White Lines (3 page)

THREE

I’M SITTING ON THE STONE STEPS
at school, pretending to enjoy an apple that I bought from an Asian grocery a few blocks over, when all I’m really thinking about is how long I have left until I can go home and start getting ready for the club, every stroke of makeup on my skin sliding me further from daylight. I tongue the white flesh and sink my teeth in, wishing the ripe fruit was the tanned blond head of one of the salad girls.

Since Manhattan Prep is housed in a brownstone and has a population of only one hundred students or fewer in the entire school, we don’t have a cafeteria. Or a prom. Or dances. Or phys ed. Instead, the Park Avenue girls buy salads at a cafeteria next door and sit in the glass atrium picking at their wilted greens, retouching their lip gloss with sticky pink wands. Even though we are all essentially weird in some way—after all, this is a school for kids who have gotten into some kind of trouble—it’s not enough to banish cliques completely. We still have the same bullshit categories as any other school: the jocks, the popular girls, the nerds. And the untouchables. Like me. So I sit on the steps and try to pretend that it doesn’t matter, when really, I’d do just about anything to have a friend here. This silent admission makes my cheeks flush with shame. How can I be so weak? Even at Nightingale, I only ever really had Sara, her blond curls hanging over my shoulder, elaborately folded notes tossed at my feet during study hall. Somehow, it was almost enough. But here, with no one to talk to day after day, the loneliness creeps in like an old friend I no longer want to know. Worse yet, it wants to make small talk.
Oh, it’s you again? How’ve you been?

Across the street, Julian, the new kid, sits on the curb in front of Ray’s Pizza, a slice dangling from one hand. As he brings the pizza to his lips, the cheese falls off in one giant greasy slide to his lap. Julian has long dark hair that hangs to his shoulders and looks as if it hasn’t made friends with soap or water in days. His skin is the color of café au lait, and there’s something about the tilt of his eyes that makes me think he’s vaguely Asian. He wears jeans so tight that I’m sure years from now he’ll be sitting in some clinic with his frosty blond wife, stammering that he has no idea WHY they’ve had such a difficult time starting a family. All I know about Julian is that (a) he sits right across the aisle from me in history class, and (b) he transferred from Dalton last week after some kind of scandal involving his ex-girlfriend, and (c) he’s totally into the Ramones. He doesn’t talk to anyone, and never raises his hand in class, just stares down at his binder and scribbles what looks like pictures of Transformers on the cover with a black pen.

Julian finishes scraping melted cheese off his jeans and looks up, an irritated expression clouding his face. When his eyes meet mine, I feel a rough shock of recognition between us and raise my apple core in a kind of demented greeting, the air suddenly as thick as pudding. Julian tosses me a curt nod and promptly goes back to stuffing the rest of the slice into his mouth, gnawing hungrily at the edges of the crust, watching me all the while. Even though I love staring, and I think that generally other people’s lives are way more interesting than TV, I feel uneasy as Julian’s eyes lock on to mine. My face burns as he chews the last bite and brushes his hands against his black jeans before walking toward me. I turn the apple core over and over between my palms, my heart careening in my chest as he approaches, glad that my hands have something to do even if the core is damp, sticky, and turning browner by the minute. As Julian moves closer, I can’t help but notice how he shakes the hair from his eyes with one expert, jagged motion, how his hazel eyes change from green to brown in the light. His skin is smooth and slightly bronzed, as if he’s just returned from some exotic locale. He tilts his chin in my direction defiantly, his eyes flicking coolly over my body, taking me in.

“See something you like?” He raises one dark eyebrow, and I feel like I’m going to spontaneously combust, which is what always happens when someone potentially interesting talks to me in the real world—especially if that person happens to be a guy. And up close, Julian is definitely interesting—though it makes my stomach churn spasmodically to even think the word to myself. People are dangerous, unpredictable. I know this implicitly, and every time I come into contact with them, I become a caged animal, a panther pacing back and forth behind steel bars, wary and agitated.

“Yeah,” I stammer, turning redder by the second and wishing that a manhole would just open up and swallow me whole. I look down at my black boots and scramble for something to say, my brain a jumble of images, none that entirely make sense. “Your pizza—I was just . . . hungry.”

The minute the words leave my lips, I know they are the truth. My stomach begins to growl loudly as if in agreement, and I look up into Julian’s amused face and laugh, my voice echoing in the street, too loud, even with the noise of a passing bus releasing a thick cloud of black smoke. As the sound vibrates through me, jolting me into the present, I realize that it’s been forever since I’ve laughed at something legitimately funny or awkward without being prompted by the ingestion of some mind-altering substance. Still, I can’t quite turn off that ever-present voice inside my head, the one that holds up an invisible hand to stop me from going further, from moving closer.

People are dangerous . . .

“Well,” Julian says, laughing along with me and holding out a hand, “that’s remedied easily enough. C’mon.”

I stare at his hand, the long fingers, and look into his eyes. I toss my apple core to the concrete and take hold of him, ignoring the voice that begins, even now, to protest more loudly, whispering like a flock of ruffled birds,
Don’t touch, don’t trust.
I draw a deep breath and follow him blindly across the street, unsure of where I’m being taken.

* * * *

A NIGHT WITH THE SHADES PULLED TIGHT,
the lamp in the corner of the living room filling the space with a candy-colored Tiffany glow. A kiss on the cheek, her painted lips leaving a crimson mark on my skin as her fingers push back the hair from my forehead with a red velvet band.
See how beautiful you look with that mop off your face?
Her voice is low and seductive, a kind of caress, and I shiver at the sound of it, closing my eyes. The mirror looms, gilt-edged and glittering, her reflection directly behind my own. Her dark beauty bewitches the glass while my face charms nothing at all. I don’t like red, the color of anger, pain and fear, and my face looks bloodless beneath that sharp burst of color.
My girl,
my mother murmurs, watching my reflection with something not unlike pride.
My sweet, beautiful girl.
She runs her hands through the length of my hair and I swoon under her touch, my nerve endings jangling like bells. The band is tight, and my temples begin to throb uncomfortably. When I open my eyes, my face looks naked, exposed, and I reach one hand up to my head, wincing at the pressure.
It hurts, Mom,
I say softly, afraid to look at her face, her features changing even in the brief time it takes for the words to leave my lips.
It kind of hurts.

Shut up,
my mother hisses as she leans over me, ripping the hair band away and throwing it to the floor. Her hand is raised in the air, her face a mask of fury and bitterness, spittle spraying my cheek where the touch of her lips lingered only moments before. Her gaze flits over to the long banks of windows overlooking Central Park.
I don’t want the neighbors to hear.

The neighbors. It was always what other people thought that mattered most—the freshly highlighted hair, the Bulgari bangle, the “right” dress. It didn’t matter what I did or didn’t do, how many A’s I had on my report card, whether or not I’d removed all the tangles from my hair that morning. There was no method to the madness, no telling what might set her off, and I lived with my bones shaking like ice rattling in a glass, never knowing when or where it would happen again, knowing only that these episodes were as inevitable as the rain that came to pelt the windows on hot summer nights.

FOUR

“SO, HOW LONG HAVE YOU BEEN HERE?”

I pull at a jagged hangnail and wonder what he’s really asking. How long have I been here in New York? At Manhattan Prep? On planet Earth? Sensing my confusion, Julian smiles, his face turning bashful and rosy. Long spiky lashes frame his almond-shaped eyes, flecks of green and yellow dotting the irises. Is he good-looking? I’m not sure. Not conventionally. If he were walking down the street, would I turn and stare? Probably not. Still, there’s something in his face, in the way he carries himself, that makes me want to move closer.

“I mean, here, at Prep.” Julian’s tone is serious, and I look down at my fingers splayed out on the Formica tabletop, my jagged, bitten nails.

“Since last year. I transferred from Nightingale.” I shift my eyes over to the slice on the paper plate in front of me, the grease seeping into the paper in a blotchy stain. Even though my stomach is still growling noisily, the cheese, covered with round slices of pepperoni, looks almost diseased, and I have to force myself to pick it up and take a bite. I savor the feel of real food in my mouth, marveling at the fact that, counting my bagel this morning, this makes two meals in one day—a record of sorts.

“Would it be bad form to ask why?” Julian looks down at his own plate, at the remainder of the second slice that is now just a grease splotch and a few random shreds of cheese.

“Probably.” I cover my mouth with one hand, wondering if I have any cheese or pepperoni stuck in my teeth. “Well,” I say, swallowing hard, “unless you’d like to pony up your own reason for . . . umm . . . relocating.”

“Not a chance.” He laughs, eyes narrowing slightly as he takes a swig of Dr Pepper. His expression clouds momentarily, and he looks down at the table, nervously tapping the Formica with his fingers before looking up again, the echoes of pain glimmering in his eyes contrasting sharply with his crooked smile. “Maybe when I know you better.”

I nod, looking down at my own hands, the fingers pale and cold as minnows. When I was seven, my grandfather taught me to fish upstate in the Adirondacks at a cabin my grandparents rented every summer on Lake Clear. I remember the shy silver trout darting through the cold muddy water, the tuna sandwiches my grandmother packed for us, the sun falling gently on my face, upturned and seeking the light.

“So will I?” he asks.

I blink rapidly, trying not to look stupid. I know it’s not normal to drift off into my own head in the middle of a conversation, but sometimes I can’t help it. Memories float in at the weirdest times, swirling around me and pulling me ever closer.

“Will you what?”

I am aware suddenly of my own heart, how it pumps along unceasingly in my chest, the muscle squeezing hard.

“Get to know you better.” He shoots me a sly smile, and his question hangs in the air; flirtatious, insolent, irresistible. My lips part, my mouth opened in a wide O. Thoughts whiz by, each one moving too fast for me to grab on to any one of them. I know I am supposed to flirt back, to say something witty and charming, but I am tongue-tied, speechless.

What do I say, what do I SAY?

I smile weakly, waiting for the moment to pass. Julian’s gaze is locked on my face, his eyes missing nothing. He shifts in his seat, coughing into one hand. His chest sounds full, raspy, like he’s getting over a cold.

“So, what do I really need to know about this place besides the fact that everyone seems to have a giant stick up their ass? Present company excluded, of course.” Julian changes the subject, and just like that, the tension is defused, the spell broken.

“Oh, naturally,” I say, pushing my plate away with one hand. Without missing a beat, Julian picks up my half-eaten slice and destroys it in two bites, chewing noisily. My mouth falls open. It’s only a piece of cold pizza, but as far as I’m concerned, the gesture is shockingly intimate—it’s as if he’s reached across the table and placed my whole hand into the warm cavern of his mouth.

“See those girls over there?” I point through the window at Elizabeth Harris and Alexa Forte, two of the reigning salad queens. They sit on the school steps, cans of Diet Pepsi tucked between their knees, their lips moving frantically. They are everything I’m supposed to be and have failed miserably at becoming—tanned, glossy socialites in training. Their smiles are even and white, their pastel cardigans thrown over slim shoulders. They are living the life that my mother raised me to want, the life I’ve rejected with my nighttime activities, the multiple holes in my ears and heavy black boots. I swallow hard before continuing as Alexa Forte looks up and meets my eyes, her look burning through the glass.

“They are harbingers of evil and definitely not to be trusted. Plus, they smell like a combination of dusty gardenias, grape Pop Rocks and rancid tan accelerator, so, you know, be warned.”

“Warning duly noted.” Julian grins, his lips parting to reveal a crooked front incisor. “Anything else?”

“Yeah.” I take a deep breath and practically force the words out as Alexa slides a pair of Ray-Bans over her eyes and looks away. “I’m sort of a freak here, so if you want any kind of social life, we probably shouldn’t make this a regular thing.” I look at the tabletop so I don’t have to see the expression on his face, which I’m sure is an ego-flattening combination of pity and fear.

“I happen to like freaks. Besides, social lives are overrated,” Julian says after a beat. I look up as he shrugs, the sinew in his lanky arms clearly visible.

“Ha.” My laughter comes out as a snort. “Not in my world.”

“What world is that?” Julian asks. Unlike most other people, he sounds like he actually wants to know. His fingers are busily shredding a napkin into confetti as he waits for me to speak. I like his hands, the steady, confident weight of them.

“I work over at Tunnel, and sometimes at a few other clubs too. The World. Save the Robots.”

Save the Robots is an after-hours spot in the East Village that doesn’t open until four a.m. There is nothing more disorienting or exhilarating than walking into its smoky rooms in the dead of night and exiting hours later into the harsh glare of morning sunlight.

Julian looks up at me incredulously. “There’s really a club called Save the Robots? Are there actual robots in attendance?”

“Well, club kids can certainly snort lines of coke with robotlike precision.”

There is a moment of silence, and I look away, feeling suddenly like I’ve said too much. When you mention drugs to people who obviously don’t do them, there’s always this moment of judgment. It’s like most people are capable of picturing drug use only as an ABC Afterschool Special cliché, where the heroine “flirts” with pot or booze, then realizes the error of her ways and goes to rehab, where she is miraculously cured. These hour-long specials usually end with an annoying freeze-frame of the heroine jumping up in the air to show her newfound freedom—but it just makes her look completely psychotic. It goes without saying that shows like these generally make me want to stab myself in the eye with a pencil. But Julian doesn’t seem judgmental, just a little sad.

“Aren’t our teenage years supposed to be spent being as lazy as possible, stuffing chips in our faces and playing Nintendo?”

Julian smiles, showing that tooth, and runs his hand through his hair, fingers catching on the tangles at the bottom before he yanks them free.

“Well, I guess there is
that.
” I laugh nervously, hoping I don’t still look like a bloated, hungover corpse. “But it’s not really work, you know? I basically just throw parties, and sometimes work the door of the basement.”

“The basement?” He looks at me quizzically.

“The club’s split up into a few different rooms,” I explain, my face flushing. “There’s the main dance floor, the Chandelier Room, and on the bottom floor is—”

“The basement,” he finishes with a grin. “Makes total sense. And I suppose the Chandelier Room is full of . . . chandeliers?”

“Bingo.”

“So, you are the cruel and evil force who decides who gets in?”

I nod. “Basically. It’s not that big of a deal, though.”

I spew the words out quickly, like I’m trying to rid myself of them as fast as I can. I don’t know what I hate more, listening to most people’s petty bullshit or talking about myself. It feels illicit, dirty, like bragging, my entire body ballooning to the size of the Empire State Building.

“Would I make the cut?” he asks, testing me.

“Hmm . . .” I tilt my head and pretend to scrutinize him, taking in the dirty black jeans, the ripped Converse sneakers on his feet, the Ramones T-shirt and his black leather jacket slung over the back of his chair. “For you, I
might
make an exception,” I say, shoving my straw down to the bottom of the plastic cup and breaking up the ice. “Maybe.”

A wave of giddiness runs through me, and I’m aware for the first time how
normal
this all is, how simple it is to talk to him. I’m sitting with a boy I like in a pizza parlor, just like any other girl in the world, my problems receding into the distance with every shy, awkward glance. I want to stay here for the duration, cozy in this warm room, Julian’s foot accidentally bumping against mine under the table, my belly full and happy.
Normal.

Julian brings one hand to his chest like he’s just been shot, feigning injury, his eyes closing momentarily. As I watch him, I’m aware that for the first time since I came to Manhattan Prep, I’m not impatient for the day to end. For this one small moment, I’m content to stay right where I am, sheltered by the windows beginning to fog over with moisture and heat, the scent of meat and cheese hanging heavily in the air, sitting alongside a boy I barely know.