Molly smiled back. “Cool.”
“You should try it. It’s great for tension. It helps me with patience.”
Molly suspected that Yarrow was not her real name. Like the others in the house, Yarrow seemed to dwell on the fringes. Molly knew she worked in some crystal shop in Silver Spring. She did not know where she had lived before or how old she was. There wasa guy named Larry who called the house looking for her, but she always shook her head “no,” and whoever had answered—Molly rarely picked up the phone and Yarrow never did, probably because of Larry—would kindly tell him that Yarrow was not ready. Larry had apparently lived in the house for a while and then in Yarrow’s room. They’d had a falling out involving a bird and a cat, though Molly wasn’t certain which one might have been Yarrow’s pet. Either way, the housemates decided Larry should leave. And he had done it, gone and left his heart behind with this woman who probably kept it in a velvet pouch in her drawer.
Molly crisscrossed her legs, stuck her hand into a bag of Doritos that she could only eat outside since junk food was frowned upon in the house. “I’m pretty relaxed.”
Yarrow tilted her head. “May I have one of those?”
Molly held out the bag in question, and Yarrow crouched next to her, took one chip from the bag, and put the whole thing in her mouth. Molly could see she was sucking the flavor off it, softening it with her saliva.
“God that’s good. Can I have another?”
Molly held the bag out, and this time Yarrow took her single chip and nibbled small bites, crackling it with her teeth, the crunch echoing out of her slightly open mouth. When she was done with that one, Molly held the bag out again. It was like feeding a chipmunk.
Yarrow shook her head. “Two’s good. So, you don’t have a job anymore?”
With Brenda gone, Molly was a clean slate. She didn’t have to tell anyone anything. “I was a nanny, but I quit.”
“Hm. My friend Maxx owns the new organic bakery by the Metro station. She needs help. I can put in a good word for you. If you want.”
Molly turned the bag sideways and dumped the rest of the chips into her mouth, alternately crunching and sucking. One slipped down her tube top into her cleavage. She fished it out and ate it. “Do you think I’ll fit in?”
Yarrow got back on her knees and continued her weeding project. “I think you’ll be fine. We can go tomorrow.”
Molly faked the part of a health nut for her job at the bakery. She didn’t feel like a liar. Everyone wore some sort of costume, some disguise, designed to signal where they belonged. Punks in Georgetown conformed to black-lipped, fishnet anarchy, dirtbag headbangers thrift shopped for flannel shirts. Was the uniform of the monied—pencil skirts and blazers, hair back in a tight bun, feet squeezed into shoes shaped to fit a knife blade—any different? At least she was comfortable, and her uniform didn’t strike fear or envy or pity.
She wore her hair longer now and piled it on top of her head for work, bandana tied in front, strawberry bangs to the edges of her eyelashes. Yarrow gifted her two pairs of loose linen overalls with gaping pockets that dangled to her knees. Somehow it all looked okay with the black leather jacket and boots she’d worn for years.
She walked to work, often before sunup. The bakery itself was airy and clean. It had a free library of books, stools along the window, mismatched coffee and teacups, Fiesta ware dishes and jelly jar glasses. The food was wholesome, a little bland. It was a spot for commuters and a retiree walking group during the week. On weekends they were inundated with corporate earth mothers from Bethesda or Chevy Chase—pretenders who made their kids eat healthy but probably stashed Oreos on the high shelves. Molly saw a little of Sideny in all of them.
Yarrow’s friend Maxx was expanding to another location and rarely came around, which was fine by Molly. Most days she worked with three other people—a baker, a cook, and another counter person named Camille, who, like Molly, wasn’t a dyed-in-the-wool granola type. She was twenty-seven, though her round face and glowing skin made her look younger. She came from a big family that gathered weekly, and she often brought in leftover pasta gooey with cheese and meat to sharewith Molly. Before the bakery job, she’d worked as a cocktail waitress where she said the pay was better, but the hours and the customers way worse. The bakery gave her an excuse to stop wearing a bra during the day, though, when they went out together some nights, she favored a push-up and low-cut shirts. It was her philosophy that Molly was actively trying to embrace—you can be two things at once. “You are not what you eat for breakfast or what you do for a living or what you wear to a club.”
Around Camille, she did what Brenda had suggested before she left—soul-search, let go of expectations. When Camille brought in a flyer for a punk show on U Street, said they should tart it up and go, Molly agreed. The place stunk of spilled beer and White-boy rage. The lead singer from a band called SKAlarship, his spiked hair dyed neon yellow, screamed incomprehensible lyrics with a fake British accent and threw himself into the crowd. When the drunk crowd surfed him back to the stage, it was clear the screaming was from the broken arm he’d suffered in the dive. Molly tugged at Camille, and they fell out into the street, gasping for fresh air in the sweltering heat. “That was fucking awful,” Molly said. “I can absolutely cross punk rocker and punk rock groupie off my career list.”
She felt like Goldilocks. That place was too hot, the Hill bars too cold. They found their favorite hangout in midtown at a bar called The Wren on the second floor of a brownstone with a decent little kitchen and a takeout window below. The bar was long and narrow with a measly row of high tops and otherwise open space. The ceiling fans were propellers, and there was a vague flying theme, leather flight hoods and goggles here and there, framed newspaper articles and pictures of Amelia Earhart nailed to the walls, avian wallpaper behind the deco bar.
Molly liked it there, liked sitting at the bar, talking smart, imagining herself as a person with her shit together. In midtown, she could be fun Molly, nice Molly. She wore dresses in a favorite color like periwinkle blue or persimmon, or the perfect shade of olive green to set off her eyes. The first time she’d kissed anyone since Charlie was at The Wren.
He was very sweet, blond and balding, too short for her. They made out over drinks, and she gave him her number, though he didn’t ask for it. When he called (he really was sweet), it was to say he was Jewish and that his mother wouldn’t approve of her, so even though he liked her and she was pretty, it was pointless to date. She hung up and shrugged, told Yarrow the story.
“What were you drinking?” Yarrow asked.
Molly couldn’t remember. “Maybe 7 and 7?”
Yarrow nodded knowingly, handed Molly a slice of peach. “You should try gin,” she said and left the room.
The night Molly met Leo, The Wren swarmed with G-men. She and Camille staked out a spot at the bar. Molly was about to order her usual and thought about Yarrow’s weird comment. The bartender was almost a friend since they were almost regulars. “I’ll have a gin gimlet,” she said.
“Who are you? My grandmother?” Camille asked. “I’ll have a rum and Coke.”
The drinks came, and Molly sipped hers. It tasted like a kamikaze but without the threat of blackout. Maybe Yarrow was onto something.
“Don’t look now, but there’s a live one behind you,” Camille said, sipping her drink through a thin cocktail straw.
Molly checked him out in the mirror behind the bar. The guy was tall and thin, his nose long and pointed. His skin was clear and flawless, whisker free. He put his arm up to get the bartender’s attention.
Camille leaned in. “You know what they say about a guy’s wingspan ...”
