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his face. “You okay?” she says.
    “Shit.”
    Not okay, not okay, NOT OKAY! “My dad can’t be in jail.”
    “I know. Let’s go get him.” “Bee, you don’t have to come.”
    “Shut the fuck up,” she says. “Let’s go.”
    6
    I collapse into a chair in a downtown coffee shop and wait for my head to stop spinning.
    Bernadette slides in across from me. “Thanks for playing hooky,” she says. “Sorry things got out of hand.”
    I let Bernadette convince me to attend a gay rights rally this afternoon. When she called, I was in my studio staring into space, disturbed by memories of my encounter with Erik and more disturbed that it happened on the heels of an evening with Hugo. A few hundred screaming people
    suddenly seemed a paltry challenge compared to sorting out my personal life.
    But it was a bad idea. Bernadette and I got separated and I was nearly trampled to death by the right-wing zealots who were all hot to equate homosexuals with pedophiles, polyga- mists and people who fuck sheep. Bernadette found me, grabbed me by the arm and hauled me out, but by then I was so freaked I thought my head would burst open.
    “Hey, no problem,” I say and take a sip of my steamed milk. No more caffeine for me today. Maybe a lobotomy. “I like a near-death experience every few days. Keeps me sharp.”
    “Ha,” she says. “Seriously, thanks. I know you get a little wiggy in crowds.”
    “I’ll be fine.”
    “So... how are you?” she asks. “What’s new?”
    This is usually a ridiculous question and we both know it, but she keeps asking. Today though, I wouldn’t know where to start. Erik is an impossible subject and I’m not ready to talk about Hugo.
    “Same old,” I say. “Changing the world one rectangle at a time. You? What about that woman you met?”
    Bernadette is about to reply when something or someone behind me catches her eye.
    “Holy cow,” she whispers. “What?”
    “Turn around slowly, and tell me who that is, standing in front of the biscotti.”
    I try to act casual, and do as she says. Oh my God. I turn back.
    “Is it who I think it is?” Bernadette says. “Is it Faith En- glish?”
    “I think so,” I say, and slide down lower in my chair. “How do I look?” she asks, and starts putting on lipstick. “What? You’re not going to.. .”
    “Are you kidding? I’ve been hoping to run into Faith En- glish since, well, since high school. How’s my hair?”
    “Fine, but Bee—”
    She gets up, yanks her sweater down. “I’m going in,” she says. “Wish me luck.” I don’t.

    Chapter Ten

    T he subway makes that awful screeching sound and you don’t even cover your ears.
    “Have you ever seen a jail?” you ask Bernadette. “Only on TV,” she says.
    “Same here.”
    At the station, after sending you from one person to an- other, they finally say you can see Dad, but that he can’t get out unless you post bail.
    Bail!
    It seems like a lot of money just for getting drunk and try- ing to take a pee. You and Bernadette empty your wallets, but between you, you’ve only got fifteen dollars.
    “Well, here’s my case for a bigger allowance,” you say, and Bernadette covers her mouth to hide her laughter.
    “You’re nuts,” she says. “Can you blame me?”
    She says she’ll wait, and soon you are walking in. Doors are opened before you, then locked behind you as you pass.
    Under the disinfectant are the smells of sweat, cigarette smoke, and urine. Gross.
    Cold, cold concrete everywhere and Dad cries when he sees you.
    “Oh, sweetheart,” he says, “I’m so sorry. Promise me you’ll forget this ever happened.”
    “I’ll try.”
    “Please?”
    All these moments adults expect to wash over you with- out effect—such bullshit.
    “Sure, Dad, I promise.”
    No big deal, just another day when you see your father sur- rounded by criminals, unable to cope with anything, including leaving his dick in his pants until he can get to a bathroom.
    “It’s not my fault I