Gabrielle Zevin - Because It Is My Blood

“Natty,” I said, “tell me honestly. You weren’t flirting with Gable this morning, were you?”

“That is gross, Anya,” Natty said. “We’re in the same math class. He was telling me a story about the teacher. I was laughing to be polite.”

“Thank God,” I said. I didn’t think I could handle Natty flirting with Gable Arsley. Later, after I had been home a while longer, Natty and I would need to have a serious discussion about boys.

Natty stood and offered me her hand. “Come,” she said. “We need to go to Saturday market. We’re out of just about everything. And Imogen says thirteen is still too young to go by myself.”

“She’s right,” I said.

“You went at thirteen, didn’t you?” Natty insisted.

“I was almost fourteen. And that was only because no one could take me.”

Natty and I rode the bus down to the market at Union Square. You could purchase or trade for just about anything there. Toilet paper or T-shirts. Turnips or Tolstoy. Things that start with T and every other letter of the alphabet. As usual, it was a madhouse. Tables and tents everywhere. Every possible space was filled with a human being, and all those human beings wanted and they wanted now. Or actually, a week ago. Occasionally, someone died in a stampede. Nana once told me that when she was young, there had been grocery stores where you could buy anything you wanted, whenever you wanted. Now, all we had were irregularly stocked bodegas. Your best bet really was the Saturday market.

That day, our list included: laundry detergent, hair conditioner, dried pasta, a thermos, fruit (if we could find it), a new (longer) wool kilt for Natty, and a paper book for Imogen (it was her thirty-second birthday the following week).

I handed Natty a pile of cash and ration coupons. Then I assigned her the book and the kilt. The price was usually the price on those items, so you didn’t have to be an experienced marketer. I would take care of everything else. I had come armed with several bars of Balanchine Special Dark, which I had been surprised to find while taking stock of our mostly barren pantry. Though I had lost my taste for chocolate, it could still be useful when negotiating.

As I made my way through the crowd to where the household chemicals stand usually was, I passed a group of college students who were demonstrating. (Political activity was common at the markets.) A malnourished-looking girl with greasy brown hair and a long flowered skirt jammed a pamphlet into my hand. “Take one, sister,” she said. I looked down at the pamphlet. On the front cover was a picture of what I thought was a cacao pod and the words Legalize Cacao Now! “All the stuff they tell you about chocolate is a lie,” she continued. “It’s no more addictive than water.”

“Trust me, I know,” I said as I slipped the pamphlet into my bag. “Where’d you guys get the paper for the pamphlets?”

“The paper shortage is a lie, friend,” a man with a beard replied. “They’re just trying to control us. Always plenty of paper for good old American dollar bills, ain’t there?”

These were the kind of people who thought everything was a lie. Best to be on my way before one of these pro-chocolate folks noticed who I was.

I lucked out and was able to get everything but the fruit and the pasta at the first chemicals stand I visited. I found a pasta vendor a couple of rows down, and he gave me a good deal on penne after I threw in a meat ration coupon and a bar of chocolate. I traded a woman selling flowers two chocolate bars for a bouquet of roses—it was extravagant but I longed for something sweet-smelling and colorful after the summer I had had. The only thing left was the fruit. I’d just about given up on getting anything except the canned stuff when I spotted a sign that read:

Jane’s Citrus

Oranges Grown Right Here in Manhattan

I walked up to the stand. Oranges were my absolute favorite, and they weren’t the kind of thing they served at Liberty.

Win’s mother noticed me before I noticed her. “Anya Balanchine,” she said breathlessly. “Yes, I thought it was you. It’s Jane Delacroix.”

I took a step back. “I should go,” I said. If her husband was around, there could be a scene.

“Anya, wait! Charlie isn’t here. He’s campaigning in one of the boroughs. I didn’t want all my summer oranges to go to waste, so I’m here. My husband would rather I wasn’t, but I argued that it was fine. I’m a farmer not a politician’s wife. Besides, real people do market. We’re trying to look like real people, don’t you know?” Jane Delacroix’s pretty face was more lined than the last time I had seen her.

“Oh,” I said.

“Please take one. Win once told me you liked them. He’ll be back any moment, by the way. He’s gone to trade for more sacks. People have their own bags, of course, but the oranges need to breathe. You can’t toss them in anything. Stay,” she ordered.

Win was here? I scanned the crowd: countless faces, but none of them was his.

She held out the fruit, and as I went to take it, she clasped my hand in hers. “How are you?”

I considered the question. “Happy to be free, I guess.”

Jane Delacroix nodded. “Yes, freedom is a very good thing.” Win’s mother had tears in her eyes. “Take two oranges, please. Take a whole sack,” she said. She let go of my hand and started filling her last red mesh bag with oranges.

I told her I was blocking her line. Which I was. There was no time for emotional exchanges at the market, and Jane Delacroix had a valuable commodity.

She thrust the bag of oranges at me. “I will never forget that you saved my son’s life.” She grabbed my face and kissed me on both my cheeks. “I’m sorry for everything. I know you are a good girl.”

Over her shoulder, I saw Win enter through the back of the fruit stand. He was carrying mesh sacks in a variety of colors.

I took a deep breath, reminding myself that Win had a girlfriend and that I was not she.

“I should go,” I said. “I have to meet my sister!” I pushed my way through the crowd, away from Win.

I found Natty at the paper books stand, which was called 451 Books. Unlike the chemicals, pasta, or citrus stands, it was empty, except for Natty. She held up two books to me. “What do you think, Annie? Which would Imogen prefer? Bleak House , by Charles Dickens, or Anna Karenina , by Leo Tolstoy? One’s about, like, a lawsuit, I think, and the other’s a love story maybe? I’m not sure.”

“The one about the lawsuit,” I said. My heart was beating like mad. I put my hand on my chest as if that could stop it.

“ Bleak House it is,” Natty said, moving away to pay for the book.

“Wait, let’s get both. One from each of us. You’ll give her the love story. I’ll do the lawsuit.”

Natty nodded. “Yes, she is good to us, isn’t she?”

I took a deep breath, making sure that I had all my parcels. Detergent, check. Conditioner, check. Pasta, check. Flowers, check. Thermos, check. Oranges … Blast! I’d somehow left the oranges in Win’s mother’s booth. No way I was going back for them either.

We left the books booth, and despite the fact that she was way too old for it, I took Natty’s hand. “Were you able to get any fresh fruit?” she asked.

I told her that I hadn’t been. I must have looked truly wretched when I said this because Natty felt the need to comfort me. “It’s fine. We still have canned pineapple,” Natty said. “Maybe even some frozen raspberries.”

We were almost out of Union Square when I felt a hand on my shoulder. “You left these,” he said. I turned, but I already knew who it was. Of course it was Win. “My mother insisted I find you…”