AVA
Age Fourteen
I stoodto the right of Rose Difranco’s desk in her home office, holding papers she requested from the office. She was talking on the phone in all her glory, laughing, flirting, working the magic that made her an absolutely incredible professional mentor.
Closing the deal, she said, “So what do you say, Roger, can you find the time to get my new single in your lineup today?” Silent while Roger replied, she held out her hand to me and I placed the manila envelope I was holding in it. Thank you, she mouthed. And then returning to her call, she shook her head and said, “Oh, come on, Roger, you can do better than that. This one is great. You know it is.” Still engaged in Roger’s response, she held up her hand, giving me a smile and a little wave. I was dismissed
Back straight, I walked out of her office, quietly shutting the door, not wanting to interrupt her flow. I knew I should head back down the hall, to the foyer, and out the door, but instead, I looked at the giant abstract painting on the wall behind the industrial-looking metal stairs that led up to the second floor of the Difrancos apartment. Bruno’s room was up there and maybe Bruno was too.
I hesitated. I had no right to climb those stairs. I had no right to be in their house for any reason but my job, but I had to talk to him. I had to see him before he left. Swallowing back my anxiety, I looked left and right, checking to see if there was anyone watching. With anxiety crowding my breaths, I crossed the hall and headed for the steps. As I climbed, I walked on my tiptoes so my heels wouldn’t alert anyone to my decision to wander around the Difrancos’ apartment. I knew what it would look like. When the girl from nothing goes astray in the rich family’s house, people start checking their jewelry boxes and money clips to see what’s missing.
It didn't matter that I’d die before I took anything from the Difrancos. A girl like me didn’t have the luxury of curiosity. It was my job to follow directions. Do what I was asked and never stray, but just this once, I had no choice. Like a beast hunting unsuspecting prey, I made my way down the hall, silently pressing my ear to each door, hoping to hear the movements of Bruno inside. I’d never been to his room before. I only knew that any time I’d been invited to dine in this home, if Bruno excused himself, I would hear the squeak of his designer sneakers moving around above me.
Just when I was beginning to feel stupid for taking a risk without even knowing if he was home, I heard music drifting from under the door at the end of the hall. Taking one more peek behind me, I scurried toward the door and listened. Jazzy, psychedelic pop—The Mild High Club. I smiled to myself. Bruno sustained on music. It was almost inexplicable. He needed chords and vocals and symphonies the way other people needed nutrients. Mostly, he fed on delicacies, bands and artists that were so good that their creations were capable of changing your mood in moments. Infectious talents. He favored things that his parents didn’t give a shit about. The Difrancos might have loved music once, but at this point they were consumed by the high of success and pop music was guaranteed bank. I couldn’t fault them for that though. They weren’t bad people, just shallow but also kind.
As quietly as I could, I moved through the hall, then I turned the doorknob and slipped into the room, pulling the door shut behind me. Bruno was standing next to his bed, folding clothes and shoving them into a suitcase. I loved to look at him. He was tall for our age, with shaggy brown hair and lanky long muscles. He was good-looking, but not in a way that you’d see in magazines. He wasn’t pretty. He was chiseled, a strong jaw, a Roman nose, dark eyes, lips so red they looked bitten. He didn’t smile much but when he did, it was mischievous, like he knew things you didn’t want him to. I was drawn to him. I had been since the day I first saw him in the waiting room of the LSA offices.
And I was in his debt.
“Bruno,” I said, not knowing how else to alert him to my presence.
He turned. I had my back pressed to the door. I wanted to be seen by him but also felt the need to be invisible because I was absolutely somewhere I didn’t belong. He stared at me. I couldn’t tell what he was thinking, just that his reaction to me was cold, so cold.
“I’m sorry,” I managed.
He shrugged, turning back to his packing. Not looking at me, he said, “I told you the law would be on my side.”
It was true. The police picked him up with enough cocaine to charge him with intent to sell and somehow the charges were dropped and his record was expunged. However, the press went crazy. Every rag, every website, every phone in the country was flashing with pictures of him in handcuffs, being booked, getting arraigned, and the Difrancos were not pleased. They decided to send him to some creative boarding school upstate. He was packing to leave, thrown out of his life because of me.
“I’m sorry,” I said the words again because I didn’t know what to do. I didn’t know what to say or how to act around him. My talent was handling situations and keeping people calm, but somehow Bruno was the exception. No one had ever done anything nice for me. I couldn't even remember a time when my mother fixed me dinner. And this guy, with the shaggy hair and the six-hundred-dollar designer sneakers, he got arrested for me. He took his parents' wrath for me. He was losing access to everything he knew and loved, for me.
Slowly, he put another shirt in the suitcase on the bed, and then he turned and moved toward me. Each step seemed deliberate, like he was giving me a chance to run, but I wouldn’t run from him. No matter what he wanted from me, I would give it. I owed him.
When he got so close that I could see each individual eyelash, he reached out and played with the chiffon ribbon that tied the top of my blouse closed. I didn’t move. He pulled the fabric, untying the knot so that the collar of my blouse fell open, exposing my decolletage. He ran a finger over my collarbone as he said, “You’re beautiful, Ava.”
My tongue felt thick in my mouth. I grew up hard, and in his own way, so did he. We knew about sex, but for the first time I understood why people were enticed by it. Just the flutter of his fingers on my skin made my knees shake. He traced his finger up the side of my neck, across my jawline, then over the edges of my lips. His eyes followed the path of his finger.
I held my breath, felt my lungs start to burn with the need for oxygen, hoping the moment wouldn’t pass, hoping he might lean in and kiss me a second time. But instead, he said, “It’s too bad I have to fucking hate you.”
I closed my eyes. I didn’t blame him. There was no other choice.
But it didn’t matter if he hated me. I was thankful and I wasn’t going to waste the opportunity he gave me.