Berry exhales smoke. “Uggums. Big Chief Uggoos.”
“We could be sisters, did you ever think of that?” Felice pinches the cigarette from Berry and takes a steadying drag. For a moment, she feels as if she and Berry are incredibly close. “Isn’t it weird? All you have to do is hang around somebody long enough and you start to love them. Everyone in this club — we could all be one family.”
Berry squints, trying to locate her cigarette. “You want to love an uggoo?”
“There’s no such thing as the one perfect something or other,” she says indignantly, as if they were arguing. “Anyone can be in love with anyone. Doesn’t matter.” She waves Berry’s cigarette just out of reach. “Could be some drooling three-eyed dirt-bag out there — you could fall in love with him!” Felice feels unusually wise — as if the meaning of the night has revealed itself to her. Love is exchangeable, malleable: she traded one family for this other kind of family.
“Oh yeah?” Berry reclaims her cigarette. “There’s this big fat nasty rich, rich uggum I saw at the VIP bar. I want to see you go in there and fall in love with him.”
“You kidding?” Felice’s voice clatters in the pink marble room. The sinks are stunningly white, like starlight. “Easy.”
Berry slides off the counter with a whoop.
The club interior seems darker and damper now. There are several beach-rat kids out there, all dancing. Reynaldo is on the dance floor; Felice spots him rocking his hips, hands above his head; his face gleams, impervious as a totem. Berry slips her hand under Felice’s elbow and nods toward the penthouse bar. They climb the narrow spiral staircase. The throng upstairs has diminished to a ring of serious drinkers — almost all men — leaning on the bar, glass in hand, most of them watching the dancers. Felice spots the one Berry was talking about — a type that appears in all the clubs. Felice knows — guys like this are admitted because they’re rich. He’s shortish with a thick neck and shoulders; hair sprouts from the opening of his creamy shirt. The man holds his bottle of beer around the neck with his fingertips, and he appears to be wearing clear nail polish. He’s balding at the temples with a deep V of hair in the center of his forehead. His eyes are furtive, almost hurt, damp and animal. At first Felice shrinks back, but Berry hovers beside her, smirking, and Felice begins to feel untouchable, a deep, euphoric solitude. She’s outgrown the sort of life she’s been leading — alone and broke and afraid of things. This is it, she thinks. There’s a volley of music, a thumping, computer-generated bass line, and a shift and surge roars through the dance floor. Time to be judged.
“I’m not afraid of him!” Felice shouts at Berry.
“What?” Berry cups her ear.
It’s critical that she not back down from this man: if she does, then it’s all been a waste and she’s still just a weak, frightened, irredeemable nothing. Felice is holding her breath as she approaches the bar, her jaw clamped, spine erect. Not afraid anymore. The man notices her immediately. He fixes on her with those eyes, as if she’s late and he’s been waiting. “Hello,” she says, unable to smile, stopping a few feet away. There’s someone with him, a nonentity in a business suit, half turned toward the bar.
“What’s your name?” the first man shouts at her.
“What’s yours?” she shouts back, edging closer.
He says something she can’t hear. He shouts again, it sounds like “Marren.”
She says, “Is that your first name or last name?”
He frowns and shakes his head, then he holds up his beer, lifts his eyebrows.
“Rum and Coke,” Felice shouts. The man beside Marren signals the bartender for a round. Marren leans forward, extending his hand, Felice assumes, in order to shake hers, but instead he takes her by the wrist, his thumb pressing the bundle of nerves at her pulse, and tows her in. She takes awkward steps. Felice glares at her friend but Berry doesn’t budge.
“Is your little friend watching us?” Marren asks, his mouth close to her ear, his breath warm on her neck. “Does she like to watch?” He holds her wrist, his thumb stroking it casually. He hands her a tall glass filled with crushed mint: it smells crisp and sweet. With her free hand, she holds the glass close to her nose, inhaling the fragrance. Energy whips across her body, wicking through the tips of her fingers. The air in the club takes on the ammonia tang of swabbed hallways and chalkboards and sweat and anxiety. The dance floor could be the commotion of the halls outside the music room.
That was years ago. She’s another person now. Felice yanks her wrist out of his grip, hard. She’s been on her own, making her own way, for five years — she’s fed herself, bought condoms, learned how to deal with her monthly cramps, learned how to keep a roof over her head. She didn’t get lost in the streets like other kids she met — unraveling into prostitution, alcoholism, meth, crack, their skin turned gray, faces sinking into skulls, their young teeth rotting away. Now she puts one hand on a hip, untouchable. Marren smiles, palms up — unarmed. His friend has turned back toward the bar. Hannah wasn’t afraid of anything — even when she should have been. Felice comes closer to the man, daring him in some way. Marren looks exhilarated, his eyes wide, head lowered. She says, “Today’s my birthday!”
He lifts his eyebrows and removes something from the breast pocket of his shirt, holding it up. A long silver-link necklace with a silver pear about the size of a marble. Felice is used to receiving jewelry from men — she pawns anything she can and gives away the rest. But this is unusual. For her thirteenth birthday, not long before she ran away for good, Stanley made her a baked pear in a crème anglaise. She no longer ate her mother’s pastries by that point, but the pear flesh was soft as custard: she ate it sitting on the edge of her bed while Stanley watched from the doorway, and left only a stem and seeds. Now she keeps her face impassive, not letting on how much she wants the necklace. “I was saving this,” the man is saying, his mouth again close to her ear. “This was supposed to be for another girl, but maybe I’ll give it to you.”
Eventually Berry joins them and together she and Felice flirt with Marren. The girls laugh, teasing each other, amusing themselves, dancing in place. It’s late and there’s an overripe, exhausted quality to the night. Felice doesn’t want any more drinks but Marren buys them sugary mint cocktails. She accepts his beige tablets, then palms them, whatever they are, to Reynaldo, who gulps them down, then moves back onto the dance floor, eyes fluttering, his face blissful. Marren’s friend J.T. barely speaks; he leans on the bar, his head pointed toward the corner of the room. But Marren is in no hurry: he laughs with the girls and fawns over Felice, calling her princess. After an hour or so, Marren produces the necklace again and dangles it in front of Felice. “It’s yours — if you come with me…”
Felice slides a look at Berry, who grows alert, a tiny smile sharpening her expression.
“It’s platinum,” he says. “Pure platinum, from Cartier. You ever hear of them?”
Felice rolls her eyes. The music has deescalated — or her hearing has adapted to the noise — they can carry on something more like conversation. “Duh — I hope so.”
“Platinum is the most precious metal there is. This is worth, like, ten times more than white gold.” It ticks back and forth, a needle of light. “You know what this thing cost? You won’t even believe it.”
“It’s low-class to talk about stuff like that,” Berry says, delighted.
“Just guess. Who cares? I’m a low-class guy. Some girls like it.”
“I don’t know,” Felice says. “Just tell us.”
“Twenty-four thousand.”
“Bullshit.” Berry laughs.