34
Bianca is rattled by the confrontation with Curtis, shaken by his denials, his feigned ignorance, his attempts at manipulation.
Spitting in his face had been a weak expression of her hatred, just a drop in the bucket of her loathing.
She needs to calm down, to compose herself and process his words.
She hurries out of the house, to the privacy of the van.
It’s hot and stuffy, but she’s shivering, cold all over.
The strength of her disgust has chilled her to her core.
She hears Curtis’s car start and back quickly out of the driveway.
Part of her hopes he’s gone in search of the money; part of her hopes he’s planning to drive his little car off a cliff.
How can Curtis live with what he did? Does he really not remember his vile, immoral behavior?
Perhaps he’d blocked it out to combat his guilt.
Or were his depraved actions normalized by his cohort of entitled narcissists?
People with so much money that they think the rules don’t apply to them, that they can indulge their sickest fantasies with no repercussions.
Either way, Curtis’s innocence is a delusion.
Just for a breath, she lets herself consider his denials.
Did Bianca somehow get it wrong? She wasn’t there.
She hasn’t seen the video evidence, though she knows it exists.
But Bianca has always trusted her gut instinct, her inherent ability to sort good people from bad.
What happened in New York is likely worse than Bianca could imagine.
She only knows what Lyric told her, but that’s enough.
It was a Sunday in October when Bianca found her sister.
It hadn’t been that difficult: Lyric wasn’t hiding, exactly.
After a couple of weeks of silence, she responded to Bianca’s barrage of concerned texts.
Lyric had assured her older sister that she was safe, happy, even thriving in New York City, but she was short on details.
She had an apartment, but she didn’t say where.
She was working at a restaurant but wouldn’t say which one.
Lyric claimed to be loving life in the Big Apple, but she didn’t mention museums or the theater or even nightclubs.
It was all too vague for Bianca’s comfort.
“I need to go see her,” Bianca told Damian. “Something feels off.”
“I’m sure she’s fine,” he’d said dismissively. Damian cared for Lyric, but he was not her family. And more than once he’d complained about her teenage presence: the mess, the attitude, the sense of entitlement. “Go if it’ll make you feel better.”
When Bianca told her little sister she was coming to visit, Lyric was quick to inform her that she shared a one-bedroom apartment with two other girls, that her “room” was a futon behind a cheap paper screen.
There was no space for guests. Bianca booked a relatively cheap hotel in Midtown for two nights and a flight with a budget airline.
Her younger sibling agreed to meet her at a nearby Pret A Manger.
They’d grab coffees and spend the day together exploring the city.
Lyric arrived a little late, but not concerningly so.
She wasn’t wearing her sophisticated makeup, and she looked beautiful in an easy, unassuming way.
Her long wavy hair was still damp from the shower, and Bianca noticed a couple of pimples on her chin that she’d tried unsuccessfully to conceal.
She looked young, sweet, and wholesome. Lyric dropped her too-cool attitude and ran to embrace her.
“I missed you.” The girl’s voice was muffled by Bianca’s hair.
“Me too.” Bianca savored her sister’s closeness, the concrete knowledge that she was safe. Bianca had been right to come, to see that Lyric was okay with her own eyes. She felt a nearly jubilant sense of relief.
They made their way toward the park. Lyric lived downtown, didn’t know her way around the chaos of Midtown, but they found their route, chatting breezily about her life in the city.
Lyric was more open in person, discussing her roommates (a girl from Atlanta who was cool, and another from Chicago who she suspected had an undiagnosed personality disorder).
Lyric had a job as a food runner at a chichi restaurant.
“But when I’m twenty-one, I can train to be a server.”
Bianca didn’t comment that four years was a long time to wait to become a waitress. She wanted their visit to be pleasant. Later, she’d bring up Lyric’s high school diploma and some sort of career training.
“Do you make enough money?” Bianca asked. “New York is an expensive place to live.”
“I get amazing tips,” Lyric assured her. “All our customers are super rich. And really generous.”
“Maybe I’ll come in for dinner tonight?” Bianca suggested.
“Good luck,” Lyric laughed. “You have to reserve months in advance unless you’re a VIP.” She scrunched up her nose. “And it’s really expensive.”
Lyric sounded impressed, thrilled to be serving New York’s upper crust. Bianca was tempted to remind her who she was and where she came from, but now was not the time. She needed more details on her sister’s life and couldn’t risk her storming off in a huff.
They strolled the tree-lined promenade of Central Park, their arms linked.
The fall weather was brisk, the sky a flat gray, but colorful leaves clung to the tree branches.
Lyric asked about Damian, about their hometown, about Bianca’s design job.
Neither woman spoke to their mom anymore, and they both felt lighter for it.
Healthier. There was no guilt. Yvonne had a new boyfriend; she wouldn’t miss them.
“Are you hungry? Can I take you for lunch?” Bianca asked. She couldn’t afford anywhere fancy, but she was still the big sister.
Lyric checked the time on her phone. “Sure. I’ve got a couple of hours before I have to get ready for work.”
They walked back to Midtown, where Bianca had noticed a decent diner next to her hotel.
Their conversation was full of giggles and reminiscences, and Bianca felt at ease.
Her kid sister was on an adventure. She was young, and she would make mistakes, but there would be time for her to get back on track.
Over corned beef sandwiches and Diet Cokes, Bianca teased more information out of Lyric.
She got the name and location of the fancy restaurant where Lyric worked, the venue where Bianca could never hope to get a table.
She wrote down the address of her sister’s Chinatown apartment, promising to send her some of the items she’d left behind in her haste to leave.
And she insisted they meet for breakfast the next day.
“What time?” Lyric whined. “I work late, and sometimes we go out after.”
Bianca sipped her Diet Coke. “Where do you go?”
“We get invited to clubs and we get VIP entrance.” Lyric was lit from within. “Sometimes we go to private parties that are insane.”
As her underage sister spoke about bottle service and velvet ropes, Bianca felt her comfort level plunge. She’d never been impressed by shallow displays of wealth, and she knew the narcissism that often came with money. Rich people played by their own rules. They took whatever they wanted.
“You have to be careful.” It came out sounding distinctly maternal. “You can’t trust these rich pricks. You’re just a kid, and they’ll take advantage of you.”
“They’re not like that,” Lyric said, setting down her sandwich. “They’re really nice people. Important people. And they have connections in finance. And Hollywood. And Silicon Valley. Something big is going to happen for me here, B. I can feel it.”
Bianca looked at her bright-eyed sister, so young and pretty, and she wanted to believe her.
But she couldn’t. She knew the ugly side of human nature, the dark desires of powerful people.
She wanted to tell Lyric to come home and finish school, to live with her and Damian, who could keep her safe.
She could move back to New York when she was older, smarter, wiser.
But Lyric wouldn’t listen to her. She was wild and rebellious. She was a girl.
“I’ve flown a long way to see you,” she said. “It won’t kill you to go home early one night so you can get up and meet me for breakfast.”
“Fine.” Lyric rolled her eyes. “I’ll be there.”