White Lines

by Jennifer Banash

  * * * *

  BLOOMINGDALE’S, IN LATE AUGUST, the smell of new leather, soft cashmere the color of overripe grapes, the ringing of bells as the elevator announces its arrival. My mother grabs a purple sweater, holding it up against my chest, her head tilting to the side, surveying me like an artist finishing a painting, bending the canvas to her will. I like it, I say, hoping I sound helpful, grateful, biting my lower lip as she tosses the sweater down on the heaping table and selects one the color of the lemon ices my father used to buy me on hot summer nights, small cables running across the chest. Shopping is one of the only things that seems to make my mother happy, her cheeks pink as a newborn’s each time she releases her credit card from the confines of her Louis Vuitton wallet and hands it over. We’ll take both, she says decisively, tucking the sweater under one arm and grabbing my hand, her red nails scraping the flesh of my palm in a familiar rasp. For my beautiful daughter, she says in a saccharine voice, smiling at the salesgirl, clearly reveling in the adoring-mother role that she loves to perform whenever we are out in public together.

  As I watch her hand the sweaters across the counter, her cheeks glowing like coals, I am learning something about excess, the language of desire, a sick feeling in my stomach every time I watch my mother make and remake me, my pale, unadorned body never enough.

  FIFTEEN

  I’M STANDING OUTSIDE TUNNEL, gaping at the enormous semi truck parked at the curb, at speakers the size of icebergs being loaded into the back end. The cobblestones are still slick from the light rain that fell a few hours earlier, abandoned cars parked at the curb among two Ferraris—one of them Christoph’s—and a silver BMW. I haven’t seen Christoph since that afternoon at his office, and my heart palpitates violently when I consider the possibility of running into him tonight, and what he’ll say. What I might say back. There’s something about him that exerts an irresistible pull, the way things that are dangerous draw you ever closer, whispering into your ear with their slow, seductive murmur. Chocolate. Tequila. Cocaine. The rush I get from being around Christoph mirrors the feeling of disappearing into a bathroom stall with Giovanni, hands shaking as I unwrap a tightly folded triangle of paper to reveal flakes of soft white powder. When I first started clubbing a year ago, I lived for that feeling. Now it makes me feel as if I’m on the edge of a cliff, the night sky hiding the jagged rocks lying in wait. Now I’m not sure I like it at all.

  On the corner, a collection of bums stand around a fire they’ve made in a trash barrel, warming their hands above the orange flames while less than ten feet away, two women in full-length fox fur coats pat their teased manes of hair into place before marching up to the velvet ropes. Three hours from now they’ll most likely be on the main dance floor alongside a couple of guys wearing pinstriped dress shirts, tiny glasses and red suspenders—the delineated markings of arbitrage or investment banking. As the club gets more mainstream, the scene will ultimately shift somewhere else, but for now, the yuppie impact is still negligible. I watch as they tap their stiletto heels against the pavement, waiting for the rope to magically be lifted. Maurice, who is working the front door tonight, stares straight ahead, a headset clipped to one ear, his arms folded over his massive chest. I know without even sticking around to watch that they will be granted admittance eventually. But not without a fifty-dollar entrance fee.

  DJ Haruki is setting up for the night, his arms flexing as he bends over the turntable. I watch his minions unload massive crates of vinyl, sliding them toward the makeshift DJ booth at the back of the truck. Haruki is Sebastian’s on-again, off-again boyfriend, and knowing how volatile their relationship is, it’s a total crapshoot whether they’ll be making out in the corner by the end of the evening or throwing beer bottles at each other’s heads. The scene is complete pandemonium, club kids clamoring to get on board the party truck, waving yellow invites in their hands and dancing in the street to the music of oncoming traffic, their heels clicking against the stone like some kind of code only a band of drug-seeking, house-music-loving maniacs could decipher.

  It’s a chilly night, and I’m wearing a nude slip from the 1920s trimmed in frothy beige lace that’s slightly yellowed and covers my knees completely, and a short, white faux fur jacket that Giovanni made last week. I pull the soft material around my body, shoulders shivering. Against my better judgment, Giovanni has slicked my hair back in a ponytail and attached a long extension, securing it with an elastic band so that my hair now appears to hang past my waist. In fact, it’s pulled back from my face so tightly that my normally round eyes now have a curiously upward tilt, and my mouth is colored the red of a field of blissed-out poppies. When I finally look in the mirror, I don’t recognize myself.

  “What time was she supposed to be here?” Giovanni asks, pulling the sleeve of his jacket back to reveal a chunky silver watch with a heavy black band. The moon glows above our heads, filling the street with benevolent light. It is fully round and so huge that it almost looks as if we might reach out and pet its craggy contours.

  “Ten,” I say, squinting as a taxi approaches, stops to gawk at the madness and peels off down the street. “Maybe she’s not coming.” I let out a sigh, as if I’m horribly disappointed or inconvenienced, but the truth is that I’m feeling slightly relieved. I half suspected that she wouldn’t show up anyway, that when it came right down to it, nerves and fear would probably get the best of her.

  Sebastian appears, flanked by two highly impressive drag queens wearing short gold lamé dresses and enormous platinum-blond Marie Antoinette wigs, their towering hair almost overpowering their intricately made-up faces. Tonight Sebastian is wearing white shorts with bright red suspenders crossing the skin of his naked chest. His face is painted with a collection of blue and red dots, and the large, chunky black shoes he’s wearing reduce his feet to leaden blocks. He looks like a demented clown who just escaped from the gayest circus on the planet, and I can’t help but smile at the sight of him. I raise my hand in greeting, and his face lights up as he saunters over.

  “Oh good, Cat, you made it!” His voice is breathy, as if he’s been running up a flight of stairs. He looks at Giovanni, who shoots Sebastian a simpering smile. “So, where’s your friend?” Clearly he does not mean Giovanni. Sebastian’s eyes turn all squinty as he scans the crowd.

  “Not sure,” I say, prepared to begin making excuses, but knowing full well that after Sebastian’s had his first hit of X, maybe a few lines of blow, he won’t remember that Alexa didn’t show. Actually, knowing the quality of the drugs he routinely procures, he probably won’t remember Alexa even exists on planet Earth, much less that she dared to snub his party.

  Just then a black limousine pulls up directly behind the truck, and a chauffeur in a black cap gets out and opens the passenger door. A leg appears, highly sculpted and ending in a neon-green patent-leather pump with a heel the width of an ice pick. I tap Giovanni on the shoulder and point toward the car, his mouth falling open at the sight of her body sheathed in the short black dress she bought at Love Saves the Day, hair falling to her waist in the kind of soft waves that are created only with a certain degree of expertise with hot rollers. Her lips are red, her hands sheathed in black fingerless fishnet gloves. She extricates herself from the limo with a kind of grace I’ve seen only in old movies, and nods curtly to the driver before walking over to us, her shoes tapping lightly on the stones. Although her heels are high and the ground is uneven, she walks fluidly, a coat of white fox fur thrown over her shoulders.

  “Hey, Alexa,” I say, my voice coming out as a squeak, still in shock that she’s actually here, at an outlaw party, so far downtown that she might as well be swimming right now.

  “You made it!” Sebastian squeals, leaning over to air-kiss her on both of her tanned, impeccably made-up cheeks.

  “Alexa, this is my friend Giovanni.” I gesture toward Giovanni, who is busily sizing up Alexa’s wardrobe from head to toe, silently reading her.

  “Charmed, darling.” Giovanni reac
hes out and presses his lips to her hand with a romantic flourish. I giggle at Giovanni’s theatrics while Sebastian glowers on the sidelines, rolling his eyes in disgust.

  “So great to meet you,” she purrs. “Is that the truck?” Alexa points at the semi, pursing her lips while skeptically raising one eyebrow. Somehow I cannot picture her smushed into the back end, pressed up against a collection of random body parts. Alexa looks as if her temperature rarely rises above tepid, and I wonder again what exactly I’ve done in bringing her here.

  “Jesus Christ,” Giovanni mutters, staring at the truck. “What about ventilation?”

  I see his point. Once the back doors are shut, there are no windows, and with a hundred sweaty bodies packed in, things have the potential to get pretty unpleasant.

  “Ventilation schmentilation,” Sebastian scoffs, dismissing Giovanni’s comment with a wave of his hand. “We’ll just leave the back open!” Sebastian moves decisively toward the truck and we follow him like children, his suspenders blooming against his chest like a shotgun wound. Alexa’s hand rests lightly on my arm as she glides across the cobblestones.

  Once we step onto the semi, it begins to move, lurching down the street with a frenzied shout from the crowd, fists raised in the air, drinks sloshing over the sides of cups. I know that sooner than later, the floor will be so tacky that it will take enormous amounts of effort just to extricate a platform heel. We are pushing toward the back, Alexa’s hand wrapped tightly in mine. I turn to look at her face and her expression is blank, affectless, but when I catch her eye, there is a sudden flash of panic as she takes in the teeming crowd, the half-naked club kids strewn across the back of the truck.

  “I don’t . . . ,” she whispers, her free hand moving to her throat and hovering there for a moment.

  “It’ll be fine,” I say, staring into her eyes. “Really.”

  I try to put as much emphasis on that last word as I can, imploring with my whole being that she’s safe here, although I know the truth is much more complicated. And just like that, the fear slides away from her face and is gone, her expression aloof.

  Sebastian shoves his body up to the front of the makeshift bar, which is nothing more than a couple of coolers pushed together, and after talking briefly to Ethan, whom I recognize from the Tunnel basement where he’s a barback, Sebastian returns with two frosty bottles of champagne tucked under one arm, grinning widely as he pops the corks, white froth falling over his heavy black shoes. We pass the bottles around, sucking greedily as the liquid rushes up to fill our throats. The music crashes around us, and I watch as Haruki peels off his black leather vest, his skin glistening with sweat, the truck vibrating as it takes a sudden sharp turn and we fly past the water, the moonlight washing over us.

  Alexa turns to me, her face animated from the champagne. “Let’s dance,” she yells, throwing her coat to the floor, swaying gracefully to the beat. I mirror her movements, the wind rushing through my dress as the truck slows for a stoplight. All at once, Alexa wraps her hand around my waist, pulling me close, her torso pressed flush against mine. Her face is so close, her skin is as smooth as vinyl. Do I want to kiss Alexa Forte? Not exactly. It’s more like I want to be subsumed by her body, a place I imagine to be perfect and problem-free, though in my rational mind, I know better. The truck rams over a pothole in the road, the floor jolting beneath our feet, music grinding momentarily to a halt, and Alexa and I stumble, breaking apart and stepping back with nervous laughter, our eyes sliding away from each other.

  “Let’s go and sit down,” I yell as the truck rights itself and the music begins again, a heavy beat. I point to the far corner of the truck. Giovanni is already seated on the floor like a pasha presiding over the festivities, Alexa’s coat thrown over his shoulders.

  “What’s up, lezzies?” Giovanni says with a smile as we approach, and I reach out and clock him in the shoulder, grinning from ear to ear.

  “Bitch,” Giovanni says lovingly, rubbing his arm as Alexa and I flop down, curling our legs under ourselves. Alexa sits up so straight, it looks like she has a metal rod rammed up her spine. I, on the other hand, have no problem with slouching most of the time; my shoulders are so round that I’m practically C-shaped. The movement of the truck has slowed, and the rocking sensation is vaguely pleasurable, like swaying in a hammock.

  “Where’s Sebastian?” I ask, scanning the crowd for his impish face and coming up empty.

  “Who cares?” Giovanni answers flatly, flicking open the top of his vintage onyx poison ring and lifting his hand to his nose, closing his eyes as he breathes in. Snorting coke from a plastic bag is way too déclassé for Giovanni, and pulling out a mirror would attract unwanted attention. I watch as Alexa surveys Giovanni with obvious interest as his eyes open again, noticeably wider now, taking in the lit-up buildings in the distance, the World Trade Center coming up on the left.

  “Want some?” he asks amiably, holding out his hand in Alexa’s direction. She hesitates for a moment, only a moment. In fact, I’m not sure Giovanni even notices, and even though I’m thinking all the while, Don’t do it as she reaches over, scooping a hit under the pinky nail of her right hand, I stay silent as she brings her fingertip to her nose, inhaling deeply as her eyes close.

  “Cat?” Giovanni holds out the ring expectantly, and as I bend over and breathe in, the drug rushes through my body like Christmas, a holiday in my head, the rush before the fall off a tall building, a swan dive into the night. I close my eyes, silver sparklers dancing in the blackness, and open them only when Alexa begins to speak.

  “Who’s that guy?” Alexa points one slim finger at Ethan, the muscles in his arms bulging against the tight black T-shirt, his wavy shoulder-length hair the color of toasted almonds. Ethan is a dead ringer for Michael Hutchence, the lead singer of INXS, and it’s a rare weekend when girls aren’t crowding the bar of the basement, flirting suggestively with him. Sometimes I find myself staring at him, wondering what it would be like to have someone that gorgeous as a boyfriend, but when he looks up from the bar with his gentle questioning gaze, I always look away. There’s something about Ethan that reminds me of Julian, the way Ethan moves, the hair falling in his face coupled with the determined set of his jaw. I wonder where Julian is tonight. I stare off into space and picture him in his room, the Ramones blasting from the stereo. Is he thinking of me at all? Or am I now just another crazy girl who freaked out on him with no warning?

  “The barback?” Giovanni wrinkles his brow, flipping the lid of his ring closed with a flourish of his wrist. “I think his name’s Elvis, maybe?”

  “It’s Ethan,” I say, rolling my eyes in exasperation. “Why can’t you ever remember anyone’s name?”

  “I remember yours, don’t I?” Giovanni says sweetly, taking a pull off the champagne bottle he’s managed to sequester over here.

  “Only because you see me practically every damn day.”

  “In any case, he’s tasty,” Giovanni answers dreamily, his brown eyes liquid and soft as they follow Ethan’s movements. As if he can sense us talking about him over the crashing din of the music, Ethan looks up, his eyes stopping on Alexa.

  “I think I need a drink,” Alexa murmurs, her eyes locked on Ethan, and, as if in a trance, she moves gracefully to her feet and disappears into the crowd that breaks over her like a wave, her blond hair shining before she evaporates completely.

  “Girl,” Giovanni croons under his breath, his mouth agape, “your friend is trouble.”

  “Don’t I know it,” I murmur, watching her smile engagingly once she captures Ethan’s attention, whispering in his ear and pushing the mass of his hair back with one hand. It’s obvious from the way he leans into her touch, his lips curled into a smile, that he wants her. And who wouldn’t? I cross my arms over my chest, hiding the small amount of flesh that Giovanni is forced to push together and manipulate with corsets and tape in order to look even remotely substantial.

  After about an hour of driving around aimlessly, the truck
lurching from side to side like a drunken party guest, people begin throwing up, and Sebastian directs the truck back to Tunnel, where we pile out on the curb, dazed but intact. As we move through the doors and down to the basement, I look over my shoulder for Alexa, catching sight of her walking arm in arm with Ethan, her face uplifted and turned toward his, her eyes shining. Noticing me, she raises one hand in greeting, but she doesn’t leave Ethan’s side, her blond mane mingling with his light brown curls. I seem to have lost Giovanni as well, but am not worried. This is how the evening usually goes—we split up at some point to get a drink, schmooze and dance wildly, and are usually reunited by two a.m. or so, giggling in a corner somewhere or bent over Giovanni’s poison ring in a bathroom stall.

  Once in the basement, I collapse on a sofa in the corner, sighing heavily, my feet twitching spasmodically from the coke. I’m lost in the labyrinth of my thoughts when a voice cuts through the jumble of static and I look up to the sound of my name, Christoph looming above me. He smiles, and suddenly I feel very small. I jump to my feet, teetering unsteadily on my heels, and fall halfway into his arms, blushing furiously as he places his hands on my shoulders, righting me. My pulse races crazily at the touch of his hands on my skin.

  “What are you doing here?” I ask the moment I am standing straight, looking at the concrete floor before lifting my eyes. Christoph rarely sets foot in the basement, preferring to receive updates on the night’s festivities from the cushy confines of his office. The bass thumps all around us, and I can feel it in my feet, seeping through my shoes and climbing up my legs in a fit of delicious tickling.

  “I work here,” he says, his eyes flashing with amusement.

  “What a coincidence,” I say nervously. “So do I.”

  We are silent for a long moment, and I can feel my heart galloping in my chest. The minute Christoph gets within ten feet of my body, my palms turn clammy and I begin to sweat.