others, yanked him back down and said,
Sit up straight and act right
.
AnnMarie turned and looked out the window. All the low-rise buildings out there, the empty lots with trash in piles, fences tipped on their sides like they been stepped on by a giant. Beyond that a cargo plane rose up, its wing tipping downward as it curved across the sky, and then without warning the subway car was gliding across water, and what a sight it was, so low were the tracks to the bay that it felt to AnnMarie they were defying gravity, floating instead of sinking into the depths of that wide blue water, soaring along in a box made of steel. Then the train car surged forward and plunged underground and AnnMarie had to take a couple of deep breaths right then because she thought she might throw up. She felt queasy, that queasy feeling like fear. Like, what the fuck she doing, what the fuck she think she doing.
Three days ago, she’d stood in front of Miss July’s office ’til she got up the nerve, then went in and said, Miss July, what this be about? Miss July slid her glasses down her nose and looked at the flyer. She said, Oh, yes. A nice young man from the movie asked permission to put it up. I told him this was a school for pregnant girls but he didn’t seem to mind. Are you going to try out, AnnMarie?
AnnMarie had stood there thinking, then said, They came all the way out here from Manhattan?
Miss July spread the subway map across her desk and showed her where to go. You don’t even need to transfer. Just take the A train all the way—you see?
At Liberty Avenue, three Spanish-looking people got on and a family of Indians, the mother wearing one a those bright flowy-type dresses, silk draped over her shoulder, red dot on the forehead. Wonder what that dot mean, AnnMarie thought, wonder where they going, all dressed up, the man too, silk shirt hanging to his knees, little girl dressed just like her mother.
By Utica, the car was half full of Saturday shoppers. Saturday workers, everybody going somewhere. She felt hungry all of a sudden, so she pulled out one of the oranges, peeled it and ate it piece by piece ’til it was gone. She tried to picture herself in the room, what she’d say to the people there. I’m AnnMarie Walker. My name’s AnnMarie Walker. In the 7th grade I sang “I Will Always Love You” at my school talent show. IS 53. You ever hear a the Night Shade, she’d say. We a singing group.
Hoyt–Schermerhorn
Jay Street
High Street
Broadway–Nassau
Chambers
Canal
She felt movement in her belly, was that a fart coming on? Dang. The oranges be giving her gas. Chinese lady glancing at her. What the fuck you looking at, oh, she talking to the other one, sitting across the way. AnnMarie glanced around the car, three, four, five—where all these Asians come from?
Spring
West 4th
14thMiss July had said 14th and as the train pulled into the station, AnnMarie saw the number 14 painted on the wall and quickly stood up, filing out with a whole mess a people moving out the doors and onto the platform.
She stood for a long time on the corner of 14th and 8th Avenue, trying to figure out which way the numbers go, then finally she crossed the wide street, walked all the way to the corner before realizing the numbers were going down, not up. Turned around went back the way she came. 15th. 16th. 17th. Dang it’s pretty up here. Look at all these pretty buildings.
Pushing through the glass door of 404 18th Street, sign in at the desk, no guard there but she signed in anyway, flyer said take the elevator to the tenth floor. Her heart wasn’t beating fast then, but as soon as she stepped out, stepped into the big room, like a lobby with folding chairs and girls turning to look at her all at once—yeah, she felt it. Nervous as crap. Standing there like a swollen blob. Gas bubbles knocking around, hands clammy in her pockets. She heard the elevator door start to slide closed and she almost stepped back in. Press the
Sit up straight and act right
.
AnnMarie turned and looked out the window. All the low-rise buildings out there, the empty lots with trash in piles, fences tipped on their sides like they been stepped on by a giant. Beyond that a cargo plane rose up, its wing tipping downward as it curved across the sky, and then without warning the subway car was gliding across water, and what a sight it was, so low were the tracks to the bay that it felt to AnnMarie they were defying gravity, floating instead of sinking into the depths of that wide blue water, soaring along in a box made of steel. Then the train car surged forward and plunged underground and AnnMarie had to take a couple of deep breaths right then because she thought she might throw up. She felt queasy, that queasy feeling like fear. Like, what the fuck she doing, what the fuck she think she doing.
Three days ago, she’d stood in front of Miss July’s office ’til she got up the nerve, then went in and said, Miss July, what this be about? Miss July slid her glasses down her nose and looked at the flyer. She said, Oh, yes. A nice young man from the movie asked permission to put it up. I told him this was a school for pregnant girls but he didn’t seem to mind. Are you going to try out, AnnMarie?
AnnMarie had stood there thinking, then said, They came all the way out here from Manhattan?
Miss July spread the subway map across her desk and showed her where to go. You don’t even need to transfer. Just take the A train all the way—you see?
At Liberty Avenue, three Spanish-looking people got on and a family of Indians, the mother wearing one a those bright flowy-type dresses, silk draped over her shoulder, red dot on the forehead. Wonder what that dot mean, AnnMarie thought, wonder where they going, all dressed up, the man too, silk shirt hanging to his knees, little girl dressed just like her mother.
By Utica, the car was half full of Saturday shoppers. Saturday workers, everybody going somewhere. She felt hungry all of a sudden, so she pulled out one of the oranges, peeled it and ate it piece by piece ’til it was gone. She tried to picture herself in the room, what she’d say to the people there. I’m AnnMarie Walker. My name’s AnnMarie Walker. In the 7th grade I sang “I Will Always Love You” at my school talent show. IS 53. You ever hear a the Night Shade, she’d say. We a singing group.
Hoyt–Schermerhorn
Jay Street
High Street
Broadway–Nassau
Chambers
Canal
She felt movement in her belly, was that a fart coming on? Dang. The oranges be giving her gas. Chinese lady glancing at her. What the fuck you looking at, oh, she talking to the other one, sitting across the way. AnnMarie glanced around the car, three, four, five—where all these Asians come from?
Spring
West 4th
14thMiss July had said 14th and as the train pulled into the station, AnnMarie saw the number 14 painted on the wall and quickly stood up, filing out with a whole mess a people moving out the doors and onto the platform.
She stood for a long time on the corner of 14th and 8th Avenue, trying to figure out which way the numbers go, then finally she crossed the wide street, walked all the way to the corner before realizing the numbers were going down, not up. Turned around went back the way she came. 15th. 16th. 17th. Dang it’s pretty up here. Look at all these pretty buildings.
Pushing through the glass door of 404 18th Street, sign in at the desk, no guard there but she signed in anyway, flyer said take the elevator to the tenth floor. Her heart wasn’t beating fast then, but as soon as she stepped out, stepped into the big room, like a lobby with folding chairs and girls turning to look at her all at once—yeah, she felt it. Nervous as crap. Standing there like a swollen blob. Gas bubbles knocking around, hands clammy in her pockets. She heard the elevator door start to slide closed and she almost stepped back in. Press the
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