“I—”
“Don’t worry. I rememberyou.You and my daughter Immie always looked like two peas in a pod, in your uniforms. Both so petite, and with those cute freckles across the nose.”
Jule blinked.
The woman smiled. “I’m Imogen Sokoloff’s mother, sweet potato. Call me Patti. You came to Imogen’s birthday party freshman year, remember? The sleepover where we made cake pops. And you and Immie used to go shopping down in SoHo. Oh, do you remember, we took you toCoppeliaat American Ballet Theatre?”
“Of course,” said Jule. “I’m sorry I didn’t recognize you right away.”
“No worries,” said Patti. “I’ve forgotten your name, I have to tell you, though I never forget a face. And you had that fun blue hair.”
“It’s Jule.”
“Of course. It was so cool that you and Immie were such friends, that first year of high school. After you left, she went around with these kids from Dalton. I never liked them half as well. There are only a few recent grads here at the benefit, I think. Maybe no one you know? It’s all old girls like me.”
“They sent me the invitation and I came for the Gershwin,” said Jule. “And to see the place after being away.”
“How great that you appreciate Gershwin,” said Patti. “In my teens I was all punk rock, and in my twenties it was Madonna and whoever. Where are you in college?”
A beat. A choice. Jule threw her Band-Aid wrappers in the trash.
“Stanford,” she answered. “But I’m not sure I’m going back in the fall.” She rolled her eyes comically. “I’m in a war with the financial aid office.” Everything she told Patti felt delicious in her mouth, like melting caramel.
“That’s unpleasant,” said Patti. “I thought they had great financial aid there.”
“They do, generally,” said Jule. “But not for me.”
Patti looked at Jule seriously. “I think it will work out. Looking at you, I can tell you’re not going to let any doors shut in your face. Listen, do you have a summer job, an internship, something like that?”
“Not yet.”
“Then I have an idea I want to talk to you about. Just a crazy thought I’m having, but you might like it.” She took a cream-colored card out of her handbag and handed it to Jule. It had a Fifth Avenue address. “I have to get home to my husband now. He’s not well. But why don’t you come to dinner at our place tomorrow night? I know Gil will be thrilled to meet one of Immie’s old friends.”
“Thanks, I’d love to.”
“Seven o’clock?”
“I’ll be there,” said Jule. “Now, do we dare put our shoes on?”
“Oh, I guess we have to,” said Patti. “It’s very hard to be a woman sometimes.”
FIRST WEEK OF JUNE, 2016
NEW YORK CITY
Sixteen hours earlier, at eight p.m., Jule got out of the subway in a dodgy Brooklyn neighborhood. She’d spent the day looking for work. It was the fourth time in a row she’d worn her best dress.
No luck.
Her apartment was a flight up from a bodega with a dingy yellow awning: the Joyful Food Mart. It was a Friday night, and guys clustered on the street corner, talking loudly. The trash cans on the sidewalks overflowed.
Jule had only lived here for four weeks. She shared the place with a roommate, Lita Kruschala. Today the rent was due and she had no way to pay it.
She wasn’t close with Lita. They had met when Jule answered a listing she’d found online. Before that she had been staying at a youth hostel. She’d used the public library Internet to look for apartment shares.
When she went to see the rental, Lita was offering the living room of an apartment as a bedroom. It was sectioned off from the kitchen with a curtain. Lita told Jule her sister had recently moved back home to Poland. Lita preferred to stay on in America. She cleaned apartments and worked for a catering company, both for cash. She wasn’t legal to work in the US. She took English classes at the YMCA.
Jule told Lita she had a job as a personal trainer. That was what she’d done back in Florida, and Lita believed her. Jule had paid a month’s rent, cash, in advance. Lita didn’t ask for ID. Jule never spoke the name Julietta.
