Chapter 42 #2
the group chat with a few emojis, but they all descend on the Inn within the hour. They don’t bring their partners; it’s just
the four of us again, like it was in the beginning.
“I think you’re blowing this out of proportion,” I say as we demolish three pizzas, dribbling sauce onto the canvas of the
couch, our favorite artwork. “You’re acting like this is Armistice Day or something.”
“It pretty much is,” Tara says. “You’ve been fighting yourself for years trying not to fall for Chris.”
“Don’t you have a wedding to be getting ready for?” I ask Tara.
“Not for three more days,” she says, unstressed. “Still time to make it a double wedding.” She winks.
“Perfect,” I say dryly. “All I’ll need is a mirror. Because I’m marrying myself, obviously.”
They giggle at that, and I do too, but it’s kind of spectacular how there’s some truth in it. How I can look at my reflection
now and not shrink or shudder or shut my eyes anymore. I hardly ever even pee in the dark anymore, except sometimes I still
do just because it’s kind of relaxing, like a meditation room.
“We’re just happy to see you taking a risk, that’s all,” Tara tells me.
“My whole life has been about risk-taking,” I say, though I know that’s not really true. I’ve actually been trying to avoid
hazards, avoid hurt by hurling myself into things I never had any real hope for.
I have real hope for Chris. The thought that it might all end in heartbreak makes me reach out for Tara and Hal and Jenni,
pull on their earlobes to make sure they’re still there, still solid.
“I think I deserve some applause for all of this,” Jenni says. “If it weren’t for my bravery being the first to break the
pact, you’d all still be trapped in that little zoo.”
It makes me strangely proud of Jenni, how she’s grown enough to take credit for her crimes.
“But it was really my exit that gave the resistance any momentum,” Hal says. “One is a glitch, two is a trend.”
“And three is a movement,” Tara says, grinning. “A rebellion against our original rebellion.”
“Well, maybe I’ll stage a rebellion against the rebellion of the rebellion,” I say. As far as I’m concerned, marriage still
isn’t in the cards for me for a very long time, if ever. I’m just going to see how it feels to have a plus-one and start there.
“And I’ll have six dogs and write satirical plays about your marriages and divorces.”
“EJ,” Jenni scolds, covering her ears at the d word.
“What?” I say. “I’m not wishing for that. I’m just saying the stats aren’t great, and I’ll be here if it happens. EJ, the
Great Witch of the Dunge Inn, haunting Bushwick with her brilliance.”
“There are worse fates,” Hal says.
The four of us bring in our fists for our old Restocking handshake.
“To liberated love,” I say. “In whatever form or non-form it takes.”
They all gobble it up, affirming that I’m still the leader even if our group doesn’t exist in the same way it used to. The
bond is still there, the particles reorganized, never obliterated.
The others head out soon, back to their other lives, but their presence lingers in the vents and the vaults of this basement
that bloomed into a home under the shoddy care of girls trying to become women, women trying to remain girls.
I turn on the record player and dance around the living room, slow-dancing with myself. There’s clarity, like a knife has
been removed from me, and instead of bleeding out, I’m bleeding free. I’m surrounded on the outside by the immortal art painted
by my immortal friends, and I’m surrounded on the inside by all the immortal songs that I can finally hear. It makes me wonder
where my life is going, what’s the next scene and the one after that. I’m glad I don’t know because it would ruin the surprise.
I walk out onto Knickerbocker Avenue. The sky is crying like it’s just had its own awakening, and the pavement is glowing
like it knows something good is coming, like something good has already arrived.
An antique shop has just opened down the street, and I feel a nudge to walk there now. There’s a piano in the window, a beautiful
ivory thing. I’ve never seen it before.
My feet carry me inside. A bell jingles in the doorway like it’s Christmas. Without asking for permission, I sit down at the
piano bench and set my hands on the black and white keys. Taking two deep breaths, I prepare myself that I won’t remember
anything, that this is pointless.
But then my mind gets out of the way and my fingers start moving, start flying.
It takes me a moment to realize what I’m playing.
It’s my old favorite ballad, Frank Sinatra’s “The Way You Look Tonight.” My prized masterpiece that I learned as a kid, the one I practiced so much and performed at a recital.
I’m ecstatic that I still have access to it, but I’m anguished too. Because if the muscle memory is there for the beautiful
things, it must be there for the brutal ones too.
Up and down the keys my fingers dance. My feet know what to do with the pedals, though I haven’t practiced in decades. I bob
to the beat, my spine bending like a puppet, but there’s no one pulling the strings. It’s just me.
When I finish, my whole body is tingling like I’ve just been electrocuted, four lightning strikes in one.
The store owner comes up and asks if I’m interested in purchasing the piano, says it seems made for me.
“Not today,” I say, though the vision of a piano in the Inn flashes through my mind like a prophecy. “But this was just what
I needed. Thanks for letting me play.” I tip him five dollars because I carry real bills now, thanks to the Populists’ Playhouse
cash-only policy. Then I bounce out of the shop, feeling lighter than I have in ages.
I take the Red Rocket for a spin, driving down toward the Williamsburg Bridge.
It’s a gray sort of day. Gray clouds are blotting the gray cables of the bridge that are framing the gray water of the East
River that’s sloshing up against the gray steel of the skyline. In the rearview mirror, my gray irises are looking back at
me. I don’t flinch or blink or look away. I hold my own eye contact.
The Rocket’s crusty old windshield wipers are working like new again, keeping the view clear as I drive across the bridge,
slower than I’ve ever driven before. The tires hardly have any tread left and I don’t want to skid. There’s too much to lose
these days. There always has been; I can just finally see it.
The car behind me honks. It’s one of those long-drawn-out screeches that’s trying to make a statement for the whole city to hear.
The sound doesn’t faze me; it just makes me tap the brakes.
I’m going to move through this life as slowly or as quickly as I want.
I’m a free woman, after all. Three cheers for that, or however many cheers you want.
It’s really not my decision to make. It’s yours.