It’s then I notice she has tears in her eyes.
“My turn,” she continues. “Alexa, play ‘Anti-Hero’ by Taylor Swift.”
This time, Ava sings along, spitting the lyrics of the chorus into my own face.
“Yeah, you are the problem,” she says with a laugh.
My cell trills again.
I ignore it again.
“Good boy,” she says, pulling me into the pool.
Sid
I am sitting in my car clutching my clutch.
I scan the parking lot of the Palm Springs library. My car is parked at the curb, right in front of the doors. A security camera stands guard above the entrance. It is a bright, sunny Wednesday for Drag Queen Reading Hour, and yet I see only darkness.
I look to the left, then right, before scanning my mirrors. Patrons walk by, children happily skipping, and I slump further into the driver’s seat.
I nervously rub the brooch I wear at the top of my blouse. It was my grandmother’s, and I used to sneak it out of her jewelry box and admire it as a boy, mesmerized by its beauty. It looks like a cameo, but it’s actually a Star of David embedded into ivory. My grandmother wore it as a necklace, but I removed the chain, saved the pendant and refashioned it for Sophia Petrillo.
And myself.
I would rub it for good luck and protection when I first started performing. Out of all the boys, I am the least theatrical. I mean, Teddy is all drama, Dorothy except with an Adam’s apple. Ron is a creative, and Barry is an actor. I fell into place like the last piece of a jigsaw puzzle solely because of my age and the fact I look a little bit like Sophia. All I had to do was learn to say, “Picture it! Sicily...”
“You’ve lied your whole life,” Teddy teased me before our first performance years ago. “This is all scripted. It should be so much easier for you.”
When I rubbed the brooch the first time before I went on stage, I could feel my grandmother beside me.
As I sit there, I see in the mirror an older woman approaching with two children. I slouch further, until my body is practically underneath the wheel.
I watch her pass.
Is that her?
My heart is racing.
Is she back?
My memory of the incident is blurry at best. I didn’t realize how blurry until the police called for a statement.
Another woman passes, and I jump.
Is that her?
I grab my clutch even tighter. I have cleaned and shined it a hundred times to ensure her spit has been removed, but I cannot erase the memory.
“Screw this!” I finally say.
I start the car and begin to put it into Reverse when I hear a knock on the window. I scream bloody murder.
Esther Himmelbaum and Talia Goldfarb are standing at the passenger window. Only their heads are visible.
I roll down the window.
“What the hell are you doing?” Esther says.
