Losing Johnny Read online

  On my side, I decided to put a book together, just like Brandon Stanton did for Humans of New York. I needed a theme, and I liked the whole biker-gang thing, but I wasn’t certain yet.

  There was no doubt mom was still in touch with Thunder. While still on the road, it was more than once that Nicole and I had heard roaring hogs in the middle of the night, only to have Alice slip out of the door until morning. I knew she liked him. Something told me that under all that machoness he was a good guy. He’d never gotten high around us (I don’t even know if he did drugs), and I’d never seen him overly drunk. Oh, sure, he liked his whiskey, but he was more of a nurser than a guzzler.

  Alice had the idea of soliciting wannabe models at various New York colleges, people who’d be willing to have their photo taken simply for the exposure, another cost-saving idea of hers. I was doing three shoots a week now, all in and around New York. And not paying a cent for them. Good business.

  She continued to help with the business’s books, but she wouldn’t give up her job at Pat’s shipping company. It was stable, and paid well (she was back on her most-generous salary again), but she also felt she owed him. He’d helped her out when she’d needed it. Any other employer would have told her to hit the road. But Pat was more than that, he was a family friend. And he’d been a friend to my father.

  -3-

  Friday, May 15

  Nicole had been at the Academy for two weeks. She had come home exhausted and dark-eyed every night. But tonight was party night. One of the more yuppified of the students was hosting a rooftop party in Williamsburg, Brooklyn. (They call them hipsters, but they’re really just Manhattan yuppies in disguise.)

  I brought my camera.

  Nicole introduced me to a bunch of acquaintances and friends. I wasn’t sure yet which were which. I forgot most of the names at first. A dark skinned girl with dyed red hair (I think her name was Tina). A blonde in stilettos who squeaked a lot when she talked (Simone) and who I think had breast implants. A dude who might look like Usher if it weren’t for the glittered nail polish and a fedora. (Devon? Desson? Delon? Something like that.)

  And lots of other people. I had expected more “creative-looking” types, and yes I knew that was looking for stereotypes. But it impressed me how “normal” everyone looked. It was your typical New York cross-section of young people—beanies, beards, no-beards, hoop rings, tattoos, no-tattoos, suits, tees, black, white, gay, straight.

  I’d been taking photos of plenty of college kids in New York, and they’d all had a sort of blasé “the-world-owes-me-for-being-alive” attitude. These NYFA kids seemed really with it. Like they knew what they wanted and were going for it. Like they weren’t just getting some random degree and then “deciding what to do with it later.”

  I decided I liked Nicole’s new group.

  I’m not great in crowds. Put a camera between me and them and I’m happy.

  So that’s what I did.

  As the night went on, Nicole got more tipsy and made her way to the dancefloor. House music thrummed from the speakers, mixed by a live DJ under a white tent. Nicole waved her hands and shouted, ran her fingers through her hair, stuck her ass out. She hadn’t lost it.

  I took some dynamic shots of her. Because the light was low, her hand movements were blurred.

  And it was then that I saw him.

  He looked so much like Johnny from the side that my heart paused. I instinctively took photos of him, snapping away like a stalker while he played the crowd and smiled and stood confidently, talking to girls, guys. Easy-going, a self-assured grin, solid posture.

  Just like Johnny.

  But the more I looked at him, the more the differences came out.

  This guy’s hair was thick black, curled more tightly than Johnny’s. Short. He had one of those casual I-forgot-to-shave beards on him, not too rough. He wore a Nike hoody, gray; faded jeans. He wasn’t big, not buff like Johnny, but dark, more than only a tan. I couldn’t see his eyes from where I was. He was way on the other side, beyond the thick of the crowd. People hovered around him. That blonde from earlier was with him, Simone, clearly flirting. He wasn’t turning her away. People occasionally moved in front of my shutter, and his body was covered. I noticed him looking at me at one stage, and I got a shot of him holding the polystyrene cup to his lips, a grin reaching his eyes, eyeing the camera...

  Snap!

  He nodded at me, lifted his cup. Eyes slitted. Confident. And then he kept on talking to his friends or colleagues.

  I knew this wasn’t healthy.

  Knew it.

  It’s not him, Cat...

  So I turned around and faced Brooklyn itself, not the river, not the skyline, but the dirty street with the occasional splash of graffiti on a brick wall.

  I needed to catch my breath, to stop thinking of Johnny, and to—

  “Hello.” The voice was rough, accented. Not thickly. But there was a hint of it there.

  Just like...

  It was the guy I’d been shooting, I knew it, even though I was looking away from him.

  I couldn’t bring myself to turn. Couldn’t.

  “You took some photos of me. May I look?”

  No, not French. Oh, God, please no, not—

  “You’re Portuguese?” I asked, hands on the brick wall, still looking down and away.

  “You have a good ear. But, technically, no. Brazilian.”

  Well-spoken. Very light accent, hints of British interspersed with the Portuguese.

  And then I did something that welcomed him in, something I knew would put us in conversation for the rest of the night. Something I was fully aware might lead to further confusion about him and J.

  I turned.

  And I spoke to him...in Portuguese.

  “Prazer em te conhecer.” I stuck my hand out and he grabbed it, grinning widely at my phrase. Laughing. His dark eyes wide, excited.

  He shook my hand hard. “Ha ha! Nice to meet you, too. You speak Portuguese?”

  “Bocadinho,” I replied, gesturing with my index and thumb to show just how little indeed.

  It was a lie, of course. I was practically fluent, but I hadn’t heard the language since July. I was a little rusty.

  “I am Tiago. Tiago Espada,” he said, still holding my hand.

  He had two thin scars on his face, left side, not unsightly. They ran from his high cheekbone down to under his scraggly ten-day beard. It looked like a large cat had scratched him there, but not deep.

  No, I realized. It wasn’t a cat.

  They were knife marks.

  His eyes were a rich chestnut, darker than my hair. His black hair was short. His grin...

  Deadly.

  “The Sword,” I said.

  He laughed again. “Yes, Tiago Sword. That’s what my last name means. You are good. You want to speak in English, or Portuguese?”

  Don’t confuse things any more than they already are, Cat. “English. Please. I’m Cat—I mean, Catherine...Ramsey.”

  “Cat? Or Catherine?”

  Pat, Johnny’s dad, used to call me Catty, or Cattehreen, because of his accent.

  “Catherine, or Cathy. Doesn’t matter. Cat’s also fine.” No, it’s not...

  I leaned back against the low wall, sat on it, my heart thumping hard in my chest. Thumping so hard I felt the blood of it in my throat.

  “A Nikon. May I look at it?”

  “Uh, sure.” The strap of the camera got stuck in my hair as I pulled it off. It felt like the camera would slip off my sweaty fingers as I handed it to him.

  He hefted it, looked at it, flicked the power button on, off, aimed it at me. I laughed nervously, and then he shot. “Hey!” The flash blinded my eyes.

  “Stand under the lights there. It’s dark.”

  I hesitated. Then: “Fine!” I moved under a staggeringly bright light.

  He changed the setting, not sure to what. Ink peaked out from under his sleeve as he did it. “Strike a pose!”

  I made some corny po
se of the back of my hand to my forehead, one bent knee, open mouth, and the other hand to my hip.

  The camera clicked.

  He didn’t even look at the display afterwards, which told me he was a professional. “Again.”

  I did another.

  “Blow me a kiss, exaggerated.”

  I did it.

  “Beautiful.”

  Five more shots and then he just stood there, the smile of satisfaction on his face, camera in one hand. “Perfect. We’re done.”

  I swayed over to him, yanked the camera away, almost ripping his neck off because the lanyard was still around him.

  The photos were perfect, in focus despite the dark light, good depth of field. He’d put the setting at manual. A pro.

  “You’ve done this before,” I said.

  “A little.” His mixed accent was sharp on the word little.

  Him standing so close, looking down at me, paused time for a second. No one danced, no one moved, and the beat lingered for a moment too long. I actually felt the heat of him against my skin.

  And then it all came crashing back at once—noise, lights, Nicole’s shrieks of ecstasy.

  “Well, uhm, thank you,” I said, holding the camera idly.

  “You are welcome.”

  We stood there awkwardly for a bit. Correction: I stood there awkwardly. He was still smiling that confident smile of his.

  “So, what brings you to America?” Dumb question! “I mean, what are you majoring in?”

  “Documentary Filmmaking. And I’m not really ‘majoring.’ I’m doing the one year conservatory. But I started taking photos at an early age.”

  “Hence...” I lifted the camera.

  He nodded. “I have taken photos since I was young. Photos of Brazil, the favelas. You know what favelas are?”

  I shook my head.

  “Shanty towns. Lots of gangs and poverty. Makes for interesting shots.”

  I did something with my head that showed I was impressed. In all, there was way too much body movement happening from me. I should just come out and talk to the guy, be relaxed.

  “Well, it was nice meeting you,” I said abruptly, hand out to shake his.

  He frowned slightly. “Uhm, OK?”

  I realized my faux pas, but he grabbed my hand politely, if not firmly.

  He held it, looking at me quizzically. “You have...a boyfriend?”

  Again, he still held my wet, sweating hand—this time only by the fingertips.

  “Uhm, no, I’m just...uhm...”

  “Tiago! I see you’ve met my bestest friend in the whole universe.” Nicole bounded over to us, put her arm around my shoulder and pulled me tightly to her. My fingers fell from Tiago’s. “Do you know she speaks Portageeze?”

  “Y—yes, I...have come to learn that.” His eyes never left mine. I looked down, too embarrassed at my blunder to keep looking at him.

  “You should see some of Tiago’s work, Cat. He’s amazing. When can she see it, Tee?”

  No answer.

  It dawned on Nicole that she’d maybe interrupted something, not sure exactly what. “Oh,” she said. And then, longer, “Ohhhh! Uhm—I—never mind!” She gave me a squeeze on my elbow, then patted my ass. Whispered in my ear, “It’s about time.”

  “Nic—”

  But then she was gone.

  I shook my head, feeling cold despite a warm evening.

  “I’m, uhm, sorry. I—” I ran my hand through my hair. “I—”

  He pushed my chin up with one finger so our eyes met. His own eyes quivered intensely. Dark, dark eyes. Smoldering. “I’ll show you mine and you show me yours?”

  “Huh?”

  “Photos.”

  “Oh.” I smiled. Good joke. I laughed—kind of. It was more of a gasp. “Yeah, yeah, sure. Why...not?” It didn’t have to be romantic, did it? “At the next party, maybe. I’ll bring—”

  “No.” He shook his head. “Sooner.”

  I sighed. He was trying. “Tiago.” My voice was hard. “I’m...not looking...for anything with anyone. You need to know that.”

  “OK.”

  Great. That shot my excuse to shreds.

  “So, this week?” he prompted.

  I had no defense.

  “Fine, uhm, I have a shoot in the city on Wednesday. Or, wait, you could just look at my stuff online—”

  “I want to ask the artist questions while I look.”

  “Fine. Wednesday. I’ll be at Washington Square Park.”

  “Under the arch?”

  “It’s a staple, isn’t it? Every great photographer must do at least one photo shoot under the Arch.”

  “You know Will Smith’s office for the movie I Am Legend was on that very street?”

  “No, I didn’t.”

  “How can you not know it? He turns and he looks at the arch. It fills the frame. Unmissable.”

  “I, uhm, haven’t lived in New York City as such since April. We were up in Long Island for a while. That and, well, I’m not much of a horror fan.”

  “Let me guess... Hmmm... You’re more the romantic comedy type, no?”

  I cocked an eyebrow at him. “Once upon a time, maybe.”

  “Hmmm.” He rubbed his chin, thinking. As he did it, his sleeve pulled down and I got a closer look at the ink there—barbed wire around his right wrist. “So, now you’re into dramas. Romantic dramas. That’s my guess.”

  I didn’t want to give him the satisfaction of having guessed right! So I said nothing.

  “Anyway,” he said, “I didn’t know it either at first—the Will Smith thing. It’s useless trivia you pick up in a filmmaking college. Tell you what, I’ll meet you after your shoot, and then I’ll walk you around New York and show you all the great movie sites.”

  He was pushing, and I felt myself brace up against it. “Tiago,” I begged, shaking my head.

  “OK, OK, I’m sorry. Too forward. Too fast. Photos only. Yours. Mine. Over. OK?”

  His quick understanding of my state of mind made me laugh. “OK. Four o’ clock. I’ll be done at four.”

  “Four. Wednesday. Good. It’s a Not-Date.”

  I was still looking down at his boots when he punched me lightly on the shoulder.

  And then he walked away.

  -4-

  “You bitch. You fuckin bitch!” Nic wasn’t completely wasted. Not completely. But I drove.

  “What?”

  “Tiago freakin Espada? Damn. You always get the hot guys.”

  “I do not. And you can have him.”

  “Damnit.” She bit a nail, mumbled, “Bitch!”

  “Like I said, you can have him. I’m not interested.” And I wasn’t.

  “Why not? You’ve got a camera. He’s got a camera. You speak his lingo. He speaks your lingo. He probably wants to do you from behind, the front, the side—what’s not to want?”

  I rolled my eyes. “I’m seeing him on Wednesday. After the NYU shoot.”

  “No shit?”

  “It’s not a date.”

  -5-

  Still in the car.

  “And? Was he good?” I asked.

  She knew what I was talking about. She’d disappeared for a half hour after leaving me and Tiago. When she’d returned, she was straightening her skirt and no longer had a bra on.

  “I only pick the good ones,” she said.

  “Guy from school?”

  “Fuck that. I learned in high school to avoid getting involved with boys from the same school. Only leads to heartbreak.”

  “Heartbreak?”

  “Sure, I was heartbroken when Johnny dumped me for you.”

  “Yeah, right.”

  “Of course I was.” She sounded very unconvincing. “Losing the most popular guy in school is heartbreaking.”

  “Oh, so your heart wasn’t broken because you loved him.”

  “Everybody loved Johnny. Just not the way you did.”

  Silence for a second.

  “Sorry,” she said, “that slippe
d out.”

  “It’s cool. So, you gonna see him again—this guy from tonight?”

  “Who said it’s a guy?” I almost swerved off the street! “Damn, chill, sister. I’m only kidding. Nah, I’m not gonna see him. But he was good. Damn good.”

  “Where did you do it?”

  “Bathroom.”

  “Gross.”

  “Bathroom sex is hot. Especially when the bathroom’s clean.”

  “Was it clean?”

  “Impeccably.”

  “You go down on him?”

  “Of course.”

  “He use protection?”

  Pause. “When I went down on him, or when he stuck it in me?”

  “Urgh. Do you think you could at least use a little style when talking about this shit?”

  “Catherine Ramsey, you have come a long way from the prude you used to be, I must give you that. But you still have your buttons. OK, I’ll try be a little more stylish.”

  “Thank you.”

  “Uhm, I...went down on him...without protection.”

  I glared at her.

  “What?” she bellowed.

  “Didn’t those documentaries from the eighties teach you anything?”

  “Damn, Cat. Do you know how vile a condom tastes? Besides, I gave him a once-over. All looked good down there.”

  I shook my head. “That’s just dumb, Nic. Dumb.”

  “OK, fine, you’re right. And I know, I got a little carried away, OK?”

  “You need to get a steady boyfriend. Then you can go down on him all you want without a rubber.”

  “Look who’s talking.”

  Touché.

  “Did you mingle with anyone else other than Tiago?” she asked.

  “No, not really.” Nicole knew I wasn’t the mingly type.

  “Hid behind your camera?”

  “Pretty much.”

  “I’m sure you made an enemy out of Simone.”

  “Simone?”

  “The cross between Anna Nicole Smith and Paris Hilton?”

  “Oh yeah, her. Why would I make an enemy out of her?”

  “She’s the ‘hottest’ girl in school.” She made the air quotes. “You know, the prom queen type. She wanted to get with the prom king.”