White Lines by Jennifer Banash

crowd with sharp elbows, not caring if I hurt anyone, my face scorched with embarrassment. I think of miles of sand dunes, red and black rocks shimmering in the heat, my anger reflected in the barren landscape, those violent colors. Without turning back, I know that Julian is watching me. The quick staccato steps of my boots reverberate in my ears, and I breathe a sigh of relief as I turn the corner, his eyes falling away.

* * * *
     
    THE PLINKY-PLONKY SOUND
of the ice cream truck rings through the hot summer air, thick as the tar melts on the rooftops above my head, and the truck makes its way down the block, filling the neighborhood with a lingering music. The air, heavy with summer blossoms, is soft and languid, caressing my bare arms.
    Vanilla and chocolate swirl drips onto my palms, hot concrete under my legs. I sit with my father on the front stoop outside our building, before we moved all the way uptown, before the money, the divorce, when the word SoHo meant “home.”
    My mother exits the front door, pushing her sweat-dampened hair back from her forehead. She sits down next to my father, taking his hand in her own and bringing it up to her lips, softly kissing the skin of his palm, her eyes closed. Inside, there is dinner waiting: a roast chicken fragrant with lemon and herbs, mashed potatoes to soak up the delicate juices. A decanter of white wine sparkles in the setting sun streaming over the scarred wooden table.
    My father listens carefully, nodding as he licks at his double cone, the mirror image of the one in my own small hands, interjecting a series of hmms and oh reallys as I chatter on happily, my whole world reduced to simply this: the sun burning red and hot orange along the tops of tall, concrete buildings, the feel of ice cream soft and cold on the heat of my tongue, my father’s low voice a rumble in my ear as color flies across the darkening sky, the lights of the city resembling a strand of gemstones, shining and brilliant, as they whisper my future into the gathering night.

TWELVE
     
    I DUCK INTO THE SUBWAY on the corner of Seventy-Seventh and Lexington, descending into the hot, stale mouth of the station. My stomach still feels queasy, and I take a sip from the bottle of iced tea I bought at the newsstand on the way to the train, trying to clear away the lingering taste of bile. I need to go to the club and pick up my money for the week from Christoph and run an idea for a party by him, something I could easily have done when school let out, but the thought of having to eat lunch by myself again among the whispers and sideways glances was enough to propel me downtown without thinking twice. Every time I close my eyes, there is a flash of Julian’s face, and a feeling of regret swoops over me so intense that I almost turn around and walk back to school to find him. Maybe I should have given him a chance to explain instead of just cutting him off and walking away. My stomach sinks to my boots, and I sigh as the train pulls into the station, the rushing movement of the cars lifting the hair from the back of my neck.
    When I exit the station on Eighth Avenue, I turn on Twenty-Seventh Street, heading past the familiar rows of empty warehouses that precede Tunnel, my pace quickening. I climb the front steps, ring the buzzer for entrance and step inside. I stand for a moment in the instant nightfall, waiting for my eyes to adjust. I make my way upstairs past the dreaded bathroom and into Christoph’s open office, light flooding in from the two big windows that face the street. I feel my pupils contract, and I blink like I’m coming out of a stupor.
    The walls are painted the gray of storm clouds, and the room is full of black lacquered furniture that looks like it comes alive and stomps around the office in the early hours of the morning. Christoph is seated at his desk, bent over what looks like a stack of bills, wearing a pair of steel-rimmed glasses I’ve never seen before. His blond hair,