Whisper to Me (22 page)

“Yeah,” I said. “I know.”

Julie’s eyes opened momentarily, and she looked around her with a hooded, half-attentive gaze. “You know what I think when I see those little people?” she said. Red light flashed off the piercing in her nose. “I think I want to get off this ******ing ride.”

A conversation that signifies a lot, and also means nothing at all:

We were walking down the pier, Julie and me. Paris was up ahead, basically skipping instead of walking, like we were in a musical.

Julie was going more slowly, her gait a little unsteady. I realized she hadn’t been joking
at all
about the fear of heights. But she’d gone on the ride anyway. That registered somewhere, resonated on some taut string in my mind. What she was willing to do for Paris.

I glanced over at Julie. There was a tattoo of the Little Prince on her arm, standing on his little planet, with his rose at his feet.

“ ‘That which is essential is invisible to the eye,’ ” I said.

“What?”

“The fox says it, in
The Little Prince
,” I said.

Julie smiled. “Oh, yeah. My tattoo. Yep, I love that book. It’s sad, but it’s amazing too. I have the snake on my other arm.”

“Yeah?”

She turned and showed me—the snake swallowing the elephant, making it look like a hat from the side. Saint-Exupéry’s example of how children see things differently than adults, see the magic that adults can no longer see.

“You think it’s true?” I said. “That when we grow up, we see things differently?”

Julie thought about this for a moment. “Maybe for some people. Not for Paris. Look at her.”

I looked. Paris was doing cartwheels down the middle of the pier, people scattering to either side of her, waves.

“Ha,” I said. “Yeah. When we were on the wheel … I felt it. The magic.”

“That’s what she does,” said Julie. “I mean … she has bad times too. She calls them the Black Days. When she can’t leave her room. But living with her … you almost start to believe in magic, you know?”

“I do,” I said. I remembered the crane, how it had seemed to tremble in my hand. “She said
you
didn’t believe in magic though.”

“What? Really?”

“Yeah, she was talking about her cranes and the wish you get when you’ve made a thousand and she said that you would laugh at her.”

“Oh. Well, she’s probably right. Wishes don’t come true. Everyone knows that.”

I remembered all the times I had wished for my mom not to be dead. “Hmm,” I said. “I guess.”

“Abso-*******-lutely right,” said the voice.

“The thing about Paris … ,” said Julie. “She trusts people too much. She gets hurt. All the time.”

Had she glanced at me there? Shot me a warning?

“Uh, okay,” I said.

“Sorry,” said Julie, with a cough. “I just …”

She trailed off.

I thought:

        —    Riding the Ferris wheel when you’re afraid of heights.

        —    That strange smile when she said that Paris was “always like this.”

        —    That weird line about wishes not coming true.

“You love her,” I said, without thinking.

Julie nodded. “She’s my best friend.”

“No. I mean, you
love
her. I just figured it out.”

Side note: I said this proudly. Like, I was proud that I had guessed. Can you imagine? The arrogance? The stupidity?

Julie turned to look at me. She was walking quicker now; we were passing the Walk the Plank game. “What?”

“It’s cool. I’m not judging …”

Julie narrowed her eyes.

“And I mean … ,” I said, less confident now. “I’m not … You don’t have to worry about me, with Paris. I’m not … I mean …”

Julie laughed, a hollow laugh. “I’m not worried about you,” she said. “Not in
that way
anyway. You’re pretty obviously straight. As is Paris, incidentally.”

“Then what—”

“You heard her,” said Julie. “She’d hug the whole town if she could. Fold it in her arms. The thing about Paris: she loves
everyone
. She even loves her dad. And she hates her dad.”

“Right … ,” I said.

“She loves everyone. So, like I said, she gets hurt.”

“By?”

“By people leaving. Coming into her life, and then going.”

“And you think I’m going to do that?” I said.

Julie sighed. “I don’t think anything. You brought this up.”

Oh. That was right. I did.

“Sorry,” I said. “I speak before I think. But anyway, I’m not going to do that. I’m not going to just come into her life and then leave.”

“Good,” said Julie. “Paris … she sometimes makes bad choices, you know?”

“Like what?”

She looked at me, puzzled—that
duh
face that we all used to do as kids. “You know. What she does?”

“Oh. Yeah.”

“It’s like the stupidest thing ever,” said Julie. “And all because she doesn’t want her dad’s money. I told her she could get a job in a bar, but that’s not Paris—not enough money, not quick enough, not exciting enough. I don’t mind the cam stuff but the parties … she has
no idea
who’s going to be there. What’s she going to do if a bunch of frat guys decide they want more than she’s offering?”

I hadn’t really thought about it till now—had just thought it seemed edgy and dangerous and exciting and cool, which gave me a flush of shame at Julie using basically those words, in a sarcastic way. Now I actually imagined it: going into a room with strange men, taking their money. Doing … stuff. “It sounds pretty dangerous,” I said.

“It’s
very
dangerous.”

“So why don’t you tell her how worried you are?” It had crossed my mind to bring it up myself, but I didn’t know Paris that well, and I didn’t want to upset her.

“I do, constantly,” said Julie. “It doesn’t make any difference. Now I just try to minimize the risk.”

Silence.

“Anyway,” said Julie, faux-bright. “Where are we going?”

“Pirate Golf,” I said. “We’re meeting some boys.”

“Oh good,” said Julie, with an ironic wink. “
Boys
.”

To get to Pirate Golf, we had to leave the pier we were on and go around to Pier One.

Which meant passing the restaurant.

Paris bought a beer and sucked on it like a thirsty builder as we walked the boardwalk. It takes—what, five minutes?—to walk from one pier to the other.

I went ahead, through the crowds of people, and turned onto Pier One, ignoring what was behind me.

“Hey,” said Paris.

I pretended not to hear her.

“Hey, Cass.”

I turned. Paris was poking her beer bottle at the businesses lined up on the street side of the boardwalk. And there was Donato’s, the red-and-white-striped awning, the little tables on the sidewalk that had gotten popular since the smoking ban—but not popular enough to reverse the damage of the crash; people sitting out there and eating pizzas, chatting.

Inside, I knew, was a mural covering one whole wall, the bay of Naples, a sunny day, boats drifting on the blue waves. A donkey in the foreground, pulling a cart, its legs anatomically incorrect. The land of my ancestors.

Also white tiles.

Also blood.

Also the pizza oven, decorated with broken pottery, red and white, the—

Also blood.

My stomach contracted like a fist.

“You want to go see your dad?” said Paris. “I mean, we’re here, right?”

“No,” I said. “No.”

“Where’s her dad?” said Julie.

“He owns that pizza restaurant,” said Paris. She turned to me and frowned. “He doesn’t know you’re out?”

“Uh, no, he doesn’t,” I said, grateful for the excuse. My insides were still tight, still clenched.

“You were ******* weak then and you are ******* weak now,” said the voice.

I didn’t have the energy to reply, didn’t have the strength to follow my welcome script. And it was past six, so it was a free-for-all on the voice front anyway.

Paris shrugged. She looked at her watch. “Time to go meet your hot crush anyway,” she said.

“He’s not my—”

“Yeah, yeah.”

We walked away from the restaurant, people moving all around us, molecules in a test tube, walking in all directions, somehow not crashing into one another. As we did, the tightness in my stomach eased, like the restaurant was exerting some kind of gravitational force.

“At some point, you ******* *****, you’re going to have to face up to what you did,” said the voice.

“Please, leave me alone,” I whispered.

“No.”

We made our way down the pier. Pirate Golf where we were meeting you was past all the rides and concessions, right at the end. The voice cursed at me the whole way, kept up a barrage of insults, like:

********* *********** you ********* ******** yourself ******* ****** ********* ******* die ******* ******* ******** such a ******* ******** ***** ******** ********* *********

I tried to concentrate on what I was passing:

The basketball stand where I had worked.

The Haunted Hovel.

A Dippin’ Dots concession.

A mom and dad swinging their toddler between them.

The Twister.

A guy smoking a cigarette and talking loudly into a cell phone.

The Hurricane.

You, playing a little old-fashioned electric organ, while a mechanical monkey on top of it danced.

A knock-down-the-tin-cans game.

The entrance to the—

Wait.

I stopped, grabbed Paris’s arm and turned around. People had gathered around you, watching attentively. You were playing that Adele song, I think, the one about finding someone new. A guy in a football jersey called out, “ ‘Hey Jude,’ ” and you nodded, then segued into the Beatles song. Laughing and clapping from the audience.

Someone else, a girl, shouted, “ ‘Roar.’ ”

“What, the Katy Perry song?” you asked.

“Yes!”

You smiled, and your fingers tripped from “Hey Jude” to the opening verse of “Roar” before building up to the big chorus, the song sounding weird in the piped tones of the organ.

I took a step forward. You hadn’t seen me; you were looking down at the keys. Your playing was amazing—you were riffing on the tune, improvising, every note perfect. My mom made me take piano lessons twice a week till I was eleven, and I knew how hard it was to play like that.

“ ‘Smells Like Teen Spirit,’ ” I said.

You looked up and grinned. Then you crashed into the opening chords, deliberately abrupt, breaking off the Katy Perry song. You played the whole thing, people swaying and linking arms, then raised your hands. The clockwork monkey stopped dancing instantly. He was dressed in a red suit, a hat on his head, like the one in our hall at home.

“I’m out,” you said. An old guy stepped up behind you. He was dressed in coattails and a bow tie, with a neat vest, a gold watch hanging from his pocket. He looked like a carny from a hundred years ago, totally out of place among the roller coasters and concessions stands. You nodded to him, leaving the organ.

The old guy sat down carefully on the little stool. I could sense the disappointment in the crowd. A couple of people started to shift away.

“Sorry, y’all,” said the old man in a Deep South accent. “Back to the classics now.”

He flexed his fingers above the keyboard. Then he brought them slamming down, the ancient organ blasting out the intro to “Born in the U.S.A.” by Bruce Springsteen. Laughter rippled through the crowd, and those who had been leaving turned around to watch again.

“Hey,” you said, joining us.

“Hey,” said Paris. “This is Julie.”

“Hi, Julie,” you said.

“Hi,” said Julie.

“Hi,” I said, IN SCINTILLATING DIALOGUE REMINISCENT OF THE CLASSIC MOVIE
CASABLANCA
.

“This is surreal,” said Paris. Behind us, the old guy was playing Kanye West.

“That’s Cletus,” you said. “I don’t know if that’s his real name. He lets me play when he’s on break. He’s like eighty years old, and he smokes forty a day.” You glanced at our passes, mine and Paris’s. “VIPs, huh?” you said.

“On account of her dad,” said Paris.

“ ’Cause of the restaurant?”

“Yeah. They treat Cass like she’s royalty.”

You looked at me with a faint smile. “Really?” you said. I couldn’t tell if you were teasing or not. Like, implying that it was strange anyone would do such a thing.

“Seriously. Roll with Cass in this place, and you’re
money
.”

“Why are you talking like that?”

“I don’t know,” said Paris. “I literally don’t know what I’m saying half the time.”

I was feeling left out; but then you turned to me and smiled. “Your friend is not getting any less weird.”

“No.”

“Will she?”

“No,” said Julie. “Never.”

“Oh well.”

“I’m right here, guys,” said Paris. “Jeez.”

“That’s not going to stop us,” said Julie.

Paris made a face. “Come. Follow me to the golf course. I can see it over yonder.” She put a hand to her forehead like an old-time ship captain. “ ’Tis either a long way off or uncommon small. Perhaps both.”

She strode off toward the miniature golf course, humming Nirvana, Julie at her side. Paris said something to Julie and they both laughed, loud. I felt a pang of left-outness.

But then, I was walking with you. And that gave me a good, fizzy feeling in my stomach. Which was nice.

“You’re good,” I said, and then immediately felt like an ass. “At the piano, I mean. The organ. Whatever.”

“Thanks.”

“Are you in a band?” I asked.

Something crossed your face, a shadow, or a flock of birds, and then it was gone. “No,” you said.

“You should be.”

You smiled, but I thought there was something fake about it. “It’s just a party trick,” you said. “Anyway, let’s go. Shane’s waiting at the mini golf. I mean, he’s supposed to be. For all I know he’s drunk a six-pack already and passed out at home again. The lifeguards get off earlier. In both senses of the term.”

“Ha,” I said. It came out too sarcastic, and you frowned.

Dammit, Cass.

That was me. The voice was silent as ever when you were around.

As we walked, you nudged me with your elbow. “You on Facebook?” you said. “I looked you up, but I couldn’t find you.”