Silver Sparrow

When I have this dream lately, I know that I’m dreaming, but this understanding isn’t enough to wake me up. When I’m final y able to open my eyes, grateful for my familiar bedsheets, my body is damp and cold.

In the Magnolia Room, the partygoers were al silver as tea sets, and no one noticed me at al .

The DJ was playing a slow song, “Against Al Odds.” In the center of the dance floor was Ruth Nicole Elizabeth, swaying with her boyfriend, Marcus McCready, home from col ege. His hands rested respectful y at the smal of her back, just above the satin sash. Ruth Nicole Elizabeth’s dress, like her skin, was the color of sand. Her hair, glistening from a cel ophane rinse, reminded me of an oily lunch sack. Over the top of her head, Marcus met my eyes and kind of winked. I turned away and rushed toward the food.

The lady serving the cake, old as Grandma Bunny, was dressed almost the same as I was.

“Is it good?” I asked.

“It’s pretty,” she said, sliding a piece of cake onto my plate.

“Thank you.” I headed toward the door even though the plate probably wasn’t supposed to leave the Magnolia Room. On the twenty-three-story trip down, I tore into the lemon layer cake with my dirty hands.

In the lobby, I set the plate on a shiny-topped coffee table. I was tempted to fol ow the signs to the washroom so I could clean my hands, but I couldn’t bear the idea of mirrors. Instead, I set myself on the couch and sucked my fingers like a barbarian.

“Psst, ” someone said from the direction of the bathroom. My mother had told me that a man who doesn’t talk to you with actual words isn’t worth your time, but stil I looked around. When I didn’t see anyone, I turned my attention to my hands. Pale yel ow icing rimmed my cuticles so I stuck my thumb in my mouth, wondering if everything on the twenty-third floor had been engineered to match Ruth Nicole Elizabeth’s magnolia-cream complexion. I had busted out of the party before I had a chance to check out the hot-food buffet. I amused myself imagining a pale spread —

cauliflower, baked fish, mashed potatoes. Enjoying these petty, jealous fantasies, I took my thumb out of my mouth and rearranged my hair.

“Ooh,” said a voice. “You got spit in your fake hair.”

“Dana!” I hated the hopeful lilt in my voice.

“Hey, girlie,” she said, strol ing toward me. “Have you seen a security guard around here?”

I shook my head.

“You sure?” she said. “He’s cute, like a DeBarge, but he was hassling us.” Dana looked behind her. At the wave of her hand, another girl appeared. This girl was even less silver than me. Her haircut had a kind of homemade look, like she had trimmed it with paper scissors; her ears were scabbed from amateur attempts with the curling iron. Like Dana, she wore a purple keyhole top and stretch Gloria Vanderbilts. They even wore the same shoes — purple dyed-to-match pumps, the kind other girls wear with prom dresses.

“This is Ronalda,” Dana said.

“We’re best friends,” Ronalda said, as if I didn’t catch the matching outfits.

“Nice to meet you.” I sighed.

Dana and Ronalda sat together on a leather love seat across from me. Ronalda dug into her bag and produced a tube of lotion. She squeezed a little on the tips of her fingers and dabbed the teardrop of skin inside the keyhole of her shirt.

“You so crazy,” Dana said, taking the lotion and doing the same thing. “You want some?”

“No,” I said. “I’m okay.”

“So,” Dana said to me. “Where does your mother think you are?” She nudged Ronalda with her shoulder. “We are supposed to be in a lock-in at my church.”

Dana put her hand in her hair and then stopped. She felt her ear. “I lost my earring,” she said.

Ronalda said, “Nobody move,” like she was looking for a lost contact. Dana’s voice climbed in pitch. “I hope I didn’t lose it on the MARTA.

They’re my mother’s and her mother gave them to her. Oh my God.”

Ronalda was on her hands and knees, looking under the love seat. Dana muttered and walked herself in little shaky circles. I got up and ran my hand in the crevices of the sofa. “We’l find it.” I took the cushion off the love seat, even though the ladies working the front desk were looking at us cross-eyed.

“I don’t see it,” Ronalda said, standing up.

“Hold on,” I said to Dana. I stepped toward her, lifting her hair from her neck. There, snagged at her neckline, was the hoop earring. I twisted it free and handed it to her. It was antique-looking, like something Grandma Bunny used to wear. The gold was etched with a careful pattern of leaves.

“Oh my God,” she said. “Thank you. Thank you so much.” She threaded it though the hole in her ear while Ronalda put the furniture back together.

I sat back on the little couch, and this time Dana sat by me.

“You saved my life,” she said.

I was pleased enough to break into song, but I waved it away.

“I didn’t do anything.”

“So how come you’re here?” Ronalda said.

“How come y’al are?” I shot back.

“We tried to get into the party upstairs,” Dana said. “But we got turned away.”