“You go ahead,” she said.
“Well, this is my lab partner, and the coolest thing about her is actually her name: Shawna Cora Carter!”
“Oh, snap! Like Shawn Corey Carter!” a kid on the other side of the room called out. “That’s dope!”
“Right?” Cameron said.
Shawna looked at him, confused.
“That’s Jay-Z’s name. Hova? You know, the rapper?” he said.
Shawna nodded. “Of course,” she smiled.
“So, I guess my lab partner is the female Jay-Z!”
Ms. Kramer wrote the initials JZ on the blackboard. “Jizz,” she said. “What a strange name. Rappers, though, am I right?” She shrugged.
The whole class burst into laughter.
And that was how she got her nickname.
PART TWOMay
Colin
I miss her.
It’s Tuesday, and I just finished up a meeting with George Friere. His wife, Lucy, passed away last week and there were some arrangements in her will that were made as a result of family disputes from years ago, back when she was married to her first husband.
Daisy puts an extra box of tissues on my conference table before he arrives. “The men are always in worse shape than the women,” she reminds me.
I brace myself for the meeting with an extra cup of coffee around eleven, but really, nothing can prepare me to watch a grown man sob over losing his soul mate.
“She was my life force,” he wept. “Lucy made me laugh every single day. Do you know how important that is, Colin?” he asked me.
I nodded in response, as the lump that developed in my throat temporarily kept me from speaking.
In the weeks that followed our series of misunderstandings, I spent a lot of time thinking and waiting. For some reason, my mind often slid between memories of Elle and memories of Gracie, and it was very hard to untangle the two. I became angrier at Elle than ever; the fact that she slept with someone else and gave me an STD seemed like minutiacompared to her dropping Gracie as a client and sabotaging both of their careers.
I busied myself with work, which was easy since much of April was spent dealing with my own marital baggage. On Wednesdays and Sundays, instead of going to the softball field, I got in my car and took myself out driving to clear my head. I’d blast the radio and let my instincts decide where the car should go.
Not surprisingly, I ended up in Brooklyn a lot. I’d pass by Gracie’s exit on the Belt Parkway, but I never got off the highway there, because I knew if I did, I wouldn’t be able to stop myself from driving past her house and that would look a whole lot like stalking. Still, it was comforting, just knowing that I was near her.
I started leaving work early on Wednesdays just on the off chance that my father showed up at the office. He begged Daisy not to quit the team, and she’s a softie, so she stuck it out. Apparently, she and my mom have been hanging out now that Mom’s a permanent part of the roster. Dad’s not speaking to me at the moment, despite my mother’s attempts to get him to see the error of his ways. I’ve told her I am more than happy to have a little space, but I’m pretty sure that Daisy informed her that I’m having “girl trouble.” Which is fine, as long as she doesn’t push me for details. It saves me from having to talk about it.
But even though I don’ttalkabout my feelings, doesn’t mean I don’thavethem. I just haven’t figured out what to do about them yet.
I tried “getting over it,” and at Dom’s suggestion ended up joining him for a night out at a place called The Meat Market two Saturdays ago. He said it was a pop-up spot that was all the rage in the Midwest. A cross between a traditional bar and a butcher/BBQ place, you go in and pick a piece of meat, which they grill up for you while you drink and mingle with other singles. Dom was like a kid in a candy store. I, meanwhile, was a little grossed out by the scent of dead cowlingering over my Dark ’n Stormy, a drink I chose because I don’t think I can ever have whiskey again. Dom tried to get me to talk to a pair of attractive women dressed up as cowgirls, but when I could answer their flirty questions with only one-syllable answers, he resigned himself to the fact that he had a broken wingman and got us a table for two in the back where we carved into our medium-well sirloins and he behaved—if momentarily—like a genuine human being.
“Another girl will come along,” he said between bites of steak and garlic mashed potatoes.
I nodded, swallowing. Words were difficult to form, but simple gestures I could handle.
“You know, I’m not really a dick.”
“I know.”
“Did I ever tell you about Cheyenne?”
