Miss Misery (24 page)

The various groupings on the roof dissipated and circled around him. He was steaming; he was loving the attention. Surveying the crowd, he began his story. “
Someone
up here—I won't name names,
Andre
—accidentally pitches my favorite lighter—the one with the hula dancer—off of the roof, so I go downstairs to get some matches. And while I'm down there, I have the temerity”—all around me people who had no idea what that word meant murmured to themselves—“to go into my own bedroom. And what do I see there but
people
.” He paused for dramatic effect. “
Straight
people. Having sex on
my
bed!” He caught his breath. His tiny face was the same color as his tracksuit. “Naked!” There was some hubbub, but the story was clearly winding down. Stevie waved his arms like propellers. “Rutting! Like animals!” Andre, head bowed with the gravity of the situation, came over to his boyfriend to provide comfort. Stevie let out one final peep: “And they didn't even ask permission!”

No one thought to ask the most important question: Who was it? My heart raced. I was making a move to rush down the stairs when someone tapped me on the shoulder. I turned.

“Hi!” It was Debra Silverstein. She was grinning, carrying a paper plate filled with food, and wearing a ripped B-52s T-shirt advertising a concert I had actually and quite unironically attended in 1989.

“Oh,” I said. “Hi, Debra.” I paused. She kept grinning.

“Hi!” she said again.

“I thought you were going to be in New Jersey. Isn't your sister getting bat mitzvahed?”

Debra rolled her eyes. “Ohmigod, what
drama
! The whole thing is canceled.”

“You can cancel a bat mitzvah?”

“Well, not canceled, but, like, postponed?”

“Ah,” I said, hoping that that would be enough for me to break away. But it wasn't.

“Yeah,” she said, still smiling. “It's a huge shitstorm. Basically, my sister? Nikki? She didn't like her Torah portion.”

“You mean the story from the Torah that she's supposed to recite.”

“Mm-hmm.” Debra bit down on a tofu pup with such ferocity I thought she would leave teeth marks in her hand.

“But you don't choose those—you just read whatever comes up the week you get bat mitzvahed.”

“Exactly,” Debra agreed. “But Nikki's portion? Was, like, really lame? It was about goat herding or something. Totally dull. So she refused to do it.”

“She refused to do it.”

“Well, between you and me she totally didn't like her shoes either.”

“Her shoes.”

“They didn't match her dress.”

“Oh,” I said, trying my best to look considerate. “That sounds really…unfortunate.”

Debra nodded enthusiastically, thrilled to have found an ally. “I mean, goat herding! Yuck! She's gonna wait until it's time to talk about something more awesome, like, I dunno…when that dude turns into salt?”

I shook my head with deep compassion, then said, “Listen, Debra, have you seen Cath?”

Debra looked puzzled. “You're always asking me that!” She laughed, so I laughed too.

“I guess I am,” I said. “So you haven't seen her?”

“No,” she said. “Sorry.”

A loud wail of a police siren started up, almost causing me to leap out of my shoes. “Jesus,” I said. “Did Stevie call the police?”

“Ha, ha,” said Debra. “No!” She pulled her Sidekick out of her pocket. “That's my new ring tone! I got sick of the wolves.” She silenced the police with a press of her thumb. “Sorry if I scared you!”

“It's OK,” I said. “Listen, Debra, I'm going to—”

“What's your Hebrew name?”

“Excuse me?”

“Your Hebrew name? You, like, have one, don't you?”

“Oh,” I said. “Yeah. Um, it's Yosef. After an uncle who died before I was born.”

“Neat,” said Debra.

And she stood in front of me, rocking back and forth, just waiting for me to ask. So I did. “OK, what's yours?”

“It's Malkah Surah,” she said proudly. “It means ‘Queen Sarah.'” She beamed.

I was just about to make an inappropriate remark when a giant seagull swooped down from nowhere and snagged an entire hot-dog bun from Queen Sarah's plate. Debra screamed.

“What the hell is that?”

“It's a bird,” I said.

“Yeah, obviously, but what is it?”

I paused. “It's like a plane, but with blood.”

Debra stared. I killed my beer and walked off in search of Cath.

 

Cath's room was empty and so was Stevie's, so I locked myself in the bathroom to get some air. I sat down on the edge of the bathtub. Why was I so jealous? I had no claim to this girl—I had no claim to anyone. Halfheartedly, I picked up a few of the dozens of bottles that lined the white shelves of the bathroom: Kiehl's products for every possible cleansing need. I wondered which roommate they belonged to or if the two of them had a time-share agreement. The floor was littered with two-year-old issues of oversize fashion magazines like
V
and
W
, all promising the secret of the new looks in London. The sink was full of cat.

Wait—what?

I stood up. In the sink, playfully batting at a thin stream of water, was an undersized gray and black mottled cat. It noticed me, said, “Mrowr,” then began bashing its tiny forehead into the water.

“What are you doing?” I said. “Cats hate water.”

But the cat didn't listen—in fact it twisted its body in liquid-inspired ecstasy, lolling around the entire sink and ignoring me entirely. Sufficiently confused, I unlocked and opened the bathroom door, and Cath Kennedy was standing on the other side.

“There you are,” she said, taking my arm. “I've been looking all over for you.”

“You have a cat in your sink,” I said.

“Oh! You met Sinky!” She dropped my arm and rushed into the bathroom to give the cat a damp pat on the head. “He loves it in here. We have to keep the faucet turned on for him.”

“I thought cats hate water,” I said.

“I thought people didn't have evil twins!” she said, sticking her tongue out at me.

“Point,” I said. I watched her pet Sinky for a moment, then said, “I was looking for you, too.”

“You were?”

“I was.”

“I was dealing with Ben There and then helping him into a cab,” she said.

“‘Dealing'…like in Stevie's room dealing?”

Cath laughed. “Ohmigod, gross! No—that was our neighbors. We didn't even invite them to the party. They're exhibitionists.” Sinky was licking happily at her wrist. “Anyway, he was in a bad mood. I don't think he likes you very much. I think he might even have been jealous.”

I raised my eyebrows. “Jealous of
me
? Why?”

Cath shrugged. “I suppose he gets jealous whenever a strange older man who isn't him takes an interest in me.” Sinky was purring loudly now, his tiny eyes closed in private passion. “How come you didn't pet Sinky?”

“Oh,” I said. “I guess I'm out of the habit. I used to love cats, but Amy”—I watched Cath's face for any reaction, but there was none—“Amy was allergic, so I had to keep away.”

Cath grabbed my hand and pulled me into the bathroom. “Well she's not here now. Come on—who could resist that face?”

I looked down and felt myself resisting, then giving in. I gave Sinky a light tap on the forehead—which was soaked and fuzzy—and then a full stroke from front to back. The cat arched its furry spine in appreciation. “Cute,” I said.

“Well done,” said Cath, taking my arm again. “Now come on. I don't want to miss the fireworks.”

And so I let her lead me back up the stairs. Up on the roof, night had fallen completely and the chatter and laughter that emerged from our party seemed to blend and mingle with similar sounds from the top of every building in the city.

We walked past the rest of the guests—arranged around the boom box and the food—and made our way to the opposite end of the roof. It was unspoken, our walk, but somehow exhilarating: We were together now and didn't much care who knew it. We crouched down behind the air-conditioning unit, just hidden from plain sight, faced east, and waited for everything to begin. We didn't have to wait long. A hush fell over the city, and the prerecorded string music started up from a radio perched on someone else's rooftop. And then, before long, the
whoosh
of rockets was audible and the first fireworks of Independence Day lit up the night.

“Wow,” said Cath. “That's beautiful.”

And it was. As the lights exploded all around us, I felt outside of myself for the first time in days. The city was beautiful, illuminated, shining. The only sounds were the staccato bursts of exploding fireworks and the multitracked oohs of appreciation echoing from every rooftop, from everywhere.

“These are my favorites,” I whispered, as a cascade of slowly bursting green lit up the night.

Behind us, I could hear Keith laughing about something and Debra squealing, Stevie's high-pitched complaining and Andre's muttered shushing. But none of it mattered. White flashed, then orange. The vague sound of strings and snippets of political speeches: Lincoln, Roosevelt, Kennedy. I turned slightly and watched the glare illuminate Cath's face. Her eyes were wide open and seemed never to blink. She looked innocent, awestruck.

Eventually there was a pause. Somewhere someone whistled and someone else applauded.

Cath leaned into me. “Is that it?”

“No way,” I said. “It wouldn't be the Fourth of July without the grand finale.”

“God,” said Cath. “That's so
American.
”

But as the pops and flashes began again—louder than before and with greater frequency, reds and whites and blues oozing and melting over one another in a relentless cacophony of noise and color—I felt Cath Kennedy snake her small bony palm into my own, felt her body push into my side. I squeezed her hand as the last dying embers exploded in the sky and she squeezed it back. I turned and found her looking at me strangely, her eyes reflecting the colors of the flag, sparks like fireflies dancing in her pupils.

“Cath,” I said.

“Shut up,” she said, and pulled my head down to hers and kissed me on the mouth.

It was a good kiss, too, completely free of awkward fumbling or closed-mouth half starts. It was as if we had done this before, even as the unfamiliar curve of her thin lips and the surprising taste of cigarettes on her tiny, darting tongue sent a shivery thrill running through my body. I turned into her and raised my arm to her ear. She squeezed my side, those furious fingers working their way under my T-shirt, when a cry came up from behind us, interrupting everything.

“Holy shit! What the hell is in this dip?”

Cath giggled and took my head in her hands. “Let's go back downstairs,” she whispered, and I nodded in agreement.

 

Back in her room now, with only the desk lamp on, we tried kissing again and it seemed to work, so we kept at it, her leading me backward in half steps until she was sitting down on the bed and I was standing awkwardly above her, trying to kneel down and kick my shoes off, and she was scooting backward trying to make room for me, our mouths still connected, while she raised her arms over her head and worked her T-shirt up and—whoops, had to stop kissing for a moment—off, and there went the T-shirt and I was lying on the bed with her, trying not to be on top of her but more off to the side because this was going awfully fast, hoping she would take the lead and put me wherever I needed to be. The air conditioner was on way too high and it made the small hairs on her arms stand up and the soft skin along her stomach rise in goose bumps. I ran my palm along it and she made a noise in my ear, something soft and sudden like “oooom,” and so I did it again. She wrapped a leg around my waist and let her mouth wander away from mine now, across my cheek and up to my ear, her small tongue at my lobe now, but all of a sudden it didn't feel sexy so much as it felt
young
—like this was a move from
Seventeen
magazine and we were making out in her father's Toyota Camry. Carefully I moved her mouth back to mine, and she sat me up slightly and started to lift my shirt off, her hands tickling and wheedling their way up my sides to my rib cage. The only noise in the room aside from the rustling of her sheets and the tangling of our limbs was the hum of the air conditioner, and I wished now for that synthpop music of hers—anything to cover up the silence, to give me a soundtrack for doing whatever it was we were doing. She tugged at my shirt again and I gave in, raising my arms above my head, and while my eyes were covered she sat up all the way and ran her lips along my collarbone, her tongue down my sternum. I pulled my shirt the rest of the way off and looked down at her fine black hair as her head danced delicately along my body. I lay back down with her then and saw her small chest, the almost comical lace of her white bra against the sharp angles of her shoulder blades, her nothing biceps—and then I felt the passion leave me in one giant rush.