Chap. 4

It struck her suddenly that everyone at this party was wearing black. Except her and Gil, and that was odd because Gil wore black all the time in the store at work. Her bra was black, though, underneath the silk cowl neck she was wearing that she believed was somewhat transparent. Gil was very stylish in her oversized jean jacket and the short spiky black hair like a cancer survivor. But she had on white carpenter pants. Deirdre thought that if anyone could get away with white carpenter pants it would be Gil. She admired the way she stood while she listened to the story being told. Deirdre leaned the other way and switched the hand she held her drink in. They were both being very attentive. Deirdre was wearing a short brown skirt and was feeling self conscious of her thighs, which she believed were too fat at least for this party, where the people were an odd mix of Gen Z and Boomers, many of them influential in their respective worlds.

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Jimmy Hollens, a theater director who was a friend of Ben Wallensky who owned the store, was telling them a story of New York in the eighties and how things were so very different in ways that were underappreciated by the young. Apparently, they had once climbed the Empire State stairs by sneaking around the line for the elevator. Jimmy’s face was jowly, but their eyes were gentle behind the glasses, as if they retained the vulnerability of being stuck in the wrong gender as a child. Sasha Wallensky, whose 18th birthday was being celebrated, stopped her circulating momentarily to express her amazement at this feat of climbing all the flights of the Empire State building.

“Oh, you wouldn’t get away with that at all today. Not for one second,” said Jimmy, waving their hand through the air.

Sasha’s pinched features grew even tighter as she gathered herself to respond. She settled into an expression of surprised happiness, almost joyful.

“I can’t believe it!” she squealed. Deirdre looked carefully at the faces of the little group gathered around the sofa before the seated figures of Jimmy Hollens and Ben Wallensky. She noted the music playing on the remote speaker, an Elton John song she recognized from her Dad’s CD collection that he used to play in the car on the way home from where? Must have been indoor soccer games in that Garden City league she’d played in the winter of her ninth grade.

“What can’t you believe?” asked Ben Wallensky, encouraging his daughter to speak more loudly. She could hardly be heard over the blather of the other party goers.

“Anything. Everything,” said Sasha. She hunched her head down into her neck and smiled humbly. Deirdre contained her revulsion at the oddness of this interaction. She was aware of the precarious nature of her presence as a new employee at the Wallensky owned store, the Silver Stone Boutique on the corner of 83rd and Seventh Ave., and the fact that her reactions were being carefully vetted.

Gil laughed politely, a very diplomatic outburst. She was more used to the theatrical nature of Sasha’s expressiveness, thought Deirdre.

“She’s so full of shit,” said Ben.

“Oh, don’t be hard on the birthday girl, dear,” said Jimmy.

“But you climbed all the stairs to the top!” exclaimed Sasha.

“The good old days,” said Jimmy. “But what a tremendous view. We were so sweaty, they just felt sorry for us and let us into the observation deck.”

“I don’t think I’ve ever been to the top,” said Ben.

“Neither have I,” said Gil frowning.

“I did. We went when I was little,” said Deirdre.

“The new boutique staff,” said Wallensky senior, bumping shoulders with Jimmy, “Show them the rooms upstairs,” he added to Sasha.

“Yes, do you want to see?” asked Sasha.

“Sure,” said Gil, speaking for them both.

They followed Sasha through the living room and its clutter of furniture and people to the staircase. Sasha drifted away from them, called out suddenly by a loud shriek from across the room as they mounted the stairs, leaving them adrift halfway up at a group of seated people, the girl in a peasant skirt, a keffiyeh, and hiking boots and the two boys dressed casually as if for a reading at a bookstore. They looked serious, politically inclined, and not Deirdre’s crowd usually, but here she was now, determined to strike for new territory.

“Not clear,” said the girl. “I mean what are the grounds?”

“She’s not even non-binary. She’s a demi girl,” said one of the boys.

“But in a Kafkaesque mode,” said the girl. The other boy laughed, showing the stubble under his chin.

Gil and Deirdre looked over the party. They were safe here momentarily, but it was clear that conversation with this group would be awkward. Deirdre thought of her Mom, and knew that she would want her to at least try to be friendly. It was her secret shame that she was still thinking of her Mom when it came to what to do in public situations. Her Dad had always been more illustrative of what not to do, which usually involved trying too hard. She wondered about him, not having heard from him in what seemed a long time. It made her feel somewhat unbound, a feeling she quickly processed and ignored.

“This reminds me of Bodies, Bodies, Bodies,” said the boy on the higher rung, casting a quick glance at her.

“I saw that,” said Deirdre. “So good,” she added.

“Really hit hard,” said the boy, smiling at them.

“ ‘I look like I fuck. That’s the vibe I’m putting out there,’” said the girl.

“You fuckin’ trigger me,” said the other boy.

“Yes, but, like, so full of shit,” said Deirdre.

“Oh, totally,” said the first boy.

Gil gave her a look that was a warning she was stepping out onto thin ice. Deirdre sipped at her drink, a plastic cup of white wine.

“I went to NYU with Rachel Sennet,” said the boy.

“Oh, really?” said Deirdre. “She was great in Shiva Baby.”

“Yeah, you think so?” said the girl, straightening out her peasant skirt and turning towards Deirdre and Gill.

“I think so. I mean she’s funny, but also kind of, like, vulnerable?” said Deirdre.

“Yeah, I get that,” said the girl.

“What are you guys drinking?” said the other boy, nearest to them, standing up slowly from his spot on the step. He was tall, and his jeans were too tight, his legs too storklike. Deirdre wondered whether he could walk okay.

“Oh, just wine,” she said.

He held out his hand for her cup with a knowing half smirk on his face, like he was too cool to ask for her permission to get her a drink.

“I’m fine,” said Gil, giving Deirdre a flash of hurt.

When he came back he handed Deirdre her filled cup of wine and sat down on the step above her. Deirdre sat down and pulled Gil’s arm with her free hand to sit on the step also.

“What’s happening, Gil?” asked Deirdre.

“What’s happening with you?”

“Trying to have fun here, yolo, you know.”

“Don’t let me stop you,” said Gil.

“Here. I’ll share with you,” said Deirdre.

“That’s okay.”

“Oh, come on. Are you working tomorrow?”

“No way. “

“That’s why.”

“Why what?”

“You ought to relax.”

Gil ignored her. Deirdre sipped at her wine. The party turned out was a dud. Deirdre was determined not to let it drag her down. She drank the wine, finishing the cup. The boy stepped over her and held out his hand. She held out her hand and he pulled her upright.

“Come on. I’ll show you the rest of the apartment,” he said.

Deirdre followed him up the stairs. This was interesting, she thought. Her legs were feeling strangely translucent, as if they were belonging to somebody else, somebody taller, with dynamic lines like a Taylor Swift. The boy had thin legs, too thin.

“What’s your name?” she asked. But the words came out garbled, as if her tongue had been consumed by bees.

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