The Truth of Right Now Read online

  The bell rings, and I realize that I’ve been watching “Mango loves Milkshake” on YouTube for about the ninetieth time instead of doing work. Tara packs up her things and leaves without saying a word to me. I so hope we finish this project soon.

  Out the window, the gray clouds hide the sun. November already. In some ways, this fall has felt interminable. In others, it’s flown. Cold weather is hard for me. Been that way long as I can remember. That might be proof that I have always been plagued with the big D. This discovery brings no comfort.

  I don’t feel like going outside just yet. It’s definitely too chilly for a ferry ride. Not that I’m in the mood for one anyway. Since my trip with Dari, I haven’t felt the pull. It would be nice to let go of that. Of Bobby. Forever.

  Instead of heading for the main exit, I walk back upstairs to the third floor. Just out of curiosity. Haven’t been in this wing in a long time. The doors to the big music room are closed. I open it a crack and peek inside. Empty. So I go in. My fingers gently brush the keys on the upright. I adjust a music stand for the heck of it and move toward the back corner. There are other music spaces in this wing, but this is the big one. When the full band or orchestra needs to play together, this is the room they fill. I’m amazed that no one is here. Don’t musicians practice anymore? Before I can think twice about it, I slide onto the stool behind the five-piece drum kit. The only sticks I see are the cheap hickory kind. They’ll have to do. I start by lightly tapping the high hat. Then an easy snare roll. I get my foot involved, pedaling out a downbeat on the bass drum. And I go. I drum like never before. I haven’t played in so long. I don’t have a drum kit at home anymore. Too loud. Too many 311 complaints. This. This feels like freedom. This feels like me! This feels fucking awesome!

  I beat those drums like I’m mad at ’em. I can’t stop. My hands are burning and sore, but I do. Not. Stop. My face hurts. Aches. An unfamiliar pain. Now I do stop. Out of breath. Letting the clash of my echo and the sudden, deep silence hang in the air. I touch my face to find the source of the ache. I find it. I think. I’m smiling. I’m smiling so hard, it hurts. This cracks me up. I’m probably the only person in the world that feels physical pain as a reaction to joy.

  I make some crazy expressions, stretching the muscles, then I rub out some of the tension in my face and I start again. This time I close my eyes and hear all the other instruments around me. The bass guitar comes in, then the keyboard, and then lead guitar. What are we playing? It’s something new. Being created for me—by me—right as I sit here. I can hear the chords, the strings, the bridge. I start to hear lyrics. I want to stop and write this down, but I don’t want to stop playing. What if this is the only way I’ll truly feel happiness? I have to play it out. I’ll keep going. I’ll keep going until the song tells me to stop. Yeah. It’s coming. This is what I’ve been waiting for. This. This is that light feeling. The free feeling. This—

  A wolf whistle. I drop the sticks, shaking and sweating. I scramble to pick them up, holding on to the seat to keep from falling over completely. He laughs.

  “Very nice.”

  Oh. Him.

  “Didn’t know you gave private concerts.”

  “Why are you here? You don’t play an instrument.”

  Derek Miller smiles deviously. I have never liked this guy.

  “I heard someone rockin’ out so I thought I’d see who it was. Never would’ve guessed it was you. You’re full of secrets, huh?”

  I grab my things to go. He’s ruined my time here.

  “Keep playing. Don’t mind me.”

  “Don’t you have anything better to do?” I yell.

  He suddenly takes out his phone and a flash momentarily blinds me. He looks down at it.

  “Nice. Now I have a set.”

  Blood rushes in around my ears. I can’t think. I can’t breathe.

  “I have to know. Did Mr. Wright pay you? Or do you do porn for free? Either way. Maybe we can work out some kind of arrangement.”

  I push him out of my way and he falls backward into chairs and music stands, but he isn’t hurt. I race out of the room and I can hear him laughing so hard he can hardly catch his breath. I bust through the doors, fly down the stairs, and run out of the building at full speed. I’m three blocks down the street before I stop, unable to run anymore. My heart tears through my rib cage, beating way too fast. I hold onto a chain-link fence, gasping for air. I’m not crying. I’m too tired to cry. Too angry to cry. I try my hardest to think back to my face hurting with happiness. It was only a few minutes ago, wasn’t it?

  He took my perfect song.

  * * *

  Dari chops vegetables. Mom drinks coffee and watches. What is happening in my kitchen?

  “Hey, honey,” Mom calls as I enter the room. “How was your day?”

  “Superb. What’s going on?”

  “Dari offered to make dinner. Can you believe it?” my mother practically screams. You’d think she’d just won the goddamned Pulitzer.

  “That’s nice. What’re you making?” I ask Dari, who hasn’t bothered to look at me or greet me yet. So focused on the asparagus.

  “Veggie stir-fry with teriyaki tempeh over brown rice,” he replies with an astonishing air of normalcy. Like him cooking dinner in my kitchen just happens all the time.

  “Cool. Thanks,” I say.

  Mom’s delighted expression wilts once she really sees me. “What’s wrong?” she asks. I shake my head, shrugging it off. But it’s no use. I’m awful at hiding it when I’m miserable. Sometimes I think if I were better at it maybe I’d be able to fool myself. Trick the misery right out of me. She carries her coffee into the living room and gestures for me to join her. Dari still hasn’t looked up.

  “Is everything copacetic between you two?” she asks in an urgent whisper.

  “I don’t know. It’s not that.”

  “What is it?”

  Oh, God. If Dari weren’t here, I’d break down crying and fall into my mother’s arms, but I can’t let him see that.

  “I don’t think I can keep going to school, Mom.”

  She sighs. “What happened?”

  “They’re never gonna forget what happened is what happened! And they’re never gonna let ME forget.”

  “Should I talk to that counselor? What are we dealing with?” she asks, going straight into parent-on-the-case mode. But she can’t help me out of this.

  “No. Forget it.” I turn to go to my room.

  “Lily, I can only help if you talk to me. I want to understand, but I can’t say it’s okay for you to never go back to school. That’s not an option.”

  I go into my room and close the door behind me. I wish Dari would come, but he probably wouldn’t be any help either. I collapse on my bed and wait. I honestly do think someone will come at some point, but no one does.

  Invisible girl. In my own home.

  * * *

  Late that night, after I mope through Dari’s delish dinner, there is a knock at my door.

  “Come in,” I say, but I don’t mean it. Dari gently pushes the door open.

  “What’s up?” It isn’t meant to be small talk. He doesn’t do small talk.

  “Nothing,” I mutter.

  He sits on the edge of my bed. “You mad at me?”

  “No.” I say it automatically. But I am kind of mad at him. Why can’t I tell the truth?

  Dari sighs and stares straight ahead.

  “I’m gonna leave soon. I’m gonna focus on finding a job. That’s top priority. And then I’ll go stay with Izzy and crazy Trisha.”

  “You don’t have to go, Dari.”

  “Yeah, I do,” he says sadly. “I’d rather be homeless than lose our friendship,” he says so softly, I barely hear him. I rise up a little and hug him around the waist. My head rests on his thigh and he gently caresses my hair. Right now, I want him to stay here forever. And be with me forever. Wait. Did he just say . . .?

  “Friendship,” I repeat. “Is that all we are?”
/>   For a split second, Dari’s hand stops moving. But in an instant, he resumes.

  “No,” he says, but with a question mark instead of a period. “Relationships are complicated. I prefer friendships. They last longer,” he reasons.

  I don’t know what to say. As much as I try, I don’t think I’ll ever understand him.

  “I want you to be my boyfriend.”

  I hear the slightest intake of air above me. He continues caressing my hair silently for several seconds. I decide in this moment that if he can’t respond to me at my most vulnerable, then we will no longer be friends. Period.

  “I’m not an ideal boyfriend.”

  “So?”

  “I like you, Lily. Let me focus on finding a place to live and then we can revisit this question.”

  I sit up on my elbows and look him in his eyes.

  “It’s not that deep. Either you want to be with me or not.”

  Dari kisses me firmly on the mouth, but it’s my turn to pull away. I want an explanation.

  “If I didn’t give a shit about you it wouldn’t be that deep. But I do, so it is.” He stands up then to leave.

  “You’re weird,” I tell him.

  “Can’t help that,” he says, and I’m alone again.

  I turn my iPod on and find some Radiohead. I’m attracted to difficulty, I think. I’m attracted to guys who have truckloads of baggage. With them, it will never, ever be simple. And then they do or say one little magical thing and they own me. I remember something that Bobby said to me once. I wish I could forget it. He said, “There’s nobody else like you on this earth. You’re worth the risk.”

  Me. I was worth the risk.

  WHITE FLAG

  The class is engaged in what constitutes still-life drawing in ninth grade: a bowl of apples posed on a multicolored blanket. Dari stands several feet away from his painting-in-progress. So much more to do. But he doesn’t know where to go next. He feels stuck. This is unusual because Dari never feels stuck.

  “Obsessing on the white spaces?” Ms. Spangler asks him.

  They’re not white; they’re eggshell. The miracle can of paint that bounced off the back of the Ace Hardware truck and rolled right up to Dari’s feet was eggshell. Perfect for merging your collection of junk into a solid canvas.

  “Probably,” he answers.

  “Then you might want to look at what you’ve already done and see what needs more of your attention,” she advises.

  Dari sighs.

  “Everything all right?” She treads lightly, knowing how cagey he is about his personal life.

  “I need a job.”

  “Don’t we all?” Ms. Spangler snorts. “What kind of job?”

  “I don’t know. I just need income. It’s serious,” he adds, noticing her smirk.

  “I’ll keep my ears open. Anything you’d be opposed to doing?”

  “Yes.” Then he gets an idea and begins to add some blue to one of the corners he’s already painted. Ms. Spangler studies him and his work.

  “You must’ve really liked the Rauschenberg book.”

  Dari stops cold, a mild panic setting in. “Do you think it’s derivative?”

  She shakes her head. “No, I just see the influence. Don’t be paranoid: It’s a good thing.”

  He returns to his work as Ms. Spangler moves on to one of her student tables. He lets his grip go slack, softening some lines. I’m not Rauschenberg. I’m Gray, he thinks to himself, determined to be an original.

  He can see his name at the Whitney. Galerie Richard—here or in Paris. König Galerie in Berlin. Dariomauritius Raphael Gray. He will only use his full name in print. If someone addresses him as Dariomauritius, he’ll say, “Call me Dari or Mr. Gray or nothing.” He’ll distinguish himself as a painter by eschewing the color gray. When a buyer purchases a “Gray,” he’ll be hard-pressed to find a speck of gray anywhere in the painting.

  “Nice,” she says, passing him again. Dari startles for a second, remembering that he’s still just an art student in high school and not the cultural phenomenon he is in his daydreams.

  * * *

  “Welcome. Come in.” The balding man appears to be in a great hurry, but this doesn’t affect Dari’s normal pace. He takes his time entering the studio assessing the space and the artist’s work.

  “Here, have a seat,” Baldy instructs, offering him a clear plastic chair, which faces the artist’s white desk. Dari imagines that this furniture might be considered “space-age” if it were currently 1969 and they were set pieces from 2001: A Space Odyssey. Since neither of those things is the case, the chair and desk look more like relics from the distant past. Or some kind of hipster commentary.

  “So? Have you ever assisted a working artist before?” Baldy asks.

  “No, I haven’t,” Dari replies. Isn’t every artist a working artist?

  “That’s fine. And you’re still in school, correct?”

  “Yeah, for now.”

  The artist chuckles and types something into his tablet.

  “Well, let me tell you what I’m looking for. I need someone who can give me at least twenty hours a week, and some of those can definitely be on the weekends. Most of what I need in the short term is help prepping for a series of upcoming shows. Are you good with silk-screening?”

  Dari nods. Silk screening? Who are you, Andy Warhol?

  “That’s terrific. That would be the lion’s share of the work for the next few months. I also need standard assistant-type help. Grabbing coffee, food as needed. I may need you to take calls for me when I’m working, and you’ll probably have to make some as well. Hope you don’t mind talking to people. You’d also need to arrange my appointments and travel plans, which will be plentiful this winter. It’s pretty straightforward. Does this sound doable to you?” This guy talks a mile a minute. Does he have a plane to catch or is he on amphetamines?

  “Who’s your favorite painter?” Dari asks.

  “Uh? Sorry?”

  “Just curious.”

  The artist again chuckles. “Well. We can get into all that later. Are you interested in the job?”

  “Maybe. But seriously: Who’s your favorite?”

  He sighs. Was that an eye roll?

  “Rothko. He’s the reason I paint.”

  Dari swallows. He tries to nod politely, but he knows this isn’t going to work out.

  “So? You interested?”

  “What’s the pay?”

  At this question, Baldy’s smile fades. “Well, it’s negotiable. Depends on your experience, and it seems that you don’t have . . . much.”

  Dari stands and walks over to some of the mounted paintings, apparently leaving the interview and entering a gallery.

  “But,” the man continues, “we can discuss it. I try to be fair.”

  “That’s okay. I mean, that’s cool of you and everything, but . . .” Dari shakes his head. “Rothko? No, I can’t. I just can’t.” Dari stares intently at one painting. It’s the simplest on display. A midnight background and a hairless, genderless figure at its center painted to look like television static so it moves even though it’s still. Eyes shut, mouth open, and what’s inside is even darker than the background. Screaming from nothingness into more nothingness. Dari imagines the figure without vocal cords, screaming with no way to make a sound. Perhaps this is a response to Munch?

  “This is the one,” Dari tells him. “This is your true voice.”

  Baldy titters—a nasty, dry sound. “They get younger everyday.”

  “Huh?”

  “You can leave my studio now,” the artist sneers. Dari nods a good-bye or a thank-you or something and gladly exits.

  * * *

  He gets a cup of coffee from a truck and walks through Washington Square Park. He sits. Despite wanting to, he does not begin a secret drawing of any chess players. He gazes at all the new buildings that have gone up in recent years. Monstrosities. They just tear down and build. Tear down and build. For what? Why is nothing ever sati
sfactory? Who was it that decided that new always trumps old? Dari suspects it is somehow connected to fear of death, but he’s not sure. He should ask somebody old.

  A job. Dammit. Damn damn dammit. Maybe he should’ve just sucked it up and said yes to the Warhol wannabe–slash–Rothko fanboy. But Dari sucks at sucking things up. School is a problem too. Wasting precious hours sitting in mind-numbing classrooms when he could be out searching for work. But doing what? He worries that he might be un-hireable.

  His phone rings. Unknown number. Dari grins. Unlike just about everyone else on the planet, Dari loves unknown numbers. In his experience these are either telemarketers or scam artists who deserve what they get. The last time he got an unknown number, he convinced the sales rep on the other end of the call that he—Dari—was in the midst of a Molly comedown and having a serious freak-out. The telemarketer ended up near tears. “Dude, I don’t know anything about Molly. I’m just supposed to sell subscriptions to Vibe magazine! I didn’t sign up for this!” Dari laughs, remembering. Good times.

  “Hola, amigo! Esto es Juan Pepe’s! Would you like to try our South of the Border special?” Dari sings into the phone. He’s good at staying in character once he gets going, but with a rush of alarm he wonders if maybe the Spanish was going too far. He took it last year. Three Bs. One C.