A day later, an e-mail arrives in my inbox. It’s from Greer. I open it to find an airplane ticket to Santa Fe.
“What is this?” I call to ask her.
“You’re my date, remember?”
“I don’t think I ever agreed to this. In fact, I’m sure I didn’t.”
“Don’t be such a coward, Helena. You have to fight for what you want. Hasn’t anybody ever told you that?”
No one ever had, and I didn’t feel good about fighting for something that someone else had already laid claim to. I think of ways to get out of it all week, but in the end I pack a small carry-on and pretend I’m doing this for Greer. All I have to take with is a beige dress; in fact, most of my clothes are beige, and cream, and white. Creamy colors aren’t offended by Florida’s heat. But now I live in Washington, and I’m just some beige bitch with too many pairs of cutoff shorts.
We land in Santa Fe mid-afternoon, and our cab drives us through the antique streets of the city, and my eyes hang large. It looks like another place. Most of America looks like America, but Santa Fe looks like Santa Fe. I love it, and I’m scared of it. I ask Greer about this cousin of Kit’s who is getting married, and she tells me her name is Rhea and she’s marrying a guy named Dirt.
“He’s an artist. He makes pottery from sacred dirt.”
“Is that why he named himself Dirt?” I ask.
“His name was already Dirt; he went on a search for himself, and then incorporated his name into his art.”
I want to laugh, but I realize it’s the accountant side of me that wants to make fun of Dirt’s journey. As someone who is inartistic and trying very hard, I will respect Dirt’s creative vision. Maybe I will learn from it.
We check into our funky hotel, with its uneven concrete floors and rickety furniture. Greer tells me it’s actually really expensive to stay here because it’s all about the authentic experience.
“It was a Spanish mission in the 1800s. You’re sleeping in the same room conquistadors stayed in!” she says brightly.
I look around at the patchy walls, and the bloody toe I got from the cracked floor, and feel lucky to live in the 21st century.
“Freshen up,” Greer says. “We can hit the town.”
I am fresh. But I change, put a new band-aid on my toe, and put on lipstick.
“Uh uh,” Greer says, when I walk out of my bedroom. “We aren’t going to a Mommy-and-Me group.”
She digs around in her suitcase and produces a sleeveless black dress with tassels running from under the arm to the hem.
“That’s not your style at all,” I laugh. “I can’t believe you bought that.”
“You’re right. I brought it for you. It’s your style.” She tosses it at me.
“Greer, I have never in my life worn something like this. It’s not my style.”
“Just because you haven’t worn it doesn’t mean it’s not your style. Some people are too reserved and stuck in their ways to really know what suits them.”
Okay. I have nothing to lose, so I put on the dress. All of a sudden I have breasts and an ass.
“Yikes,” she says. “You’re so ugly. Maybe you should take that off.”
I make a face at her. I’m not stupid. I’m a fast learner.
We go to a fancy bar. We drink fancy wine. We dance to eighties music. My hair is askew, tumbling and stuck to my face. And when I sway, so do my tassels. So I sway. God, this is fun. Della never wanted to dance because it made her sweaty. Greer is dancing so hard I can see the sweat running down her neck.
And then Kit walks in. And I don’t stop swaying. I blow him a kiss, and dance with Greer, and watch him watch me. My heart is aching just from the sight of him. I’ve never wanted something so bad in my life. He looks different, but I know that’s probably not true. My eyes are different. In my eyes, Kit grows more beautiful every time I see him.
“He didn’t know I was coming?” I ask Greer.
“On the contrary,” Greer says. “He asked me to bring you.”
“Hey, lonely heart. Wanna go for a walk?” That’s the first thing he says to me after all this time. Months and months. Wanna go for a walk? Kit and his walks. I really, really want to go for a walk, because this bar is hot, and there are too many people, and I need to breathe clean air. All of these things come secondary to the fact that it’s him I want to walk near.
I lead the way out of the bar, my shoulders still moving to the music. I hear Kit’s laughter behind me. It curls up and around my heart and causes it to beat faster—a heart jockey. He thinks I’m funny. I guess he always has. I’m not really funny, just very awkward. As we make our way out, I think about the fact that he’s leaving his friends behind—people he hasn’t seen in ages—to go on a walk with me, the weekend of his cousin’s wedding.
The New Mexico air doesn’t taste the same as the Florida air. When it hits us in the face I don’t flinch. It smells dry and earthy. I think of Dirt, and giggle. When Kit and I are far enough away from the music, I look at him out of the corner of my eye and grin. He sort of looks the same. Maybe tanner. I bet Della’s been dragging him to the beach. I do a little jig next to a fountain while Kit quietly watches me. If I didn’t know him, I would think that it looks like he has a million things to say. And he probably does; he just never says them.
I stumble forward, clumsily, and sit next to him, swinging my legs back and forth.
“Hey,” I say.
“Hey.”
“Why do you have that look on your face?”
“What look?” he asks. “This is just my face.”
“Your face has a look. Like you’re anxious or something.”
“I am.”
I jump up. “I’m so hyper right now. Hold that thought while I run around the fountain.”
Kit laughs so hard he almost falls over, craning his neck all the way around to watch me.
“I forgot how weird you are,” he says when I sit back down. “You’re a dead language, you know that? No one is like you, and you are like no one.”
It’s a nice compliment, probably more than my brain can handle right now.
“So, why are you anxious?” I reach into the fountain and cup some water in my hand, letting it run down the back of my neck.
“What is this?” I call to ask her.
“You’re my date, remember?”
“I don’t think I ever agreed to this. In fact, I’m sure I didn’t.”
“Don’t be such a coward, Helena. You have to fight for what you want. Hasn’t anybody ever told you that?”
No one ever had, and I didn’t feel good about fighting for something that someone else had already laid claim to. I think of ways to get out of it all week, but in the end I pack a small carry-on and pretend I’m doing this for Greer. All I have to take with is a beige dress; in fact, most of my clothes are beige, and cream, and white. Creamy colors aren’t offended by Florida’s heat. But now I live in Washington, and I’m just some beige bitch with too many pairs of cutoff shorts.
We land in Santa Fe mid-afternoon, and our cab drives us through the antique streets of the city, and my eyes hang large. It looks like another place. Most of America looks like America, but Santa Fe looks like Santa Fe. I love it, and I’m scared of it. I ask Greer about this cousin of Kit’s who is getting married, and she tells me her name is Rhea and she’s marrying a guy named Dirt.
“He’s an artist. He makes pottery from sacred dirt.”
“Is that why he named himself Dirt?” I ask.
“His name was already Dirt; he went on a search for himself, and then incorporated his name into his art.”
I want to laugh, but I realize it’s the accountant side of me that wants to make fun of Dirt’s journey. As someone who is inartistic and trying very hard, I will respect Dirt’s creative vision. Maybe I will learn from it.
We check into our funky hotel, with its uneven concrete floors and rickety furniture. Greer tells me it’s actually really expensive to stay here because it’s all about the authentic experience.
“It was a Spanish mission in the 1800s. You’re sleeping in the same room conquistadors stayed in!” she says brightly.
I look around at the patchy walls, and the bloody toe I got from the cracked floor, and feel lucky to live in the 21st century.
“Freshen up,” Greer says. “We can hit the town.”
I am fresh. But I change, put a new band-aid on my toe, and put on lipstick.
“Uh uh,” Greer says, when I walk out of my bedroom. “We aren’t going to a Mommy-and-Me group.”
She digs around in her suitcase and produces a sleeveless black dress with tassels running from under the arm to the hem.
“That’s not your style at all,” I laugh. “I can’t believe you bought that.”
“You’re right. I brought it for you. It’s your style.” She tosses it at me.
“Greer, I have never in my life worn something like this. It’s not my style.”
“Just because you haven’t worn it doesn’t mean it’s not your style. Some people are too reserved and stuck in their ways to really know what suits them.”
Okay. I have nothing to lose, so I put on the dress. All of a sudden I have breasts and an ass.
“Yikes,” she says. “You’re so ugly. Maybe you should take that off.”
I make a face at her. I’m not stupid. I’m a fast learner.
We go to a fancy bar. We drink fancy wine. We dance to eighties music. My hair is askew, tumbling and stuck to my face. And when I sway, so do my tassels. So I sway. God, this is fun. Della never wanted to dance because it made her sweaty. Greer is dancing so hard I can see the sweat running down her neck.
And then Kit walks in. And I don’t stop swaying. I blow him a kiss, and dance with Greer, and watch him watch me. My heart is aching just from the sight of him. I’ve never wanted something so bad in my life. He looks different, but I know that’s probably not true. My eyes are different. In my eyes, Kit grows more beautiful every time I see him.
“He didn’t know I was coming?” I ask Greer.
“On the contrary,” Greer says. “He asked me to bring you.”
“Hey, lonely heart. Wanna go for a walk?” That’s the first thing he says to me after all this time. Months and months. Wanna go for a walk? Kit and his walks. I really, really want to go for a walk, because this bar is hot, and there are too many people, and I need to breathe clean air. All of these things come secondary to the fact that it’s him I want to walk near.
I lead the way out of the bar, my shoulders still moving to the music. I hear Kit’s laughter behind me. It curls up and around my heart and causes it to beat faster—a heart jockey. He thinks I’m funny. I guess he always has. I’m not really funny, just very awkward. As we make our way out, I think about the fact that he’s leaving his friends behind—people he hasn’t seen in ages—to go on a walk with me, the weekend of his cousin’s wedding.
The New Mexico air doesn’t taste the same as the Florida air. When it hits us in the face I don’t flinch. It smells dry and earthy. I think of Dirt, and giggle. When Kit and I are far enough away from the music, I look at him out of the corner of my eye and grin. He sort of looks the same. Maybe tanner. I bet Della’s been dragging him to the beach. I do a little jig next to a fountain while Kit quietly watches me. If I didn’t know him, I would think that it looks like he has a million things to say. And he probably does; he just never says them.
I stumble forward, clumsily, and sit next to him, swinging my legs back and forth.
“Hey,” I say.
“Hey.”
“Why do you have that look on your face?”
“What look?” he asks. “This is just my face.”
“Your face has a look. Like you’re anxious or something.”
“I am.”
I jump up. “I’m so hyper right now. Hold that thought while I run around the fountain.”
Kit laughs so hard he almost falls over, craning his neck all the way around to watch me.
“I forgot how weird you are,” he says when I sit back down. “You’re a dead language, you know that? No one is like you, and you are like no one.”
It’s a nice compliment, probably more than my brain can handle right now.
“So, why are you anxious?” I reach into the fountain and cup some water in my hand, letting it run down the back of my neck.
