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“Why not?” Florence asks.
“I’m not really sure,” Luca says. “I . . . I do that a lot, I think. Avoid things. Decisions. I avoided dropping out too.” She laughs nervously. “I think I knew from the second week that it wasn’t going to work out, but it sounded nice in theory. Studying to become a teacher. It’s what most people in my family went on to do.”
Florence studies her. Somehow this Luca, ruffled and sleep-soft and so touchable, is even more of a gut punch than the Luca in the picture. “Why did you drop out?”
“I don’t think it’s for me. Becoming a teacher. It felt like the thing everyone expected of me, so I applied for the degree, but then it just felt wrong. I struggled so much in school, so the idea of being a teacher, of making other kids feel the way I did, with the pressure and the marks and everything . . . and I guess I could’ve tried to change the system from within, but I don’t think I would’ve enjoyed any part of it very much. So I dropped out.” Luca’s fingers twirl the leather bracelet around her wrist, a familiar fidget. “It’s been almost two months now, and I still haven’t told my parents. Now feels a bit late.”
Florence’s mind races as she tries to piece together the rambling fragments of Luca’s explanation. “Do you think they would be angry?”
“No,” Luca says. Her tone sounds surprised, like she doesn’t know how Florence would ever get that idea. “I don’t think they would be. But maybe they’d be disappointed.”
“And that’s worse?” Florence asks.
“Yes.” The way Luca says it is soft and deeply sincere. “I don’t want them to be unhappy with me.”
Florence studies her. She thinks of Luca in their practice sessions, small and quiet in the background, anxious every time she was asked a question. She thinks of Luca in bed, so eager to please, melting at every bit of praise and caring more about Florence’s enjoyment than her own, and she thinks she understands.
“I’m sure they wouldn’t be,” Florence tells her. “You looked out for yourself. That’s more important, isn’t it?”
“Yeah. Maybe.” Luca’s cheek is squished against her knee as she turns her head to look at Florence. “It doesn’t matter. Maybe this is better. If I hadn’t dropped out, I couldn’t have come on this tour.”
There are so many things Florence wants to say. But Luca didn’t press on the bruise that Florence revealed to her, and it feels wrong not to extend the same kindness to her now.
“I’m glad you’re here with us,” Florence says instead, hoping that Luca can tell how much she means it.
Behind her glasses, Luca’s eyes crinkle with a real smile, tired and warm and devastating. “Me too.”
Jeffrey Blake
Jeffrey Blake (born March 15, 1968) is an English singer and songwriter who rose to fame with the alternative rock band London Fog in the late ’80s. Consisting of Jeffrey Blake, Earl Creasy, Stephan Yorke, and Martin Dale, the band formed at King’s College and landed a record deal with Misfit Records. They released their first and only studio album Handle with Care in 1988. While the band never achieved mainstream success, they garnered a cult following in the UK music scene. Blake left the group in 1990, citing “creative differences.” His solo career picked up speed after an appearance at Glastonbury Festival in 1991. He has released five studio albums, two extended plays (EPs) and one live concert recording. With his emotional lyricism, captivating stage presence, and raspy singing voice, Blake was named one of the Top 10 most influential rock artists of the twentieth century by Major Note magazine. His critically acclaimed debut album Watercolor Eyes, with its eponymous lead single, still holds the record for most first-week vinyl sales in the UK.
Personal life
Jeffrey Blake currently resides in Los Angeles, California. His most recent long-term relationship, with actress and model Coco White, lasted from 2008 to 2015. The couple met on the set of the talent competition Star Factory during Blake’s time as a judge. In a 2003 interview with Riot magazine, Blake alluded to having a daughter, whose identity remains unknown.
17
Amsterdam is about three-thousand degrees. As Luca trudges after Toni and Miray through the stifling thrift shop, she can feel her dark T-shirt sticking to her back. It’s only been fifteen minutes since they left the hostel, and she already misses the shower.
“How about this one?” Miray asks, holding up a skirt. It’s a dark red, made of some kind of shimmery fabric.
“Looks nice,” Luca says. She winces when she realizes that she said the same thing about the last five items Miray showed her. “I mean . . . I like the color. It matches the . . . thing that Izzy talked about.”
“Our brand,” Miray says, beaming at her. “I think so too.” She turns to look at Toni. “Oh! Toni, you’ve got to try that on.”
Luca cranes her head to see what Toni has pulled off the hanger. It’s a long, light-brown coat. Something feathery lines the sleeves and collar. It makes Luca think of pictures of stars from the ’70s.
“I’m going to melt if I put it on now,” Toni says.
“Just for a few seconds,” Miray says. “It’s so you.”
Toni considers it for a moment longer before holding out her tote bag to Luca. “Hold this?”
Luca obligingly slips it over her shoulder. She and Miray watch as Toni pulls on the coat and turns to face the full-body mirror crammed between the clothing racks.
“You look so cool!” Miray says. “Luca, doesn’t she look so cool?”
Luca studies the way the coat hangs off Toni’s frame. It matches the high-waisted bell bottoms she’s wearing. It looks like it was made for her. “You look like a rock star,” she says truthfully.
