Anna Pitoniak - Necessary People

A vicious grin spread across her face. “Just… be careful,” I said, trying to suppress my frustration. But it was too late; I’d taken her bait.

“Oh, so now I’m not careful?” she said. “There’s always something you want to criticize, Violet. We’re never good enough for you. What’s next?”

Teeth clenched, I stayed quiet.

“Hmm?” she said. “You think you can come back here and act like you’re better than us?”

I changed my flight and returned to school early, on Christmas Day. It wasn’t until then that I could pinpoint what had changed. My parents, my mother especially, were obsessed with status in the way the downtrodden always are. They clung to anything that could assure them of some minor superiority. And once upon a time, I’d been that thing for them. The smart daughter, the good daughter. The only teenager in town who wouldn’t end up a deadbeat. They took pride in that. But when I came home, my mother felt the disgust radiating from my skin. She had lost the one thing that had made her special.

I hadn’t done what I was supposed to do. I hadn’t returned with compassion and love, an ambassador from another socioeconomic land. But this was another thing I admired about Stella: her indifference to what was expected of her. Why did I have to pretend to like my family? Or the holidays, for that matter? What was so great about them? The pageantry demanded was so one-note and unoriginal. If you weren’t lucky enough to have a loving family, a long dining table, a bountiful spread—and maybe a crackling fire and attractive dog, to top it off—then you weren’t doing it right. You were made to feel deficient.

Wherever Stella was in the world right now, she had probably forgotten that it was the fourth Thursday in November. Drinking champagne in Geneva or shopping in the souks of Marrakech, doing exactly what she pleased. Glamorous, but then again, why should that picture be any more glamorous than this one? I was a young woman alone on the beach, surf lapping at her ankles beneath her cuffed jeans, a weekend of freedom stretching ahead. One picture wasn’t better than the other. Stella wasn’t happier than me. Mostly she just acted that way.

“I won’t give them a reason to pity me,” my mother used to snarl. This was a bitter catechism she’d recite every few months, when money was tight. Food stamps were normal in our town. So were visits to the church basement, where canned and dried goods were free for the taking. I knew better than to suggest we make use of these resources, so that we could spend our money to repair the car or buy new shoes or pay off the credit card. My mother made it clear how she felt about that. Over time, I understood the point she was making. Pride could be a sin, but it could also keep you afloat. Pity was something you invited by acting pitiable.

On Friday, the day after Thanksgiving, I traced the same route from the motel to the town to the beach. The shops were livelier, windows advertising steep Black Friday discounts. When I stopped into the coffee shop, a barista was standing on a ladder, pinning up pine garlands while Christmas carols played in the background, the month-long milking of the holiday already in full swing.

Most of the restaurants in East Hampton were way beyond my price range. But that night I found a bar at the edge of town, with a Mets pennant and a neon Bud Light sign in the window, which looked more my speed.

“What can I get you?” the bartender asked when I pulled up a seat at the end of the bar.

“A glass of the house red,” I said. “And a grilled cheese sandwich.”

“That,” he said, setting a wineglass on the wooden bar, “is an interesting combination.”

“My version of a wine-and-cheese pairing,” I said.

“Ah.” He had a nice smile. “You’re a classy woman.”

The bar was about half full, pleasantly buzzing but not too loud. After he had circled around to pour refills, the bartender stopped in front of me, drying his hands on a towel. “How is it?” he said, nodding at my half-drunk glass of wine.

“Entirely serviceable,” I said.

He laughed, and extended his hand. “I’m Kyle.”

His handshake was warm and firm, ridged with light calluses. I said, “I’m Stella.”

“Stella,” he said. “I love that name. What brings you to town?”

I cocked my head. “You don’t think I live around here?”

“No way you’re a local. I’ve got a radar for these things.”

“I needed a break,” I said. “From my family. You know how the holidays are.”

“Where are your folks?”

“Westchester,” I said. “But I live in the city now.”

It was an old shtick when Stella and I were at parties: if a guy hit on us, we’d give the other person’s name and phone number. Nine times out of ten, this meant my phone would buzz with the persistent advances of a man hoping to get in touch with that gorgeous blonde named Violet. Every once in a while, someone—the less attractive sidekick—would hit on me, and I’d have occasion to call myself Stella Bradley.

But we only did this to keep them away. Tonight, even while shaking his hand, I thought, I want to sleep with him. Using Stella’s name was part of the seduction. In college, I’d hooked up with guys every few months, enough to make me feel normal. It was easy enough, because Stella created a halo effect. If this ordinary-looking girl was always with the most beautiful girl on campus, then there had to be something special about her, right? They were consistently forgettable encounters, but already this felt different. A kind of desire that was almost like a test. Could I do this? Could I convince him that I was someone funnier, cooler, sexier than I actually was?

“So what do you do, Stella?” Kyle splashed more wine into my glass without asking.

“Nothing,” I said. The word was pleasant to say; a smooth, easy release.

“Nothing?” he said. “Doesn’t that get boring?”

“I’ve been traveling,” I said. “Taking time to figure out what I really want to do.”

And why shouldn’t I? I thought. Go ahead, let this guy say something snarky, I don’t care. Why shouldn’t I do what I feel like doing? Stella had physical gestures—tilting her head and swinging her long hair over one shoulder, leaning her body across the table—that I found myself now imitating. She had taught me how to flirt, how to carefully mete out your personality, because the person across the bar isn’t yet ready to know the real you. Borrowing Stella’s name gave me a boost of confidence. I imagined a live wire stretching between me and her, wherever she was.

“An international woman of mystery,” he said. “I like it.”

“What about you?” I said. “Are you from around here?”

He stuck his thumb over his shoulder. “Grew up about ten miles down the road. I’ve been working for the owners since I was eighteen. They have another bar over in Sag Harbor. I switch between the two. Keeps things interesting.”

“So you’re a bona fide local.”

He smiled. “You could say that.”

“Well,” I said, cocking my head. “Maybe you can show me around sometime.”

In that moment, Kyle’s expression changed. I’d seen this before. That sudden snapping of attention when a girl signals her interest, or there’s a fourth down during a tight game.

At the end of the night, when his shift was over, Kyle said, “Can I walk you out?”

He’d been drinking water, and I’d switched to club soda. So many college hookups had been drunk and fumbling. Not this. There was an intensity from our being sober, from the hours of anticipation. In the parking lot, standing next to his car, the night clear and full of stars above us, neither of us had our jacket on. It had been hot in the bar, and the cool air felt good. Kyle was wearing a plaid shirt with the sleeves rolled up. One of the tattoos on his forearm was a silhouette of Long Island. He reminded me, in ways, of the boys from back home. Anchored forever in familiar soil.