Free Will You Won't You Want Me?: A Novel by Nora Zelevansky

not say) with Pickles—who, pregnant at the time, craved deep-fried food but would sooner subject her unborn child to anthrax than processed treats—to Williamsburg’s gourmet vegan donut shop, Dun-Well. (Being first to visit a new Brooklyn culinary destination was social currency for Pickles, who would return to her Upper East Side mommy group with boxes of “healthy” artisanal peach chamomile and green tea donuts.) Young hipsters had roamed past in outfits that had lapped ironic and become earnest again: neon ankle socks, suspenders, retro lanyard bracelets obscuring inner wrist tattoos, even top hats.
    Marjorie figured she could handle Williamsburg. But Fred’s address seemed to be in a totally different and unknown neighborhood: Carroll Gardens.
    So far, admittedly, even the subway platform was comparatively nice. Beneath requisite filth, white tiles shined. Exiting passengers looked like-minded and roughly her age, with earbuds firmly planted in their ears and their noses in paperbacks. Main drag, Smith Street, was dotted with independent storefronts; President grew more idyllic as she walked, following her iPhone’s directions.
    By the time Marjorie reached Fred’s building, a quaint gray-blue row house with a bright red door and maple tree out front, she’d started to wonder if she’d been transported: Was this Portland, Oregon? Madison, Wisconsin? Why was it all so … pretty?
    She was studying the buzzer, trying to recall Fred’s last name, when a stout older woman in a track suit, with hair dyed so black it was blue, barreled out the door, wielding her Louis Vuitton knockoff purse like a weapon.
    “Who you lookin’ fawr?” It wasn’t so much a question as an accusation. Marjorie was still in New York, after all.
    “Fred!” the Manhattanite squeaked.
    “Figures. Top of the stayas.” She held the door open. Marjorie slid inside, as the woman disappeared down the street, a charging bull.
    The building was simple but well maintained. Climbing to the second-floor landing, Marjorie wondered if taking the stairs daily might tone her butt (a silver lining!). There was no obvious doorbell; she knocked.
    “One second, one second!” shouted a muffled voice from inside.
    Marjorie heard a bang, a curse, then heavy footsteps. The door swung open to reveal … no one. She shifted her gaze downward and laid her eyes on a tiny waif of a girl with a pixie cut, wearing what looked like a vintage evening gown and motorcycle boots.
    “Hi,” said Marjorie, wondering if she had the wrong apartment. “I’m looking for Fred?”
    “You found me!”
    “You’re Fred?”
    “In the flesh!” The girl fluttered like a moth. “Fred. Short for Fredericka, which is a mouthful, so no one calls me that. Did you think I was a boy? Are you disappointed? It’s misleading.”
    Not waiting for an answer, Fred ushered Marjorie down a hallway, yanking the door closed behind them. “It doesn’t shut unless you slam it. Rule numero uno de la casa: Slam the door! It makes Roberta mad, but that’s just an added bonus!”
    “Roberta?”
    “The woman who lives downstairs. Dark hair, nasty snarl, yea big.” Fred drew her arms up into a large circle. The gesture felt descriptive rather than mean-spirited, as if it never occurred to Fred that calling someone “fat” would be offensive.
    “I think I met her outside.”
    “Probably. She’s no problem. All bark, no bite. She brings me homemade Italian cookies twice a week. The ones with the pine nuts, you know? I haven’t had the heart to tell her I’m allergic to almonds, and they’re just thick with marzipan. It kills her that I’m small. She thinks I don’t eat!”
    Fred did look a bit like a child playing dress-up. Marjorie felt obliged to respond, though she had nothing to add, “I like cookies.” She sounded like an idiot. Fred didn’t seem to notice.
    “Come in, come in. Welcome to ‘the Hellhole.’ No, just kidding, but I haven’t had the chance to clean in