We delve deeper into the crowd, and Diego finds the host somewhere and introduces us, which turns into offers to roll a few blunts—and I take that as my cue. I slip off and make my way back to the refreshments table, where I pour myself a red Solo Cup of tap water and take a bite of one of the little cheese cubes on display.
I used to be a riot at parties. Chaya and I would pause in the building foyer to roll off our stockings and unbutton the high collars of our shirts enough to show a daring slice of collarbone. We’d fold the waists of our skirts to hitch them up above the knees. And then we’d descend like birds of prey—at college frat parties, boho soirées hosted by someone’s online friend’s brother, bars that wouldn’t look too hard at our IDs.
Going out like that was such a thrill. Because for those few hours, we weren’t us. We weren’t the weird, frumpy Chassidic girls that goyish people stared at on the subway. We weren’t the troublemakers threatening to tarnish our families’ good names. And if we drank enough vodka sodas, swallowed enough pills, we kind of forgot we were any of those things ourselves.
Here, at this party, I catch myself staring at the mess of liquor bottles on the kitchen table. I yank my gaze away, but it’s too late. I’m already thinking about tequila, nectar sweet on my tongue. About the way getting drunk feels like slipping underwater.
And thinking about being drunk makes me think about being in other, more fractured mental states.
Okay, now I’m just getting melancholic. Time to do something with myself.
I’ve brought my camera, actually. I feel a little weird having it out, which is different for me—I used to bring my camera everywhere back in LA. It was as much a part of me as a necklace I’d never take off. People in my social circle knew to expect it. Ely Cohen, always there to snap candids, always watching everything and everyone through the lens of a Nikon.
I came to Parker to take pictures, and yet I’ve hardly done any of that so far. I’ve been so busy with classes and obsessing over this thing with Wyatt and trying to make friends that I haven’t done the one thing that never fails to help me put down roots: taking photos of people in the community I’m trying to be a part of.
I’d tried so hard when I was younger. I took hundreds of pictures a day: the young mothers in their brand-new wigs pushing strollers, old bubbes shuffling down the street to the corner store, the anxious bochur scurrying—late, books clutched to chest—to class. I would develop them in the darkroom at Yeshiva University, where one of the studio-arts professors knew my English teacher and was willing to let me take advantage of the college’s resources.
My parents looked at my photography habit the same way they looked at my sister Dvora’s ability to speak French: a fun fact to put on your résumé when it was time to find a marriage match but otherwise frivolous. They still hung up my photos around the house, still farmed out my services for all the cousins’ b’nei mitzvot, but they never really saw it as a valid career choice.
I lift the camera and focus on a girl who’s sitting on the sofa, curled up with her drink perched on one knee, watching the party swirl around her. She seems as if she’s a part of this world but not at the same time. As if she knows these people and likes them but is maybe a little tired, already thinking of going home.
I’ve only been here for five minutes, but I know how she feels.
I check the lighting, the white balance. Looks good, at least for my first time out after a week away from Albert.
That’s my camera. I named my camera Albert.
When I lift Albert again, I zero in on two people in conversation, a man and a woman. She has her head tilted slightly to one side, a lock of black hair twisting around her finger. He’s saying something with a small smile curving his lips. Flirting, or perhaps manipulating. I snap the photo.
I shift my lens to the left, and it finds a man with curly hair tipping forward to snort a line of cocaine off the coffee table.
My finger stutters against the shutter button, and I accidentally take the damn photo. I close my eyes before I turn away, but it’s too late. That image has already painted itself across the backs of my eyelids. And now it’s immortalized on film.
I shove my camera back into my bag and stagger away, hardly paying attention to the people I elbow aside. I don’t breathe properly until I’m in the bathroom with the door shut and locked behind me, cold water splashing my face.
“Shit,” I mutter, eyes squeezed tight. “Okay. Okay, breathe.”
I rub the heels of both hands over my forehead and exhale slowly, counting down from ten. I’m flush cheeked when I finally meet my gaze in the mirror again, the edges of my hair wet and stuck to my cheeks.
Someone knocks on the door. “It’s busy!” I shout, and put the toilet cover down so I can sit, clutching Albert against my chest.
The music thrums on outside, more muffled now, the lyrics indistinct. I pull my phone out of my back pocket and swipe over to the Messenger app.
I almost text Wyatt. I can imagine the way he’d respond, all comfort and reassurance. I would feel his words like a warm blanket wrapped around my shoulders.
But of course, that’s fantasy. Texting him now would just be forcing him to metaphorically rub my shoulders and would probably be weird.
I originally got this phone out to text my sponsor. Or…well, Shannon isn’t really my sponsor anymore, I guess. I’m supposed to find a new one here in New York. But she’s still one of my closest friends, so she’s on the hook for witnessing at least 10 percent of my meltdowns.
Not that I’ve texted her much since moving away from LA. I’ve gotten plenty of texts from her, but the only thing I ever actually talked about was the time I whined to her about the Wyatt situation. I just kind of ignored all the other things she said.
Once again I prove to the universe that I’m the world’s shittiest friend. First there was Chaya. Then I ghosted all my dope-fiend friends when I got clean. And now Shannon.
Texting her right now, just to make her help me, once again the selfish friend who takes takes takes and never gives…it wouldn’t be a good look.
Fuck. Okay. Fuck being professional; I’m going in.
I text Wyatt instead.
Me: hey. I didn’t go to the Shabbos dinner, went to a party. someone’s doing coke out there and it’s got me a bit fucked up
My heart pounds as I sit there and stare at the screen, anxiety crawling at the nape of my neck. I shouldn’t expect a response. I probably shouldn’t have sent this text in the first place. God, if I don’t get a reply, it’s going to be so fucking humiliating come Monday—
Three dots. Oh my god. Oh my god.
Wyatt: Are you okay? Do you need me to call?