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The Gypsy’s Niece
Chapter 11

October 1 is circled on my Michelangelo calendar: Harper’s birthday. A date which has needed much preparation(from her and me), as her mother, Dana, has arranged a huge celebration for her at Dana’ favorite country club
Despite my outspokenness,  Dana nevertheless told Harper she could invite five people, and didn’t say anything about me being taboo. Harper has picked the most incompatible group(Raphael, Heath, Will, Jen, and I)
Yeah. Me and Jen? Will and Heath? I wasn’t kidding about the mental preparation. I have given up on arguments, which have gone something like this:

Me:  But WHY are you inviting Heath?! You told me you were thinking of breaking up with him! You DON’T EVEN LIKE HIM!
H: Because I have to. And Mom likes him. That’s really all that matters.

Or,

Me: But WHY are you inviting Jen? You told me you can’t stand her!
H: Because she loves this crap. Meaning she’ll babble about it, and all I’ll have to do is smile and nod.

Or,

Me: (curiously) Why are you inviting Will?
H: (lamely) Because he’s your friend. (Defensively) God, Nadya. What do you think?
Me: What do YOU think I think?
H: Shut up.

All those arguments have led to now:
Harper and I in custom-made gowns(My aunt sewed mine, which is a deep red covered in scintillating black lace in a crafted rose pattern, Harper’s was measured by a professional with the style directed by her mother: thus a short, peach-colored number with a sweetheart neckline) backstage with a plan that only we(and Raphael, who’s going to work the stereo) know.
Jen, apparently is at one of the numerous tables with their fancy-shmancy tablecloths(if you spill anything you are DEAD) with some date. Heath is also at one of the numerous tables, waiting for Harper, and Will is not here yet, or nowhere to be seen, the loser.
Harper’s twirling a piece of hair around her finger, which I have begun to recognize as a nervous habit.
I swat her hand.
“Stop it. You should chill out. It’s your Sweet Sixteen, for Christ’s sake.”
“This should help me chill out,” she says, whipping out a silver flask from her cleavage, taking a swig of some strong-smelling liquid. I just stare at her, dumbfounded. She rolls her eyes.
“Whatever, Nadya. I’m gonna need that for what we’re about to do.”
She determinedly puts it back.
“You know…” I start out cautiously. “We don’t HAVE to do this.”
“But I WANT TO. So I’ll just have to stop thinking about everyone else.”
I check the time on my interminable watch.
“You ready?”
“Pssh,” she waves a hand at me, “who starts when they’re ready, anyway?”
“That’s the spirit,” I respond dryly.
We come out of the stage to a myriad of faces, too many to really pick apart. Harper takes a mike, and I take the one to the left of her.
“Hello, everyone,” she greets her glittering populace with a one-finger-at-a-time wave.
“Happy Sweet 16, Harper!” they shout good-naturedly. I find Dana’s smiling face nearby, Martin at her elbow. She’s taking pictures, and I keep getting spots in my vision. I blink hard, a futile attempt to make them vanish.
“Well,” she says, laughing nervously, “you see, the thing is, I had a speech planned. But you know what? I actually hate it. So I have another thing planned.”
Dana blanches white and ceases with the flashes. Harper plows on.
“…which I will complete with my good friend, Nadya Bashalde,” she finishes, gesturing towards me.
My name is his cue.
Harper and I have everything worked, out, from the dancing to the 16 “hellos” exchanged between verses.

Me: Load up on guns
Bring your friends
It’s fun to lose
And to pretend
H: She’s overboard
Myself assured
I know I know
A dirty word…
Me: Hello…

Shocked faces greet us. Thank God there are some teens out there up for head banging; rushing to the dance floor as their chaperones stare after them

H: With the lights out,
Me: It’s less dangerous!
H: Here we are now,
Me: Entertain us!
H: A mulatto
Me: An albino
H: A mosquito
Me: My libido
Unison: Yea!
H: I’m worse at what I do best
And for this gift, I feel blessed
Me: Our little group has always been
And always will until the end
H: Hello…

I see girls in dresses, dangerously lifting up skirts, twirling to guys in tuxes, in motion, back and forth like a rocked-out, excited pendulum. They’re mainly in pastels, so they look like innocently decked-out, rebellious flowers. The atmosphere is tinged with defiance, and parents don’t know what to do, they’re frozen, sitting there with their champagne glasses in hand.
It’s a beautiful thing.

Me:…with the lights out,
H: It’s less dangerous!
Me: Here we are now
H: Entertain us!
Me: I feel stupid and contagious!
H: Here we are now
Me: Entertain us!
H: A mulatto
Me: An albino
H: A mosquito
Me: My libido
Unison: Yea

Untraditionally(considering the content of the song) we both curtsy to a mix of thunderous(dance-floor) and meek(who do you think?) applause. I finally spot Will, in an un-tucked(shocker of the millennium) button-down shirt, holding something behind his back, smiling, looking at Harper. She sees him and looks back.
Desperately, I look at Heath and scream at him in my head, “Do NOT look over there at Will, do not, do not, do not…”
Thank God he doesn’t. He’s not even looking at Harper’s curtsy, just at his watch. I’m sure she really appreciates the support. Heath’s not even clapping. I mean, neither is Will, but at least he’s looking at her. And I’m sure he would if he could.
“Now I would suggest you all eat!” I joke into the microphone, as Harper is rendered speechless. They all laugh, and we exit backstage, slowly.
“I can believe he’s here,” she says once we’re behind the velvet curtains.
“Duh…you invited him.”
“Oh, right. That.”
Will is there backstage, leaning against the wall. He springs up when he sees us coming, long, mussed dark hair springing up(I swear his and Raphael’s time spent together has made them look like brothers…though they also look very different). He smiles shyly at Harper(like his smile is a permanent fixation, like he’ll never stop), she smiles shyly back, and the moment is so private(despite the fact that they’re not even touching each other) that I have to look down at my nails in a pretend-nonchalant manner.
At the same time, I can’t help resisting a peek.
Revealing a two roses, white and red and fat, and the tape he totally by himself compiled of songs for her(okay, maybe I helped a LITTLE), mainly but not limited to radio favorites. I hope she gets the messages in there that I aided him in encrypting.
He bites his lip as he gives them to Harper.
“Happy birthday.”
“Thanks, Will.”
I resort to looking down at my shoes now, studying the shininess of my strappy  sandals and the height of the heel.
“No problem.”
“I mean it. Thanks. Do you have your pocket-knife, Nadya?”
What?
“Um…yeah,” I say, pulling it out of its hiding spot in my bra, pulling it out of its ivory sheath, and handing it to her.
She proceeds to cut the stems and puts the flowers in her hair, puts the tape in the purse she left backstage, and hugs him.
Shit. If his eyes bug out any more from his head they’re going to pop out onto the floor. But he also has a sort of happiness about him, as well, as he hugs her back.
This whole thing is making me so depressed! Why do they both have to be such complete IDIOTS? Why must I condone this behavior?
They pull apart and she gives him a little wave goodbye that is almost childish in it simplicity. Resignation dawns on his face.
“I’m…sorry, really. But I have to go now, you know. Duty calls.”
He nods, and everything in the air feels more full. Tense.
“Okay.”
He leaves and disappears out the exit, not wanting to stay at a party with the elite, at least, not if he can’t be there with her.
“Nineteen,” she whispers.
“What?”
“His steps.”
“You counted his steps?”
“Nooo…”
“So a magical fairy told you how many steps he took? Just because?”
“Sure.”
“When are you going to start admitting things to yourself.”
“I don’t know…”
She stares at the closed door, giving me a flashback of Will staring at the door she walked out of after her “Yeah, my life is SO perfect” rant.
“We should probably go now,” she says with a certain amount of melancholy. If she’s so sad that he’s leaving, why did she pretty much dismiss him?
“C’mon. Let’s go break some hearts,” I reply in my do-anything tone.
Harper winces.
“Sorry, wrong term?”
She nods.
“Well, then…let’s go kick some ass.”
“I like that.”
I pull her arm and we go to greet the crowds, a result, we both know, of someone’s wishes. But maybe we just have to carry out people’s wishes sometimes, and can only remember that it’ll be over soon.

Heath is linking arms with Harper, I stand by her other side, refusing to desert her, though she clearly told me, “You don’t have to suffer with me, Nadya.” I’m drinking some of the offered sparkling cider spiked with Harper’s vodka(ahem…not offered by the waiters), and she’s right. It fuzzes the edges a bit and makes it all a bit more bearable, but I also miss my clarity, despite the pain of listening to a thousand people ask her the same thousand questions and say the same comments.
A standard conversation is as follows:

Random Wife #25: Hello, Harper, dear. Happy birthday!
Harper: Thank you.
Random Husband #25: And who’s this fellow with you(gesturing towards Heath)?
Heath: I’m Heath.(takes out his hand to shake) I dearly hope you’ll vote me in for president, sir. I mean, just look at my white teeth!(Okay, he doesn’t really say that last sentence. But he might as well.)
Random Wife #25: And you’re Nadya, right?
Me: Yep.
Random Wife #25: What an unusual name.
Me: I guess.
Random Wife #25: Tell me, dear…is it foreign?
Me: It’s Romanian, ma’am.
Random Wife #25: Don’t call me that, please, darling…it makes me feel old. Call me Holly.
Me: All right then, Holly.
“Holly“: Romanian…why yes! You have such lovely dark skin. And your hair is so black and shiny.(touches it) And smooth too!
Me: (not spoken aloud)Get your hand the hell away from my hair!(aloud) Gee. Thanks.
Dana: (popping out of nowhere) Yes, but Harper’s hair is the longest(We all proceed to look at Harper’s golden mane, which is does indeed cascade down to her waist). It’s 20 inches!(like she’s a horse or something? Harper glowers at her)
“Holly”: It’s just beautiful
Dana: Isn’t it?(she leaves to talk to someone else_
Random Husband #25: So what colleges are you considering, Harper?
Harper: Well-
Heath: RIC, of course! We’ll be going together.
“Holly”: That’s nice. I just love-
Me: Excuse me(I glare at Heath). Is your name Harper?
Heath: What?
Me: Yeah, I didn’t think so. So don’t answer for her.
Random Husband #25: (emit’s a short bark of laughter) What feistiness! You’ve got spirit, girl! You’re a…what is the term(snaps fingers impatiently, like this will make him remember it)…a free spirit! That’s it!(A “free spirit”, eh? Well, we all know what THAT means: I apparently take hallucinatory drugs.)
Harper: (winks at me in thanks) I was actually thinking about Sarah Lawrence, or maybe Berkeley. Not the one in California, the one in Boston. It’s especially for music.
Heath: (accusingly)  You never told me about this.
Harper: (angrily) Well, I don’t tell you everything, Heath.
Heath: (face reddening) What’s THAT supposed to mean?
“Holly”: (laughs nervously) Oh dear. I hope there’s not trouble in paradise.
Me: (dryly) What paradise?
Random Husband #25: (obviously attempting to distract us) Those are rather creative choices, Harper. Are you sure they’re realistic?
Harper: Degrees give jobs. What’s so unrealistic about that?
Random Husband #25: Well-
“Holly”: I say! Are you sure these lyrics are appropriate, Harper?
(We all listen more attentively to the song, “Love Shack” by the B-52’s
“Bang bang bang on the door baby!
Knock a little louder baby!
Bang bang bang on the door baby!
I can't hear you “)
Harper: I picked the song out…
Me: (jumping to her aid) Is music not art?
Random Husband #25: Well yes, I suppose it is, but what does that have to do with anything?
Me: It clearly represents the 60’s…
Harper: (getting into it) Yeah, where the hippies were all about “make love not war” during Vietnam.
Me: So the song being about a shack where everyone makes love, going on about people banging on a door, would be quite appropriate.
Random Husband #25: You have a point, but-
Me: Even when they’re talking about “fucking in a shack“, it would be a philistine who couldn’t see that it didn’t contribute to its art form.
*crickets*
Harper: (quietly but audibly) Um…Nadya, the line is “funk-y little shack” Not…
Me: Oh. Well. Still. It’s pretty much the same all-around general idea.
“Holly”: I see…
Random Husband #52: We’re going to go off to visit your parents, Harper. Have a good night.
Harper: Yes, you too.

And on and on and on.
What especially got to Harper, I could tell, was the hair. Every time her mother popped up to boast of all of its 20 inches, she would tense up a bit more. By the end of the night I was afraid she would spring out like a coiled-up snake.
Harper hisses in my ear, “Can I come over to your house Saturday?”
“Uh…sure.”
“Thanks.”

I can tell it’s Bibio knocking on my bedroom door, she has a very distinct knock: five hard, firm, no-nonsense fist-against-the-doors.
“Can I come in?”
“Yeah*.”
She does, shaking her hand free of dust.
“You need to dust that knob, Nadya.”
I roll off my bed from a fit of uncontrollable giggles.
“What?”
“You-said-NOB!” I choke out, still giggling, my quilt tangled on the floor.
She rolls her eyes at me. I’m surprised those eye-rolling muscles haven’t gotten tired, she does this to me daily. It’s like her Nadya-you’re-being-ridiculous trademark.
“SO juvenile, my Penyaki*.”
“Can I help you?
“Harper’s here.”
“K’.”
I bound out the door and down the stairs, Bibio shaking her head at me all the way down. I skip the squeaky stair for old time’s sake, though we’re not enemies anymore. Just old friends whose acquaintance is still somewhat awkward. We acknowledge each other but don’t speak.
Yes, I have a philosophy on a stair. Go away.
Harper’s waiting at the bottom of the stairs, so I screech to a halt. My aunt goes down and calls out to Harper, “You want some tea, honey?”
“Um, yeah. Thank you.” She starts going up the stairs. “Can you call us when it’s done?”
“Of course.”

We both sit cross legged on my bed, listening to Aero smith’s  “Permanent Vacaction”:

“I got a letter from a friend the other day
He say it hot down by Montego Bay
I got the point and now I think it’s finally
Dawning
Yeah, yeah I got to get away”

“I hate my hair,” she moans, face down on my extra-fluffy pillow.
“You hate your gorgeous hair?”
“No, I like my HAIR…”
“Well that makes perfect sense, Harper. Really.”
“But not the way it is.”
“What do you mean?”
She sits up.
“Tell me one nice thing about it.”
“Other than the color, the texture, the perfection…”
“No, I mean about the length.”
Oh.
“Well, um, it…it…(she grills me with her eyes)…it makes you look like a frickin’ princess!” I blurt out.
In an “ah-ha” fashion, she points a finger at me.
“You see? You see?! That’s exactly the problem! I don’t want to look like a frickin’ princess! I don’t want my Mom to measure my hair! I don’t want all my stupid parent’s friends to stroke it lovingly like I’m a cat that’s up for grabs to pet!”
“I understand where you’re coming from, that sucked, I know, I watched it, but what do you want ME to do about it?”
Leaping from my bed, she begins a relentless search.
“Where the fuck could they possibly be?” she mutters, shoving everything around on my desk. “God, why do you have to be so goddamn disorganized?”
“Gee, I don’t know, Harper. Maybe I just decided that so I could annoy you so much you explode and leave Harper-guts all over my desk, which you are tearing apart, by the way.”
She ignores this and asks, “You’re good with your hands, right? You’re an artist and you do henna and draw and do face painting and have an eye with detail, right?”
“Yeeees…”
Finally, she pulls out something behind my tin cup filled with colored pencils.
“Here are the little suckers.”
She holds a pair of green scissors with shaped handles and elongated silver sharp things, cuts thin air, interrupting the song with a  “snip snip”.
“NO, Harper, okay? Just no.”
“Please? Please, please, please?”
“No.”
“I’ll be your best friend!”
“You’re already my best friend. Well, one of them, anyway.”
“Please?! It would be the best birthday present ever!”
“Jesus Christ, Harper, I already got you a silver bangle, a drawn portrait, and a henna tattoo of a rose on your shoulder.”
“But….but…I mean, those were fantastic gifts, don’t get me wrong…but…but…please?!”
I sigh, already feeling myself giving in.
“Fine.”
She claps her hands with delight.
“Yaaay! I love you! You rock!”
She hugs me, which is insane since she’s not really the touchy-feely type. We’ve only hugged about two times.
Wait…I see a way I can use this to my advantage.
“On one condition.”
“Anything.”
Heh heh heh.
“You must promise you will do something you keep on saying you’ll do but don’t.”
“Um…”
“Break up with Heath.”
She takes a sharp intake of breath, but doesn’t weaken her resolve.
“Okay.”
I hear Bibio calling up to us.
“Tea’s up.”
“Thanks,” I yell back, then turn to Harper and say, “After we’re done.”

I hold the scissors out to her long hair.
“Are you SURE you want to do this?
“Totally.”
“How short do you want it?”
“I’ll let you be the judge of that.”

When I’m done, it’s slightly below her ears and in layers. It looks pretty good, if I do say so myself. Pixie-ish and wild, not at all like her previous Rapunzel mommy’s-girl do. It suits her real personality, the one she keeps hidden at school and home, the one she reveals when hanging out with me. It looks like she could be anyone.
I give her my round wooden mirror.
“Do you like it?”
She shakes her head rapidly, her layers shooting out, laughing.
“I love it.”
I smile proudly.
“Thank you so much.”
“No problem.”
While she’s still admiring her hair, I say, cautiously, “Can I say something?”
“Depends.”
Silence.
“I think Will will like it, too.”
I close my eyes to save myself from her wrath.
“Nadya-”
“No, no, no!” I spread my arms out. “Just let me have my moment.”
“Can I ask YOU something, for a change?”
I open my eyes, this IS a change. She is hardly as interrogating as I am.
“Go ahead.”
“You know, with Raphael…I mean, he would literally take a bullet for you…that devotion, so intense…does it like, scare you sometimes? Knowing it’s so unconditional, and that no matter what happens, he’ll always love you?”
She is so dead-on right it’s scary.
“Yes, actually…sometimes. Like I’m afraid I can never fully reciprocate it. But it’s also nice, too, in a way. It makes you feel warm. You’d think love should feel like honey on your lips all the time, but sometimes it is scary. Sometimes it hurts. Sometimes it feels a dagger on your skin. But that all sort of goes with it.”
She is quiet for a very long time. Long enough that I can hear the house breathing, hear each tick of my watch.
“You know what, Harper?”
“What?”
“I think Will would give you the same devotion. If you gave him a chance. I think that’s what scares you, what’s prevented you from leaving Heath.”
“Yeah…it’s easier sometimes to have no possibility of getting what you want then to be close to it.”
I tug at her hair.
“Hey. You had the guts to ask for this. I think you can do it.”
Stretching, she lies back on the bed.
“You know what, Nadya?”
I grin.
“What?”
“I think I can, too.”

Description
The Gypsy’s Niece
Chapter 11

October 1 is circled on my Michelangelo calendar: Harper’s birthday. A date which has needed much preparation(from her and me), as her mother, Dana, has arranged a huge celebration for her at Dana’ favorite country club
Despite my outspokenness,  Dana nevertheless told Harper she could invite five people, and didn’t say anything about me being taboo. Harper has picked the most incompatible group(Raphael, Heath, Will, Jen, and I)
Yeah. Me and Jen? Will and Heath? I wasn’t kidding about the mental preparation. I have given up on arguments, which have gone something like this:

Me:  But WHY are you inviting Heath?! You told me you were thinking of breaking up with him! You DON’T EVEN LIKE HIM!
H: Because I have to. And Mom likes him. That’s really all that matters.

Or,

Me: But WHY are you inviting Jen? You told me you can’t stand her!
H: Because she loves this crap. Meaning she’ll babble about it, and all I’ll have to do is smile and nod.

Or,

Me: (curiously) Why are you inviting Will?
H: (lamely) Because he’s your friend. (Defensively) God, Nadya. What do you think?
Me: What do YOU think I think?
H: Shut up.

All those arguments have led to now:
Harper and I in custom-made gowns(My aunt sewed mine, which is a deep red covered in scintillating black lace in a crafted rose pattern, Harper’s was measured by a professional with the style directed by her mother: thus a short, peach-colored number with a sweetheart neckline) backstage with a plan that only we(and Raphael, who’s going to work the stereo) know.
Jen, apparently is at one of the numerous tables with their fancy-shmancy tablecloths(if you spill anything you are DEAD) with some date. Heath is also at one of the numerous tables, waiting for Harper, and Will is not here yet, or nowhere to be seen, the loser.
Harper’s twirling a piece of hair around her finger, which I have begun to recognize as a nervous habit.
I swat her hand.
“Stop it. You should chill out. It’s your Sweet Sixteen, for Christ’s sake.”
“This should help me chill out,” she says, whipping out a silver flask from her cleavage, taking a swig of some strong-smelling liquid. I just stare at her, dumbfounded. She rolls her eyes.
“Whatever, Nadya. I’m gonna need that for what we’re about to do.”
She determinedly puts it back.
“You know…” I start out cautiously. “We don’t HAVE to do this.”
“But I WANT TO. So I’ll just have to stop thinking about everyone else.”
I check the time on my interminable watch.
“You ready?”
“Pssh,” she waves a hand at me, “who starts when they’re ready, anyway?”
“That’s the spirit,” I respond dryly.
We come out of the stage to a myriad of faces, too many to really pick apart. Harper takes a mike, and I take the one to the left of her.
“Hello, everyone,” she greets her glittering populace with a one-finger-at-a-time wave.
“Happy Sweet 16, Harper!” they shout good-naturedly. I find Dana’s smiling face nearby, Martin at her elbow. She’s taking pictures, and I keep getting spots in my vision. I blink hard, a futile attempt to make them vanish.
“Well,” she says, laughing nervously, “you see, the thing is, I had a speech planned. But you know what? I actually hate it. So I have another thing planned.”
Dana blanches white and ceases with the flashes. Harper plows on.
“…which I will complete with my good friend, Nadya Bashalde,” she finishes, gesturing towards me.
My name is his cue.
Harper and I have everything worked, out, from the dancing to the 16 “hellos” exchanged between verses.

Me: Load up on guns
Bring your friends
It’s fun to lose
And to pretend
H: She’s overboard
Myself assured
I know I know
A dirty word…
Me: Hello…

Shocked faces greet us. Thank God there are some teens out there up for head banging; rushing to the dance floor as their chaperones stare after them

H: With the lights out,
Me: It’s less dangerous!
H: Here we are now,
Me: Entertain us!
H: A mulatto
Me: An albino
H: A mosquito
Me: My libido
Unison: Yea!
H: I’m worse at what I do best
And for this gift, I feel blessed
Me: Our little group has always been
And always will until the end
H: Hello…

I see girls in dresses, dangerously lifting up skirts, twirling to guys in tuxes, in motion, back and forth like a rocked-out, excited pendulum. They’re mainly in pastels, so they look like innocently decked-out, rebellious flowers. The atmosphere is tinged with defiance, and parents don’t know what to do, they’re frozen, sitting there with their champagne glasses in hand.
It’s a beautiful thing.

Me:…with the lights out,
H: It’s less dangerous!
Me: Here we are now
H: Entertain us!
Me: I feel stupid and contagious!
H: Here we are now
Me: Entertain us!
H: A mulatto
Me: An albino
H: A mosquito
Me: My libido
Unison: Yea

Untraditionally(considering the content of the song) we both curtsy to a mix of thunderous(dance-floor) and meek(who do you think?) applause. I finally spot Will, in an un-tucked(shocker of the millennium) button-down shirt, holding something behind his back, smiling, looking at Harper. She sees him and looks back.
Desperately, I look at Heath and scream at him in my head, “Do NOT look over there at Will, do not, do not, do not…”
Thank God he doesn’t. He’s not even looking at Harper’s curtsy, just at his watch. I’m sure she really appreciates the support. Heath’s not even clapping. I mean, neither is Will, but at least he’s looking at her. And I’m sure he would if he could.
“Now I would suggest you all eat!” I joke into the microphone, as Harper is rendered speechless. They all laugh, and we exit backstage, slowly.
“I can believe he’s here,” she says once we’re behind the velvet curtains.
“Duh…you invited him.”
“Oh, right. That.”
Will is there backstage, leaning against the wall. He springs up when he sees us coming, long, mussed dark hair springing up(I swear his and Raphael’s time spent together has made them look like brothers…though they also look very different). He smiles shyly at Harper(like his smile is a permanent fixation, like he’ll never stop), she smiles shyly back, and the moment is so private(despite the fact that they’re not even touching each other) that I have to look down at my nails in a pretend-nonchalant manner.
At the same time, I can’t help resisting a peek.
Revealing a two roses, white and red and fat, and the tape he totally by himself compiled of songs for her(okay, maybe I helped a LITTLE), mainly but not limited to radio favorites. I hope she gets the messages in there that I aided him in encrypting.
He bites his lip as he gives them to Harper.
“Happy birthday.”
“Thanks, Will.”
I resort to looking down at my shoes now, studying the shininess of my strappy  sandals and the height of the heel.
“No problem.”
“I mean it. Thanks. Do you have your pocket-knife, Nadya?”
What?
“Um…yeah,” I say, pulling it out of its hiding spot in my bra, pulling it out of its ivory sheath, and handing it to her.
She proceeds to cut the stems and puts the flowers in her hair, puts the tape in the purse she left backstage, and hugs him.
Shit. If his eyes bug out any more from his head they’re going to pop out onto the floor. But he also has a sort of happiness about him, as well, as he hugs her back.
This whole thing is making me so depressed! Why do they both have to be such complete IDIOTS? Why must I condone this behavior?
They pull apart and she gives him a little wave goodbye that is almost childish in it simplicity. Resignation dawns on his face.
“I’m…sorry, really. But I have to go now, you know. Duty calls.”
He nods, and everything in the air feels more full. Tense.
“Okay.”
He leaves and disappears out the exit, not wanting to stay at a party with the elite, at least, not if he can’t be there with her.
“Nineteen,” she whispers.
“What?”
“His steps.”
“You counted his steps?”
“Nooo…”
“So a magical fairy told you how many steps he took? Just because?”
“Sure.”
“When are you going to start admitting things to yourself.”
“I don’t know…”
She stares at the closed door, giving me a flashback of Will staring at the door she walked out of after her “Yeah, my life is SO perfect” rant.
“We should probably go now,” she says with a certain amount of melancholy. If she’s so sad that he’s leaving, why did she pretty much dismiss him?
“C’mon. Let’s go break some hearts,” I reply in my do-anything tone.
Harper winces.
“Sorry, wrong term?”
She nods.
“Well, then…let’s go kick some ass.”
“I like that.”
I pull her arm and we go to greet the crowds, a result, we both know, of someone’s wishes. But maybe we just have to carry out people’s wishes sometimes, and can only remember that it’ll be over soon.

Heath is linking arms with Harper, I stand by her other side, refusing to desert her, though she clearly told me, “You don’t have to suffer with me, Nadya.” I’m drinking some of the offered sparkling cider spiked with Harper’s vodka(ahem…not offered by the waiters), and she’s right. It fuzzes the edges a bit and makes it all a bit more bearable, but I also miss my clarity, despite the pain of listening to a thousand people ask her the same thousand questions and say the same comments.
A standard conversation is as follows:

Random Wife #25: Hello, Harper, dear. Happy birthday!
Harper: Thank you.
Random Husband #25: And who’s this fellow with you(gesturing towards Heath)?
Heath: I’m Heath.(takes out his hand to shake) I dearly hope you’ll vote me in for president, sir. I mean, just look at my white teeth!(Okay, he doesn’t really say that last sentence. But he might as well.)
Random Wife #25: And you’re Nadya, right?
Me: Yep.
Random Wife #25: What an unusual name.
Me: I guess.
Random Wife #25: Tell me, dear…is it foreign?
Me: It’s Romanian, ma’am.
Random Wife #25: Don’t call me that, please, darling…it makes me feel old. Call me Holly.
Me: All right then, Holly.
“Holly“: Romanian…why yes! You have such lovely dark skin. And your hair is so black and shiny.(touches it) And smooth too!
Me: (not spoken aloud)Get your hand the hell away from my hair!(aloud) Gee. Thanks.
Dana: (popping out of nowhere) Yes, but Harper’s hair is the longest(We all proceed to look at Harper’s golden mane, which is does indeed cascade down to her waist). It’s 20 inches!(like she’s a horse or something? Harper glowers at her)
“Holly”: It’s just beautiful
Dana: Isn’t it?(she leaves to talk to someone else_
Random Husband #25: So what colleges are you considering, Harper?
Harper: Well-
Heath: RIC, of course! We’ll be going together.
“Holly”: That’s nice. I just love-
Me: Excuse me(I glare at Heath). Is your name Harper?
Heath: What?
Me: Yeah, I didn’t think so. So don’t answer for her.
Random Husband #25: (emit’s a short bark of laughter) What feistiness! You’ve got spirit, girl! You’re a…what is the term(snaps fingers impatiently, like this will make him remember it)…a free spirit! That’s it!(A “free spirit”, eh? Well, we all know what THAT means: I apparently take hallucinatory drugs.)
Harper: (winks at me in thanks) I was actually thinking about Sarah Lawrence, or maybe Berkeley. Not the one in California, the one in Boston. It’s especially for music.
Heath: (accusingly)  You never told me about this.
Harper: (angrily) Well, I don’t tell you everything, Heath.
Heath: (face reddening) What’s THAT supposed to mean?
“Holly”: (laughs nervously) Oh dear. I hope there’s not trouble in paradise.
Me: (dryly) What paradise?
Random Husband #25: (obviously attempting to distract us) Those are rather creative choices, Harper. Are you sure they’re realistic?
Harper: Degrees give jobs. What’s so unrealistic about that?
Random Husband #25: Well-
“Holly”: I say! Are you sure these lyrics are appropriate, Harper?
(We all listen more attentively to the song, “Love Shack” by the B-52’s
“Bang bang bang on the door baby!
Knock a little louder baby!
Bang bang bang on the door baby!
I can't hear you “)
Harper: I picked the song out…
Me: (jumping to her aid) Is music not art?
Random Husband #25: Well yes, I suppose it is, but what does that have to do with anything?
Me: It clearly represents the 60’s…
Harper: (getting into it) Yeah, where the hippies were all about “make love not war” during Vietnam.
Me: So the song being about a shack where everyone makes love, going on about people banging on a door, would be quite appropriate.
Random Husband #25: You have a point, but-
Me: Even when they’re talking about “fucking in a shack“, it would be a philistine who couldn’t see that it didn’t contribute to its art form.
*crickets*
Harper: (quietly but audibly) Um…Nadya, the line is “funk-y little shack” Not…
Me: Oh. Well. Still. It’s pretty much the same all-around general idea.
“Holly”: I see…
Random Husband #52: We’re going to go off to visit your parents, Harper. Have a good night.
Harper: Yes, you too.

And on and on and on.
What especially got to Harper, I could tell, was the hair. Every time her mother popped up to boast of all of its 20 inches, she would tense up a bit more. By the end of the night I was afraid she would spring out like a coiled-up snake.
Harper hisses in my ear, “Can I come over to your house Saturday?”
“Uh…sure.”
“Thanks.”

I can tell it’s Bibio knocking on my bedroom door, she has a very distinct knock: five hard, firm, no-nonsense fist-against-the-doors.
“Can I come in?”
“Yeah*.”
She does, shaking her hand free of dust.
“You need to dust that knob, Nadya.”
I roll off my bed from a fit of uncontrollable giggles.
“What?”
“You-said-NOB!” I choke out, still giggling, my quilt tangled on the floor.
She rolls her eyes at me. I’m surprised those eye-rolling muscles haven’t gotten tired, she does this to me daily. It’s like her Nadya-you’re-being-ridiculous trademark.
“SO juvenile, my Penyaki*.”
“Can I help you?
“Harper’s here.”
“K’.”
I bound out the door and down the stairs, Bibio shaking her head at me all the way down. I skip the squeaky stair for old time’s sake, though we’re not enemies anymore. Just old friends whose acquaintance is still somewhat awkward. We acknowledge each other but don’t speak.
Yes, I have a philosophy on a stair. Go away.
Harper’s waiting at the bottom of the stairs, so I screech to a halt. My aunt goes down and calls out to Harper, “You want some tea, honey?”
“Um, yeah. Thank you.” She starts going up the stairs. “Can you call us when it’s done?”
“Of course.”

We both sit cross legged on my bed, listening to Aero smith’s  “Permanent Vacaction”:

“I got a letter from a friend the other day
He say it hot down by Montego Bay
I got the point and now I think it’s finally
Dawning
Yeah, yeah I got to get away”

“I hate my hair,” she moans, face down on my extra-fluffy pillow.
“You hate your gorgeous hair?”
“No, I like my HAIR…”
“Well that makes perfect sense, Harper. Really.”
“But not the way it is.”
“What do you mean?”
She sits up.
“Tell me one nice thing about it.”
“Other than the color, the texture, the perfection…”
“No, I mean about the length.”
Oh.
“Well, um, it…it…(she grills me with her eyes)…it makes you look like a frickin’ princess!” I blurt out.
In an “ah-ha” fashion, she points a finger at me.
“You see? You see?! That’s exactly the problem! I don’t want to look like a frickin’ princess! I don’t want my Mom to measure my hair! I don’t want all my stupid parent’s friends to stroke it lovingly like I’m a cat that’s up for grabs to pet!”
“I understand where you’re coming from, that sucked, I know, I watched it, but what do you want ME to do about it?”
Leaping from my bed, she begins a relentless search.
“Where the fuck could they possibly be?” she mutters, shoving everything around on my desk. “God, why do you have to be so goddamn disorganized?”
“Gee, I don’t know, Harper. Maybe I just decided that so I could annoy you so much you explode and leave Harper-guts all over my desk, which you are tearing apart, by the way.”
She ignores this and asks, “You’re good with your hands, right? You’re an artist and you do henna and draw and do face painting and have an eye with detail, right?”
“Yeeees…”
Finally, she pulls out something behind my tin cup filled with colored pencils.
“Here are the little suckers.”
She holds a pair of green scissors with shaped handles and elongated silver sharp things, cuts thin air, interrupting the song with a  “snip snip”.
“NO, Harper, okay? Just no.”
“Please? Please, please, please?”
“No.”
“I’ll be your best friend!”
“You’re already my best friend. Well, one of them, anyway.”
“Please?! It would be the best birthday present ever!”
“Jesus Christ, Harper, I already got you a silver bangle, a drawn portrait, and a henna tattoo of a rose on your shoulder.”
“But….but…I mean, those were fantastic gifts, don’t get me wrong…but…but…please?!”
I sigh, already feeling myself giving in.
“Fine.”
She claps her hands with delight.
“Yaaay! I love you! You rock!”
She hugs me, which is insane since she’s not really the touchy-feely type. We’ve only hugged about two times.
Wait…I see a way I can use this to my advantage.
“On one condition.”
“Anything.”
Heh heh heh.
“You must promise you will do something you keep on saying you’ll do but don’t.”
“Um…”
“Break up with Heath.”
She takes a sharp intake of breath, but doesn’t weaken her resolve.
“Okay.”
I hear Bibio calling up to us.
“Tea’s up.”
“Thanks,” I yell back, then turn to Harper and say, “After we’re done.”

I hold the scissors out to her long hair.
“Are you SURE you want to do this?
“Totally.”
“How short do you want it?”
“I’ll let you be the judge of that.”

When I’m done, it’s slightly below her ears and in layers. It looks pretty good, if I do say so myself. Pixie-ish and wild, not at all like her previous Rapunzel mommy’s-girl do. It suits her real personality, the one she keeps hidden at school and home, the one she reveals when hanging out with me. It looks like she could be anyone.
I give her my round wooden mirror.
“Do you like it?”
She shakes her head rapidly, her layers shooting out, laughing.
“I love it.”
I smile proudly.
“Thank you so much.”
“No problem.”
While she’s still admiring her hair, I say, cautiously, “Can I say something?”
“Depends.”
Silence.
“I think Will will like it, too.”
I close my eyes to save myself from her wrath.
“Nadya-”
“No, no, no!” I spread my arms out. “Just let me have my moment.”
“Can I ask YOU something, for a change?”
I open my eyes, this IS a change. She is hardly as interrogating as I am.
“Go ahead.”
“You know, with Raphael…I mean, he would literally take a bullet for you…that devotion, so intense…does it like, scare you sometimes? Knowing it’s so unconditional, and that no matter what happens, he’ll always love you?”
She is so dead-on right it’s scary.
“Yes, actually…sometimes. Like I’m afraid I can never fully reciprocate it. But it’s also nice, too, in a way. It makes you feel warm. You’d think love should feel like honey on your lips all the time, but sometimes it is scary. Sometimes it hurts. Sometimes it feels a dagger on your skin. But that all sort of goes with it.”
She is quiet for a very long time. Long enough that I can hear the house breathing, hear each tick of my watch.
“You know what, Harper?”
“What?”
“I think Will would give you the same devotion. If you gave him a chance. I think that’s what scares you, what’s prevented you from leaving Heath.”
“Yeah…it’s easier sometimes to have no possibility of getting what you want then to be close to it.”
I tug at her hair.
“Hey. You had the guts to ask for this. I think you can do it.”
Stretching, she lies back on the bed.
“You know what, Nadya?”
I grin.
“What?”
“I think I can, too.”