Paulina & Fran (16 page)

“It’s the doctor’s office phone,” Fran said. The girl stared at her in disbelief.

“What’s wrong?”

“The flu, they think.”

“I’m going to come out there and take care of you.”

“No, no,” Fran said quickly. “Let’s just see each other next weekend. I’ll rest up for it.” The girl gave her a resentful look. Fran turned away from her.

“I have to wait a whole week?” He sounded forlorn.

“I’m really sorry. Maybe I’ll get there a day early.”

“What about work?” Julian asked. The girl sighed impatiently.

“I’ll take a sick day. I’m taking one right now.”

“Sounds like a plan, Fran,” he said with labored cheer.

“Can you get a refund on the room and the car?”

Fran pictured a cool, relaxing lake, a little white house with blue shutters, and a garden with gray, weather-damaged statues. Next to it sat an old rented Buick covered in sunlight. Her mind even conjured up a good-natured mutt, running toward her through the grass.

“Don’t worry about me. Just take care of yourself,” he said. Fran felt a burst of love for him.

“I love you.” The girl put her hand out for the phone.

“I love you too,” Julian said, only a few miles away.

Fran handed the phone back to the girl. The girl studied her, as if deciding her age, or where she came from, or what would become of her.

“It’s not usually like this,” Fran said. “My hair, I mean. It’s usually curly.”

“Whatever,” the girl said and quickly wheeled her luggage away.

Fran would go back to Ohio. A train to New York would cost $150 and take nine hours with all the stops. Back at her apartment she could look for jobs—maybe a job in Pittsburgh. She pictured herself living harmoniously with Julian, like she’d done that one summer. Or maybe Jane would get big in the Art World and ask Fran to be her assistant. She imagined
Jane and Deena in bathing suits at Art Basel. Maybe one night they’d include her . . .

Fran found herself in line at a deli, heard herself ordering a sandwich. She saw her hand give the cashier a handful of bills. She felt herself chewing the sandwich. She floated above herself like one of Chagall’s friendly women, lifted with sentiment and hope, except hers was more a detached feeling. She thought of Paulina from the magazine. Fran wouldn’t allow herself to touch her hair, even to worry about her hair. Some people didn’t even have hair! Some people were just heads! She wandered toward the ticket window. She would sleep and wake up in New York and everything would be different. She would let Paulina fix her hair. She would surrender. Anxiety fluttered in her stomach. She sneezed and strangers blessed her. She handed over her credit card and the Amtrak people restored her power.

O
n the train, Fran sat next to a guy her age who spent the trip talking across the aisle to his friend. The guy, who Fran gathered was named Brock, wore ripped jeans and had paint-spattered sneakers. His hair was in disarray, but his face was decent. Would he be the street punk who rescued Fran from predictable living? He paid her little attention.

Fran slept for hours, until she was woken by classical music booming from a cell phone. She looked at the Post-it for a long while. “He’s like my guru,” Brock told his friend, praising an eccentric, contradictory UCLA professor. Brock seemed familiar to Fran—not him exactly, but those like him. “Recipes ruin everything,” he said. “Cooking is like painting . . .” Her ears twitched. Must be an art grad somewhere, she thought. Yale?

Everything he said made her dislike him more. “I’ve always wanted a pet monkey. You think we could keep it in studio?” His companion laughed at his every word. For a long
stretch Brock was silent, underlining photocopies of theory with a grubby pencil, but then he started up again. “The first-years might go after us in crit. Remember how we were back then?”

The world he spoke of tempted Fran. She wished that Brock and his friend would accept her as one of their own, but they never even asked her name. She tried to summon the old painting fantasies—her grand debut at such-and-such gallery—but it no longer felt possible or important.

When their talking got too animated, she rose to change seats. The train jerked while Fran walked through the aisle. Her hand clumsily touched the shoulders of strangers. She passed women with children. People of all races. Who was she looking for? There were no open rows. She would have to choose someone to sit with. Pennsylvania passed by in blank fields and outdated little towns. Every few minutes her aimlessness would turn, like a coin catching light, and fill Fran with exhilaration. She would never go back to Ohio!

Her mind raced with possible outcomes. She braced herself for the worst—Paulina shunning her in front of her fancy friends. Paulina pushing her down an elevator shaft. Paulina surprised she’s even there—the message was for someone else. No one at Paulina’s because she’s with Julian.

Fran walked the length of the train. Vast wastelands passed by the windows. The graffiti made her lonesome. Passengers
unwrapped food from the dining car. Then, as happened every few years, like spotting an inexplicably big moon, Fran saw a beautiful boy.

He was dark haired. His features came from the same impossible place as Marvin’s. He was with a friend. They seemed too young to see through her. Fran fell into the seat across from them and didn’t wait for them to ask. “I’m Fran,” she told them. The beautiful one rolled his eyes at her, like he was showing her how they worked. The beautiful never needed to speak, though sometimes they did Fran the favor.

“I’m Flip,” the friend said, and pointed to the beauty. “This is Stephen.” Stephen had it even worse than Marvin. He would never be able to blend in with a crowd.

They lived in Brooklyn. Flip told Fran all about the band they were in and gave her a business card. Every word they exchanged cemented their acquaintance. If Paulina didn’t show, if the address was a fake, if the feeling was wrong, maybe she could bother these two. She hadn’t told Gretchen she was coming. She hadn’t told anyone. If Paulina killed her, no one would be able to say where she’d gone. Fran looked at the card in her hands. Braying Donkey, it said, and underneath it brayingdonkey.blogspot.com.

“What’s that smell?” Stephen asked, finally revealing his voice.

“What smell?” asked Fran.

“It’s like some chemical. Are you a scientist?” he asked her.

“She’s a test question writer,” Flip said, smiling at her.

“Actually, I’m a painter,” Fran said, and Stephen lifted his beautiful face from Flip’s shoulder. She smelled her hair; it smelled like iodine. “I think it’s my hair. I just got it straightened.”

“Why?” Stephen asked, rubbing his face. He looked into her eyes and she felt dissected.

“Long story,” she said, hoping it made her seem mysterious, but Stephen just dozed against the window. For the rest of the ride she forged a bond with Flip. Flip was from San Francisco and had two brothers and two sisters. Fran could tell he was smarter than she was, but she didn’t know if he was smart enough to know this. He was still so young.

When Stephen woke up, Flip said, “Guess what? Fran knows Apollo Space-Ears. She saw him naked!”

“Lots of times,” Fran said.

“Cool,” Stephen said, obviously impressed. “He filmed his new video in our friends’ loft last year.”

The train pulled into the dark labyrinth leading to Penn Station. The cabin went dark. Lights ran down Flip and Stephen’s faces. Fran was terrified. They left the train together.
Like always,
Fran thought to herself, as if Flip and Stephen
were her best friends and lovers and they all lived together in Brooklyn. She could go to all the Braying Donkey shows. She could even suggest a better name. They would record a whole album called
Fran.
A double album.

What was Paulina doing right now? Signing autographs? Slaughtering pigs? It was impossible to tell. Suddenly it crossed Fran’s mind that Paulina could be throwing a party. Maybe the note was just an invitation and Paulina would be there with her
girlfriend.

They took the long escalator up to the ground level. Everyone pulled rolling suitcases with one hand and held their cell phones in the other. Fran quickly sized them up as she had walking the train. She believed she could guess their life story from the style of their backpack—drama queen embarking on a singing career, college boy trying to find meaning in nature.

Inside Penn Station, some people kissed openly under the fluorescent lights; others ate muffins, displaced from the people they loved. It seemed impossible that any of the strangers could know Fran or would ever want to, though she continued to follow Stephen and Flip past the bathrooms and the pretzel stand, the small flower shop that distracted her back to the Lancaster fantasy.

Up the final set of escalators, Fran felt the evening air on her face like a lukewarm bath, and with it, a sense of accomplishment for having made it to the city. The city was import
ant to so many people, though maybe, as she’d realized on the train, not to her. Fran stared at the majestic post office on Thirty-Fourth Street. A sweet smell from the mixed-nut cart was overpowered by the smell of urine as Fran followed Flip and Stephen past a pair of flattened jeans on the curb.

The sun had set and people leaving work late walked briskly past people on their way out to bars. Women walked jacketless into the cool night. Fran followed Flip and Stephen without looking at the street signs. She removed a long, straight hair stuck to her shirt. She pictured Paulina’s girlfriend as Deena. “You wanna get a slice with us?” Flip asked. Fran nodded.

She held the Post-it in her pocket. Thinking about Paulina so impaired her nerves that she couldn’t follow Flip and Stephen’s conversation. All sound was skewed to her, like the fake world in a seashell.

“Who are you visiting again?” Stephen asked. Fran blushed.

“Her old friend,” Flip said, “but she’s not sure how it will go.”

“I need the J train or the 6,” Fran recited. Her stomach fluttered. She looked at Flip and Stephen distantly, as if they just happened to be eating pizza at her table.

“I should go now. She’s expecting me.” It was after nine
o’clock. Fran stood resolutely. Throwing her chewed pizza slice in a sidewalk trash can, she thought of a whole new set of worst scenarios—kissing Paulina and realizing she wasn’t attracted to girls. Dating Paulina for months in a gay lie. Once, freshman year, Eileen had asked her if she was bi. “I don’t know,” she had answered. And she still didn’t know.

When the subway car started moving, and the grimy tunnels spiraled away, Fran felt like she was in a robot’s intestines. Another subway car appeared across from hers and Fran glimpsed the passengers through the speeding blurs of poles and metal and blackness. People she would never know, who she might have loved! Everyone was doomed. Fran listened to Stephen and Flip compare cell phone apps. She could still go to Paulina’s later, she figured, but Paulina made her nervous.

Flip’s room in his Greenpoint apartment reminded her of the college town. He’d taped quotes and paper scraps of encouragement on the drawers of his desk. On his walls were the old heroes—Lou Reed, Kurt Vonnegut—but also a signed Gorgeous Cyclops poster. “You really wanna hear us play?” Flip asked Fran again. Fran nodded enthusiastically. Stephen slunk across the room and got his guitar from its stand.

Singing woke Stephen from his daze, and Fran felt the full power of his charm. It was clear he was singing for someone not in the room (someone from his past?), or singing to his
own unknowable future. They sang sweetly, and well; their voices fell into easy harmony with each other. Fran felt like she had discovered them, whatever that meant. She was starting to talk with them about music, which she knew little about, when their roommate Phil (short athletic build, glasses) appeared, insisting they all go out dancing together. “Jenny is meeting us there!” he yelled. The boys whooped.

“Where?” Fran asked.
The J train or the 6
, she thought again.

“Club Haywire,” Flip said. “You’ll love it.”

“I wish I could,” Fran said. “But I have that thing.” Her voice trailed off like steps into a basement.

Fran stood on the dance floor in her black dress. Her shoes were good dancing shoes, ones that allowed her to slide but kept her from slipping. Stephen and Flip were in the back surrounded by girls. The song was an old soul song put to a new hip-hop beat. Everyone on the dance floor threw themselves into their dancing. Lights flashed over the crowd. Fran saw open spots where she could hold court without hitting anyone.

She swayed awkwardly.
Go on,
she told herself. There was a flamboyant boy dancing in the middle of the crowd, and she knew he would be fun to dance-battle with. But she felt a sinking in her knees. It’s not the right people, Fran thought.

The song reached a bridge, a breakdown everyone danced
to, even the DJs behind their equipment. Stephen caught her eye and waved her onto the floor. He has no idea, Fran thought. He is totally oblivious to what I do on the dance floor. She imagined dancing with him, cutting up the air around him, play-fucking him without touching any part of him. But she couldn’t move. Aches congregated in her ankles and hips. Her sinuses wove together in a stubborn knit. Stephen was persistent. He was wearing cool jeans. All the girls watched him. Fran tried to give him a provocative glare, but it came out a sad smile. She burned in her body. She could not dance.

Paulina sat in her living room with the television tuned to the live feed. The note had been a whim, almost a joke, but once she’d gotten back to the city she realized how badly she wanted Fran to show. All week long she’d wished she’d used a Sharpie. It was possible, even likely, that Julian had washed off the note unwittingly before Fran saw it. Still, something told her that Fran would make the trip. Paulina had filled her refrigerator with fancy things to eat. She’d made her bed herself and even cleaned the bathroom. Her maid had quit the week before, and Paulina hadn’t yet replaced her. Harvey had a company he used, but they gave him different maids every week. Paulina liked consistency. She wanted someone accountable when her suede was ruined.

From ten o’clock to ten thirty, Paulina stared at the televi
sion expectantly. As the clock neared eleven, her mind played against her, and she started doubting Fran would show. She had so much nervous energy that when one of the cats ran by, Paulina chased after it. The cats had a whole life together; they rarely looked to Paulina for comfort. They watched her with cold lizard eyes. The white cat nuzzled the black one. Paulina was just their roommate, not their friend. She willed herself to stop glancing at the television. If Fran arrived, Paulina would hear the buzzer, or a knock, or Eugene would call up from the desk. Paulina sat purposefully in the dining room where she couldn’t see the screen. It was a good screen, one of those plasma ones. It was alive, or something. She couldn’t remember.

After trying on countless outfits, Paulina had settled on velvet leggings and a Proenza Schouler silk shirt that wrinkled with her every thought. Over the course of the last hour, the velvet had picked up lint and cat hair. Paulina resisted the urge to change, instead lowering herself to the carpet and attempting the exercises her personal trainer was always begging her to do. Jasmine said that Hank was a great lay, but with Paulina he was all business. He genuinely seemed to care about Paulina’s health.

Paulina would offer Fran a glass of water. Or would they just immediately start kissing? Could they skip the talking? There was nothing to say, really. They could talk after. The
first time would go pretty quick. Paulina pictured wild grasping, probably with the lights on. Maybe they wouldn’t even make it to the bedroom. Maybe on the living room couch. Paulina’s phone buzzed with meaningless texts from Luca.

The exercises were exhausting. Crawling back to the living room couch, Paulina noticed a philosophy book Julian had given her with much ceremony. Its fat spine was visible under a pile of junk mail. I’ll read when I’m dead, she thought.

Every time Paulina glanced at the television, there was some poor soul lingering by the desk. Old men, families, teenagers, deliverymen. The camera faced Eugene, the doorman behind the desk, instead of the guests. It must have been a privacy measure. When the guests turned toward the elevator, Paulina saw their profiles.

Her weekend was totally free. Clive had invited her to brunch, but she’d refused to commit. It was always a scene at his place, one she’d grown bored of, though sometimes people there amused her—old eccentrics Clive had handpicked from his Botanica Ramses dealings. His style line was thriving, but she wasn’t jealous. The fags will inherit the earth, she thought, and felt the corners of her lips twitch into a smile.