Authors: Katy Atlas
Madison was right -- we were only a step removed from those screaming girls, and better to keep it under wraps.
Blake leaned down and played with the ripped knee of his jeans. Just as he opened his mouth to speak, someone turned the music off for a second time. I scanned the room to see where the stereo was.
It’s my friend Jesse, he put his iPod into the player. He can never listen to a song for longer than thirty seconds -- it’s a giant pain.
The next song that played was something I didn’t recognize, and I tried not to be obviously disappointed. They should play one of your songs, I said, smiling at him.
He looked at me like there was no one else in the room. I’ll play one for you, he said quietly.
My breath caught in my throat, and I tried to think of how to respond. Maybe Madison had redeemed herself -- maybe this time, she’d actually been right.
When do you leave New York? I asked.
Tomorrow morning. I wish we could stay all weekend, but we have another show tomorrow night.
I looked around the room, but no one seemed to be paying attention to us. I saw April, still talking to the same guy, and as I looked back deeper into the room, I could see Madison, who apparently hadn’t found Sophie after all. She was staring back at me, trying to wave to me in a way that would draw my attention but wouldn’t make anyone else notice her. As our eyes met, she gestured to a spot only a few feet away from us, next to a tall dresser that held a flat screen television.
And next to the television was the real Lindsey Thompson. Flatironed hair, quilted jacket and all. She was standing next to a guy in his twenties carrying a giant camera, and she obviously hadn’t noticed either Madison or me yet.
Yet.
I tensed in the seat, and hoped Blake didn’t notice. I turned my head away from her direction, hoping my long hair would provide some sort of a shield against her noticing me. I couldn’t risk being exposed for what had happened earlier that night, not now. An idea formed in my head, and I blurted it out before I could reconsider.
Do you want to go for a walk or something? I asked Blake, trying to smile. Are you going to get attacked by screaming fans if we go outside?
He looked at me, as intensely as he had in the bookstore, making me forget the party around us. Sure, he said, and stood up. Actually, there’s something I wanted to do tonight.
I followed him across the room, trying to keep my body concealed by ducking behind groups of hipster-looking guys. When we were only a few feet away from the door, Blake paused.
Jesse, he looked to the side, making eye contact with someone next to me. I knew before I even looked up that it was Moving Neutral’s bassist. This is the guy who keeps messing with the music, Blake explained, and as I turned, I saw a set of familiar-looking black framed glasses. Jesse, meet Casey, Blake introduced us, and I held out my hand.
Jesse looked at me closely, then at Blake with an expression I couldn’t read. Hi Casey, he said to me in a friendly way, and turned back to Blake. Where’s April?
I felt my stomach tighten up in jealousy, and tried not to let it show.
Somewhere around here, Blake said, shrugging dismissively. Hey, we have to leave pretty early in the morning, okay? Try to wind this thing down.
Jesse nodded, but he’d clearly stopped paying attention. Brushing past Blake, he turned back to say nice meeting you to me before continuing into the room.
Blake headed for the door, and I followed him. It was a relief to walk out into the quiet hallway, and at the same time a little terrifying to suddenly be alone with him. I tried to think of something to say that wouldn’t make me sound immature or boring.
Have you guys been to New York a lot?
It was a lame effort, and I regretted the words as soon as they were out of my mouth. Boring was better than immature, at least, I tried to reassure myself.
Not really, he pressed the elevator button and the doors opened immediately. I guessed that more people had been streaming into the party while we’d been inside. We came once for some interviews, about six months ago, he continued. I’d like to be here more than that, but we’re all based in Los Angeles, so when we have a choice of where to go, everyone heads back to Cali.
I nodded. He didn’t have to know I already knew that. Is your family there?
He wrapped one arm around me, making me forget what I’d asked. I don’t see them a lot, he said seriously, his white-blue eyes shining. They didn’t really want me to become a musician. Anyway, he cut himself off. Sophie and Jesse and all them are kind of my family now.
I nodded, thinking about my parents, how much I dreaded going home at the end of the night. We crossed the lobby without a word, a different black-clad doorman holding the door open as we left the hotel. Outside, the air was cool and dry, perfect summer weather.
Let’s just walk around, I said, turning left along a narrow alley. The cobblestone streets in SoHo were overwhelming in summer, so crammed with tourists and shoppers that you could hardly move. Madison and I had attempted to actually shop there one day the summer before, and neither of us had bought a thing. We’d collapsed on the train home, exhausted and defeated. But at this time of the night, the stores would be closed, so the streets would be empty.
Lead the way, Blake whispered, taking his arm off my shoulder and walking beside me. So, are you excited to start college? he asked, looking at me with genuine curiosity.
It’s basically the only thing getting me through this summer, I said. You’re so lucky, with all this freedom. My parents still treat me like I’m ten years old most of the time.
He nodded. He didn’t seem to be bored out of his mind, so I continued.
I’ve basically spent this summer counting down the days until college starts, but it’s weird. Madison’s going to be at NYU, so she’s close, but I don’t know a single person going to Columbia, and Madison and I have been best friends basically since we were born. I can’t even imagine not having her around all the time.
Blake nodded again. I realized I’d been rambling and bit my tongue.
So do you think you’ll go? I asked him. To college, I mean?
He looked away for the first time, pausing at a window full of vintage jewelry.
I don’t know, he said. I got in when I was in high school, I’ve deferred twice. I even sent a tuition check once, but it just didn’t feel like the right time.
I looked where he was looking, at a gold cocktail ring with a giant black stone, something that looked like it belonged in the 60’s, on a girl with a blonde bob and a minidress. All the store windows looked like magazine spreads, glittery and confident about whatever they contained.
Yeah, I said quietly. It felt like Blake lived in a different world -- in my house, college was not optional. So what was that thing you had to do?
Oh -- right, he said, pulling out his cell phone and pressing the button to call a preset number.
I tried not to look disappointed. I wasn’t sure what I expected that Blake wanted to do, but I didn’t think it was calling some random friend . . . or girlfriend.
Keith? he said into the phone, and I exhaled. Not a girlfriend, at least. Hey, did you get it? He paused, turning away from me. How much? he paused. Eight is a lot. Can we do seven? I’ll pay cash.
I looked at the back of Blake’s head, trying to imagine what they were talking about . . . I tried not to let myself jump to conclusions, but I could only think of one thing the conversation could be about. How much? Did you get it?
Can we meet up? he said into the phone.
I looked down at my shoes. I’d narrowly avoided getting arrested once tonight, and I wasn’t sure I wanted to roll the dice again. Not even for Blake Parker.
Okay, he said into the phone. I’ll meet you at McNally’s.
Great, I thought. McNally was some shady Irish drug dealer, and I was going to have to explain to Blake Parker that I wasn’t going anywhere near whatever eight or seven hundred dollar stash he was trying to buy.
Come on, he said to me, hanging up the phone and leading the way down the street, heading east. I just have to run a quick errand.
I followed him reluctantly, feeling my hands get clammy with nervousness. It wasn’t like I’d never seen people smoke pot, but following Blake into a drug deal was pretty far outside of my comfort zone.
Still, a little voice in my head whispered. It’s Blake Parker. I can always just wait outside.
I thought about what Madison would do, if she were here. Madison was impulsive and fearless, she would probably follow Blake anywhere. Sometimes I wondered if that was part of why I never got the guy.
Blake stopped after a few blocks, opening the door for me to go into another bookstore.
I thought you had to run an errand.
He’s meeting us. Just wait.
We browsed the shelves for fifteen minutes, waiting for Blake’s dealer to show up. At least the bookstore was in public -- I had some deniability if the police suddenly appeared. Still, it wasn’t as if I wanted to stand by as Blake Parker went to jail.
Blake, I don’t know if this is a good idea-- I started, but I was interrupted by a heavy-set man in his forties, bald and bearded and dressed in a Hawaiian shirt and khaki pants. I stared at him, not quite sure what to think. His look didn’t exactly scream drug dealer. But he was carrying a leather shoulder bag with one hand on it protectively, and I inched away from him, not taking my eyes off Blake.
Keith, Blake shook the man’s hand firmly, leading him over to a table. Thanks for coming.
Keith set his shoulder bag on the table, took out a thick package wrapped in white parchment paper, and began to unfold it, right on top of the table for everyone in the bookstore to see.
I tried to look somewhere, anywhere other than where Keith was publicly unwrapping some illegal substance without a care in the world. I inched slowly away from their table, trying to pretend like I was just browsing the store. When I was at the edge of the seating area, I glanced down at a shelf that was scattered with flyers announcing some book reading.
A book reading, the flyer read, at McNally Jackson.
McNally’s was a bookstore? I wondered to myself, glancing up at the window of the store and reading the black lettering.
I was starting to think maybe I’d gotten things wrong.
I looked back at the table, where Blake was sitting down across from the man in the Hawaiian shirt, staring intently at the parchment-wrapped package on the table.
As Keith folded back the final layer, I looked down at what was inside and exhaled, realizing I’d been holding my breath. Inside the parchment was a book, protected by a clear plastic dustcover, the light from the car headlights outside reflecting on its surface. I walked back over to their table, feeling sheepish and silly.
Blake held the book up and looked at it, opening the front and back covers and turning the pages, checking them carefully. He paused on an inscription on the title page, looking up.
It’s signed?
Keith nodded, looking expectantly down at the book.
What do you think about seven?
Blake was buying a seven hundred dollar book. Granted, the book looked really old. But I would have thought that seven hundred dollars would buy you most of a bookstore.
I can’t do seven. I could do seventy five hundred, but that’s if you pay cash or check.
My ears rung. Blake wasn’t buying a seven hundred dollar book. He was buying a seven thousand dollar book. I felt my throat dry up. Maybe if my parents disowned me for sneaking out tonight, I could ask Blake to pay my college tuition.
What’s the book? I croaked, my throat feeling tight and hoarse. Blake had eight thousand dollars of cash on him? If I’d known that, I would have been sure this was a drug deal.
T.s. Eliot, Keith turned to me. It’s a first edition. Signed. These go into the tens of thousands. You can’t find them outside of New York or London.
Blake closed the cover. I’ll take it, he said. But you’ll have to mail it to my house in Los Angeles, okay? I’m not taking this on the tour bus with us.
I looked down at the book, a hundred or so pages of yellowed sheets, set in old fashioned type. At the bottom of the back cover, it had a publisher’s name and the year 1917. The book sitting on the table with us was older than either of my grandparents, had been printed before the Great Depression, both World Wars, the Beatles and the internet. Basically for everything that mattered in my life, this book was older.
Blake handed an envelope to Keith, who counted it politely under the table. I tried to look somewhere else while he was doing it. He pulled out a receipt pad and handwrote Blake’s name into one of the spaces, scrawling the price at the bottom or the page. He ripped off the carbon copy page and set it on the table.
Keith wrapped the book back up in parchment, and then, as if remembering something, reached back into his bag.
He set a modern paperback on the table. Here, he said. For the meantime.
I looked down. It was a collection of poetry, and Blake seemed satisfied, looking at it. Keith shook Blake’s hand again, smiled at me, and walked out through the front door of the store.