White Lines (16 page)

* * * *

MY MOTHER COMES
into my room at night. First, only to watch me sleep, she says, and I get used to waking up to the weight of her presence at the foot of my bed, her eyes on my face as she possessively runs them over my body while I slumber away, her hand reaching under the cover to pull out one warm sleeping foot and marvel at it.
I made you in my body,
my mother is fond of telling me urgently, and for her I know this means that she controls me, that I belong to her in some way that is unbreakable.

I made you,
she hisses when I disappoint her, which is often.
How dare you act this way?

All I am is myself. I am myself so fully from such a young age that it is painful to watch as she tries to remake me in her own image. I fight from the very beginning, choosing my black clothes, my spiky hair like armor, and this is what angers her most of all, it’s what sets off the night visits, the door swinging open as she enters, a cloud of rage coloring the room with a dangerous amber light, the sky before a thunderstorm. A low rumbling sound fills my ears as I clap my hands over them, drowning out her words that hum like a hovering of bees. She flies through my room, fingers tearing at the posters of musicians and movie stars pasted up on the white walls, walls I am not allowed to paint. Her nails tear large holes in the paper, gutting it, and with every tear something rips in my heart, my lungs, the very fiber of my being. Somewhere in the core of me someone is screaming, while the me that is present hides in the corner, her arms thrown up over her face to ward off whatever comes next.

TWENTY-FOUR

THAT NIGHT,
after Sara goes home, I’m perusing the pages of my history book before I get ready for work, trying to be responsible. But as I flip past the pictures of battles long past, bloodshed and death, of gleaming swords, I begin to feel slightly queasy. I reach one hand up to my forehead, checking to see if I have a fever, but the skin is cool, almost moist. When the phone rings, cutting through the pounding din of the music blasting from my speakers, I rush over to grab it on the third ring, thinking it might be Giovanni telling me that he’s going to be later than usual. When I hear Julian’s voice in my ear, my stomach contracts sharply. I look over at the mirror on the wall directly across from my bed and I almost don’t recognize the girl reflected in the gold frame, her cheeks flushed inside the wavy glass. She looks almost happy.

“So, what are you up to?” he asks, and I can hear his nervousness cutting through the confident exterior he wears like his battered leather jacket.

“Not much,” I say, sitting down on the bed and pushing a lock of hair from my forehead. “Just getting ready for work.”

“Oh, that’s right.” Julian exhales loudly, and I can hear his disappointment over the line as sharply as if he were standing right in front of me. “I forgot.”

“Yeah,” I mumble, kicking at the pile of clothes next to my bed with one bare foot. For the first time since I’ve started working at the club, I almost wish I didn’t have to go.

Maybe you don’t,
a little voice in my head pipes up, causing my heart to trip ungracefully, beating out of time. Who would really care if I didn’t show up? Giovanni would probably convulse at the opportunity to take over the door for a night.
What about Christoph?
that little voice interrupts again.
He’s expecting you to be there, right? Isn’t he?
I close my eyes and see Christoph’s tanned face smiling down at me, his hand reaching up for mine as the bottom drops out of the dance floor, the room spiraling away in a haze of smoke. I don’t want to think about Christoph tonight.

“Maybe I can get out of it,” I say slowly, cautiously, as if I’m wading into shark-infested waters.

“Really?” His voice is bright and hopeful, and as it fills my ears, I begin to smile, a feeling of warmth suffusing my limbs.

An hour later I’m walking down Eighth Street, past the Häagen-Dazs where we had our first unofficial date, smiling at the couples huddled together over dripping cones. The street is alive with foot traffic, vendors hawking small golden Buddhas and incense wafting in pungent clouds from rickety metal tables, kids standing on corners wearing impossibly high platform shoes and leather coats, their high, childish voices echoing clearly in the night. NYU students stumble down the street wearing long, brightly colored woolen scarves, clutching one another for support, their loud, drunken chatter filling my ears with talk of Godard and Bergman. The air is brisk and chilly, but I’m warm, my feet moving quickly across the pavement, taking me closer to Julian with every step. The stars above are hidden by gathering storm clouds and the light pulsating from the buildings, but on nights like these the city seems almost magical, inhabited by benevolent angels, a symphony of car horns and neon filling the shadows with discordant music and light.

From half a block away I can see Julian standing in front of the Eighth Street Playhouse, shifting his weight from side to side, his hands shoved into his pockets to warm them, hair falling across his face like a shadow moving over the sun. When he sees me, he tosses his head back so that the dense curtain of hair falls away from his eyes. His face breaks into a wide grin that makes the blood rush to my cheeks, my skin flushing with the sudden heat of his smile.

“Hey,” he says as I approach. “You made it.”

Standing there in front of him, I begin to believe maybe for the first time that he just might really like me. It’s in those eyes, the way they take me in—not just my body and face, but all of me. Even the parts I don’t want anyone to see. It makes me feel nervous and exhilarated all at once.

“I can’t believe you’ve never done this.” He gestures toward the marquee lit up in red and white like a Christmas tree flashing softly in the dark. “And you call yourself a New Yorker,” he scoffs, elbowing me in the side playfully as we make our way to the ticket booth.

“It always seemed like such a touristy thing to do,” I say as Julian pulls a wallet from his back pocket, holding up two fingers at the girl inside the booth. She resembles Pippi Longstocking with her fire-engine-red pigtails and the smattering of cinnamon freckles that run across the bridge of her nose. She blows a huge pink bubble with a wad of gum before distractedly pushing the tickets at Julian. When he turns toward me, his almond skin illuminated by the neon light, the clarity of the bones in his face breaks my heart a little. Whether I like it or not, something is happening between us, something I’m not sure that I want to stop, and that knowledge scares me more than anything else.

“
Rocky Horror
isn’t touristy at all,” he continues. “It’s classic.”

“Like you?” I ask, looking into his face as he pulls me inside the theater. I take in the high ceilings and faded red velvet seats. He grins, his face alight, and at this moment I could die, just drop dead right here amid the scents of popcorn and hairspray, and not care one bit.

The space is crowded with people dressed in costumes, an homage to the characters in the film. An impossibly tall guy wearing fishnets, a corset and bright red lipstick is obviously Frank-N-Furter, and out of the corner of my eye I spy Magenta perched on the stage in front of the huge screen, laughing. Her bright red curls stream past her shoulders as she throws her head back in delight. Janet is two rows in front of us wearing a suit of the palest lavender, pearls encircling her throat, her auburn hair perfectly coiffed. Even though I’ve seen
Rocky Horror
countless times on video and late-night TV, I’ve never seen it in a theater, and the packed room, the laughter that surrounds us, not to mention Julian’s hand in mine, enthralls me.

Even after the lights dim and the film flickers across the screen, after we stand up awkwardly to do the Time Warp, laughing, our hips bumping against one another and the other people in our row, even after the clouds of pot smoke hanging over our heads dissipate and the last grain of rice is hurled at the screen, Julian doesn’t let go of my hand. As Tim Curry sings his final song, the stage is crowded with audience members swaying and singing along with the music in a perfect pantomime.

Don’t dream it, be it . . .

At that moment, Julian leans close to me, our shoulders touching, his hair brushing my cheek. When I turn to look into his eyes, he slowly lowers his lips to mine. I close my eyes and breathe in the scent of shampoo and Ivory soap as he cups one hand under my chin, his fingers reaching up to brush the hair back from my face. At the feeling of his hands on my skin, all my nervousness falls away. We are kissing softly, Julian’s hands touching me tentatively as if I might bolt. Something in his kiss, in the way he looks at me, makes me feel worlds away from the girl I know that I am, the girl with the screwed-up family and the weird job, the girl who can’t feel much of anything except disappointment and fear. When we finally come up for air, I open my eyes to find his lashes fluttering as if he’s just woken from a dream, the kind you try to find again after waking in the morning light.

“Wow,” he whispers, dropping my hand for the first time all night and pushing his dark hair back from his face. I bite my lower lip in response, afraid to speak, and then he leans in again, kissing me with urgency this time. When his lips release me, I’m breathing fast, my chest tight with all that remains unspoken between us. I look away, not sure if I can trust the rush of heat in my veins. As the lights come up, I blink, adjusting to the sudden glare that flattens everything out, bringing us back to reality.

“Hey,” Julian says softly. I can’t look at him. “I’m sorry. That was probably way too fast for you.”

It’s strange how he knows me so well, without really knowing me at all, the way he can anticipate my reaction. It makes me feel disoriented, off balance.

“Maybe a little,” I answer, watching as the crowds make their way up the aisles of the theater as slowly as a herd of cattle.

Outside on the street, I take big gulps of rain-freshened air as we walk through the late-night crush of pedestrians crowding the streets of the East Village. The sidewalks are alive with chatter, yellow cabs crawling down the wet black asphalt, headlights reflected in puddles like the orb of the moon. As we walk toward my apartment, my stomach begins to jump nervously, my heart skidding away like cars on the wet pavement. Every block or so, Julian shoots me little side glances, smiling encouragingly, his hand once again in mine.

We stop in front of my building as I point to my stoop, which is currently occupied by the weird guy from the first floor who is always wearing the same pair of black parachute pants, his pet parrot Chico perched on his shoulder. Chico squawks loudly, flapping his brightly colored wings, and we laugh awkwardly. Julian shoots me a look of disbelief as if to say,
Why is some weird dude with a psychotic bird on your stoop?

“Well, this is me,” I say, dropping his hand and trying to smile. In a sudden burst of impulsivity or downright insanity, I realize that I don’t want him to leave, that I don’t want the night to be over so soon. I feel like a complete dork when I ask, “Do you want to come up for a minute?”

Julian coughs once, looking at the sidewalk and trying to mask his astonishment by playing it cool. “Sure,” he says, shrugging. “If you want.”

Inside my apartment, I bustle around in the kitchen getting two glasses of water so I don’t have to watch as Julian walks around, taking in the mismatched furniture, the heavy black curtains that cover the long windows, the sloping ceiling and wooden floor covered with heaps of clothes. The bedroom door is open, the closet bursting with racks of Giovanni’s creations, a heap of tulle and sequins. The twin bed shoved in the corner, the lilac sheets rumpled.

“This is great,” he says, walking over to one of the end tables beside the couch and picking up a crystal paperweight my father gave me when I was eleven. There is a white rose suspended inside, petals opening hopefully within the sparkling glass. I used to think that paperweight meant something, that inside its transparent depths lurked a message from my father, silent and pure, but there all the same. Now it just looks like a paperweight.

“It’s OK.” I blush, handing him a glass of water. I’m sweating nervously, the material beneath the arms of the long-sleeved black T-shirt I’m wearing growing damper by the minute. Julian sits down on the couch, drinking his water in a series of rapid gulps, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. He shrugs off his leather jacket. Underneath he’s wearing a navy sweater, the color underscoring the blue highlights in his dark hair.

“Seriously,” he says after putting his glass down on the floor. “I’d give anything to have this place. You win: you are officially the luckiest person I know.”

I laugh, perching on the rolled arm of the sofa. Somehow this feels safer than sitting next to him.

“It’s pretty cool. But it can get kind of lonely.” It’s the first time I’ve ever said as much out loud to another human being, and the admission makes me feel like my skin has been peeled away in a series of long painful strips.

“I can see that.” Julian nods thoughtfully. “It would still be better than living at home, though.”

“Are things that bad?” I take a sip of water, mostly to have something to do with my hands, which I’m sure are shaking. I get up for a minute and switch on my turntable, and the sound of Jane’s Addiction’s “I Would for You” drifts into the room, softening the rough edges of our conversation and soothing my nerves.

“Right now they are.” Julian takes a deep breath, smiling wanly before training his gaze on the opposite wall. I sit back down on the arm of the couch, waiting for him to tell me more. “This . . . thing happened with my ex-girlfriend a few months ago, and ever since then they’ve been on my ass basically all the time. Her parents called mine, and it was a huge fucking mess.”

“What happened?” I ask, remembering what Sara said about the girlfriend, the suicide attempt. “I mean, I’ve heard some things, but—”

“Yeah,” he says, cutting me off and exhaling heavily. “It’s a fucking small city in some ways.”

He looks away for a moment, and when he turns back, his eyes are glistening and I can’t tell if he’s angry or if tears will momentarily spill over his cheeks. When he speaks, his voice is a low mumble, as if he’d rather swallow what he has to say than spit it out.

“When we first started seeing each other, we were . . . really into it. In deep, like, right away. It’s funny. It feels like a million years ago now, like it happened to someone else.” Julian pushes his hair back from his face, and the pain I see there makes me want to take his hand in mine and squeeze it tight. Instead, I do nothing.

“Anyway, the more we got to know each other, the more I started to realize she was seriously screwed up. I mean, she’d cut herself all the time for no reason, just gouge her skin with a razor every time she got angry or sad. It got to the point where I was scared to fight with her, or even just disagree about a movie or some dumb bullshit without worrying that she’d hurt herself.”

I watch his face as he fumbles for the words to explain. I hold my drink very still in my hands, cupping them around the cold glass as if it can somehow magically warm them.