A normal Tuesday night.
I lose myself in the rhythm of fixing drinks, taking cards, making chitchat. Then it's cleaning, receipts, tips.
The sweet freedom of the June air.
It's still warm. That's one of the things I love about New York. The city holds onto the temperature.
Eighty and humid. Rare for June. With the sun down and the breeze light, it's comfortable.
Ten blocks in the warm air. A big silver moon. All the lights of Times Square.
Like any born and bred New Yorker, I prefer to avoid the tourist trap.
Most nights, I walk a few extra blocks, so I can take the Fifty-Seventh Street station.
Tonight, I'm exhausted. I descend the steps to the massive subway station. Left, right, straight, left. All the way to my line.
At two thirty on a Tuesday night, the subway is quiet. A server lost in a book, a bartender listening to headphones, a drunk couple making out against a dirty post.
They grind and groan like they'll never get enough.
Even when the train arrives, they climb in. Take to one of the benches.
They stay hot and heavy. So in need of each other they don't care who sees.
Or maybe they want someone to see.
Or maybe it's the alcohol talking.
What is that like? Feeling that free? Wanting someone that much?
I close my eyes. Try to recall a make-out session with my high school boyfriend. The cute bassist with long bangs. For all his talk of skilled hands, he lacked a certain finesse.
Was that it? His lack of tenderness?
The question rattles through my brain as I get off at my stop. Walk the half a mile to our apartment.
Not the nicest part of Brooklyn. But with rent control, it's the best we can do. A third-floor walk-up with two bedrooms, a small den, big windows.
Quiet.
There isn't a sound in the place. Nothing from Addie's room. No lights, no music, no keys clacking.
She's asleep. At peace.
My shoulders ease. Even after all this time, I worry about her. More than anything.
She's only four minutes younger, but she's still my baby sister. And it's still my job to protect her.
Tonight, she's okay. Tonight, I have enough to pay the rent. Tonight, I sleep easy.
I count the money in my dresser. Stuff a stack of twenties in an envelope. Leave it on the kitchen table.
Then, it's my time. I shower, fix an almond butter and jelly sandwich for dinner, settle into my bedroom. The one place where I feel free.
I guess that's not accurate. My room is mine.
The ornate mirror, the shiny chandelier, the teal arm chair, the punk rock posters.
It's all cheap stuff—thrift finds and Ikea—but it's mine.
This room is proof I've survived the last two years. With all the baggage that comes with it.
I want to fall onto the cheap cotton sheets and soak up every ounce of breeze (not nearly enough). But every time my gaze hits the red mark on the wall, I remember sharing a room with Addie.
I remember Dad handing down his Black Flag poster.
I remember moving into my own space.
Finding Addie in her room—
Not going there tonight.
My happy place is more abstract. It sounds silly out loud. I'm almost embarrassed to admit it.
The place I feel free isn't a place at all. It's a website. An online diary.
I started it earlier this year. Because I didn't have anywhere to put my thoughts during lunches at the library.
After twenty minutes of spilling my guts, I felt better. The words were mine. For me and me alone.
Then I hit the publish button, not thinking it would make my post public.
When I logged in the next day, to a dozen views, I felt something. Exposed and freer for it.
I pour my ugliest thoughts onto the page.
People read them. They see them. Understand them. Accept them.
There's one guy in particular. He drops likes and comments.
Feel better.
Beautiful.
You have a way with words.
He never asks for more. Or offers anything of himself.
He's just there, watching me strip out of my defenses, taking in my naked pain and calling it beautiful.
Is he as much of a mess as I am?
I don't care. I don't have time to care.
Understanding, acceptance, love—those come after rent, food, tuition.
This is the one place where I don't have to hold it all together.
The place where I work through my messy thoughts.
And damn do I have a whopper today.
Chapter Three
Eve
Original Sin
Wednesday, June 3rd
Four a.m.
What's the difference between bravery and foolishness? How about fear and sensibility?
These are the kinds of questions most eighteen-year-old girls consider. Once upon a time, I saw them through a normal lens.
Crushing on the cute guy in English.
A "truth or dare" at a party.
A bottle of Manic Panic Atomic Turquoise and a box of bleach.
I answered the questions like a normal high school senior.
No, I can't ask out the cute boy. Not in the middle of our senior project. Not when he says "let's just watch the show. The Handmaid's Tale is boring, don't you think?"
Yes, I can say dare. Even if I need two shots before I'm able to flash the less cute (but more pro-Margaret Atwood) boy from Chemistry my bra.
Of course, I'm ready to embrace my inner punk goddess. If Addie's willing to help with the back of my head.
I'm sure there's some joke in there about boys and the back of my head. Or the top of my head.
Why are all the boys so obsessed? Are blow jobs really that great?
More of society's shit. Men kick back and accept pleasure from women. Men kick back and watch women appeal to them. Men kick back and discuss whether or not women are hot enough for them.
I guess I'm burying the lead.
Yes, I'm brave enough to kiss the boy in Chemistry. I'm foolish enough to take that third shot at my best friend's birthday party. And the opportunity to rock blue-green hair?
That's good sense.
Only now, four weeks out of high school, six months into legal adulthood, I have a new lens.
What will I do to keep my sister safe? To keep us together? To keep this burden off her shoulders?
Look at me, still dancing around the question. Am I really that scared? Nervous? Ashamed?
I don't know what to say.
It's the logical thing to do.
A few hours ago, a customer made an offer. Five figures for one night. My virginity gone. My problems gone with it.
Okay, he didn't specify the amount. But a girl can dream. Not of his hands or his lips or his ahem.
He's a jerk who reeks of booze.
Who thinks his medical degree earns him the right to part my legs.
He's not the man of my dreams.
But my problems disappearing? Rent and tuition paid? Good tea in the kitchen?
Addie's medical bills, gone?
How can I say no?
It will take me three years to pay this debt on my own.
Even if I find a better job at a better place. And not one run by a guy who thinks an allusion to hell is the height of creativity.
Who laughs ha ha, Eve, are you tempted by this forbidden fruit yet as he points to the twenties in a dancer's g-string. (Yeah, it's the first time I've heard that).