until it’s hard to breathe and impossible not to sweat. If humidity had a color, it would be gray. London gray. Los Angeles gray. Like smog. But we don’t have smog in Jersey. Not yet, anyway. The only good thing about humidity is that it leads to summer storms, which are a sight to behold.
God’s letting off a little steam, Dad said. He can only take so much. Look what happened to Noah.
As I stand outside Café Louis on the first day of August, I see the color drain from the sky. Clouds don’t really gather for a summer storm. They disperse, actually, running hard and fast from God’s temper tantrum. In their haste to get away, the clouds shed, leaving a blanket of gray in their wake. It makes the sky look like a ceiling.
Next comes the breeze. It’s cool and crisp and smells green from all the trees it has swept through on its way here. The breeze is refreshing, and even though I know it’s a trick, that the breeze is lulling me into a false sense of security, I close my eyes and let it blow through my hair.
Thunder, soft at first. It sounds like the rumbling of a highway under a Mack truck. It’s another warning.
Look out below, Dad said.
The thunder builds, like the rising drumbeat of an orchestra. Then comes the lightning in quick shots, adding the crash of a cymbal to the overture.
The first drops hit my face gently, and I know I should go inside the restaurant. One, two, three drops. Boom. Crash. Four, five, six drops. Boom. Crash.
Then the heavens open and dump water in bucketfuls. Stepping under the awning of the restaurant, I listen to the steady rhythm of the rain bouncing against the concrete steps and the asphalt of the parking lot. It sounds like applause.
Five minutes pass, and I watch, hypnotized. The skies begin to clear before the rain stops. The gray ceiling fades and the sky lightens to a pastel blue. The rain’s intensity abates, quickly slowing to a drizzle. The applause fades. The show is over.
Here comes the sun.
Phoebe Greene
She’s here.
To celebrate Phoebe’s arrival, I have been summoned to Allison’s house in the middle of the day. Because I’m working the dinner shift at Café Louis, I can’t stay for long. If I could, I would glue myself to Phoebe for the duration of her visit. The woman knows how to live, love, and look fabulous.
Allison’s house smells gold, the color of simmering chicken soup. Chicken soup in the summer? Why is Allison doing this to herself?
Walking into the kitchen, I see Phoebe and Allison huddled over the stove, their backs to me. Allison is wearing a black tank top and white skirt with black heels. From behind, I can tell that Allison has styled her hair into fat curls, which her mother prefers. But the humidity and cooking steam have undone most of Allison’s curls and her head is now a mishmash of straight strands and loosening waves.
As for Phoebe, she is a riot of color next to black and white–clad Allison. Phoebe wears a silk top festooned with triangles of jewel-toned blue, green, orange, and red. Her black pants are fitted to her trim waist and hips. Phoebe’s dyed blond hair is teased high, making its drop to her shoulders more dramatic.
“I’m trying to show you the right way to make chicken soup,” Phoebe tells Allison.
Doesn’t Allison know how to make chicken soup? Yes, I’m quite sure she does. Allison’s hair isn’t the only thing approaching a meltdown. She hands her mother a wooden spoon and turns her back on the stove. “Look, Mom. Mimi’s here.”
Phoebe turns to smile at me. Eyes. She had her eyes done.
For the past few years, Phoebe has arrived in Jersey with part of her body newly restructured. She started with a tummy tuck. Breast lift, thigh lipo, arm lipo, butt lift, lower back lipo, chin lipo, laser removal of age spots. Because she has the work done gradually, Phoebe doesn’t look drastically different from visit to visit. But there’s always something. Now it’s her eyes. It doesn’t look like a drastic brow lift. Perhaps it was something on the eyelids. I’ll ask her later. Phoebe is honest about her cosmetic procedures. She considers them to be part of her job as a woman. Maintenance, she calls it.
“Mimi!” Phoebe abandons the stove, leaving Allison free to dump a handful of herbs into the disputed pot. Enrobing me in a