Things I’ll Never Say (12 page)

“Goods, sure, I can see that, a place like Bread & Waters, makes sense. Services?”

“You know, anything, really. Normal stuff, worker stuff. Odd jobs. And really odd jobs. And he's like a broker, and somebody will ask and I'll get a call, 'cause I'm on call, basically, phones provided by him. So like I'll get a call to go on the ferry over to the Big Island, where an elderly lady with some dough just lost her husband. Very sad, she's closing up their old vacation cottage and just needs help getting it all cleaned out because she's got nobody. Only it turns out she's not really old and not really a lady and there is no cleaning involved after all.”

Celeste is breathing all over my face now, and I hear my own breathing get quick.

“Oh, sweetheart,” she says again the same way as before. I would have thought I could never get tired of that, but I'm starting to believe I could.

“No, no, really, it's fine. He took care of me when I had nothing, and actually we do all right with this. But I was mad and I said when I got back that that was it, I didn't care how much I owed him, I would not let him make me go on the
Lucky Buoy
again. That was that. And it was, that.”

It's almost as if she is missing the important parts of what I'm trying to explain to her.

“You don't have to stay, Warren. You can leave. Go anywhere, do what you want.”

“I know that. I am doing what I want. I like being on call. I like Lundy Lee life. And I know Charlie Waters Jr. needs me. Nobody ever needed me before, Celeste. And it turns out I like it.”

I find out yet again just how strong she is when she grabs me and rolls me over so that I'm facing the other side, the wall side, away from the window and her. Then she locks up close behind and holds me really tight and firm and incredible and powerful and gentle and not quite hard enough to squeeze the air out of my lungs but I am out of breath all the same.

“Tell me you will look out for yourself,” she says, so warm and deep into my left eardrum I can feel it in my right.

“I will look out for myself,” I say.

We go quiet, which is good as long as she holds me like she's doing. Then I think she might be thinking, which makes me a little edgy.

“I'm sorry about your paintings,” I say.

“It's okay. I'll just do some more.”

“I really like the one you have, that I got for you before the repo guys got it.”

“That was my favorite. Hard-core fisherfolk. They were a little scary, but they did like being painted.”

“I never see them work. What do they even bring in?”

“Lobster and heroin, mostly.”

“Ah. Maybe you'll start over with me. With your new paintings.”

“I could. I should. I might. You are beautiful, Warren.”

I am beautiful. . . .

She is going to feel this, feel me quaking with whatever is happening to me now.

“Shhh,” she whispers. “Sleep now.”

“Maybe I shouldn't have said all the things,” I say.

“Don't worry about that for a second, sweetheart. The world isn't divided into people with secrets and people without them, because there are no people without them. It's just divided into people who can shut themselves up and people who can't.”

“Well, obviously I'm one,” I say, “and you're —”

“Shh,” she says one more time. “Sleep now.”

I have no recollection of falling asleep and am surprised to find I even managed it.

I am not surprised to find Celeste gone. I lie still while the light of an okay bright morning makes its way into my room.

I do like it here. I am happy here.

I take out one of my two gleaming new phones.

I start dialing. I can see the number in my head because I have stood in front of that window so many times, with the name and number stenciled right there. I put it in next to the name: Charlie Waters Jr.

Coming down now do you need me to do anything?

He answers almost before I've finished typing.

No
just
come
soon.

Soon
, I reply. I am not going to rush out of this space.

Phone beeps again.
I will want to hear everything.

I smile, to myself, and do not reply.

On my bike, coming to the end of the Tidal Road and into view of the returning, always returning
Lucky Buoy
, I think about things. Things that are mine, alone Things that even my best friends don't know.

Like sometimes on my odd jobs — and we are supposed to split the money — I get cash and I get a great big tip because I fucking well earned it. I keep that money. Nobody knows that but me.

“Just so you know, my motto is pepper-spray first, ask questions later.” The words spilled out, beyond my control. They were as much of a surprise to me as to the creepy old guy on the subway platform who'd been trying to hit on me. He backed away fast — which was a good thing, because my pepper spray was actually in a different purse buried somewhere deep inside my suitcase — and his expression seemed pretty similar to how he might have looked if I'd actually spritzed him.

Situation: neutralized.

Mom used to say that city girls should always have pepper spray handy because some guys can't take the hint of when to back off. But I haven't been a city girl for almost a year now. I kept the tiny black-and-silver can, like I keep everything Mom ever gave me, but there hasn't been any point in carrying it lately. Boarding school upstate is a whole different world. No boys. No strangers at all, really.

The train clatters and roars into the station. The scruffy man is two cars away now and still moving. I totally overreacted to him. The situation wasn't really that dire, but I guess it's nice to know that even the threat of pepper spray works.

When you find yourself uttering a line like that, though, it sticks with you for a while, kind of like that early-morning monkey-breath feeling that comes if you forget to brush your teeth after scarfing a late-night pizza. Except that the lingering absurdity of it also makes you prone to giggling inappropriately in public. As I take a seat on the train, I try to tamp it down to a smile, make it seem like I'm just happy. Happy to be on my way home . . . but even I'm not convinced. I lean my forehead on my suitcase and laugh softly. People look slantwise at me.

Awkward.

We bullet through the dark, alone together. Graffiti flashes by on the black tunnel walls. The squeal of brakes and the sudden light of each familiar station is a tiny homecoming: 42nd Street, 59th, 96th. Closer and closer to the place I come from. The strange bursting laughter stays with me.

I'm having one of those days when nothing goes the way it's supposed to. First I forgot to set an early alarm, so we missed watching the sunrise from my friend Sarah's bedroom balcony, which overlooks Miami Beach. We'd been sleeping in all week; it was such a relief to kick off summer vacation without boarding-school bells going off overhead. We meant to stay up all night to make the most of my last night visiting her house, but we fell asleep. Her mom had to come in and wake us up.

Oversleeping made us late leaving for the airport, so I got stuck in a middle seat on the flight home to JFK. I nearly twisted my ankle exiting the Long Island Railroad car in my cute strappy heels, getting swept up in the commuter rush. So I hobbled through Penn Station, lugging my ginormous home-for-summer-break suitcase, looking for a place to sit down and change my shoes, only to find that there's no public seating in the entire place, except in the ticket holders' restricted area, and I no longer
had
a ticket because I just got off the train. So, for about fifteen minutes this afternoon, I became one of
those
people — you know, the ones who involuntarily sit on the grimy floor of the public train terminal, rummaging through open suitcases and muttering to themselves about how the world is out to get them. I consoled myself by digging out my hand mirror and reaffirming that I look too damn
good
to be mistaken for homeless.

I do look good today. My cheeks have a natural blush from the exertion, and my sundress's swirls of red and orange complement my skin. I'm so much more toned now, too. Sarah, who's also my roomie up at school, has been giving me workout pointers. I just spent a week on the beach with her and only felt fat about 75 percent of the time, and only felt
marginally
fat for about 50 percent of that time. Middle school me would never believe it.

Of course, no guys even hit on me during this vacation, but I attribute that to other factors, like the fact that Sarah and all the boarding-school friends we were with are bottle-blond beauties with flat butts. Maintaining those friendships feels kind of masochistic at times, but when you're the only black girl in the whole grade, what choice do you really have? It's not like I
need
to be hit on or anything, but it's a little bit hard on my self-esteem to be totally overlooked.

Anyway. I dug through my suitcase full of ruffle-bottomed bathing suits, tank tops, and flirty skirts, and found some more practical sandals. I was a little bit annoyed with myself for even wearing heels today, but I was trying to be cute coming back into the city. Pretty little sundress, strappy shoes. So much for that.

I put on the flats, got everything squared away, headed down to the subway, and then the creeptastic old dude tried to pick me up on the platform with the unbelievable line
“Haven't I seen you here before?”

Absurdity deserves absurdity, so in return I generously warned him of my pepper spray practices.
Pepper-spray first, ask questions later?
I mean, I can't even believe I said such a thing out loud to a person, but it's just one of those days.

God, he was old. Starting to wrinkle, with a scruffy gray beard and piercing black eyes meshed in spiderweb lines. Why does a guy like that think he has a shot with someone like me? Do I look like I'm twenty or something?

Now I'm riding the C train, headed uptown. Almost home. I thump the suitcase over the gap at my stop. As I'm trucking through the 116th Street subway station, three blocks from home, my mind is still on the Penn Station platform, liberally pepper-spraying the old creepy dude and chuckling gleefully all the while. (Clearly I am disturbed.)

Despite the sadistic daydream, I'm not oblivious to my surroundings. I notice the small knot of police officers gathered near the turnstile, but I also possess a subconscious that is laced with minority experiences, as Dad would say, and the only thing that makes me more nervous than the idea of interacting with cops is the idea of interacting with cops alone. My philosophy of law enforcement is to behave myself and give them a wide berth. I veer toward the other side of the corridor without meaning to. Not that it matters. They're right there at the turnstile — no avoiding them if I want to get out of here. My steps slow. One of the uniforms, a young black guy, steps toward me.

“Excuse me, miss,” he says. Even though he's right beside me now, it doesn't totally register that he's actually talking to me.

“Excuse me, miss,” the police officer repeats. “I'm going to need to take a look in your suitcase.” This is the point at which my brain starts working properly. Sort of.

“God.” I spin toward him, hand on my hip. “I really hope that's just your way of saying I look nice and you want to spend a few more minutes with me.”

His eyes widen. He glances away, blushes. His beautiful dark-skinned cheeks fill with a deep purple stain. Once again I am mortified by what I just said. I don't know where these words are coming from, why it feels like I need to yell at the whole world today.

I take a deep breath, try to hold back my (apparently) uncontrollable snark. A subway platform creep is one thing; I shouldn't be playing it fast and loose with Homeland Security. “Sorry. That was a joke. How can I help you, Officer?”

He smiles. Straight white teeth. Dark-pink tongue. I fight the urge to lean forward and taste them. (Seriously? What is wrong with me? But he is totally cute.)

“I just need to take a look in your suitcase,” he says. “Then you can be on your way.”

The station is stifling. A line of sweat trickles down my back, and I just try to breathe through the thick, still air. There's no reason to be scared, of course. My suitcase is full of nothing but sandy clothes and damp swimsuits. But my dad is a law professor at Columbia and he says the police can't ever really be trusted. Not when you're black and living in the USA.

I smile, trying to focus on the guy's cuteness rather than his cop-ness, and pass him my roller handle. “Okay.”

He turns my suitcase off the wheels and rests it on the ground — double extra gross in a subway station. “Been on vacation?” he says after poking around in my laundry for half a second.

“Miami,” I offer, for no good reason. He's touching my things still.