Free Brooklyn Girls by Gemma Burgess

munching on the ricotta and honey sandwiches.
    “So where are you from, princess?” says Jonah, his mouth full of food. “Ricky and Vinnie told me all about you, said you were European, but I thought you were Indian or Pakistani or something.”
    Or something? “Uh, I was born in the States. We moved countries a lot, if that’s what you mean,” I say, as we pass a stall selling antique mirrors that would look really cute in the hallway at Rookhaven. I should come back when I have money. If I ever have money.
    “Oh, yeah? That’s gotta be weird.”
    I roll out the usual responses. “School is school, no matter where you are. Study hall, after-school clubs, homework.…”
    “You never went to school in the States?”
    “Yes, I did. From twelve onward I went to boarding school here … three, actually.” I pick up some jewelry made from old typewriter parts. “Cool, look at this stuff!”
    “Three? Dude, that is seriously weird! Where are your parents from?”
    Weird . Again . How can I possibly ever feel like I belong anywhere when people always point out that I’m different? “My mother is from India. My dad’s from Switzerland, but he lived in the States for, like, thirty years. He’s a lot older than my mother.”
    “Is that why your eyes are green? From your dad?”
    “I guess.” My eyes are a funny jade color; when I was growing up everyone thought they were contacts and I’d have to practically poke my eye out to prove they weren’t.
    “So you speak, like, three languages?”
    “Not really.”
    “So, like, where is home?”
    I fight the urge to groan. “Wherever I lay my hat, baby.” It’s one of my standard responses to that unanswerable question. I don’t know where home is. Why does everyone care about home so much? Because once they know where your home is, they think they know who you are?
    “Man, your life is freaky.”
    “Mmmhmmm.” I start looking through vintage fur coats. I can never explain what it is like to be me. Only Eddie ever really understood me, and he rejected me.
    God, this conversation is depressing me.
    “You must miss your parents a lot.”
    “Uh, yeah…” I never miss anyone, I’m just used to saying good-bye. But people think you’re so cold and hard when you say that.
    “And I bet you were one of the popular girls at all your schools.”
    “Yeah. I was a total Heather.”
    Okay, so I sort of hung out with the popular crowd, but I was never really one of them. How could I be? Those girls had been wearing the same clothes, getting the same highlights, taking the same vacations to the Hamptons and Martha’s Vineyard since they were born. I just didn’t fit in: the color of my skin was different, my clothes were different, everything. The only way to survive was to float above the fray, without being an outcast, and that meant always looking like I was happy, no matter what. And then I met calm, steady Eddie, and real happiness was easy. For a while.
    Jonah picks up a pith helmet and tries it on. Nice biceps. For a second I imagine licking his arms, imagine him on top of me in bed … I wonder if it is normal to fantasize about sex with dudes I’m not romantically interested in. Julia would say no. Angie would say yes.
    “I’m hungry again,” says Jonah. “Wanna split a hot dog? Double ketchup! I once drank a gallon of ketchup for a bet. I won!”
    And phloof ! My Jonah sex fantasy is gone. Just then I see Angie about twenty-five feet away, in a tiny blue tea dress, holding the arm of an older Euro-trashy guy I’ve never seen before. Probably French, from the looks of his slightly too-short jeans.
    Just as I’m about to shout to get her attention, Angie slaps him across the cheek. He pushes her hand away sharply and says something dismissive. Then she shoves him away from her so hard that he takes a step back. I can’t hear what she’s saying, but the last three words are very clear because she’s shouting them at the top of her lungs. Go fuck