“But it’s a secret?”
“New Orleans,” he says. He never was good with secrets. “I love it at Christmastime, especially.”
My rib cage tickles with excitement. “NOLA is my favorite.” And I’m a little relieved we’re venturing out and away from Eulogy. I’m still not sure how we exist in public.
“I know,” he says. “Me too.” His shoulders bounce. There’s electricity in the air. I can feel it. “Favorite city. Favorite person.”
I grin as he turns the music up. We take the scenic way there, making our drive about an hour and a half long, and soon after we cross the state line, we’re driving down narrow strips of land with rows of newly constructed houses on stilts sitting at the edge of Lake Pontchartrain.
According to my dad, all of this was wiped out by Katrina, too. Anytime he talks about Katrina in regard to Louisiana, there’s a bitterness in his voice. When the world thinks of Hurricane Katrina, they imagine the overflowing Superdome and the Ninth Ward and the flooded historic streets of the lower Quarter. No one thinks of our Mississippi and the incredible damage that forever changed the coast. No one talks about the industries and livelihoods that were lost.
I often wonder what my life would look like if I had lived in a world where Katrina didn’t happen. In that universe, my parents are still together and we’re not rich, but we’re not scraping by like we have for as long as I can remember. And all the deserted concrete slabs that line the coast are occupied with buildings that have stood against the same hurricanes my dad witnessed as a boy. It’s a different world, but not one I’ll ever have the privilege of existing in.
In our little trailer park, not even a mile from the coast, we’re sitting ducks. Folks in Eulogy don’t use years to measure time. They use storms, and I guess I’m just waiting for the next big one.
I get a little fidgety as we cross a huge steel bridge into New Orleans that can be raised up and down for larger boats to pass through. I remember, as a kid, being so mesmerized by the idea that an entire structure could adjust for one boat—one single boat that happened to be too tall. As I got older and the inches kept adding up and the growing pains became almost unbearable, I remember wishing that the doorways of our trailer could raise up and down just for me.
I’m impressed with Freddie’s ability to maneuver the traffic, but I’m in the habit of staying quiet, because when we were kids my dad would get anxious with all the added cars and pedestrians. We pull into a skinny parking lot that runs the length of the Moonwalk, which edges up against the Mississippi River. The walk is lined with tourists andmen with towels thrown over their shoulders and shoe polish in their hands as they try to talk anyone who will make eye contact with them into a shoe shine.
“Are you hungry?” Freddie asks.
“Starving.”
“Good.”
We walk out of the parking lot and down the steps to Decatur Street. Sprawled out in front of us is Jackson Square, a beautiful green space in the middle of the French Quarter. Behind us, overlooking the Mississippi River, is a ginormous Christmas tree with huge gold and red ornaments and an equally huge star on top. Oversize red bows hang from every lamppost in sight. The Quarter has this smell—and I don’t particularly hate it, even though I should. It’s a combination of once-exquisite day-old food, puke, and the sticky-sweet scent of frozen daiquiris.
Freddie points to St. Louis Cathedral. “I used to think it was the castle from Disney World.”
And I see it, too. There aren’t as many turrets, but it’s bright and white, like a beacon.
That’s when he chooses to take my hand, when I’m distracted and not ready, but so ready. Our hands clasped together makes my breath catch, which seems silly since we’ve been pressing our bodies together in whatever quiet corners we could find for the last week. But this is outside, in the middle of the day, and it somehow feels even more intimate than a kiss.
We’re not a secret. I tell myself this over and over again.I know what it’s like to be a secret, and this is not it. But there’s a freedom—almost the same kind I felt so briefly with Grace at Viv’s party—that comes with being strangers in a big city.
As I let Freddie lead the way to wherever he’s decided to take me, I am only the Ramona who exists in this moment. I’m on a date. With a person who happens to be a boy. And we’re holding hands. I am Ramona and he is Freddie and that’s it.
We walk a few blocks toward Canal Street, and every time someone points and laughs at us, I have to remind myself that we’re wearing matching tuxedo T-shirts. Freddie stops at the corner of Chartres and Toulouse behind a line of people.
“They, uh, don’t take reservations,” he says.
The sign hanging above our heads is white with a pink fleur-de-lis and simply readsThe Grill.
“This was my favorite place growing up,” Freddie tells me.
“I’ve never even heard of it,” I say with bemusement. I think that’s one of the many wonders of this city: you can come here your whole life and always find something new to discover. “But I’m excited to see what’s so special about it.”
“I don’t know if it’s all that special, but I thought so when I was little.” He squeezes my hand once and pulls me closer to the building so that his body is protecting me from the sudden gust of wind. It’s almost a wasted effort because of my height, but I appreciate the thought.
I press my nose to the glass and see that the inside is an overcrowded light-pink-and-white diner with a bustling waitstaff in black pants, white chef jackets, and bow ties. I can see little Freddie being fascinated by this place. There are no tables or chairs, but instead one big bar that lines the kitchen with dark green bar stools. Twinkly lights hang from the ceiling and a small aluminum Christmas tree sits next to the jukebox. Based on the line of people, I’m assuming it’s good, but I know what it feels like to revisit something from your childhood and find that the mysterious magic it once held has evaporated.
The line moves fast and we are quickly ushered inside to two bar seats at the end of the row. Despite the place being loud and packed, our little corner feels quiet.
A tall black man whose name tag readsHugotakes our drink order and tells us the catfish sandwich is his favorite. “So what’ll we have for food?”
Freddie doesn’t even glance at the menu before saying, “Grilled cheese with eggs. Sunny-side up.”
I sputter for a moment and choose the first thing I see. “Pancakes?”
