How Could She Read online

  Geraldine now noticed that Sylvie had shown up, and a flicker of excitement went off. She would lure her over. Ed took a pull from his beer bottle, then turned it upside down to confirm that there was nothing left.

  “I’ll get you another,” Rachel said, before Geraldine could.

  “I’ll join you,” Sunny said. “I want one of those pink things I saw somebody drinking. . . .”

  Watching Rachel’s and Sunny’s retreating figures, Geraldine tried not to imagine what they might be talking about.

  “I’ve got some good dish for you,” Ed said.

  “Oh, yeah?” she replied. Sylvie could wait a minute.

  “Strange times,” Ed said, skipping over any sort of personal update and cutting straight to Toronto media gossip. He had updates about a shakeup at the Globe and Mail as well as about his friend Brett, a CBC muckety-muck who was about to go work for the Trudeau administration. “Their man in New York is coming back up,” he reported.

  “You mean Tom Newlin?” Geraldine said. Ed nodded, and Geraldine crumpled inwardly. Tom had recently reached out to say he was still thinking about their talk, and he’d like to set up another meeting, if she was still interested. Geraldine played with her dress’s spaghetti strap and tried to fight off the tide of disappointment coming in. She was going to have to wait until somebody else was appointed at the CBC, legendary for its bureaucracy, and start all over again. Tom was not her only option, she reminded herself. The party was brimming with interesting people she might work with one of these days.

  “And your headlines?” Ed asked.

  Geraldine twisted the cameo ring on her left pinkie. “I was supposed to be developing something for Tom, actually. I hadn’t realized—”

  “Oh, Ger,” Ed said. “I feel like such a schmuck.”

  “No, don’t, I’m glad you told me,” she said.

  “You can always come back up. It’s not so bad. We got a Shake Shack.”

  “I love their custard,” Rachel interjected. She’d returned with the round of drinks she’d promised. Ed grabbed for his fresh Peroni and went right on talking. “I have another update that will make you feel better,” he said. “I saw Peter the other day, at a book signing. He’s not looking so hot. That Montreal chick he was dating got fed up and left him.”

  “And took the dog.” Geraldine tried to sound jaded. “I heard all about it.” In fact, that the woman was from Montreal and had been the one to leave was news to her. Geraldine reminded herself that she had things going on that Peter didn’t know anything about. She’d met and made out with a French tourist a week ago, and Art Gumbel, the podcast guy, had just made her a modern-day mixtape, in the form of an email whose subject line was “Variety Hour.” It contained links to his favorite podcast episodes across all categories, with a couple of sentences introducing each show he’d selected.

  But Geraldine was unable to keep her thoughts from boomeranging back to Peter, to the broken-up look in his eyes as he’d watched her from the top of the bus. When he’d smiled down at her, she’d felt a sense of fullness that had eluded her for years. He’d checked to make sure she’d made it home safely, and they’d texted late into the night. They were still texting a bit, leaving open the possibility of . . . what? He couldn’t seriously think there was a chance. She knew there wasn’t a chance. The idea alone of having to tell Rachel and Sunny that she’d let him back in was embarrassing enough to knock the fantasy right out of her.

  “You okay, Ger?” Ed said.

  Geraldine exhaled heavily and told Ed she’d be right back. “My friend Sylvie keeps giving me the save-me look,” she told him. In truth, Sylvie appeared perfectly content standing with a cluster of punky feminist types. “Ger Bear!” Sylvie said when Geraldine joined them.

  Sylvie Benghal was Marina Goksenin’s girlfriend and, crazily enough, had become the person Geraldine saw the most in New York. Sylvie was about to start her master’s in urban science at NYU, and she’d already quit her job working for a city councilwoman, which meant she had the time to go on walks with Geraldine during the day. Marina worked all day, nights and weekends, too.

  Sylvie was wearing a denim skirt and a cropped purple T-shirt that exposed the faint brown trail of fur on her abdomen.

  “You look amazing,” Geraldine told her. “Come with me and meet my old friends, okay?”

  Sunny, Rachel, and Ed were peeping out at the view. The setting sun reflected gloriously off the water, and honeyed light filled the streets below.

  “Everybody, this is Sylvie,” Geraldine announced.

  “Hi, Everybody,” Sylvie said, and Rachel and Ed turned around to wave. Sunny craned her long neck over the balcony. “Something about this reminds me of the Thames.”

  “The one in London, Ontario?” Ed cracked, and Geraldine couldn’t help laughing.

  “Canadian humor is the best,” Sylvie said in her beautiful rasp. Geraldine could tell she’d meant it sincerely, or at least warmly, but her comment elicited looks that were the equivalent of sharp elbows from Rachel and Sunny.

  “How do you guys know each other?” Rachel asked Sylvie.

  “It’s sort of a long story,” Geraldine said abruptly, not wanting to get into the short story in which Rachel played a significant part.

  Sylvie declared she was going to check out the fire-pit situation, and Geraldine promised to meet her there in a minute.

  “How old is she?” Rachel sounded pointlessly scandalized. Geraldine ignored the question and told her crew she was going to check up on the other guests. “Anyone want to come with?” she asked. But the gang said they were about to go, and Geraldine did not press them to stay. She was ready to actually have fun rather than spend any more time trying to convince her old friends that she was having fun.

  After saying her good-byes, Geraldine settled into a spot on the outdoor couch next to Sylvie, among Jeremy’s college friends, banker types who weren’t actually bankers. With her legs curled under her seat, Geraldine stuffed herself with handfuls of popcorn while Sylvie and strangers talked about an Ayahuasca-like drug that wore off so fast you could take it during your lunch break at work. “Why wouldn’t you want to go to Peru, though?” somebody was saying.

  The gas flames flickered mesmerizingly, and Geraldine fell into something of a trance until Sylvie tapped on her shin. “Earth to G-Wiz,” she said in her scratchy tone.

  Geraldine realized with a start that members of the group were suddenly inquiring about her, and Sylvie had stepped in to field the questions.

  “She’s going places,” Sylvie said. “We had our auras photographed in Chinatown, and hers is this blazing tangerine. That is some lit energy.”

  “You know me, Agent Orange over here,” Geraldine cracked, her lame effort at concealing how wonderful it felt to be enveloped in Sylvie’s affection.

  An hour or so later, the remaining guests migrated down to Jeremy’s living room. The Rolling Stones played on the speakers, and Sylvie got everyone to shimmy around a little bit. The last guest left slightly past one, and Geraldine stayed up until past two helping Jeremy clean, which meant she cleaned while he trailed after her with a garbage bag and kept her company.

  Geraldine woke up the following morning with an unearned hangover—she’d never even reached the state of tipsy—and got next to nothing done all day. She knew she shouldn’t go out that night, but she hated to cancel plans. So after a brief nap, she trekked out to Brooklyn, where Sylvie and Marina were expecting her. Kiss Kiss Bang Bang lived up to the hype: The club was crowded, even at the ripe hour of nine thirty, and there were lots of teenagers and even some white-haired people. Nearly everyone was dancing, Sylvie and her pack very much included.

  The music’s bubblegummy blips and bloops washed over Geraldine. Paul, a friend of Sylvie’s who worked as a butcher and was deep in the food scene, grabbed her shoulders and sprang up and down, as if he were riding
a pogo stick. She mirrored him and came to feel deliriously disconnected from the Geraldine of earlier in the day. A few songs later, they all went out to the garden to get drinks.

  “I hear you’re making a podcast!” Paul screamed, not yet acclimated to the volume drop.

  “I was supposed to develop one,” Geraldine said. “The CBC is trying to break out of the 1970s and wanted ideas for shows. I have a couple I’m working on.”

  “What are they?” Marina said.

  “Give us your best pitches,” said Sylvie. “Pretend we’re in an elevator.”

  “I panic on elevators,” Geraldine admitted. But everybody was staring at her, and she felt compelled to go on. “I was thinking about something to do with neighborhoods. Everyone loves New York, but the picture has become so macro. What if I zoom in and focus on a different city block and tell the stories of the residents?”

  Paul made a buzzing noise. “Bo-ring.”

  “You might as well do that in Toronto,” Sylvie pointed out. “Why would the CBC pay you to do that?”

  “Or I could do a spotlight on Canadian expats in New York. You know, like interviews with Graydon Carter and—”

  “Rachel Ziff?” Marina laughed. She’d recently confided in Geraldine that Rachel’s constant #amwriting updates had driven her to mute her old college friend on all social media.

  “Rachel’s not Canadian,” Geraldine reminded her. “She just lived there for a minute.”

  “I met Rachel last night,” Sylvie tossed out. “She has great tits.”

  Marina gave Sylvie a playful shove and fixed her eyes on Geraldine. “Great Canadian Runaways sounds like a sinking proposition,” she said. “There’s no way that’s what people want.”

  “Don’t think about what people want. What shows do you like?” asked Kim, Paul’s boyfriend. He was handing out beers. Geraldine knew she shouldn’t take one given how sick she’d felt all morning, but she did anyway.

  “There’s so many,” she responded, telling them about her latest discoveries: a pair of teenage best friends who recorded conversations about the ins and outs of attaining and maintaining popularity at their Chicago private school, and a show by a guy who worked in a senior center and dabbled in life-extension hacks. “These people are crazy. Maybe I need to be more insane to make a podcast that works.”

  “Or maybe you should make a podcast about them,” Paul said. “Interviews with these kooks.”

  “Right, and then mix in the big names to draw numbers,” Sylvie added. “Even the most basic celebrities have started podcasting, too.”

  Marina’s eyes were narrowing, the way they did when she was thinking hard. “Has anyone done this yet?”

  “I don’t think so,” Kim said. “I’m the worst insomniac,” he added, to establish his credibility as an expert on the matter.

  “The pod people,” Sylvie said, raising her bottle. Her voice was a revelation, like the sound of sand and glitter. “If you don’t do it, I will.”

  “No,” Geraldine said, the euphoria spreading through her body so rich she could practically taste it. “You’ll do it—with me.”

  17

  You’re focusing on the wrong thing,” Cassie said, deflecting an aspiring writer’s question about whether Cassie planned to switch agents in light of her recent Hulu deal. “You should be asking Rachel how she writes characters that make you sob. The business stuff is boring.”

  It was a little after six. Rachel had arrived at the Marriott in Chestnut Hill in time to throw her duffel on the hotel-room floor and wash the Chinatown bus off her face before the cocktail reception. The YAtopians had colonized Grimbles, a faux-British pub half a flight above the hotel lobby, with ornately patterned carpeting and gaudy chandeliers.

  Cassie Burkheim was among the front rank of YAtopia participants–only two others, Lavinia Dallal and Emily Pike, would have their own Spotlight interviews. Lavinia and Emily weren’t even staying at this hotel in suburban Philadelphia. Cassie could have asked her publisher to put her up across town with them at the Four Seasons, too, but it wasn’t her style. Cassie had always had a bit of a mentor complex, adopting aspiring authors as if they were starving kittens. She was doing the rounds to promote her new book, Court of Mourning Star, and had invited Rachel to crash in her hotel room.

  “You owe it to yourself,” Cassie had said when she suggested that Rachel tag along. “You’re about to have a big comeback.”

  “How can I come back when I was never—”

  “Will you stop with the past? You’re so close to all that being so far away. I’m telling you, all your books will be back in print by next Christmas.” Rachel had been sharing batches of her new project with Cassie, who said she was blown away. “You really should show face,” Cassie insisted. “The bloggers will love rediscovering you. Plus, room service.”

  Rachel had been there barely ten minutes and was already ruing that she had to return home a day earlier than everybody else. There was little chance the writers whom she and Cassie were talking to were old enough to drink. They looked like goth babies in their all-black ensembles that covered everything but the tops of their soft, chubby breasts. It felt undeniably good, soaking up their rays of adulation.

  “Rachel’s new book is off the hook,” Cassie said.

  Rachel glanced down, trying to conceal her grin.

  “I’m telling you,” Cassie went on. “The Maker scenes—”

  “The Markers,” Rachel reminded her friend. She’d come up with the idea while coloring with Cleo. Magic Markers were not the most literary of influences, true, but the Markers scenes were shaping up nicely. Markers were celestial beings that protected runaway children. Their gifts came at great cost; they marked the destinies of others. After escaping a snatcher—a vagrant that came after vulnerable girls—Desdemona, who’d been Marked, returned home under cover of night to find her mother bawling. She would linger in the shadows and learn about her younger brother’s incurable illness.

  “Can I take a selfie?” the shorter girl asked Rachel, who tried to think of something funny to say. All this flattery disarmed her, though, and the best she could come up with was “Of course.”

  It was Rachel’s first time away from Cleo since becoming a mother, and she was determined to squeeze the next nineteen hours for all she could. At the dinner session, she barely touched her martini glass of bacon and chive mashed potatoes. She couldn’t help running around the banquet hall and accosting familiar faces, reminding them that she still existed. Either her fellow writers were nicer than she remembered, or she’d been spending too much time in the company of people who weren’t that nice.

  Rachel came to find herself four inches from Barry Manski, a fifty-something father from Long Island who wrote and illustrated the middle-grade Fart Academy series. His books were huge at summer camps. He was also, Rachel remembered too late, a huge pervert who had a habit of staring at women’s crotches while exchanging pleasantries.

  “Rachel,” Cassie said, pulling her friend away. “Your phone’s blowing up. Your husband is trying to get ahold of you.”

  Rachel’s heart lurched. What could be the matter? She then realized, with an easing in her chest, that her phone was in her pocket. “You scared me,” she whispered to Cassie. “Next time say it’s my mother.”

  “No next time, Rachel,” Cassie whispered. “You didn’t come here so people could talk about how Barry Manski molested you.”

  “Are you kidding? I wouldn’t go near him with—”

  “Nobody cares about what you would or wouldn’t do. Do yourself a favor and keep your distance.”

  Rachel bit the inside of her cheek. She hated feedback. But Cassie was right. Success in the YA world was contingent on favors. She needed to lubricate her relationships with all the women and gay men in the room, not invite speculation as to whether she was flirting. Rachel felt her phone vibrate. “Mat
t must have sensed us talking about—” she said, then saw it was a message from Geraldine, the latest in a group text Geraldine had initiated after Sunny and Rachel had left her rooftop party. You should have stayed, Geraldine had written, beneath a photo of people dancing in Jeremy’s apartment.

  I’m at a dinner with your colleague Miriam, came Geraldine’s latest message. She says hi. ☺ Rachel stared in disbelief at a blurry photo of Miriam seated with one arm around Geraldine and another around Ceri. They were all wearing silky dresses, and the mammoth floral centerpiece in the corner of the frame confirmed that they were at a fabulous event. Rachel didn’t know what bothered her more: that Geraldine was swooping in on her life or that she was trying to play it off as perfectly natural.

  “What?” Cassie peered up at Rachel, whose face must have been showing signs of distress.

  “Nothing,” Rachel said, trying not to care that Geraldine was canoodling with her bosses. She wondered how Sunny would react, to see her world tilting off its axis. Rachel took a sip of her drink. It tasted warm and soapy, and she didn’t know how to respond. Fake spazziness, she decided, and typed OMG hi guys! Sunny’s bubble opened and filled with the three dots that meant she was composing something. But then it vanished. She, too, was at a loss.

  The following morning the group of authors showed up at the Rhea Greenbaum Jewish Community Center and buzzed about the reception hall, signing books and mingling with young readers. To look at the writers, one would have had no idea they’d stayed up till two drinking greyhounds and screaming over Taylor Swift. When it came time for presentations, Rachel found a seat in the back of the theater and took in panels on world building and strong girls. At last came Cassie’s Spotlight interview, and there wasn’t an empty seat in the house. Cassie ticked off her usual boxes—her childhood spent on military bases, her Diet Dr Pepper–fueled revision process, her lucky socks.

  When asked to list her favorite contemporary writers, Cassie rattled off the Lavinias and the J. K. Rowlings. “And watch out for Rachel Ziff,” Cassie said. “Literally, watch her. Right over there in the stripes.” Rachel felt her cheeks go crimson and wondered if Cassie came to so many of these that championing Rachel was a way to cut through the boredom.