I’M STUFFING BOOKS into my bag when the last bell rings, shattering the stillness of the hallway. As I throw my backpack over one shoulder, I’m aware of the excitement coursing through my veins, the wave of giddy pleasure mixed with apprehension. It’s obvious that Julian is still mad at me. And why shouldn’t he be? a voice rises up to ask, cutting through the adrenaline. You treated him like shit . . . well, after he treated you like shit. But still. Sometimes I think that’s what life really is—the passing of small hurts on to one another, those circular little moments of daily abuse. You hurt me, I hurt you. Rinse and repeat.
By the time I fight my way through the crowd to the large red double doors of the school, I’m thoroughly freaked out. What if he just tells me off and then leaves? What if he just wants to humiliate me and then run away? But somehow I cannot imagine Julian, with his kind face and gentle voice, doing either of these things. Even the way he ignored me seems weirdly out of character.
When I step out into the street, a blast of cold air greets me with a slap in the face, my hair whipping backward, and my eyes immediately fill with water. I blink a few times to clear my vision, and when the street snaps into focus, I see my father standing at the curb. He’s outside his idling black Mercedes sedan talking on his mobile phone, eyes shielded by a pair of black Ray-Bans that make him look younger than he really is, his thick hair brushed back from his face. At the sight of me, he raises one gloved hand and waves me over. His trench coat hangs loosely, untied, a suit the color of toasted hazelnuts peeking out from underneath. I don’t think I’ve ever seen my father out of a suit, except right before bed when he’d put on a pair of silk striped pajamas that my mother ordered for him in bulk from Harrods in London. I haven’t seen my father in person for three months now, and the sight of him causes my stomach, my blood, the very tissues of my body to lurch, rolling and seasick.
As I approach, he hangs up the call, tucking the mobile phone—the approximate size and shape of a brick—under one arm, his eyes still hidden behind the dark lenses.
“What are you doing here?” I blurt out before he has the chance to speak.
My father coughs, looking down at the pavement before looking up again and meeting my eyes, removing his glasses and blinking into the gusts of wind that sweep over the sidewalk.
“Not exactly the reaction I was hoping for,” he says quietly.
I’m silent, staring into his face, wanting him to know just how angry I really am that he walked out on us, replacing my mother with a new model, one that wouldn’t cause him any trouble.
“I just wanted to see if you needed anything,” my father continues, his eyes that look so much like my own sliding away from my face as if he doesn’t recognize me, as if he’s never seen me before.
“I’m fine,” I say woodenly, my voice strained. I shove my hands inside the pockets of my leather jacket.
“Do you need any money?” he asks, keeping his tone light, as if it’s just a random poll, as if he asks total strangers the same question daily. He reaches into his coat and fumbles for his wallet, pulling out a sleek alligator billfold.
“I don’t need anything.” Except maybe a new father, I think sarcastically, even though at night, before my eyes close and I drop into sleep, I still think about him. Sometimes I sit up and stare out the window, sleepless, watching the lights of the city flicker on and off, watching the windows that glow in the building across the street, and imagine the families that lie behind the glass, how they will hold and protect each other in yellow circles of light. When I finally lie down and turn over, my arms hugging the pillow, I ache for what I no longer have.
“How’s the new apartment?” His tone is efficient and brisk, as if he’s checking on one of his investments, which I suppose I am at the end of the day. This realization causes my heart to sink, even though in some sense I’ve always known as much. My father has never stepped foot inside my apartment, and standing here on the curb with the distance elongating between us, I doubt he ever will.
Although the car windows are tinted so that the inside of the car and its inhabitants are concealed, there is a rustling from within that causes my father to briefly spin around. He seems surprised to find the car still there, idling at the curb and releasing clouds of white smoke that disintegrate into the air. I realize in a sudden rush that Jasmine is inside, probably gazing at herself in the visor mirror, the silver sliver illuminating the reflection of her exotic beauty. The hatred I feel for her smolders in my brain, even though I’m aware that it’s probably unwarranted. After all, it’s my father who left, and if it hadn’t been Jasmine, it would have been someone else. This knowledge can’t override my emotions, and even if Jasmine actually spent her days helping deaf kids learn sign language or feeding Haitian orphans instead of lolling around at Elizabeth Arden getting her butt waxed, I’d find it hard not to despise the very thought of her.
“Well, if you don’t need anything . . . ,” my father says, his voice trailing off as he shoves his billfold back into his coat, “I should probably get going.”
“Sure,” I mumble, backing away from the car in case my father tries to hug me. He walks over to the driver’s side, raising his hand in a wave, palm up.
“I’ll call you soon and we’ll have lunch,” he calls out before ducking inside the car and pulling away from the curb. I watch the passenger side windows, transfixed, searching the tinted glass for Jasmine’s upturned eyes, and imagine she stares right back at me, her expression haughty and entitled. It’s me he chose, she seems to be saying. Not you.
As I watch the car drive away, I feel a tap on my shoulder. When I turn around, Julian is standing there, his skateboard tucked under his arm, his eyes covered by a pair of sunglasses. I shiver, the wind ripping through my leather jacket. For the first time I’m aware of just how cold I am. My nose is threatening to start running from the brisk weather, and I sniff loudly, hoping to avert disaster. I wonder if Julian saw me talking to my father, and, if so, just how much I’ll have to explain. The thought of having to discuss my screwed-up family at length fills me with dread, and I offer Julian a weak smile, hoping that he won’t interrogate me.
“You ready?” Julian asks, and it’s clear from the look on his face—open and guileless—that he’s seen nothing. I feel a wave of relief moving through me so strong, I consider sitting down right where I am until it passes. Instead I follow Julian down the block, lagging behind him slightly, teeth chattering, wondering if I’ll ever be warm again.
TWENTY
I’M SITTING WITH JULIAN on a bench in Tompkins Square Park, watching a group of black-winged birds attack a half-eaten piece of bread on the pavement in front of us. The clouds overhead are the color of dirty cotton balls, and the wind blows the last crunch of dried brown leaves around the concrete.
Tompkins Square is less of a “park” in any sense of the word and more a haven for drug dealers, leather-clad punks just out of school who want to loiter in groups before hightailing it back to Mommy and Daddy’s apartment, and a random lot of assorted freaks. Girls fly by on roller skates, brightly colored sweatbands wrapped around their wrists and foreheads, neon fishnet stockings protruding from their spandex bike shorts. Their laughter rings out into the park, filling the space with light and music. The smell of pot drifts over from the benches beside us and hangs medicinally in the air. Three guys in ripped jeans speak loudly in Spanish, passing a joint of skunk weed back and forth languidly between them.
On the subway, we rode downtown in silence, watching as a homeless man crawled through the car on two stumps, his legs amputated below the knee, what remained of his flesh wrapped in layers of dingy white fabric tinged with dirt. The metal seats lined with women in suits and men in tastefully striped ties in neutral colors, kids like us just out of school who looked straight ahead. Girls dressed in neon anklets with black pumps elbowed one another in the ribs, giggling, ropes of fake pearls strung around their necks.
When we climbed the long set of stairs leadin
g us out of the tunnel and into the light, the smell of urine and musty smoke from the trains swirling around us, Julian grabbed my hand, the feel of his warm skin shocking me. No words spoken and already we were holding hands. Something in my brain shut down, some mechanism of fear instantly replaced by a longing so intense, it almost stopped me in my tracks. I want this. The thought raced through my brain as Julian and I walked out of the station and toward the park. Let me have this moment, this feeling, just for today. Unlike my breakfast with Christoph, holding Julian’s hand didn’t make me feel as if I were cracking open some treacherous trapdoor in my heart, but like I was falling into a cloud of cotton candy, pink and warm, the comforting scent of vanilla sugar rising up like steam.
As we walked down the street, I looked over at Julian, taking shy little glances and noticing the way he nimbly maneuvered us around the punks loitering on the corner, their studded collars glinting in the light, and past CBGB, the doors shuttered and silent, the blare of car horns, yellow taxis flashing at the corner of my eye as we crossed the street. Walk. Wait.
Now on the bench, hands in my lap, I’m increasingly aware of the fact that Julian’s leg is so close to mine that I try to fool myself into believing I can feel the heat from his skin radiating through the rough denim and onto my skin.
“So, what was up the other day?”
Julian turns toward me, taking off his shades and shoving them into the pocket of his jacket, a broken-in piece of leather with multiple zippers, the cover from the Ramones’ first record painted artfully across the back in red, white and black, the figures slouching defiantly.
“I could ask you the same question,” I retort. “The other day in the hall you passed right by me like I was invisible.”
“I know,” he says, taking a deep breath and looking away. “I’m an idiot.”
We are quiet for a moment as a guy on a skateboard rolls by, the sound of the wheels on pavement drowning out any possibility of being heard.
“Sometimes I get really awkward.” He turns to face the park, scuffing one foot against the concrete. “Especially when I . . .” He stops, his words hanging in the air like smoke.
My stomach tightens, and a tingling feeling runs through my body, unchecked, racing from my feet all the way to the top of my head.
“Anyway,” he says, exhaling loudly, “I’m sorry.” He turns to face me again, his expression pained. “I should’ve definitely said hi, but sometimes you look like you don’t want people coming anywhere near you. It’s like you’re wearing this big sign that says ‘Stay the hell away or else.’ So I guess I did.”
“I know I do that sometimes,” I say, my voice shaky. “Too much, probably.”
“So what’s your excuse?” He smiles, the mood suddenly lightened. “Bad hair day? Or do you have random hallway freakouts every other week or so?”
I’m finding it hard to smile back, and the corners of my lips turn up into something approaching a grimace. Why are real conversations so exhausting? My limbs feel heavy with the weight of everything I’ve never said out loud. Or to myself, even.
“Well, you ignored me, and then you just walked up the other day and started talking to me like it didn’t even happen.” I take a deep breath and rub my hands together to warm them, wishing I had gloves. “I’m really sorry. It was a bad day.”
“I get it.” Julian looks down the street, quiet for a moment. I take in his stillness, the ease in which he lives in his body. The scent of his leather jacket fills my nose, reminding me of horses, of worn leather saddles.
“You live down here, huh?” he asks, changing the subject and jutting his chin in the direction of the street.
“Yeah, for about six months now.”
“How do your parents like it?”
“Next time I see them, I’ll ask.” I fold my arms over my chest, tucking my hands under my armpits to warm them.
Julian looks at me, confusion blanketing his face.
“You don’t live with them?”
“Not that I’m aware of,” I answer, trying to make my voice light, and failing completely.
“How’d you manage that?” he asks, bemused, maybe even impressed. “I’d give anything to live alone. My house is totally insane.”
His face changes slightly, and he looks away and out into the park.
“What kind of insane?” I ask, aware that I’m entering dangerous territory.
“The kind that makes you want to run away on a daily basis.”
I nod, looking down at my fingers, twisting the hammered silver band on my index finger that Sara bought me for Christmas.
“So, what’s your story,” he asks.
“What do you mean?”
My pulse begins to accelerate, my heart skipping every other beat. Do I really want to talk about this? No. Yes. My thoughts are suddenly so muddled that I can’t see my way through them. A dense haze creeps into my brain, obliterating everything.
“Why don’t you live at home? I mean, don’t get me wrong—I’m seething with jealousy, but it’s not exactly standard.”
I look right at him, enunciating every word.
“My home life is unsatisfying.”
Julian cracks up, looking over at me appreciatively.
“The Breakfast Club, right? Let me guess—you were all about the Ally Sheedy character, right?”
“Of course,” I scoff, like this is not even a question to be taken seriously. “Except for the end where they made her all normal and boring.”
Julian laughs. “She definitely looked better with all that black shit on her eyes.”
Suddenly, even though the wind is still howling through the park, I’m no longer even the tiniest bit cold.
“What kind of unsatisfying?” Julian asks. As he speaks, I’m watching Emilio Estevez pressing Ally Sheedy to answer his questions, the light from the screen illuminating the blackness of the theater.
“Oh, let’s see. My father completely ignores me since he left my mother for a skank half his age who looks like a reject from Dynasty, and my . . . my mother . . . she . . .”
My breath catches in my chest. I can’t do this. I can’t say the words out loud without him pitying me or thinking I’m a bigger freak than he probably already does. My breath becomes ragged and labored, the park tilting crazily, the trees blurring before my eyes. I’m aware that I’m dangerously close to hyperventilating. My mother’s face rises up from the jumble of images and detritus in my mind, the tight, controlled expression she wears just before the room explodes, her manicured fingers scratching my skin.
“Hey, hey,” Julian says, reaching out to rub my back like something that’s damaged, broken, which I suppose is exactly what I am.
“I can’t talk about this,” I manage to spit out. “I’m sorry.”
“It’s OK. Seriously. We don’t have to talk if you don’t want to.”
His face is tense with worry, and he pats me uncertainly, not sure what to do. I concentrate on taking big gulps of air until my breathing slows, the world snapping back into focus. I’m too tired and freaked out to even be embarrassed, although the feeling that’s taken up residence in my gut tells me that I probably should be.
I wipe my eyes, aware for the first time that they’re damp, and try to smile reassuringly.
“You know what makes me feel better after a freakout?” Julian says casually, as if I didn’t just lose my shit in public, in broad daylight.
“A padded cell?”
Julian grins, relieved that I’m back to my annoyingly sarcastic self once again.
“No. Ice cream.”
“It’s freezing out!” I exclaim, pointing at the sky with one frozen hand, my eyes widening in disbelief.
“So what? And I thought you were a rebel. I know your type—all talk,” Julian says smugly, so I reach out and push him with one hand, feigning irritation.
“I warn you—I only like Häagen-Dazs.”
“And . . . the Upper East Sider in you rises to the surface.” Julian g
rins engagingly, his tough-boy image receding into the warmth of his smile, and my heart flops over in my chest. I have to force myself to take deep breaths just to maintain. I don’t know what to do with the feelings that rise up from somewhere deep inside me. They seem so large and unwieldy, it’s like trying to shove a semi truck through a keyhole.
* * *
Later, standing in front of Häagen-Dazs on Eighth Street, leaning up against a store that sells only custom belt buckles, the very store where Madonna bought her now infamous “Boy Toy” belt, Julian pops the tail end of his chocolate cone into his mouth and tosses a balled-up napkin into the wire trash can at the curb. I’m so cold that my teeth are literally chattering. My hands are sticky with the remnants of a single scoop of butter pecan, and I can’t stop trembling.
“What’s your number?” Julian asks nonchalantly as I walk him to the subway.
“Why?” I blurt out before I can stop myself. It’s good to know that despite having an afternoon that mostly resembled a John Hughes movie, I’m as socially awkward as ever.
“So I can call you,” Julian says like I’m being ridiculous. “Why else?”
“I dunno,” I mumble, red-faced, staring down at the mosaic of crushed cigarette butts littering the sidewalk. “I don’t know if I’m ready for this,” I say, looking into his face, my eyes wild. I feel trapped and unsure, like I’m in a car driving blindly down the street, an empty space behind the wheel.
“Ready for what?”
“This. Whatever this is. My life is really complicated right now.”
Christoph’s deeply tanned face swims up from behind my eyelids. I shove my hands into my pockets, my fingers so cold, they feel as if they might just break off at any moment. Christoph belongs to the nighttime, to the hushed hours that fall after twilight, to the black night edging toward dawn. Go away, I think, banishing his image to the farthest corners of my brain. You have no place here in the light.
“We’re friends,” Julian says simply, squinting slightly, a crooked smile animating his face. “You can handle that, can’t you?” He kicks an empty can of Tab on the sidewalk, the iridescent metal flaking off the sides of the can, and shoves his hands into his pockets when I don’t respond. My mother loves Tab and buys it by the case. Just the sight of the can makes me uneasy, and I watch as it rolls helplessly into the gutter.
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