White Lines by Jennifer Banash Page A

which I can see in the light is shot with streaks of gray, is pulled back in his trademark ponytail, his perpetually tanned face only half visible. I watch as his head comes up, alert, his posture rigid. His face relaxes as he realizes that it’s just me, and he runs a hand over the top of his head, smoothing his hair down, then pulling his glasses off and throwing them onto the desk in one fluid motion.
    “Ahh . . . Cat,” he says, grinning, pushing a stack of paper off the high-backed chair next to him and patting the seat, motioning for me to sit. “To what do I owe this unexpected pleasure?” Christoph says the word
pleasure
like it’s something illegal, rolling the word around in his mouth and savoring it like wine, a valuable and rare vintage.
    I sit down, crossing one leg over the other, my face frozen in a smile. I never know what to say to Christoph and I can’t really figure him out. There’s something impenetrable about him that makes me afraid to look him in the eye. He’s old enough to be my father, and in real life I’d be completely grossed out, but somehow, over the past few months, my life has slid far away from anything approximating real, and so Christoph, like everything else in the shadowy dream world I inhabit when the lights go down, has somehow become a possibility.
    “I just came by to . . . umm . . . get paid,” I blurt out. “And to talk to you about this idea I had for a party in the basement.” I take a huge gulp of air and then keep talking, afraid to stop, of the dead air that will rise between us. “I was thinking of doing a petting zoo—you know, club kids body-painted as zebras and tigers, suspended in cages over the dance floor, hay everywhere . . .” Christoph is squinting, his eyes the palest shade of blue, like jeans that have been washed a hundred times in a caustic mix of bleach and lye. I’ve thrown only two other parties, which both kind of tanked, so I’m nervous, afraid he won’t give me another chance.
    “That last one wasn’t too . . .” Christoph’s brow wrinkles, and his voice trails off into nothingness.
    My cheeks flush and sweat breaks out under my arms. The last party I threw was pretty sparsely attended, most likely because I still haven’t gotten the hang of actually getting out there and promoting. After a year, even though I’m well known in the scene at this point, I still have to force myself to approach people, a fake smile on my face, my lips curling awkwardly away from my teeth. I want so much to be like Sebastian, gliding across the dance floor instead of standing in the corner all night thrusting invites at any random stranger who passes by, but I can’t seem to get the hang of it, no matter how hard I try.
    “I know,” I say. “But it takes a while to get established, and I think this petting zoo thing could be really . . .”
    My voice trails off as I notice Christoph’s eyes traveling along the length of my body. He leans back in his chair, hands folded behind his head, holding my eyes with his own.
    Please don’t let me fail at this,
I think, whispering the words over and over in my brain. So far I’ve failed at being a daughter, a student and probably a friend. I can’t bear to fail at anything else, and these parties, as meaningless as they are, this place, is all I have left.
    “Aren’t you on the invite for Sebastian’s outlaw party next week? That thing with the truck?” Christoph smiles a half smile, as if the thought of Sebastian amuses him. He’s wearing a soft black sweater that looks like cashmere, and a pair of jeans so broken in that they’re almost destroyed, the legs frayed open artfully at the knee and thigh. He seems absurdly comfortable with his body, as if he lives in his skin as effortlessly as his jeans.
    “Yeah, I’m on it—he asked me a few nights ago.” I look down at the ends of my scarf, wrapping the red strands around my fingers and choosing my words carefully. “But I was