You (You #1)(31)

“Uh-huh.”

“You get it? ‘Is’ being short for Isabella?”

I look at you because I know that you think I’m

Different. Hot.

I don’t ask permission to touch you, but I raise my hand to your cheek and rub off a speck of eye makeup with my thumb. You swallow. You smile. Your pupils are fat with desire. I look away first. I got you.

“Anyway,” you say. “She’s an old friend. Her family summered on Nantucket and we met when we were kids. She’s a genius.”

“That’s cool.”

“She prepped with Chana at Nightingale and she knew me from summers and Lynn was her freshman roommate. She’s like the connector.”

I laugh and you blush. “What?”

“You just used prepped as a verb.”

“Fuck off.”

“That’s a demerit, young lady.”

“And what happens when I get another?” you say and I’m this close to throwing you against the wall and you’re this close to grabbing me. The closer we get to the party, the more you want to slap the red emergency button and go at it right here, right now.

I should kiss you but we’re almost to the floor marked P for Penthouse. You move your purse to your other shoulder; you want me. I graze the palm of my left hand over the small of your back and you almost whinny. Your fingertips brush my leg as the elevator shimmies. I lower my hand slowly. You anticipate. You dangle your fingers, ready. And when my hand finally nears yours, you gasp, lightly, as you open your fingers and latch on to mine. We are holding hands and your sweat is mixing into mine. Wow.

It’s time to kiss and I want to kiss but the doors open up and we’re here. And I’m speechless. Are we on the set of Hannah and Her Sisters? Desire for you is mixed up with jealousy of all this and people know your name but not mine. Your world is bigger than my world and you hug Brown people and some of them have instruments—are you kidding with a fucking drum circle, like it’s 1995? They’re covering “Jane Says” and singing as if they know about lust and weakness. You squeeze my hand.

“Joe,” you say. “This is Peach.”

Yes it is. She’s even taller than I expected with enormous frizzy hair swept into a tornado above her head. She makes you look too little and you make her look too big. You’re from two different planets and you’re not meant to be standing together. She claps as if she’s meeting a five-year-old and I don’t like it when girls are taller than me. “Hello, Joseph,” she says, overenunciating. “I am Peach and this is my home.”

“Nice to meet you,” I say and she looks me up and down. Cunt.

“I love you already for not being pretentious,” she says. “And thank you for not bringing any wine or anything. This girl is family to me. No gifts allowed.”

You are, of course, aghast. “Omigod, Peach, I completely flaked.”

She looks down on you literally. “Sweetie, I just said I love it. And besides, the last thing we need is more cheap wine.”

You are acting like you committed a felony and she looks at me like I’m the delivery guy waiting for a tip. “I’m stealing our girl for two minutes, Joseph.”

You allow her to steal you and I really must look like the fucking delivery guy as I stand here, not knowing anyone, not being known. No girls are coming on to me and maybe I don’t look good in here. The only certainty is that I hate this Peach as much as I knew I would, and she hates me right back. She knows how to work you, Beck. You are apologizing for no wine, for not bringing Lynn and Chana, for not taking better care of your purse. And she is forgiving, stroking your back, telling you not to worry. I’m invisible to you in her presence, just like everyone else. Peach Is . . . in the way. I look around but nobody wants to say hi to me. It’s like they can smell the public school on me. A skinny Indian chick mad dogs me before she nosedives into a line of Adderall or coke and I get out my phone and send a tweet from Benji:

Everything in moderation especially moderation. #homesoda #gobulldogs #smokecrackeveryday

I look up this address on Zillow. This place is worth twenty-four million dollars and I find an article about the decor in a fucking society blog. Peach’s mother looks even meaner and taller than Peach and who knows? Maybe it’s tough to come into this world and crawl on rugs that cost a hundred grand. Peach learned piano on a mint black Steinway and went to the planetarium whenever she wanted. Of course she takes the glories of the Upper West Side for granted. Of course she loves you for fawning over the Prada. I see a hand-carved credenza and I move in for a closer look. It’s an excellent piece, one of a kind. One door has a Jewish star and one door has a cross and maybe I have a shot in this scene. Peach is like me, half Jewish and half Catholic. I grew up with no religion and she had all religion. She celebrates everything and I celebrate nothing and you’ve come back to me, with her.

“Isn’t this piece cool?” you say and you lean against the credenza.

“It’s great,” I agree. “You know, Peach, I’m also Jewish and Catholic.”

“Oh, Joseph.” She is correcting me. I can feel it. “I’m not Catholic. I’m Methodist, but you’re sweet.”

“That’s cool,” I say and I want to go home. I also want to tell her I’m Joe, not Joseph, bastard spawn of Alma Goldberg and Ronnie Passero.