cuts.
CLARINET
“Say it,” says Rainey. She lounges against a steel countertop, scarred and waxy dissection trays lined up behind her. “
I ride the bus
. Say it.”
Lunchtime: the science lab at Urban Day School is deserted. Tina, glowing with menace, blocks the door. We’re the lionesses, Rainey thinks.
Leah Levinson is the giraffe. She stands locked by fear behind Miss Brennan’s desk. Taxi horns filter through the windows. Rainey stares with arms crossed, daring Leah to look up and escalate things.
The girl appears to be counting floor tiles. She would be so easy to fix, Rainey thinks. Her hair French-braided, some coppery eye shadow to bring out her green eyes. Tighter jeans—Rainey could stitch them. She would teach Leah to dance. She and Tina could make it a project.
Then Rainey could decide if Leah was an acolyte or a friend.
“She doesn’t know what the bus is.” Tina drops into a plié. Everyone knows what the bus is; it’s for crippled kids and poor kids who get into schools in better neighborhoods. At least this is how the insult goes.
“Say
I ride the bus
,” says Rainey, “or I’ll soak you.” She lifts a beaker off a shelf and moves toward the sink. If Leah gets wet she’ll panic and change into her gym shirt. Whereas if Rainey had the wet top, she’d laugh with fake mortification at her Sophia Loren bust. That’s what her father calls it, her Sophia Loren bust, except he uses a different word.
“All right, now you have to say
I want to give Andy Sak a rim job
.” She and Tina exchange a glance. For days they have marveled at this whirring phrase that sounds half mechanical and half obscene. Rim, lid, edges, jars—maybe it has something to do with nipples, Rainey thinks. Or maybe it is a bluff or a misunderstanding.
“Okay, Rain, do it,” Tina says.
Rainey sets the beaker in the sink, turns on the tap, and grabs a bottle of formaldehyde. “Guess which.” She blocks Leah’s view as she pretends to pour.
“I ride the bus.” Leah crosses her hands over her chest and watches warily as Rainey approaches with the brimming beaker.
Rainey gives Leah the sweet, sorrowful smile she might give a small child who’s resisting bedtime. She feels in herselfthe power to make Leah trust her, to maybe drink from the beaker. Her father has acolytes—it might be cool to have one of her own.
“I ride the bus,” says Leah. “Let me out, okay?”
“Too late,” says Tina, “you were supposed to say about the rim job,” and Rainey, the word
rim
humming in her brain, approaches the girl sidling along the wall.
T HIS IS NEW, AND Rainey hates it: Tina has just two hours after school, and her grandmother believes those hours are for Bible study. Rainey has gone from agnostic to atheist when it comes to believing in the unseen grandmother. Tina’s real family must be drunk, mean, or naked. Don’t hide it, Rainey wants to tell her—who wants to be best friends with some normal-family chick?
After school they maneuver around the little crowd listening outside the townhouse and enter the foyer, where jazz blares from the parlor. Howard is on the Steinway, his body rocking, hair falling in his face, and Rainey, watching his hands pump, wonders not for the first time if he is pushing music into the massive piano or somehow pulling it out. Gemma, the English acolyte whom Howard found playing in the Times Square subway, whipsaws her bow across the electric violin, which Rainey thinks is the prettiest sound in the world. Her eyelids flutter when she plays. Radmila is on electric flute, and Flynn is there, waiting to play and staring at Rainey. He has a paperbackcrammed into his back pocket. She has never seen another acolyte with a book.
“Ignore them,” says Rainey, because lately Tina has been lingering in the parlor doorway like a climbing vine, dribbling away precious ticks of her already diminished one hundred twenty minutes.
But the brass is glinting, the piano is brilliant, and Tina
CLARINET
“Say it,” says Rainey. She lounges against a steel countertop, scarred and waxy dissection trays lined up behind her. “
I ride the bus
. Say it.”
Lunchtime: the science lab at Urban Day School is deserted. Tina, glowing with menace, blocks the door. We’re the lionesses, Rainey thinks.
Leah Levinson is the giraffe. She stands locked by fear behind Miss Brennan’s desk. Taxi horns filter through the windows. Rainey stares with arms crossed, daring Leah to look up and escalate things.
The girl appears to be counting floor tiles. She would be so easy to fix, Rainey thinks. Her hair French-braided, some coppery eye shadow to bring out her green eyes. Tighter jeans—Rainey could stitch them. She would teach Leah to dance. She and Tina could make it a project.
Then Rainey could decide if Leah was an acolyte or a friend.
“She doesn’t know what the bus is.” Tina drops into a plié. Everyone knows what the bus is; it’s for crippled kids and poor kids who get into schools in better neighborhoods. At least this is how the insult goes.
“Say
I ride the bus
,” says Rainey, “or I’ll soak you.” She lifts a beaker off a shelf and moves toward the sink. If Leah gets wet she’ll panic and change into her gym shirt. Whereas if Rainey had the wet top, she’d laugh with fake mortification at her Sophia Loren bust. That’s what her father calls it, her Sophia Loren bust, except he uses a different word.
“All right, now you have to say
I want to give Andy Sak a rim job
.” She and Tina exchange a glance. For days they have marveled at this whirring phrase that sounds half mechanical and half obscene. Rim, lid, edges, jars—maybe it has something to do with nipples, Rainey thinks. Or maybe it is a bluff or a misunderstanding.
“Okay, Rain, do it,” Tina says.
Rainey sets the beaker in the sink, turns on the tap, and grabs a bottle of formaldehyde. “Guess which.” She blocks Leah’s view as she pretends to pour.
“I ride the bus.” Leah crosses her hands over her chest and watches warily as Rainey approaches with the brimming beaker.
Rainey gives Leah the sweet, sorrowful smile she might give a small child who’s resisting bedtime. She feels in herselfthe power to make Leah trust her, to maybe drink from the beaker. Her father has acolytes—it might be cool to have one of her own.
“I ride the bus,” says Leah. “Let me out, okay?”
“Too late,” says Tina, “you were supposed to say about the rim job,” and Rainey, the word
rim
humming in her brain, approaches the girl sidling along the wall.
T HIS IS NEW, AND Rainey hates it: Tina has just two hours after school, and her grandmother believes those hours are for Bible study. Rainey has gone from agnostic to atheist when it comes to believing in the unseen grandmother. Tina’s real family must be drunk, mean, or naked. Don’t hide it, Rainey wants to tell her—who wants to be best friends with some normal-family chick?
After school they maneuver around the little crowd listening outside the townhouse and enter the foyer, where jazz blares from the parlor. Howard is on the Steinway, his body rocking, hair falling in his face, and Rainey, watching his hands pump, wonders not for the first time if he is pushing music into the massive piano or somehow pulling it out. Gemma, the English acolyte whom Howard found playing in the Times Square subway, whipsaws her bow across the electric violin, which Rainey thinks is the prettiest sound in the world. Her eyelids flutter when she plays. Radmila is on electric flute, and Flynn is there, waiting to play and staring at Rainey. He has a paperbackcrammed into his back pocket. She has never seen another acolyte with a book.
“Ignore them,” says Rainey, because lately Tina has been lingering in the parlor doorway like a climbing vine, dribbling away precious ticks of her already diminished one hundred twenty minutes.
But the brass is glinting, the piano is brilliant, and Tina
Similar Books
