“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.
