“Here’s a clue.”
She taps a photo. In this one, an SUV door is ajar and a set of tiny legs appears in the frame, clad in opaque tights, capped with a pair of shiny patent leather Mary Janes, festooned with matching tulle pom-poms.
“Was a royal family visiting?”
Mum laughs and tells me, “Nope. You won’t believe it. This is the drop-off line at the elementary school a few blocks over!”
“No!” I’m a bit astounded.
“Yes!” she laughs. “Ran across the scene while I was out with Warhol. So glad I had my camera bag with me. It’s insanity, right? These children were practically escorted by the Queen’s Guard. Who needs that much protection around one child? When you were little, your father would fly through the streets of Paris in a tiny Citro?n. I held you on my lap and you were fine. Christ, why not just house the kids in Plexiglas?”
“This whole place is kind of surreal, right?” I ask.
Her saffron eyes wide, she nods. Everything about the suburbs is brand new to her, too, as she was born the wealthy daughter of jet-set parents on the Upper East Side. That’s why she was so excited to work on this book. My grandfather was from Mumbai and my grandmother from Oslo. They met at the United Nations while serving in their respective countries’ diplomatic corps. It’s funny that, while my mother embraces all cultures, the only place that’s alien to her is her nation of origin.
Dad comes clattering into the kitchen from the garage, reeking of sweat and chlorophyll and gasoline. He offers a “cheers, ladies” as a greeting before he reaches into the giant stainless Sub-Zero and pulls out a Budweiser, then selects a bag of Cool Ranch Doritos. He washes his hands—thankfully no worse for the wear—before joining us at the island.
He takes a long draw on his beer before he picks up one of the photos. “Hmm,” he says, inspecting the shot. “Beautiful shot, Fi. Fine perspective. Economic use of negative space. I like how... Whoa, blimey, that’s a huge car. A beast! It’s massive! Ooh, I’d look right smart in a vehicle like that, wouldn’t I?”
11
OWEN
“Magic hour.”
I kick back and close my eyes, letting the sun shine on my face. Feels real good after being cooped up inside for so many hours. Sometimes the recirculated air blowing down on me is, like, so oppressive that I can’t catch my breath. That’s why I don’t use the underground tunnels that connect the whole campus, even during blizzards. There’s never enough outdoor time in my day; I’m always jonesing for more. Like Ralph Waldo Emerson said, “Live in the sunshine, swim in the sea, drink the wild air.” Transcendentalism for the win!
Simone’s beside me and we’re hanging out on the stadium bleachers. This is my favorite spot around school because it borders the woods. I like all the old oak trees, with their gnarly trunks, some of them real scarred and beat up, as though they’ve seen some shit in their time. The trees are out there, like, Son, we’ve been here for hundreds of years before you and we’ll be here for just as long after you. Bet they will, too. This town goes ballistic if you chop anything down without about a million village permits, so these bad boys aren’t going anywhere.
Simone and I planned to study together, but we’ve yet to crack a book. Fine by me. What’s the hurry, right? Like Shakespeare said, “Wisely and slow. They stumble that run fast.” In a month, it’s gonna be forty degrees and raining sideways and then I’ll be the only idiot venturing outside. I figure we should enjoy the weather together while we can. Game of Thrones called it—winter is always coming here.
“Magic hour?” Simone asks. She opens a Coke and takes a huge sip. The bubbles cause her to burp. Her eyes get real wide, like she’s surprised herself, and then she laughs. “Pardon me!”
I appreciate that she’s not mortified, like it’s not a big deal, so I don’t even acknowledge it, instead explaining, “Magic hour’s a cinematography term. Means the time after dawn or before sunset when the whole sky turns a real smooth, soft orange because of the angle of the sun. Directors go apeshit for it. Sometimes they blow their budgets just to capture it on film, ’cause it’s worth it. At this time of day, the sun’s rays are still bright but less intense, you know? All dissipated and everything has, like, an ethereal glow. Picture every Nancy Meyers movie your mom has ever watched—boom, magic hour.”
Simone’s face lights up with recognition. “Oh, yeah, ’course. Mum calls it ‘golden hour.’ This time of day always inspires her to take out her own camera. Reminds me of Rome, really. The whole country’s practically swimming in gilded light, just so diffused and gorgeous, but Rome takes it to a whole new level. During the magic hour, the sky becomes a burnt sienna wash, covering everything with its brilliance. The Tiber River always looks like it’s on fire.”
“Sounds badass.”
Her voice takes on a dreamy quality. “More like magnificent. Then, as the sun sets, the sky turns from copper then to rose pink before morphing into lavender. All the colors are gradient and they reflect off the pale old alabaster buildings. The whole thing is almost too beautiful to comprehend, like a box of Crayons that’s melted together.” She stretches like a cat and sighs contentedly before adding, “Rome’s one of my most favorite places. Ever been?”
“To Italy?” I clarify.
Simone nods and her indigo bangs fall in her face. I sorta want to brush them back.
“Nah. We’ve made plans before, but one of the ’rents always has to cancel at the last minute. Work stuff.”
“Damn shame, eh?”
I shrug. “Tell me about it.”
We had to bail on our most recent European vacay because my mom’s company was hit with a class-action suit and everyone in her department bitch-panicked. My parents felt bad and I got a boss Vespa out of it, but I’d rather have just rented one and been with them while we navigated the continent as a fam.
She puts a tentative hand on my shoulder and gives it a little squeeze. “No worries, you’ll get there.”
I feel good when I’m with Simone, like I have a buzz, even though I’m stone sober today. She gets me. Don’t consider myself a big player or anything, but more than a few girls have been into me, especially back when I was on the lacrosse team. Was real flattering. I’d hook up with one of them and we’d vibe and it would be cool for a couple of weeks. But, like, every time, whatever girl it was would eventually start in with the pointed suggestions, all, “Maybe lose the cargo shorts?” or “The dreds are super cute, but you would look sooooo much more like Ryan Lewis with a haircut.”
Then that would be it for me.
Done.