Nowhere but Home A Novel - By Liza Palmer Page 0,6

say. She attempts a smile.

As I walk to the bank of elevators, I realize that New York has taught me one thing: hatred is not the opposite of love—indifference is. Being forgettable is way worse.

Trust me.

The elevator moans upward as I let the short-lived bliss of putting Sassy Keryn in her place linger for as long as possible.

I slide my key card in and out of the slot as the red light beeps green. Three days until that light no longer turns green. Does today count? Or is it two more days counting this one? I was too busy being a bitch to Keryn to ask. I slip the key card in my back pocket, as I’ve done for the last six months. I sit down on the bench at the end of my bed and watch as New York begins to twinkle just outside my window. It looks so beautiful from here—safe and sound inside. I pull my cell phone out of my pocket, heave a long weary sigh, and dial.

“Too Hot to Handle, this is Fawn.” The breathy voice on the other end is my sister Merry Carole’s longtime business partner and one of the only friends Mom ever had. Rumor has it that Fawn keeps the rhinestone industry in the black.

“Hey, Fawn, it’s Queenie,” I say, kicking off my shoes.

“Hey there, sweetheart. You okay?” Fawn asks, I hear the receiver being muffled and unmuffled as she tucks the phone into the crook of her shoulder, no doubt so she can continue to cut hair.

“Oh, you know. Is Merry Carole busy?”

“She’s always busy, honey. I’ll get her for you.”

“Thank you, ma’am.”

“Don’t mention it, sweetie pie. Merry Carole! It’s Queenie, for you. I don’t know. She doesn’t sound upset. I don’t know! What does . . . I don’t even know what that word means. Why don’t you . . . come on over here and talk to her your own damn self then. I know. I told you I . . . I don’t know. You can . . . sure, I’ll take over, but I gotta finish with Mrs. Beauchamp’s color. No, I . . . she’s got twenty minutes on . . . see right there? Just put her under the dryer then—”

“You all right?” Merry Carole’s voice bursts through the phone, but is muffled as she continues, “I don’t want to hear it, Fawn. You can . . . there’s a dictionary right there, why don’t you look it up yourself? Well, it’s not my fault you don’t know how to spell it. Lord almighty. Queenie? Well, are you okay?”

“I got fired.”

“Again? Heaven sakes, Queenie, you don’t have the sense to come in out of the rain sometimes.” Merry Carole muffles the phone again and continues, “She got fired! I know. She seems fine about it, I guess. What was this one? Six months, right? Some hotel. I don’t even know—honey, how are you about it?”

“It’s fine, you know. Same ol’, same ol’.”

Merry Carole is quiet.

I continue, “I know what you’re thinking, but—”

“Don’t you say this wasn’t your fault, Queen Elizabeth. Don’t you even think it.”

“This jerk-off asked for ketchup and he was going to slather his eggs with it. What was I supposed to do?”

Merry Carole muffles the phone and continues to talk to Fawn. “Some poor man had the nerve to put ketchup on his eggs! Yes, ma’am! Right in front of her! It’s like he didn’t know who he was dealin’ with! I know! Hahahahahahahahahaha!” Merry Carole says through the muffled receiver and the peals of laughter begin.

“It’s not funny!” I say to no one.

“So what are you going to do now? Are you going to stay in New York or are you on to the next city?”

“I haven’t figured that out yet.”

“How long you got?”

“They’ve given me three days.” I look around the room. Open suitcases with clothes strewn from them like blood spatter at a crime scene. I realize I haven’t washed my hair with anything but a fun-size bottle of hotel shampoo in years.

“That’s not a lot of time.”

“I know.” I think about maybe going to Philadelphia. Or Chicago? Maybe I could start fresh. Find something, shit . . . anything. Even in the abstract, I’m having a hard time giving up my dream of being in New York. I’ve wanted to be here my entire life. “New York, New York! If I can make it there I’ll make it anywhere.” Well, what if you can’t make it here?