The noise of New York City traffic is so incessant, it’s hypnotic. People move quickly in this tiny piece of the world, but time seems to stand still. The July air smells of sunscreen, sweat, and urine; it’s so thick that I can trace its curvatures with my fingertip, hold it like Silly Putty in the palm of my hand.
As I get off the six train, mosey my way out of the Spring Street station, and begin my descent toward Chinatown, I’m struck by the growing divide the neighborhood encapsulates, expanding and contracting like a quadratic equation. It’s a blur of culture, profit, and tastemakers. This is where hustlers flock to—campers who carry dreams strapped to their bare backs. When I look to my right, I am in the throes of capitalism and mediocrity. Broadway is more than just an avenue; it’s a picket line between Mom and Pop on one side and Big Brother on the other. Brand names and big businesses litter its corners, while tourists cling on to their maps and guard their pocketbooks, afraid of falling prey to the wrong salesman. It’s claustrophobic and archaic—hundreds of strangers, marching in synchronicity, moving symbiotically like a wave. They have no idea where they’re headed or why they’re going. But they’re sure that whenever they arrive, they won’t be alone.
On the other side of Broadway, you’ll find a sort of humble redemption. Nolita transforms Chinatown the way winter’s first snow turns to slush. It’s quick, organic, and made of the same stuff—the cousin neighborhoods inform each other’s existence, like positive and negative space. The shops all cater to locals with inflated price tags and egos to match. Their modesty is performative, but its content is feel-good. There’s no better feeling than giving back, other than the knowledge that you’re giving back. I, personally, love to be reminded that I’m a good person, that the end won’t look like a merciless pit of fire. The restaurants aren’t really restaurants, but cafés. The bars are speakeasies. The bookstores are reading nooks. The rats are mice. The tourists are influencers.
I look forward to the stroll from Spring Street to Baxter, where Leila’s third-floor walk-up sits. I’m sure many others frequent the same path with similar admiration but with entirely different intentions. This is another reason to love New York: Each and every local attributes certain emotional narratives to neighborhoods, dependent entirely on the formative memories that took place in each back alley or street corner. When we cross paths with certain crevices of the city, it’s reactive. They’re all subjective as shit, but as I said—New Yorkers are fucking crazy. That old, run-down, graffiti-splattered mecca that sits on Bowery? To me, that’s the facade under which I sipped brown-bagged Four Lokos—which I had purchased with my newly minted Connecticut fake ID—with my ninth-grade crush, Christian. We spent that night swapping saliva and lemon-flavored horse piss and promised to stay together for as long as it took to fall in love. But to Leila, it’s where she had her first headshots taken by a sleazy Italian “aspiring” photographer who slid into her Instagram DMs then asked her to take off her top in person. Now it’s the Supreme flagship store. Tomorrow, it could be nothing at all.
I turn the corner and approach Leila’s block. As I slowly walk up the stoop, I pause and wave hello to the owners of the nail salon, Vanity Nails, that sits downstairs. Ever since I graduated and started crashing on my sister’s couch, Leslie, the owner, has been giving me free manicures on “self-care Sundays.” Honestly, in a city as ambitious and cutthroat as this one, I appreciate the random act of kindness. It’s a small gesture that makes a big difference.
I’m practically heaving when I’m done walking three flights of stairs and reach Leila’s front door. There’s an evil eye hanging above the doorknob, meant to ward off evil spirits. I graze it with my nails for a second, hoping it will bring me good luck, then push open the door.
The first thing that hits as me as I enter Leila’s apartment is always the smell. Cumin and cardamom, rich and intoxicating, wafts in from the kitchen. Fresh mint from a stale batch of tea lying around on her dining room table waltzes its way to the door. Rosemary, from all the handmade soap sitting in her bathroom, drifts into the foyer. The mélange of aromas evokes old memories. It reminds me of our grandmother’s house in Shiraz—the scent welcomes you in and asks you to dance. Leila’s external decor is a direct reflection of her internal decor. Translation: Leila’s apartment looks like Leila. It’s tiny, but the space seems to expand for blocks. Art she’s collected from all her adventures, her many lives, hangs on the walls: a colorful cartoon scooped up in a Moroccan bazaar, a pair of holographic photos found at a Rhode Island street fair. The throw pillows on her compact, L-shaped couch clash in the most delightful way—some sequin, others leopard print, and a select few faux fur. Everything is loud and careless. It’s unintentional conviction in a way that only suits the spontaneous. I could never live like this. I care way too much.
Leila comes out of the kitchen clutching a glass of white wine—Riesling, if I’m not mistaken—in one hand and her phone in the other. She’s wearing a full face of makeup and sweatpants. She throws her phone across the room, looks up at me, and raises one brow.
“Vow, look at that face.” She whistles. “So I take it the interview went well? Inshallah!”
I giggle. The truth is, Leila has never interviewed for a job before in her life. She just has one of those personalities that fits into every nook and cranny. Ever since uni (yes, uni—Leila went to Cambridge, honey) opportunities have seemingly fallen into her lap. Whether it’s an exciting new position at a start-up or an on-set trip to Ibiza, she always seems to be saying yes to the next big thing. In fact, she only landed her current publicity gig after running into her current client in the DUMBO House bathroom and complimenting her shoes. It was love at first toilet flush. Me, on the other hand? My nickname as a kid was M’Lady No.
“It was terriblé,” I cry dramatically, falling into her arms. “They hated me. Kicked me out of the building! Asked me never to return again! Forgive me! Oh, please! Forgive me!”
Leila looks down at me with curiosity, amused. She’s used to my theatrics.
“I can’t tell how for real you are being right now, but honestly, I’m here for this Oscar-worthy performance,” she says with a smirk. “Maybe you’re in the wrong industry.”
“I’d like to thank my big sister, for helping me land my dream job…”
Leila immediately shoves me away. “BIIIIIIIIITCH,” she screams so loudly, I’m worried my weekly manicures are about to be off the table. “You fucking got it? Already? Afareen!”
She’s pacing back and forth, clapping excitedly to herself. I watch her dancing like a toddler, and my heart grows about ten sizes. I love my sister so much. We’ve been attached at the hip ever since she gave my first makeover at the age of twelve (my facial hair was begging for it). When Maman and Baba moved to Dubai to be closer to home (our family had to flee Iran during the revolution), she basically became my caretaker—or, as she would demand to be called, my cool aunt. I can’t imagine life without her.
She grabs my hand and drags me to the couch I’ve been crashing on. Stretching out, she places her head in my lap.
“Tell me everything,” she commands.
I start at the beginning, walking her through my day. I tell her about the train delays, the security guard and his Superman socks, and the hot Howard man and the elevator mishap. I describe the pink couches, the spotless Print desks, and Digital’s clubhouse. She listens intently, cringing as I recall Saffron’s description of the beauty closet as the “best crying spot in the office” and laughing when I reenact my bullshit rant to Loretta. When she finally catches her breath, there’s a serious, inquisitive look on her face. It’s one that I, unfortunately, know all too well.
“Okay, what’s wrong?” I’m not even sure I want to hear the answer—I’m floating on cloud nine and intend to stay here. She pulls on the drawstrings of her hoodie, hiding her face. I know she’s about to hit me with some cold, hard facts.
“So you agreed to not write for anywhere other than your blog? Even though the entire reason you want to work for Vinyl is to become a writer?” Her words are careful but cutting. I pull away from her and nestle into the other side of the couch.
“Right, but only temporarily,” I say, unsure if I believe it. “Everyone has to start somewhere, right? No one likes an entitled Gen Z wannabe who thinks she deserves a byline.”
Leila goes to bite her pinky nail but clearly remembers she recently got a gel manicure downstairs. She scowls.
“You need to be careful, Noora. I don’t like the sound of this.”
I feel my fists start to clench. My mind is doing mental gymnastics. When it comes to what-ifs, I’m essentially Simone Biles.
“Why can’t you just be happy for me?” I spit out, my mood entirely turned. Leila doesn’t know what it’s like to hit rock bottom, to spend 90 percent of your week talking shit with thirteen-year-olds with trust funds and small IQs. Why can’t she just let me have this?
“Whoa, whoa, whoa.” She inches closer to me, hands above her head. “I am elated for you. Truly, I have not been this happy since Lana dropped Born to Die. And that’s saying a lot.” She takes a deep breath. “But from what you’re saying, it sounds like there’s something sus going on between Print and Digital. You said it yourself, Turmeric or whatever the Beauty editor’s name is seemed pissed they weren’t in the office. And what’s up with Loretta being all insecure in front of someone she hardly knows? Isn’t she, like, a feminist hero? Why is she talking down her success? You don’t think that’s a bit, I don’t know, odd? This is just like when that homeless man took a shit beneath seats of the L-train. I can’t see it, but I can sure as hell smell it. Something is up.”
I don’t want her to, but somehow, she’s making sense. Loretta was acting kind of medieval. Turmeric—sorry, Saffron—was pretty defensive when I brought up Print. But this doesn’t mean I’m stuck picking up lunch orders and taking calls for an absentee team when all I really want is to be pitching news angles and features, right? I give in and flop back onto Leila’s lap. I grab the glass of wine out of her right hand and take a big swig. She plays with my hair, just like Maman used to do.
“Just promise you’ll be careful, okay?” she says, grabbing my hand.
I squeeze three times, our secret symbol from childhood. It means I love you. “I promise.” I think I mean it.
“Good,” she says, satisfied. “Now, let’s go get something to eat.”
With that, Leila leaps up from the couch, grabs her keys from the tiny, tiled bowl sitting on her vanity in front of the bathroom, and bolts out the door. I follow behind slowly, replaying Loretta’s words in my head like the soundtrack of the summer.
I need someone willing to pledge their sword.
Her voice echoes loudly in my ear. As the noise clears, I’m only left with one question: Who is the enemy I’ve promised to fight?