself feel sick, and that you could empty a whole cash register in two weeks without even trying.”

  Scott’s smile widened and he put one hand casually on the table, and all Sara could think was that she could move her hand an inch and she’d be touching his.

  “I’ve been making you talk and your food’s getting cold,” Scott apologized. “You eat, and I’ll be right back.”

  He left the table and she saw him head for the restrooms at the back of the restaurant. The restaurant was noisy with people. Sara’s plate was still filled with food and all of it was so fuel-injected with jalapenos that she thought she’d spontaneously combust if she took another bite. She didn’t want to hurt Scott’s feelings since he was so enthusiastic about this place. She tried to arrange the food on her plate so it looked as though she had eaten more, pushing it to the side the way she did when she was a kid, but even so, her plate still looked loaded. Sneaking a glance around for Scott, she quickly spooned the food into her napkin, folding it over into a ball. Then she crossed her knife and fork on her plate and there, suddenly, was Scott. She put one hand to her stomach. “This was so delicious,” she said, and Scott smiled. “Didn’t I tell you?” he said, and then he caught the waitress’s attention, making a check mark in the air for the bill.

  Outside was muggy, the air thick as a woolen coat. Scott walked her home, but he didn’t take her hand or touch her again, and the one time she touched his shoulder, he kept looking straight ahead. She wasn’t sure what had happened to make him suddenly seem to like her less, but the closer they got to her apartment, the quieter he got, which made Sara want to talk more. They passed the Chelsea Cinema and she told him she had seen three movies there last night. She looked up at the marquee. “Oh, new movies are up!” she said. She felt fake as painted pennies. “Have you seen the new DeNiro?” she persisted.

  He looked up at the marquee and then at her. “I hear that’s great,” he said, “I love DeNiro,” but he didn’t ask her if she wanted to see it. Instead, he pointed to a building across the street. “I like Chelsea because it’s got these great old buildings,” he said. “Look at that stone work, that nice brick detailing. Who does work like that today?”

  She didn’t know what to do at her door, whether to invite him up, or say good night, but she didn’t have to. He thrust out his hand and took hers. He smiled warmly. His palm was dry, his grip as steady as if he were shaking the postman’s hand. “Thanks for coming to dinner,” he said pleasantly, and then, before she could say anything, or scribble down her phone number for him, he turned and started walking the other way.

  Her apartment was eerily quiet. No one was shouting or stomping or doing anything that would reverberate through her walls. Her answering machine blinked with messages. A woman at work named Jennifer. Kate. A man someone had given her name to, clearing his throat. “Would you like to come to dinner with me, say next Friday at eight?” he asked, pausing as if any moment she might pick up the phone and answer.

  She sat down at the table and tried to work, but she kept thinking about Scott. She didn’t have to replay the good-night scene to know when a man wasn’t interested. He hadn’t even asked her last name. Forget it, she told herself. She glanced at the clock. There would be other men, other hearts that would make hers beat a little faster. Work, she told herself, think about Madame’s bathing suits.

  The next morning, Sara was on her way to the greengrocer’s for supplies—pretzels and cheese and juice—planning to do nothing but hole up in her apartment and work.

  Her block was busy with people, and most of them seemed stunned by the heat. A turtle walked along the edge of the sidewalk, urged on by two children. A man turned on his boom box and salsa blared, making Sara wince and cross the street.

  Jesus, this street, she thought. What she’d give for a serene little country house, for cool breezes and blue lake water. “Sara!” someone called.

  She turned,
and there, standing in the doorway of Healthy Chelsea, a tall glass of something gold and frosty looking in his hand, smiling out at her in delight, was Scott.

  “What are you doing here?” she said, hoping he’d say he was here because of her, but he just shrugged.

  “Checking on a building, stopping for juice.” He held it up so she could see and then he looked closer at her and grinned, took his napkin and wiped at her nose.

  “You got some ink there,” he said. “What are you up to?”

  “Taking a walk.”

  He checked his watch. “Can I come?”

  She didn’t have a clue where they were going, and he didn’t really seem to know, either, but in any case, she didn’t care. Even in her platform sneakers, he was a head taller than she, and she liked the way he seemed to measure his steps with hers, as if he had asked her to dance. She could have walked forever, jet-propelled. She kept looking at him out of the corner of her eye, marveling that he was here, beside her again. He asked her a million questions. How was work? Had she seen any movies? Read any books he should know about? They were strolling, but everything felt in fast-forward. The pavement was uneven, and she stumbled, but he grabbed her hand to steady her. “All right now?” he said, and she nodded, and when they continued walking, he kept her hand in his.

  She began to try and steer him someplace, to the diner she liked on Eighteenth Street, to the bookstore with the great cafe. She pointed to the Joyce Theater and he nodded happily. “I love that place,” he told her. “Last week, my friend Mona and I saw Mark Morris there.”

  Sara’s heart tumbled in her chest. She smiled evenly and said nothing. They walked around and around for a while, and were heading back to her apartment.

  When they got there, he came to a complete stop, then he let go of her hand and grew silent. She wasn’t ready for him to walk away from her. She tried to imagine what it might feel like to touch his chest, to place his hand against her cheek. Heat rose inside of her.

  “I have iced tea,” she blurted. “Would you like some?”

  He hesitated, considering. “No,” he said. And then, “All right.”

  She led him upstairs. As soon as she opened the door, Scott was studying her floor-to-ceiling windows, so tall she had had to get blinds custom made for them. He pulled the blinds up. “Great windows,” he said. “Bet you get a whole lot of light in here.” He traced a hand along the panes.

  He sat on her couch, and she switched on her air conditioner and brought him some iced tea. She felt as if she were in a kind of trance, being pulled toward him. As soon as she put the tea on the table, he reached over and touched one of her ringlets before he abruptly let his hand fall back into his lap.

  “I should get going,” Scott said. She sat down beside him and put her hand on his face, and when he didn’t move, she took her hand awav, shamed. “I’m sorry—I thought—”

  “What?”

  “Are you married?”

  “What? No!” he laughed, but she stayed serious.

  “I’m not good at reading people sometimes,” she said. Her shoulders rose and she rested her hands in her lap, hesitating. “I like you,” she admitted. “Are we just friends? Am I not your type?”

  “Sara,” he said, looking down at his hands. “I guess I need to tell you something.”

  She was certain he could hear the sick rolling in her stomach. Whenever someone told you they needed to tell you something, it was usually something you didn’t really want to hear.

  “There was this woman,” he said, carefully. “Wren. We were going to get married last year, then a week before the wedding she told me she was in love with someone else.”

  “Oh no.”

  He rubbed Sara’s thumb. “I saw the wedding announcement six months ago. I still can’t figure it out. We were always together. When had she even had time to meet anyone else, let alone fall in love with him?” He pulled Sara’s hand up and kissed it. “When I met you, I didn’t know what to do, because I liked you instantly. I couldn’t figure out how to protect myself and still see you, so I’ve been trying to play it cool.”

  Outside, a siren whined. “Do you still love her?” Sara rested her chin on her knees.

  “I’ve still got my wounds. She called me once to ask if I’d renovate their loft in Soho. I couldn’t do it.” He sighed. “What about you? Any secrets I should know?”

  Sara looked away.

  “Should I have not told you? Did I blow it?” Scott asked.

  “There’s no reason to tell anyone,” Abby had said. “As soon as people know, they’ll look at you differently. They’ll think different thoughts about you.” Sara shook the image off.

  “Come on, I showed you mine, you show me yours,” Scott coaxed.

  She couldn’t look at him while she was telling him about Anne and George and Eva, about Danny. Instead, she looked at her toes, at the square of light by the far window. She had told this story to herself so many times that it felt as if someone else were telling it now. When she dared look at him, he was so silent, she began to be afraid of what he must think of her. “I’m sorry,” she said. “I shouldn’t have told you.”

  “I’m not going anywhere, Sara,” he said quietly. “I’m glad you told me. And I’m so sorry.” And then he reached for her hair again, and he pulled her to him, kissing her full on the mouth. She put her arms about his neck and leaned toward him. She liked the way he smelled, like wood. She licked his shoulder and found she liked the way he tasted, too, salty and warm, and then he held her tighter, and they rolled onto the floor.

  She slid out of her clothes, and then he touched her again, and her lids floated shut.

  Afterward, lying there, his eyes on her, she felt suddenly self-conscious. Her stomach had flattened long ago, and her stretch marks were faint, silvery webs you wouldn’t notice unless you looked as intently at her as Scott was doing. She shifted position away from him. She glanced at Scott. If he said anything at all to her, she knew she’d feel undone. He was looking at her now as if he were memorizing her. She reached for her blouse and his hand stopped her. “No, don’t. I love to look at you,” he marveled.

  She was so warm that her hair lay damply on her body. “I’m a little chilly.”

  “I’ll warm you, then.” He leaned closer to her and gently rubbed her hands, her legs, the tips of her toes, and she felt her body relaxing, so she scooted closer to him, finally taking his arms and wrapping them about her.

  “I wasn’t sure you liked me this way,” she said happily.

  “I liked you the second I saw you sitting on the bench. I liked you even more when I saw you hide your food in your napkin.”

  She flushed. “You saw that!” she said, and he grinned.

  “I just wanted to take things really slow. Then I realized I couldn’t.”

  She lay beside him, his arms about her. “We’ll sleep just like this,” he told her.

  He called her two days later to go to the movies, and then the next week to see a play. And once, at the movies, as soon as the lights went out, he gave her a gentle nudge and fit a plastic champagne glass in her hand and slowly, carefully, poured her some wine from a tiny bottle he had snuck in. She got used to seeing him two or three times a week and sometimes he just showed up. One night, she was bounding out of her apartment, a book she was reading in one hand, and she banged right into a group of tough-looking street kids. She stopped short, but they weren’t interested in her. Instead, they were scowling at Scott, who was crouched down, snapping picture after picture of the building next to hers, oblivious. “What the fuck you doin’, man,” a guy in loose, baggy jeans shouted. Scott took one more shot, stood upright, and then he spotted Sara, and his whole face filled with light, and he snapped a shot of her, standing there, mouth open, dumbfounded.

  They walked. “What’s the book?” he asked. Danny had always picked up the books Sara was reading and wanted to read them, too. “It’s all about Paris,” she told Scott, handing him the book. He glanced at it
and then handed it back to her. “Want to read it when I’m done?” she asked, and he shrugged. “I guess,” he said.

  They went to his apartment on West Eighteenth, a roomy one-bedroom, with big windows. She finished the book that night, and left it on his nightstand, and two weeks later, when it was still there, she brought it back home.

  It was Friday and Scott was showing a client the construction site for the client’s new house, and Sara was tagging along. The client’s name was Harry Morgan and he was middle-aged and disgruntled and kept thrusting his hands in his pockets, and the more excited Scott got, the more Harry’s mouth formed a line.

  It was just one huge space right now. A few walls had already been built, some ceilings. Scott strode across the floor, beaming, as if he were showing off his child. “Bedroom,” he said, waving his hands. “Kitchen here. Skylight. Gorgeous skylight so the room’s always bright.”

  “Skylights are expensive.”

  “You’ll save on electricity, I’m telling you,” Scott said.

  She saw the tender way Scott touched a beam, how he talked about the fireplace as if it were the most marvelous thing in the world. “I’ll crack the tiles in the bathroom to give them texture,” he said, ignoring the way Harry was shaking his head no.

  “Oak door,” Scott said, pointing to the entrance.

  “Aluminum,” said Harry. “I mean it.”

  That night, Scott put in the oak door himself. When Harry saw the finished section the next day, his jaw dropped open. “If you don’t like it, I’ll take it off,” Scott said, but Harry shook his head adamantly. “I’ve never seen anything so goddamn beautiful in my life,” the client said. He looked at Sara. “He that persuasive with you?” he asked.

  “Always,” she said.

  But as elated as Scott was about most of his projects, she saw him in a funk over others. He came over one evening an hour late because he had been arguing with a client, a production company. “They’re threatening not to pay me,” he said.