“She told me I seemed like a good person and then asked if I’d ever been arrested.”
“That’s Keely.”
“I told her twice. She seemed delighted.” Teague wrings out the rag. “Your friends are insane.”
No arguments from me there. “They like you.”
“They like the idea of me. I’m their friend’s punk bartender hookup. It’s a character in a movie.”
She's so wrong it's almost funny. “You’re not a character. You’re the person who made me a Shirley Temple and taught meabout Patti Smith and held me in your bed. That’s not a movie. That’s real.”
She stops wiping. Looks at me. In the neon light, half-blue, half-pink, her face is open in a way it only gets when we’re alone and the bar is closed and the performance is over.
“Your friends want you to bring me to brunch,” she says.
“You heard that?”
“Keely’s voice carries.”
I shrug and try not to sound hopeful. “You don’t have to come to brunch.”
“I know I don’t have to.” She picks up the rag again. “When’s brunch?”
I stare at her. “This weekend. Eleven. That place on Calloway with the waffles. I'll text you specifics.”
“I’ll be there.” She sighs a little and I know it costs her to say it.
“Teague...” I don't want tonight to end. Not yet. I want to go back to her place. Can't she tell how much I want that?
“Go home, Zoe. I’ll see you soon.”
Pouting, I go home. I walk through the neighborhood in the warm dark, past the laundromat, past the bodega, past Station 11 with its bay doors closed and its number painted in white. A different team is on tonight. I hope they have a good shift. My phone buzzes.
Keely:SHE’S BEEN ARRESTED TWICE
Me:lol i know
Keely:THAT’S THE HOTTEST THING I’VE EVER HEARD
Me:goodnight keely
I put my phone away and walk home, grinning.
By Wednesday I've texted Teague the restaurant details and casually mentioned that my parents want to come. She didn't respond for eleven minutes. Then: "fine." Lowercase. No period. Which in Teague means she's terrified but she's showing up anyway. At least I hope she will.
Chapter Twenty
Teague
I own one pair of jeans without holes.
I’m wearing them. I’m also wearing a black t-shirt that doesn’t have a band name on it, which took fifteen minutes to find in a drawer full of band shirts, and I’ve taken out the smaller of my two ear piercings, leaving just the studs and the septum ring, which I considered removing and decided against because the septum ring stays. That’s the line. I’ll dress like a civilian but I’m not pretending to be one.
Brunch. With Zoe’s parents. And her friends. At eleven.
I said I’d go. I don’t know why I said I’d go. Actually, I do know. Keely’s voice carries and Zoe’s face does the thing and I said “when’s brunch” before my brain could file a formal objection. And now I’m standing in my bathroom looking at my reflection and trying to figure out if there’s a version of me that a middle-aged Black couple from this neighborhood will accept at a table with their daughter.
The hair stays. Obviously. The pink mohawk is not negotiable. I touched it up yesterday, fresh dye, buzzed sides clean. If they’re going to look at me, they’re going to see me.
