White Lines (9 page)

FOURTEEN

I’M TAPPING MY FEET
against one of the wrought-iron café tables that litter the inside of the light-filled atrium, watching as groups of girls parade in front of me, cups of frozen yogurt clutched to their chests, their giggles echoing through the room. The freshmen all look so pure and unspoiled that it almost hurts to look at them. They all seem to have the same mouthfuls of metal that glint in the light, making them self-conscious as a herd of baby deer, skin so translucent that I can almost see blood beating below the surface. They make me think of pails of milk, church bells, of the early morning dew coating the grass in Central Park. I turn away, bringing a Styrofoam cup of coffee to my lips and blowing on the surface to cool it, steam flooding my face.

I slept for twelve hours last night. No movement, no dreams. Just an empty void. I’ve felt fuzzy all day, like I’ve somehow managed to overdose on dopamine, my brain slow and plodding as I fumbled with my locker combination and tried to follow along with Ms. Sykes as we read aloud from
The Picture of Dorian Gray,
my eyes heavy-lidded, my tongue thick in my mouth.

A rush of movement and Alexa suddenly appears, throwing her huge pink purse onto the metal table with a thud. “Sorry I’m late,” she says, sitting down in the chair beside me and crossing her legs, clad in neon-pink tights that perfectly match the wide cloth headband holding her hair back from the angular planes of her face. “Ms. Newman was being a total bitch, and I couldn’t get away.”

Today, Alexa’s also wearing a black miniskirt and a black jersey top that clings to her torso, the tights, purse and headband interrupting the monotony like a punch to the face. It makes me smile to think of her planning this outfit so carefully last night, trying, for once, to fit in. For the record, I’ve never seen Alexa Forte in anything but pastels. Her color palette usually reminds me of an Easter basket. Or a nursery.

“Was she ignoring the bell, as usual?” I ask shyly, afraid that I will spook her like a wild horse if I say the wrong thing. Ms. Newman is our French teacher. She makes a habit of babbling on endlessly, which generally makes us all late for our next class. Alexa is unlucky enough to have French as her final class of the day, which means she gets out at least fifteen minutes late on a daily basis.

Alexa nods, reaching into her purse and pulling out a pack of Gauloises, extracting a black cigarette with a gold band around the middle and lighting it, filling the air with the pungent scent of tobacco. The smell makes me wish I were sitting at a café on the Left Bank, the bustle of the Paris streets moving before me in a parade of expertly tied scarves and yapping little dogs. When I was nine, my mother took me to the spring collections. I remember the rain-soaked streets, how even the dampness felt welcoming and glamorous on my skin. The crunch of a croissant melting under my tongue and the discreet eyes of the waiters as they refilled my mother’s wineglass, the diamonds on her wrists and fingers sparkling beneath elaborate chandeliers. How her eyes narrowed as I reached for a second pink
macaron
during high tea at The Ritz, and the scratch of her nails against my hand, tearing the skin.
Just one,
she hissed, then looked around the room to make sure no one was listening, her face tense and watchful.

“So,” Alexa says, exhaling smoke in a white cloud above my head, “are you ready to deflower me? I mean, this
is
my first time downtown and all.”

I laugh, throwing my head back. Who knew Alexa Forte was funny?

“Don’t worry,” I say, standing up and throwing my backpack over one shoulder. “I’ll be gentle.”

* * *

A half hour later we are walking down St. Marks Place, Alexa glued to my side, though she seems a bit more relaxed now that she’s off the train, her eyes no longer glazed over in fear. During the subway ride, her thigh pressed into mine as she looked blankly ahead, afraid to make eye contact with the group of Hispanic boys who stood in front of us, swaying as they held on to straps that hung from the ceiling, their eyes searching her body, lingering at length on her chest, smiling lecherously as she ignored them and stared into space.

The car was mostly full, bodies pressed together in the steamy heat, the car packed with people getting off work early, playing hooky, looking for trouble in Washington Square Park, on their way to classes at NYU, or simply because, like me, they happened to live there. Spray paint streaked the outside of the train, smearing the metal with black lines and bright color that crept inside the car like a disease. I tried to explain, very gently, that the E train was a safe line, and that it was broad daylight outside, not three a.m., but Alexa stayed rigid for the entire ride, smile frozen in place, her “downtown” outfit thrown into high relief by the cigarette butts crushed out on the dirty subway platform, the break-dancers who moved through the train stopping in front of us, Day-Glo sweatbands around their foreheads, the zippers on their jackets catching the light as their limbs spun in a movement that was somehow more than dance.

We walk past Trash and Vaudeville, a punk store on St. Marks Place, the Jesus and Mary Chain’s
Psychocandy
album blaring from the doorway, filling the street with the electric whine of grating guitars. We stop at one of the many folding tables set up on the edge of the street, vendors hawking everything from socks to sunglasses. Alexa plucks a pair of huge neon-green shades from a table and slides them over her face, obscuring her eyes completely. The Jesus and Mary Chain segues into Jane’s Addiction’s “Jane Says” as a group of punks pass by, safety pins in complicated patterns gracing their leather motorcycle jackets, buckles glinting silver in the late fall sunlight. One girl, her hair on end in a bright pink Mohawk, does a double take as Alexa slides the glasses over her placid blond features, the Mohawk girl’s expression slightly amused, her lips curving into a smile.

“Are they me?” Alexa asks, face expressionless. She looks like a green bug, or an extra from a Human League video, her face whitened by the extreme color as if she’s been video-edited. Washed out. Either way, she decidedly does not look like Alexa Forte, which is, in and of itself, pretty funny.

“Yeah,
totally,
” I say with a snort, pulling the glasses from her face and throwing them back down as the Jamaican guy manning the table glares at me, yards of yellow cloth wound around his head in some kind of complicated headdress, dreads falling out of the bottom.

“Watch the merchandise, mon,” he mumbles, reaching out to straighten the display of sunglasses, patting them into place.

“C’mon,” I say, grabbing Alexa’s arm, pulling her away from the table. She giggles nervously, following me obediently as a toddler as I lead her back into the crush of people, the street pulsating with life. A group of skaters glide by, their skateboards covered with brightly colored stickers, their pants so baggy that they wouldn’t stay up at all if not for the belts pulled tight and low around their hips. The rush of wind pulls the hair away from my face with the force of gravity, and all at once I’m aware of how weirdly, inexplicably happy I am. The bright blue fall sky overhead, red and orange leaves crunching underfoot, the voices of the vendors melding together in a companionable chatter, Alexa’s hand on my arm as I lead her more deeply into what is foreign territory for her but achingly familiar for me. I want to wrap all of downtown up in a big red bow and hand it, arms outstretched, to the next person I pass who looks unhappy or just plain tired. On days like these with the crisp wind at my back, the electric-blue sky, I am in love with New York, in love with the burnt-orange glow of autumn.

By the time we walk around the corner to Love Saves the Day, Alexa doesn’t seem scared at all anymore. Inside, I watch as she flips through a rack of vintage dresses from the sixties with her usual confidence, pulling out a black sheath and holding it up to her slender frame, turning a critical eye toward the mirror. She holds the dress up to her body with one hand, using the other to pile her hair atop her head. Watching how comfortable she is with her beauty, her ease in flaunting it, I can’t help but wonder if I will ever feel so at home in my own skin. Alexa sways gently in front of the mirror, seemingly entranced by what she finds there, and I’m aware that even the clerk with the huge Afro tagging jackets behind the counter has put down his pen and is now staring at her rapturously as she walks into the fitting room, flinging the pink velvet curtain shut behind her. A sudden hand on my shoulder jolts me out of my thoughts, and I spin around, eyes wild, ready to strike.

“I
thought
that was you,” Sebastian says triumphantly, his face cracked in a smile, but I detect a bit of nervousness underneath his bravado. His eyes widen under smudgily applied blue liner as he gauges my reaction, the way my hands harden into fists in spite of myself, and he takes a small, tentative step back. “I was just coming over here to say hi! I saw you through the window.” He points to the plate glass behind him, then grins impishly, biting his bottom lip.

As I stand there staring at him, I realize that I’ve never really seen Sebastian in the daylight. Stumbling out of clubs at eight a.m., yes. But never in the middle of the day, out on the street in real life. I’m shocked at how normal he looks without the feathers, the blue-and-white polka dots painted on his skin. He’s wearing faded jeans with huge, clunky black shoes and a navy sweater, a very long red-and-blue-striped scarf wound around his neck, his short blond hair combed back from his face, a black messenger bag slung over one shoulder. But beneath his eyes are matching purple circles, and his complexion would be considered beautiful only to a family of skeletons.

I relax my hands, my pulse slowing as my vision realigns itself. I twist my face into a smile, trying to regain what’s left of my composure. “Yeah,” I say weakly, “it’s definitely me.” We stare at each other for a moment in that weird silence that crops up when you run into someone from the scene on the street, far from the dusky confines of the club. He looks me up and down, and I know he is thinking the same thing I am.
So this is what she looks like.

“What are you doing down here?” The question I really want to ask is, How are you even
awake
at this hour? But I don’t really have to—Sebastian’s manic shuffling feet and relentless sniffing provide the answer without my having to say a word.

“Just doing a little shopping for the outlaw party. You’re definitely coming, right?” His face scrunches up in mock worry, but I know Sebastian well enough to know it’s all an act—no one misses Sebastian’s parties, especially if, like me, they are lucky enough to be included on the invite.

“Definitely,” I say, reaching out and squeezing his arm, trying to sound more excited than I really am. Sebastian’s parties, though usually fun, are also chaotic and exhausting, the kind of evenings it can take days to recover from, and I know this truck thing will probably be no exception.

Just then Alexa glides over wearing the sheath dress, her hair piled on top of her head with two black lacquered chopsticks she must’ve pulled out from the bottomless depths of her tote. Sebastian looks her up and down, his grin widening further as he takes in her long, tanned legs that extend from the hem of the dress, her rosy heart-shaped face, and eyes that survey the scene coolly.

“What do you think?” she says, turning around so that we can see the dress from every angle.

“Fabulous,” Sebastian gushes warmly, flitting around her like a bird. “Totally fierce.” And then to me in mock horror, “Cat, where have you been
hiding
this gorgeous creature?”

I open my mouth, but before I can speak, Alexa holds out one hand in Sebastian’s direction. “I’m Alexa,” she says with a smile, taking his hand in her own and shaking it gently.

“Sebastian, Alexa, Alexa, Sebastian,” I say in a drone, gesturing in the air between them, aware that my night and day lives have just messily collided in a vintage store on Second Avenue amidst the dresses of satin and crepe, the air permeated with the faint smell of mothballs mixed with incense, heavy as dirt. I feel dizzy, and I take a deep breath, filling my lungs. This is my world.
Mine.
Alexa is beside me shimmering like a gorgeous mirage, and I wonder if bringing her into my life was a huge mistake.

“So, how do you know each other?” Alexa sounds genuinely curious, and as she waits for one of us to answer, she reaches up with one hand, pulling the chopsticks from her hair, the golden weight of it tumbling to her waist. It’s a flawless move, and I can almost feel the molecules in the room rearrange themselves around the curves of her flesh. It’s a movie moment, and I wonder how long she’s been practicing it in the mirror.

“We met at Tunnel,” Sebastian says with obvious pride.

A look of confusion flits across Alexa’s face, and she clicks the chopsticks in her hand against each other uneasily, her brow scrunched like an accordion. Perpetual insider that she is, Alexa is clearly uncomfortable with being on the outside, even for a moment.

“Tunnel?”

“The
club
?” Sebastian answers, a faint note of disbelief coloring his voice. He looks at me as if to say, Where did you find this girl? I shrug, rolling my eyes at him apologetically and hoping Alexa doesn’t notice.

“We’re promoters,” I say, trying to make it sound more legit than it probably is. It definitely sounds better than the truth, which is that we get paid to go out and dress up, to scarf drugs like an unruly pack of two-year-olds at an all-you-can-eat birthday cake buffet. “We throw parties at Tunnel,” I explain, shrugging like it’s no big deal, and to someone like Alexa Forte who attends galas at the Met wearing couture dresses from Dior on a regular basis, it probably isn’t.