school—I mean, it’s not as weird as going back to Chapin, but still, didn’t you feel old?” She walks on.
“Oh no, yes.” I continue as I follow her down the uneven pavement. “And at the same time freakishly not. Like, I could immediately peg who the cool kids were and I felt a little nervous around them. Maybe some part of our psyches freezes on the worst day of seventh grade and never recovers.”
She laughs knowingly, even though, if memory serves, her seventh grade worst was measured in degrees of Catherine Oxenberg–esque perfection. “I see the girls in my new-old neighborhood now,” she says, her ankle wobbling a bit as we go over a spot where a nearby oak has transformed the surrounding sidewalk into a skateboard run. “And it’s insane—they’re so …chic. We were . . .”
“I don’t want to say dirty.”
“Certainly the hair.”
“Remember you and Tatiana and Alex had a contest to see who could go longest without shampoo?”
She grins. “And you wore your dad’s blazers to school.”
“Oversized everything, scrunchie buns and practical shoes—it was a great time to come of age.”
She drops her canvas FEED tote to the sidewalk, steadying it between her black sneakers as she tugs her hair out of a makeshift knot to cascade down her back, pre-Raphaelite against the black sheen of her down vest. She places the rubber band between her teeth. “So when do you start?”
“Apparently I have. I’m on call for …I guess we’ll see for what. I mean, the students were a little much, but this teacher was great . If I can advocate for her and her colleagues, or at the minimum help them navigate these ‘tweaks,’ I’ll be thrilled. And in the interim that’ll be me having my tubes tied.”
“God, if only.”
“Right?” Realizing it’s started to drizzle, I glance up at the silver haze drifting through the dark gaps between buildings from the low clouds above. I look back to see Citrine pulling her refreshed bun taut, her face suddenly drained of all its luminescence.
“You okay?”
She nods, her gaze moving past me to the warehouse behind us, an indoor architectural salvage yard she’s been dying to take me to. She lifts her bag onto her shoulder, the sparkle returning to her tone. “We’re doing this. I’m so excited. Did you start Brideshead ?”
“Yes.” I did. A page is a start.
“Spectacular, isn’t it? The themes inspired a series of lithographs I made in ’04 on religious versus sexual passion. And they had a lintel here last time that was quintessential Waugh. It must’ve been ripped from some palazzo on Fifth. Shame.” She leans into the glass door, ringing the brass bell above the frame, and I step behind her into the musty, dimly lit warehouse. We stand for a moment like two stars on an action movie poster, taking in the floor of peeling carved wood and the range of sherbet-colored porcelain.
“Incredible,” I murmur, dropping my head back to admire the Tiffany-era stained-glass panels hanging from a ceiling covered with what looks to be every type of industrial lamp and sign used east of the Hudson in the prior two centuries.
“I get all my mixed media materials here. I love this place.” She unsnaps her vest, her yoga clothes still damp beneath. “All the history.” She starts coughing.
“Careful there,” I say, patting her back. “I think the history has spores.”
“But don’t you love it?” she asks, recovering her voice.
“Add one working toilet and a microwave and this is pretty much my house.”
“You’re so lucky.” She picks her bag up and we start walking the narrow aisles. “Clark’s architect keeps dragging us around these stainless steel showrooms and I’m just, like, there’s no heartbeat. I don’t want my home looking like a stranger picked out everything down to the food in the refrigerator. But this!” She steps over to an ornate wood mantel resting against a thick stack. “This has soul. ” She extends a
“Oh no, yes.” I continue as I follow her down the uneven pavement. “And at the same time freakishly not. Like, I could immediately peg who the cool kids were and I felt a little nervous around them. Maybe some part of our psyches freezes on the worst day of seventh grade and never recovers.”
She laughs knowingly, even though, if memory serves, her seventh grade worst was measured in degrees of Catherine Oxenberg–esque perfection. “I see the girls in my new-old neighborhood now,” she says, her ankle wobbling a bit as we go over a spot where a nearby oak has transformed the surrounding sidewalk into a skateboard run. “And it’s insane—they’re so …chic. We were . . .”
“I don’t want to say dirty.”
“Certainly the hair.”
“Remember you and Tatiana and Alex had a contest to see who could go longest without shampoo?”
She grins. “And you wore your dad’s blazers to school.”
“Oversized everything, scrunchie buns and practical shoes—it was a great time to come of age.”
She drops her canvas FEED tote to the sidewalk, steadying it between her black sneakers as she tugs her hair out of a makeshift knot to cascade down her back, pre-Raphaelite against the black sheen of her down vest. She places the rubber band between her teeth. “So when do you start?”
“Apparently I have. I’m on call for …I guess we’ll see for what. I mean, the students were a little much, but this teacher was great . If I can advocate for her and her colleagues, or at the minimum help them navigate these ‘tweaks,’ I’ll be thrilled. And in the interim that’ll be me having my tubes tied.”
“God, if only.”
“Right?” Realizing it’s started to drizzle, I glance up at the silver haze drifting through the dark gaps between buildings from the low clouds above. I look back to see Citrine pulling her refreshed bun taut, her face suddenly drained of all its luminescence.
“You okay?”
She nods, her gaze moving past me to the warehouse behind us, an indoor architectural salvage yard she’s been dying to take me to. She lifts her bag onto her shoulder, the sparkle returning to her tone. “We’re doing this. I’m so excited. Did you start Brideshead ?”
“Yes.” I did. A page is a start.
“Spectacular, isn’t it? The themes inspired a series of lithographs I made in ’04 on religious versus sexual passion. And they had a lintel here last time that was quintessential Waugh. It must’ve been ripped from some palazzo on Fifth. Shame.” She leans into the glass door, ringing the brass bell above the frame, and I step behind her into the musty, dimly lit warehouse. We stand for a moment like two stars on an action movie poster, taking in the floor of peeling carved wood and the range of sherbet-colored porcelain.
“Incredible,” I murmur, dropping my head back to admire the Tiffany-era stained-glass panels hanging from a ceiling covered with what looks to be every type of industrial lamp and sign used east of the Hudson in the prior two centuries.
“I get all my mixed media materials here. I love this place.” She unsnaps her vest, her yoga clothes still damp beneath. “All the history.” She starts coughing.
“Careful there,” I say, patting her back. “I think the history has spores.”
“But don’t you love it?” she asks, recovering her voice.
“Add one working toilet and a microwave and this is pretty much my house.”
“You’re so lucky.” She picks her bag up and we start walking the narrow aisles. “Clark’s architect keeps dragging us around these stainless steel showrooms and I’m just, like, there’s no heartbeat. I don’t want my home looking like a stranger picked out everything down to the food in the refrigerator. But this!” She steps over to an ornate wood mantel resting against a thick stack. “This has soul. ” She extends a
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