Big Summer(26)

“Want to take anything home?” I asked, swinging the bags of Tibetan leftovers at her.

She gave me a rueful smile. “I can’t even imagine what my mom would do if she found something deep-fried in our refrigerator. My parents…” She looked like she was going to say more, but just then a Town Car came around the corner and pulled up at the curb.

Drue opened the door, then surprised me by hugging me hard. “This was the best day of my life,” she said. Before I could respond, or confirm that she was kidding, she closed the door, and the car drove off, leaving me holding bags of Tibetan leftovers, feeling unsettled and sad.

At home, my father unpacked in the kitchen, rearranging the leftover Swedish meatballs and the braised short ribs he’d made during the week to make room for the dips and the kibbe balls.

“I’m glad Drue got to come.” My father’s head was buried in the refrigerator. I couldn’t see his expression as he said, “I think she was hungry.”

As if, I thought. “They have a chef who makes them anything they want.”

“So you’ve mentioned.” My father closed the refrigerator, wiped his hands on a dish towel, and began straightening the sections of the New York Times on the kitchen table. I went to my bedroom to work on the watercolor I’d been painting for my mother’s birthday and to think about my friend and how there were things you could be hungry for besides food.

I knew that on Monday there was every chance she would ignore me. It wouldn’t matter. I would still want to be her friend, because she was everything I wanted to be. She was beautiful, and funny, and glamorous; a long, unfurled ribbon of cool, where I was a sweaty pretzeled knot of striving. I wanted her to be my friend, I wanted her to tell me her secrets; I wanted to be pretty by association, if not in real life. I wanted her intermittent kindness, and as much of her company as she’d give me. I wanted to be just like her, and, if I couldn’t, I at least wanted to be by her side. Whatever she needed from me, I would give her. Whatever she needed done, I would do.



* * *




When our show was over, Darshi packed up the leftovers. I washed the dishes and took Bingo out for her last walk of the night, opening Instagram and tapping like like like like on dozens of comments while she peed. The how can I be brave like you question was still waiting, and I still wasn’t any closer to an answer. It’s easier for white women, I thought, trudging back upstairs, thinking that, no matter what people believed my body told them, at least it wasn’t compounded by preconceptions about what the color of my skin might suggest.

I found Darshi in the kitchen, a mug of chai in her hands. She’d taken out her contacts and put on her glasses, big, round-framed ones that I thought were relics from middle school. The longer I procrastinated, the harder it would be to tell the truth, and the more grounds Darshi would have to accuse me of trying to hide it from her. And so I said, “Hey, so listen.”

Darshi tilted her head. I breathed deeply and, on a single exhalation, said, “Drue Cavanaugh came to the Snitzers’ place last week. She apologized to me. She’s getting married in June, and she asked me to be one of her bridesmaids. And I told her that I’d do it.”

For a long moment, Darshi just stared. “I can’t believe you,” she finally said.

My heart sank. Clearly, this wasn’t going to be easy. “She’s desperate,” I said.

“I can imagine.”

“She doesn’t have any friends.”

Darshi snorted. “You’re telling me there aren’t college versions of us? Some other girls she used up and threw away?”

I said, “There probably are. Although Drue says she’s been in therapy.”

That earned another snort, with a side of eye roll.

“She’s really desperate. She offered to pay me.”

Darshi set down her mug and crossed her arms over her chest. “Now I actually am surprised.”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean, the Cavanaugh Corporation’s in trouble.” She stalked, stiff-legged, to her shoulder bag, yanked out her phone, and pulled up an article from Bloomberg News. Cavanaugh Corp Looks to Offload Troubled Fifth Avenue Flagship. I skimmed the story, reading out loud.

“The Cavanaugh Corporation purchased the skyscraper at the corner of Fifty-Third Street and Fifth Avenue two years ago, the crown jewel of its real-estate portfolio… blah blah blah… two major tenants have departed, one more on its way out… What’s an LTV ratio?”

“Loan to value,” Darshi said crisply. “You want your rents covering as large a percentage of the building’s price as possible. Theirs are not.”

“And distressed debt? That doesn’t sound good.”

“It’s not. Basically, the company paid way too much money for the property, and now they can’t sell it or rent it.” She gave me a pointed look. “I’ve heard banks won’t lend to them any longer. If Drue’s offering to compensate her bridesmaids, I hope she got a good rate.”

I inhaled, curling my toes into the soles of my shoes, mustering the arguments I’d rehearsed in my head. “Do you believe that people can change?”

“People? Yes. Drue? No. Drue Lathrop Cavanaugh isn’t ‘people.’ She’s always been exactly what she was. Exactly what she is.” Darshi went to the door to pick up her laptop and her bag, trailing the scent of coconut conditioner behind her. Her sweatpants swished as she walked. I followed after her, and Bingo trailed after me.