Before We Were Strangers (3 page)

Grace wasn’t there, and I was relatively sure no one under the age of thirty could be found in the Missed Connections section. And then I read a post called “A Poem for Margaret.”

Once there was a you and me

We were lovers

We were friends

Before life changed

Before we were strangers

Do you still think of me?

—Joe

I couldn’t imagine twenty-year-olds named Joe and Margaret who spoke of the past in that manner. In an eerie way, it conveyed exactly what I felt for Grace, and I wondered for a moment if it was her. I called the number and a man answered.

“Hello, is this Joe?” I asked.

“Nope, that’s the third time someone has called today asking that. Joe sure is a popular guy, but he doesn’t live here.”

“Thank you.”

I hung up. Suddenly, the room darkened, with the exception of one set of fluorescent lights over my head and the desk lamp in my cubicle. From the hallway, Scott shouted, “I’ll leave that one on for you, Matt! Get to it.” He knew exactly what I was doing. Maybe Grace would find the post, maybe she wouldn’t. Either way, I had to write it—if for nothing else, my own peace of mind.

To the Green-Eyed Lovebird:

We met fifteen years ago, almost to the day, when I moved my stuff into the NYU dorm room next to yours at Senior House.

You called us fast friends. I like to think it was more.

We lived on nothing but the excitement of finding ourselves through music ( you were obsessed with Jeff Buckley ), photography ( I couldn’t stop taking pictures of you ), hanging out in Washington Square Park, and all the weird things we did to make money. I learned more about myself that year than any other.

Yet, somehow, it all fell apart. We lost touch the summer after graduation, when I went to South America to work for National Geographic. When I came back, you were gone. A part of me still wonders if I pushed you too hard after the wedding . . .

I didn’t see you again until a month ago. It was a Wednesday. You were rocking back on your heels, balancing on that thick yellow line that runs along the subway platform, waiting for the F train. I didn’t know it was you until it was too late, and then you were gone. Again. You said my name; I saw it on your lips. I tried to will the train to stop, just so I could say hello.

After seeing you, all of the youthful feelings and memories came flooding back to me, and now I’ve spent the better part of a month wondering what your life is like. I might be totally out of my mind, but would you like to get a drink with me and catch up on the last decade and a half?

M

(212)-555-3004

MATT

It was a Saturday when we met at Senior House. She was reading a magazine in the lounge while I struggled down the hall with my nineteen-year-old wooden desk. It was the one piece of home my mother had shipped from California, other than a single box, my camera equipment, and a duffel bag of clothes.

When she glanced in my direction, I froze awkwardly, hoping she’d look past me as I balanced the desk with little finesse.

No such luck.

Instead, she stared right into my eyes, cocked her head to the side, and squinted. She looked as if she were trying to recall my name. We had never met, I was sure of that. No one could forget a face like hers.

I remained still, transfixed, as I took her in. She had big, incandescent green eyes, alit with energy that demanded attention. Her mouth was moving and I was staring right at her, but I couldn’t
hear a word she was saying; all I could think about was how uniquely beautiful she was. The eyebrows that framed her big, almond-shaped eyes were darker than her almost white-blonde hair, and her skin looked like it would taste sweet on the tongue.

Oh my god, I’m thinking about what this girl’s skin tastes like?

“Bueller?”

“Huh?” I blinked.

“I asked if I could give you a hand?” She smiled, piteously, and then pointed to the desk I had balanced on my knee.

“Sure, yeah. Thanks.”

Without hesitation, she tossed aside her magazine, grabbed one end of the desk, and began walking backward as I struggled to keep up.

“I’m Grace, by the way.”

“Nice to meet you,” I said, out of breath. The name suited her.

“Do you have a name?”

“One more,” I said, gesturing with a nod.

“Your name is One More? That’s kind of unfortunate, but it does make me wonder how your parents came up with it.” She grinned.

I let out a nervous laugh. She was stunningly beautiful but she was also kind of goofy. “I meant, we’re one room away.”

“I know, silly. I’m still waiting on that name.”

“Matt.”

“So Matty One More,” she said after she stopped in front of my room. “What’s your major?”

“Photography.”

“Ah, so I must recognize you from Tisch?”

“Nope. This is my first year.”

She looked puzzled. I reminded her of someone. I was hoping it was someone she liked. After we set the desk down, I moved past her to unlock the door. With my head lowered, I spoke to my Vans. “Yeah, I transferred from USC.”

“Really? I’ve never been to California. I can’t believe you left USC to come and slum it at Geezer House.”

“It wasn’t my scene.” I turned around and leaned against the door before I opened it. Our eyes met for a few seconds too long, and we both looked away. “I had to get out of California for a bit.” I was nervous-talking but I didn’t want her to leave. “Do you want to come in and hang out while I unpack my stuff?”

“Sure.”

She propped the door open with a stack of books and then helped me as I carried the desk inside to place in the corner. She hopped on top of it and sat, legs crossed, like she was going to meditate or levitate. I looked around my room again for the second time that day. It came complete with the standard dorm furniture: one metal extra-long twin bed, a desk that I could use for my camera equipment, an old stereo on the floor that the last person had left behind, and one empty bookshelf. The large box I had brought contained some of my favorite records, books, CDs, and photos. My best work from USC was matted inside a leather portfolio. Grace immediately grabbed it and began flipping through the pages. There were two long, narrow windows that bathed the room in sunlight, illuminating Grace’s face perfectly. It was as if the light were coming from her.

“Wow, this one is amazing. Is this your girlfriend?” She
held up a photo of a gorgeous girl with devilish eyes, the curve of her naked body exposed.

“No, she wasn’t my girlfriend. Just a friend.” This was true, but it was also true that she had mouthed
Do you want to fuck me?
right before I snapped the photo while my friend—and her boyfriend—watched us silently. Like I said, USC wasn’t my scene.

“Oh,” she said quietly. “Well, it’s a great photo.”

“Thanks. The light in here is fantastic. Maybe I can take a couple of you?”

I saw her neck move as she swallowed. Her eyes widened and I realized she thought I wanted to photograph her naked. “Um, with your clothes on, of course.”

Her expression lightened. “Sure, I’d be happy to.” She continued to stare at the photograph. “But I think I could model for you like this girl, if it’s done like this.” She turned her green eyes on me. “Maybe someday, after we’ve known each other for a while. You know, for the sake of art?” She smirked.

I tried not to picture her naked. “Yeah, for the sake of art.” And a work of art she was. She wore a man’s white dress shirt, the sleeves rolled up to the elbow, with the top two buttons open. Her pink toenails caught my eye before my gaze moved up to the skin peeking out from a hole in the knee of her jeans. I watched as she began to braid her long blonde hair over her shoulder. I couldn’t take my eyes off of her and she noticed, but instead of saying something rude she just smiled.

“So why did you call it Geezer House?” I asked as I turned to unpack the large box. I needed to distract myself so I’d stop staring at her.

“Because it’s really fucking boring here. Seriously, I’ve been here a week and already I feel like my soul is dying.”

I laughed at the dramatics. “That bad, huh?”

“I haven’t played the cello once since I moved in; I’m afraid people will complain. Oh, by the way, you’ll have to let me know if my playing gets too loud for you. Just bang on the wall or something.”

“What do you mean?”

“I’m in the room right next door. The practice rooms are too far away, so I’ll probably end up practicing in my room a lot. I’m a music major.”

“That’s really cool. I’d love to hear you play sometime.” I couldn’t believe she was in the room right next to mine.

“Anytime. So, not very many people choose dorm life their senior year. What’s your excuse?”

“Couldn’t afford anything else.” I noticed she was wearing a badge with Greek symbols. “What about you? How come you don’t live in the sorority house?”

She pointed at the badge over her breast. “Oh, this? It’s fake. Well, it’s not fake; I stole it. I live here ’cause I’m too dirt-ass poor to live anywhere else. My parents don’t have any money to contribute for tuition, and it’s hard for me to keep a job since I have to practice so much. I use this to get free meals at the dining hall on Fourteenth Street.” She held her fist up and punched the air. “Pi Beta Phi, mac and cheese for life!”

She was adorable. “I can’t imagine this place will be too boring with you here.”

“Thanks.” I looked up to catch her blushing. “I really don’t have that much school spirit, but my music buddies will come over and liven things up for us once classes start and everyone is back in the city. I lived with a bunch of
people in a crappy apartment over the summer and I got used to having a lot a friends around. It’s been really quiet here. So far most of the residents keep to themselves.”

“Why didn’t you go home over the summer?”

“No space. My parents’ house is small and I have three younger sisters and a brother. They all still live at home.” She hopped off the desk and moved to the other side of the room to look through the items I had unpacked and stacked on the floor. “Shut up!” She held up
Grace
by Jeff Buckley. “He’s practically the reason I came to NYU.”

“He’s a genius. Have you seen him play?” I asked.

“No, I’m dying to, though. I guess he lives in Memphis now. I moved all the way to New York from Arizona and then spent my first three months here searching for him in the East Village. I’m a total groupie. Someone told me he left New York a long time ago. I still listen to
Grace
everyday. It’s like my music bible. I like to pretend he named the album after me.” She chuckled. “You know what? You kinda look like him.”

“Really?”

“Yeah, you have better hair, but you both have those dark, deep-set eyes. And you both pull off a scruffy jawline pretty well.”

I brushed my knuckles over my chin and felt a tinge of insecurity. “I need to shave.”

“No, I like it. It looks good on you. You have that thin build, too, but I think you’re a bit taller than him. How tall are you?”

“Six one.”

She nodded. “Yeah, I think he’s much shorter.”

I sat down on my bed and lay back, propping my hands
behind my head, watching her in amusement. She held up
A Portable Beat Reader
. “Wow. We’re soul twins for sure. Please tell me I’ll find some Vonnegut in here?”

“You’ll definitely find some Vonnegut. Hand me that CD over there and I’ll put it on,” I said, gesturing toward
Ten
by Pearl Jam.

“I should go practice in a minute but will you play ‘Release’? That’s my favorite from this album.”

“Sure, as long as I can photograph you.”

“Okay.” She shrugged. “What should I do?”

“Do whatever feels natural.”

I popped the CD into the stereo, reached for my camera, and began snapping away. She moved around the room to the music, twirling and singing.

At one point, she stopped and looked grimly into the lens. “Do I look lame?”

“No,” I said as I continued pressing the shutter. “You look beautiful.”

She flashed me a shy smile and then her tiny frame dropped to the hardwood floor, squatting like a child. She reached down and picked up a button. I continued taking picture after picture.

“Someone lost a button.” Her voice was sing-songy.

She looked up from the floor, right into the lens, and squinted, her piercing green eyes twinkling. I pressed the shutter.

She stood, reached out, and handed me the button. “Here you go.” Pausing, she glanced up to the ceiling. “God, I love this song. I feel inspired now. Thank you, Matt. I better run. It was really nice meeting you. Maybe we can hang out again?”

“Yeah. I’ll see you around.”

“I’ll be hard to miss. I’m right next door, remember?”

She skipped out of the door and then a moment later, just as Eddie Vedder sang the final lyrics, I heard the deep strains of a cello through the thin dorm walls. She was playing “Release.” I moved my bed to the other side of the room so that it would rest against the wall that Grace and I shared.

I fell asleep to the sound of her practicing late into the night.

MY FIRST MORNING
in Senior House consisted of eating a stale granola bar and rearranging three pieces of furniture until I was happy with the tiny space I would call home for the next year. On one pass, I discovered a Post-it note stuck to the bottom of the empty drawer in the desk I had brought from home. It read:
Don’t forget to call your mom
in my mother’s handwriting. She wouldn’t let me forget, and I loved that about her.

I found the payphone on the first floor. A girl wearing sweats and dark sunglasses sat in the corner, holding the phone receiver to her ear.

“I can’t live without you, Bobbie,” she cried, wiping the tears from her cheeks. She sniffled and then pointed to a box of tissue. “Hey, you! Will you hand that to me?”