“Dang.”
“Yeah. She was watching TV. She hadn’t thought to come get me. Or she couldn’t. I don’t know. It was messed up, either way. She hadn’t bothered to pick up the stupid phone, all those times the school called. I pushed the door open and walked in. I said, ‘Where were you?’ and she said, ‘Be quiet, don’t you see I got the TV on?’ And I said, ‘Why didn’t you pick up the phone?’ and she said, ‘I told you to be quiet.’ Just another shut up and don’t fight back. So I got myself a bowl of dry cereal for dinner and watched the TV next to her. We had been watching for an hour or more when this idea hit me.”
“What?”
“TV gives you an education in how to talk. Newscasters, rich people, doctors on those medical dramas. None of them talked the way I did. But they all talked like each other.”
“I guess.”
“It’s true. I figured: learn to talk that way, and maybe you don’t get told to shut up so much.”
“You taught yourself?”
“I learned general American first. That’s the one on TV. But now I do Boston, Brooklyn, West Coast, Lowland Southern, Central Canadian, BBC English, Irish, Scottish, South African.”
“You want to be an actress. That it?”
Julietta shook her head. “I’ve got better things in mind.”
“World domination, then.”
“Something like that. I gotta figure it out.”
“You could definitely be an actress,” Neil said, grinning. “In fact, I bet you’ll be in the movies. A year from now I’ll be like, wow. That girl Julietta used to stand at the Chanel counter and cake on free makeup. That girl let me talk to her every now and then.”
“Thanks.”
“You need to get some nice clothes, Miss Julietta. You got to meet some big-money guys who’ll buy you jewelry and pretty dresses. Talking like the television is one thing, but right now, it’s all tracksuit, gym shoes, cheap-looking hair. You’ll never get anywhere like that.”
“I don’t want to sell what you’re selling.”
“Let me hear you talk Brooklyn,” said Neil.
“My lunch hour is over.” She stood up.
“Come on. Irish, then.”
“No.”
“Well, you ever want a better job than the one you got, here’s my number,” Neil said, pulling a card out of his pocket. The card was black and had a cell number in silver writing.
“I’m leaving now.”
Neil raised his Coke as if in a toast.
Julietta laughed as she walked away.
Neil made her feel pretty. He was a good listener.
The next morning she packed her bags and got on a bus to New York City. She was afraid of what she might become if she waited any longer.
Now Jule’s rent was due. She’d been eating supermarket ramen. She had only five bucks in her wallet.
No gym in New York City would hire an unlicensed trainer. She didn’t have a high school degree. She had no references because she’d ditched out on her first and only job. Gyms would pay the best, she’d figured, and she’d get a little saved and then look for something that would move her up in the world. Then, when none of them would hire her, she’d tried cosmetics counters, other retail jobs, nanny jobs, waiting tables, any opening listed. She’d been out looking every day, all day. There was nothing to show for it.
She stopped into the Joyful Food Mart below her apartment. It was busy inside. People getting off work bought boxes of pasta and cans of beans, or they played their numbers in the lottery. Jule bought a cup of vanilla pudding for a dollar and took a plastic spoon. She ate the pudding for dinner as she walked upstairs to the apartment she shared with Lita.
The apartment was dark. Jule was relieved. Lita had turned in early or was out late. In any case, Jule didn’t have to make excuses for not having the rent.
—
Next morning, Lita didn’t come out of her bedroom. Usually, she was up by seven on a Saturday to work her catering job. At eight, Jule knocked. “You okay?”
“I am dead,” Lita called through the door.
Jule peeked in. “You have work today, right?”
“At ten. But I’ve been throwing up all night long. I mixed my cocktails.”
“You need some water?”
Lita moaned.
“You want me to go to your job?” asked Jule, the idea dawning.
“I don’t think so,” said Lita. “Do you even know how to work catering?”
“Sure.”
“If I don’t show up, they’ll fire me,” said Lita.
“So let me go,” said Jule. “We’ll both come out good.”
Lita swung her legs off the edge of the bed and clutched the side table, looking queasy. “Yeah. Okay.”
“Really?”
“Just—tell them you’re me.”
“I look nothing like you.”
“Doesn’t matter. They got a new supervisor. He won’t know the difference. It’s a big operation. The important thing is, get my name checked off on the grid.”
“Got it.”
“And make sure the guy pays before you leave. Twenty an hour, cash, plus you’ll get tips.”
“I keep the money?”
“Half of it,” said Lita. “It’s my job, after all.”
“Three-quarters,” said Jule.
“Fine.” Lita checked her phone and wrote down the info on a piece of paper. “Greenbriar School on the Upper East Side. You have to get the bus to the train, and then change to the subway.”
“What’s the event?”
“Party for donors to the school.” Lita lay back down in the bed, moving as if she feared jostling her head. “I should not drink again, ever. Oh, you gotta wear a black dress.”
“I don’t have anything.”
Lita sighed. “Take one from my closet. They’ll give you an apron. No, not the one with the lace. That’s dry-clean. Take a cotton one.”
“I need shoes, too.”
“God, Jule.”
“Sorry.”
“Take the heels. You’ll get better tips.”
Jule squeezed her feet into the heels. They were too small, but she’d manage. “Thanks.”
“Bring half the tip money home to me, too,” said Lita. “Those are my good shoes.”
Jule had never worn a dress this nice. It was heavy cotton, a day dress with a square neck and a full skirt. She was surprised Lita had such a thing, but Lita said she got it for cheap at a resale shop.
Jule stepped onto the street in the dress and her running shoes, Lita’s heels in her bag. The smell of New York City in the heat of early summer floated in the thick air around her: garbage, poverty, ambition.
She decided to walk across the Brooklyn Bridge. She could get the subway from the Manhattan side and wouldn’t have to transfer.
The sun sparkled as she set out. The stone towers loomed. Jule could see boats in the harbor, leaving trails through the water. Lady Liberty was strong and bright.
It was strange how someone else’s dress made her feel new. This sensation of being someone else, of changing into someone else, of being beautiful and young and crossing this famous bridge to something big—it was why Jule had come to New York.
She had never felt that possibility stretch out in front of her until this morning.
THIRD WEEK IN JUNE, 2017
CABO SAN LUCAS, MEXICO
A little more than a year later, in the Cabo Inn, at five a.m., Jule stumbled to the bathroom, splashed water on her face, and lined her eyes. Why not? She liked makeup. She had time. She layered concealer and powder, added smoky shadow, then mascara and a nearly black lipstick with a gloss over it.
She rubbed gel into her hair and got dressed. Black jeans, boots, dark T-shirt. Warm for the Mexican heat, but practical. She packed her suitcase, drank a bottle of water, and stepped out the door.
—
Noa was sitting in the hallway, her back against the wall, holding a steaming cup of coffee between her hands.
Waiting.
—
The door clicked closed. Jule stepped back against it.
Damn.
She thought she was free, or nearly free. Now she had a fight in front of her.
Noa looked confident; relaxed, even. She remained sitting, with her knees up. Balancing that foam cup. “Imogen Sokoloff?” she said.
Wait. What?
Did Noa think she was Imogen?
Imogen, of course.