“That was brilliant, insult the whole NYPD, why don’t you?” and that set her mom off again. Marissa couldn’t take it anymore and went up to her room. She heard her mother shouting, “You still think everything’s okay? You think it’s going to all miraculously blow over?- and then she turned up her stereo- more Tone Def- to drown her parents out.
She hoped this wasn’t just the beginning, that her parents weren’t going to start having marital problems again. In high school, it had seemed like her parents were on the verge of divorce, at each other’s throats 24/7, and they always argued about the stupidest things. Like her dad would leave some dirty dishes in the kitchen sink or pee on the toilet seat, and her mom would lay into him about it. Or her dad wouldn’t like a look her mother had given him or her tone of voice, and it would lead to a huge fight. And, because her dad was a psychologist and they were in marriage counseling, they would both go into this weird therapy- speak in their arguments that only led to more fighting. Like during a fight her mother might say,“You’re so annoying” and her father would say,“You’re generalizing” or “There you go with your rage again,” and then that would lead to a fight. Or sometimes they would be arguing and her mother would say, “You’re being defensive,” and her father would fire back, “There you go, projecting again,” and they’d be off, shouting at each other in their ridiculous mumbo jumbo about who was projecting and who was being defensive. Of course there was never any resolution to their fighting; no one ever won or conceded. It seemed like they had the same argument over and over again, like an annoying song stuck on repeat play. Marissa never understood why they bothered to stay together. If they couldn’t get along, why make each other miserable? Why not just get divorced? She’d hoped they weren’t staying together for her, because she would’ve preferred that they just split up and move on with their lives. What kid wanted unhappy parents?
Marissa turned down the music, and she could still hear her parents going at it; it sounded like they were in their bedroom now. She took a quick shower and was toweling off when she heard her mother shout, “What’re you gonna do then? Get your gun again? Shoot him?”
God, were they still arguing about the gun?
Marissa headed back to her bedroom, passing her father in the hallway. He marched by and went downstairs. He was in sweats and sneakers, probably on his way to the gym.
Sitting on her bed, Marissa texted Hillary, who worked in midtown. They arranged to meet for drinks at five thirty. Marissa typed: cant wait I SO have to get out of this crazy fucking house She got dressed quickly- skinny jeans, a black lace cami, and the cute little leather jacket she’d bought last week at UNIQLO in SoHo. As she left the house, she saw her father on the sidewalk, talking to several reporters. They’d probably come back to ask him questions about Gabriela and she could tell he was into it, furrowing his eyebrows and moving his hands a lot as he talked, acting like he was a movie star giving a press conference.
Marissa walked several blocks, through the gates of Forest Hills Gardens to the subway on Queens Boulevard. Riding on the R train, she wore her sunglasses because she was crying and didn’t want anyone to see. She still couldn’t believe that Gabriela was actually dead.
When she arrived in Manhattan, she had some time to kill, so she went to the Whitney to see the Man Ray exhibit. She’d sent a job application to the Whitney, as she had to practically every other museum in the city, and hadn’t heard anything yet. She’d been applying to a lot of galleries, too, and had gone to an interview to be the “events coordinator” at one downtown, but she’d gotten no job offers so far. Her father had probably been right about how she’d made a mistake by quitting the job at the Met. She should have stuck it out for at least six months to use it as a reference, or until she found something else. She just hoped she found something soon; she wanted steady money coming in so she could afford the rent for her own place, or even a share. She hated not having her own money and being so dependent on her parents.
After the museum, she walked to midtown, feeling out of place around all of the oppressive office buildings and stressed- out working people. Downtown was cooler, though all of Manhattan seemed so uppity and into itself that Marissa felt like she just couldn’t connect. She liked Brooklyn a lot better- especially Williamsburg, DUMBO, and RAMBO- But most of her friends were working in the city and always wanted to meet at midtown bars or go out in Murray Hill or, the worst, the Upper East Side.
At five thirty, she met Hillary at McFadden’s at Forty- second and Second. It was the typical midtown after- work bar- lots of suits and ties, lots of uptight people desperately trying to let loose, businessmen calling each other “bro” and “dude.” Marissa felt like she was on a different planet, but Hillary, who had an entry- level marketing job at some ad agency, seemed right at home, smiling, waving, saying hi and even hugging people as she entered. Marissa and Hillary had been best friends for years, but lately Marissa felt like they’d been drifting apart. She hoped it was just a phase, though, that Hillary would eventually get over this whole trying- to- act- like- a-yuppie kick and return to acting like her normal self.
Hillary hugged Marissa hello; then Marissa said, “God, I need a drink so badly. Something strong.”
They found seats at the bar and ordered cosmos,“heavy on the vodka.” Hillary had already read about the robbery on Marissa’s blog, but Marissa retold the story anyway.
“Oh my God, that must’ve been so horrifying,” Hillary said.
“It gets worse,” Marissa said, her voice cracking.
Hillary, like all of Marissa’s friends, had known Gabriela. It was almost like Gabriela had been a part of the Bloom family.
When Marissa told Hillary about Gabriela being killed and probably being involved in the robbery, Hillary started to cry, and Marissa cried with her. Hillary said all the expected things-I can’t believe it, it’s not possible, she was soyoung- as they continued to sob together.
Finally Marissa said, “Maybe we should stop crying, this is a happy hour after all,” but the attempt at an icebreaking joke didn’t even get a smirk from Hillary.
“It’s so horrible that you have to go through all of this,” Hillary said.
“Yeah, I know it sucks,” Marissa said. “My mom’s worried that the guy who shot Gabriela’s still out there, but I’m not really worried about that. I’m sure the cops’ll catch him.”
“God, I certainly hope so,” Hillary said.
Marissa sipped her drink, then said, “I was so happy when you said you could meet up. It’s been a total nightmare at home. My mother’s angry, so she’s snapping at my father, and, of course, my father’s taking it out on me, as usual. He actually said I have to stop drinking and smoking in the house, treating me like I’m some kind of party animal or something. Meanwhile, I barely smoke or drink at all. But their fighting, that’s the worst. I swear, it was like when I was a teenager all over again. I really don’t know what’s wrong with them. If they can’t get along and can’t stand the sight of each other, why don’t they just get divorced?”
Suddenly Hillary’s eyes widened, and Marissa could tell something was wrong.
“What is it?” Marissa asked.
“Nothing, never mind,” Hillary said and took a sip of her drink.
“Come on, what is it? Is it about Gabriela?”
“No.”
“Then what is it? Come on, you have to tell me.”
“It’s really not important.”
“Come on, just tell me.”
“It’s nothing,” Hillary said. “I shouldn’t’ve said anything.”
“You didn’t say anything yet. Come on, now you have to tell me.”
Hillary took another sip of her drink, breathed deeply, then said, “It’s just… It’s about your mother.”
“My mother?”
“See? I shouldn’t’ve opened my big mouth.”
“What about her?”
“I mean, with what you’re going through now and every-”
“Come on, just tell me already.”
Hillary waited several seconds, as if trying to or ganize her thoughts, then said, “I heard her and my mom talking the other night. They didn’t think I was home, but I heard them from upstairs.”
“What were they talking about?”
“I’m sorry. I mean, I didn’t want to tell you, but-”
“Is it something bad?”
“No. I mean, not bad bad.”
