A Flicker in the Clarity

by Amy McNamara

  BPD, we were innocent. Even me, even though my dad died. The two deaths don’t even compare. My dad’s is like a dream I know I had but can’t remember.

  It feels like Patrick went missing. I imagine papering the city with posters of his face, I can still see him so clearly. He and Em have the same dark hair, and I don’t know how to put this on a poster, but when he came in from soccer all wet and sweaty, he smelled like mud and onions. He taught me how to stand on my head by letting me kick my legs against his shoulders over and over again until he had bruises and I wasn’t scared for him to step away.

  Then he stepped away.

  BPD, Mrs. Sullivan drove us up the Hudson to pick apples, go sledding, or poke around sleepy towns full of whispering trees and wooden houses big enough for families who fill all the seats around the table. Mrs. Sullivan is very can-do, the opposite of my mom. She’s never gone to lie down in the middle of the day.

  When Patrick got his license, he took us places. Mamie made a list of upstate swimming holes and we tested them all. The water was usually icy and I’m not much of a swimmer, but driving around with those guys, I felt free. We don’t have a car. My mom grew up in the city. She says driving’s one of those things she thought my dad would teach her. I’m going to have to teach myself.

  Upstairs, a door opens, then closes with a bang. Low voices laugh. I pull out my sketchbook and sketch a few details. Piles of books, the lumpy couch and sagging armchairs.

  “Casing the place?” Lazarus asks, startling me. He looks over my shoulder. “I can help you with the location of the valuables. There are none.”

  I blush and flip my book shut. Then I try to casually curl forward to loosen the front of my shirt. The fabric’s starting to dry and stiffen.

  He raises his hands. “You should see how red your face is right now,” he laughs. “It matches your shirt. Theo’s such a sucker for shy girls.”

  I shove my sketchbook into my bag and avoid his eyes. He’s the one who came down in his underwear. My flush deepens.

  He stretches, yawns, and heads for the kitchen. “Coffee?”

  “No thanks.”

  A few seconds later, he lopes back holding a steaming mug. “So, how do you know Theophilus, boy genius?”

  I’m not even entirely sure what he just said. I stare at him a second.

  “Come again?”

  He laughs.

  “Lazarus, Theophilus, and Aloysius.” He ticks their names off on his fingers. “Gray kids develop a certain strength of character. In case you didn’t notice, this family’s super weird.”

  “Oh. Um, he led my tour,” I say. “And then a kid tossed a soda at me.”

  He pulls out a chair and sits with his coffee. Stares at me a second. He’s cute, even though I can’t tell if he’s nice or not. Emma is missing out.

  “Well,” he says, leaning back and taking a sip, “you look like a decent person, so here’s a heads-up. Theo tests people. And he’s a harsh judge. Most people fail.”

  I can’t tell if he’s teasing or not. I shrug. “I don’t really know him. Boy genius?”

  Laz laughs. “Ha, yeah, and that topic’s off-limits. So are questions about our family, like why I’m brown when they’re all so very white.”

  “Thanks for the intel,” I say, feeling even more awkward. “As soon as he gives me a dry shirt, I’ll belly-crawl out of here so I don’t trip any wires.”

  This earns me a huge laugh. He changes his voice to sound like a carnival barker. “Home-school prodigy. Finished high school at thirteen. Polyglot.”

  He rocks back in his chair, looking smug.

  “Polyglot,” I say, trying to remember what the word means. “Okay . . .”

  “I’m messin’ with you. But he is a superfreak.”

  “You sound jealous.”

  Before he can answer that, Theo steps into the room, surprising us both.

  “Fuck you, Laz,” he says.

  He tosses me some clothes, then glares silently at his brother, his hands clenched in fists.

  “Bathroom’s over there.” He cocks his head to a door near the stairs.

  I go to the bathroom, but not before I see Theo stride around the table and give his brother a fast, hard punch to the shoulder.

  Laz winces, but it doesn’t shake his smile.

  I lock the bathroom door.

  Flight After Flight

  WHEN I STEP OUT OF THE BATHROOM, the apartment’s empty.

  It’s probably for the best. This T-shirt’s humongous. Almost like a dress. It says “Don’t Believe Everything You Think” across the front in small, plain letters. I fold my sticky shirt and coat neatly on the far end of the table and grab my bag. The navy hoodie he gave me is only slightly smaller and lined with supersoft fuzzy cotton. I zip it up. Bold block letters across the back spell out “Gleason’s Gym.”

  Someone bangs around overhead.

  I walk to the base of the stairs.

  “Um, bye!” I call up, trying to sound like someone cute, or amused maybe, anything but the lonely-person feeling overtaking me. “Thanks!”

  “One sec!” Theo calls back.

  He thunders down less than a minute later dressed like a person from this century, in a sweatshirt, track pants, and high-tops. A heavy-looking gym bag is slung across his body. I smile at him. I can’t help it. He’s indisputably hot, and some of my loneliness burns off me like morning fog.

  He smiles back, but it’s not like before. Something’s changed. It’s a regular smile. Not at all flirty. Maybe I imagined it earlier—I’m no Emma. The loneliness storms back. I try to hide how embarrassed I am.

  “A or the F?” he asks, rushing past me, pulling a set of keys from a bowl on top of one of the many bookshelves, and grabbing a skateboard leaning behind a pile of shoes.

  “Huh?”

  “The subway. Are you taking the A or the F?”

  “Um, I was thinking of walking back, across the bridge?”

  As soon as I say it, I feel stupid. What am I doing, trying to impress him, like I’m talking to Theo the Irish bridge-builder guy, the one who winked at me? That was acting. I always fall for the story.

  The real Theo pats his back pocket for his wallet, makes a face, and swears under his breath while he starts digging in the pockets of the coats hanging on the hooks by the stairs. He pulls out a MetroCard.

  “But it’ll probably take too long,” I prattle on. “Um, so the A, I guess?”

  The vibe has totally changed. Theo’s so hurried it’s obvious I’m outstaying my welcome. The vast gap between what I imagined could happen and the reality of how it’s actually going is so big I am lost in it. Stupid imagination.

  “Too bad,” he says, his back to me. “I have to go toward the F.”

  He thunders down the narrow steps and we cut through the crowded shop—out of the dream and back into the real world.

  Before I have time to worry about whether or not Em’s still here, I spot her outside, leaning against the plate-glass window. She’s staring at something on her phone with this lost expression. Her long hair has worked itself loose from its twist and wisps of it flutter around her neck in the light breeze.

  Theo flings open the door, nearly jingling the bells off their springs, only pausing long enough to hold it for me.

  Em straightens and turns, this look on her face like she’s been waiting for me, like she wants to tell me something, but when she sees me with Theo, her expression brightens. He rushes out, but before he gets past her, she playfully pops out an elbow and catches him in the side.

  “Hey,” she laughs, her voice high and thin, “you work here, right? I just wanted to say this place is so great.” She’s using flirt voice.

  He looks back and without breaking his stride, beams at her, bright as a stage light. Even for people in a breakneck hurry, there’s time to flirt with Emma.

  She’s trying to hurt me. She saw me with him in the shop before, I know she did, but still, I slow a second, because her expression doesn�
��t match her words. The pale skin around her eyes is all pink and blotchy, like she’s been crying.

  I glance around for Alice, but she’s nowhere. Maybe they fought? I allow myself a millisecond of happiness at the thought. But Alice is probably in the bathroom and Em’s out here waiting for her. The other Bly people are gone. I feel bad for her, even though the way she’s making a play for Theo makes me fall down flight after flight of stairs inside myself.

  I turn and follow Theo. He heads up the block, walking so fast I almost trip trying to keep up. Once we’re near the corner and hopefully out of Emma’s line of sight, I slow down. He’s not acting the least bit interested, and what am I doing? Chasing him?

  Theo notices, turns to see why I’m not there. “Sorry, I’m kind of late.” He stops and drops his skateboard to the ground and puts a foot on it. Shakes his head. “Also, my brother’s a total dick.”

  I shift my bag to my other shoulder. A double-decker tour bus wheezes past, wrapping us in a hot cloud of exhaust.

  “I thought he was cool.” I shrug.

  Theo flashes that smile again, brilliant, vacant. “Yeah, well. Thanks for saving those posters. Sorry about the hassle.”

  “I liked you better with your Irish accent,” I say, surprising myself. It’s the kind of thing Emma would get away with. I’m not sure I can. Whatever. I rake my fingers through my hair and tie it into a bun. Game over. I concede defeat to the stingy gods of romance. Or to Emma and her flirty voice, or to the other girls Theo’s brother says he’s a sucker for. Spoils to the victors. I’d rather keep my dignity.

  But Theo’s not rushing anymore. He keeps his eyes on me.

  I ignore the shaky thrill building in my stomach, and to break the tension I dig in my bag for my glasses and a book to read on the train.

  Theo’s still inspecting me, so I look up. I can’t help it. His face breaks into a smile. Eye-crinkles at the corners and everything. A real one. Is it possible to fall in love over a smile?

  “Nice glasses.” He reaches behind my ear and wiggles the back of my glasses so they jump up and down on my face.

  I pull my head back and laugh, feeling strangely weak after his palm brushes my cheek.

  He leans toward me. “Forget that stupid shit my brother said.”

  “Yes, sir,” I say in a mocking tone, straightening my glasses.

  “Whatcha got there?” He turns over the book I’m holding.

  “The Great Bridge.” I read the title, suddenly super glad this is the book I brought. Emma has pointed out more than once how super dorky my obsession with Madeleine L’Engle’s The Moon by Night is, but she also doesn’t know how much time I’ve spent imagining Vicky Austin’s family was mine. It’s pretty dog-eared.

  “Oh, of course,” Theo says, scanning the cover. “You were here for that school project.”

  I nod.

  “So, Bly, then?”

  I nod again.

  Theo keeps staring at me, bouncing a little on his toes, so I straighten my shoulders and stare right back, fanning the pages of the huge book with a nervous thumb.

  “Well then, see you later,” he says, smile fading. He tips his head toward the intersection. “I turn here. The A’s up the hill. Thanks again for saving the day.”

  “Yep.”

  Before I can think of a brilliant line or even manage a decent smile, he gives the board a kick and sails off down the block, away from me.

  Evie Ramsey, world’s biggest flirt flop.

  I skip the train and hike up to the bridge after all. I could use a long walk. For a second I hope Emma’s behind me, that she saw us talk. But I don’t turn to look. She made it clear in the shop. I’m dead to her.

  Something Else

  IT TAKES ME AN HOUR AND A HALF, but I walk all the way to Emma’s block. She didn’t look like she was up for the park, and I have to know what’s really going on, the thing she wouldn’t tell me yesterday, what she was maybe ready to say today. But no one’s home. I look down the block. Emma doesn’t keep stuff to herself. If anyone knows what’s going on with her now, it’s probably Alice.

  I stand on the sidewalk a full five minutes before I can make myself ring the bell. I don’t know why I’m scared. She’s probably out with Jack. Besides, coming to her is not defeat. It’s being a true best friend, stepping up to end this fight, to find out what’s making Em so upset, if anything, beyond what I did.

  I climb up the stoop and ring the bell. It’s one of the old ones, a time-worn creamy button in the middle of a golden circle. An actual bell warbles somewhere deep inside.

  I straighten up, toss my shoulders back. I’m sweating this for nothing. Alice is probably at the library like a good cabbage, or at the park with Jack and everyone else.

  A hand parts the lace curtains on the glass door. Alice opens up. She looks as surprised to see me as I am to be standing here.

  “Evie. Hi?”

  Her face is flushed and my stomach sinks. Jack’s in there. She’s all pink in the face because I’m interrupting . . . something.

  I close my eyes a second and try not to laugh. I’m so naïve.

  Yesterday Jack did this huge stretch in Holmes’s overheated seminar room, his shirt lifting up, and I saw his stomach, the delicious plane of it, flat and pale. It took me like ten minutes to pay attention to anything else.

  “What’s up? Do you need something?” Alice asks.

  I force myself to speak despite the scene replaying in my head.

  “Emma.”

  “She’s not here.” Her expression changes. Alice eyes me like she knows why I’ve come, fidgets with a button near the bottom of her sweater. “Um, didn’t she find you? She was waiting for you at the Roebling House.”

  “I know,” I say. Tears prick the corners of my eyes. I take a deep breath. “What’s going on with her?” I demand. Before she can answer I add, “I mean, obviously she’s super pissed, but it can’t be only because . . .” I swallow, shift my bag to my other shoulder. “You know. I know you do. Did something else happen?”

  “You didn’t talk to her?”

  Standing in the doorway at the top of her elegant stoop, Alice has the upper hand. She could totally drag this out, lord it over me, enjoy it. The house is dark behind her, but I’ve been in there. She’s an only like me, but their place isn’t sad like mine so much as it’s cluttered, in the way rich people’s houses can be, full of art, shabby beauty, inherited furniture, and all the weird stuff Alice’s mom likes, including a seven-foot-tall stuffed bear her grandfather shot. Kind of crazy, actually. I couldn’t live with that poor bear standing there, but it doesn’t stop me from feeling inadequate right now, like I don’t really have a right to be here, like I’m a pauper begging at her door, please, Miss, a scrap of information?

  Desperate times. I’m locked out from Em and Alice has the key.

  But she doesn’t seem to sense any of this. Instead, she shifts her weight to her other foot and chews the corner of her lip, still looking surprised to see me. Finally she utters one word.

  “Mamie.”

  Not what I was expecting.

  I take a quick step back and almost fall down the stoop.

  “Mamie?” I repeat, dumbfounded.

  Mamie Wells. Patrick’s girlfriend. The person in the car with him when he died. We idolized her. I wanted to be her sister. She took me to lunch once, just the two of us, no Emma, no Patrick. We were alike, she said, both alone with single moms. She told me people with siblings don’t get it, and we could stick together. I wanted to be her. She and Patrick were my blueprint for what it’s supposed to be like when you go out with someone. They were a master class in cool, and when I was around them I thought it might rub off on me, whatever magic they had, how cute they were together, their connection. It’s super hard to hate her, but we do, because Emma says it’s her fault, that night, everything, it’s Mamie’s fault her brother died.

  “Mamie.” I say her name again, still stunned.

  “Yep.” Alice nods, so
lemn.

  “She’s back?” Mamie moved away after the accident. No one saw her again, not even at the funeral.

  “I guess.”

  “What about her?”

  Alice shakes her head and takes a step back.

  “That you’ll have to ask Em.”

  Then she closes the door, the lock clicking like punctuation.

  Arctic Fox

  WHAT ABOUT MAMIE? And why can’t Emma tell me?

  I’m facedown on the couch, Marcel wheezing next to me, nearly pushing me off the edge. I’m trying to get it together, to figure out how to go over there and ask Emma what’s going on.

  I tell myself I’m not my mom. This is simple. I need to find her, make her talk to me. I don’t move. Maybe it’s from thinking about the night Patrick died, but I’m immobile. Inert. Maybe inertia’s what’s got my mom too. Before that thought sinks in, the door buzzer grinds to life and Marcel startles, executing his parquet-floor leap, skid, and scramble.

  Theo Gray is the last person I expect to see when I stick my head out of the elevator and look across the narrow lobby of our building, but there he is, squinting at the panel, pressing our number again.

  I freeze. My face has an imprint from the couch upholstery on it and I’m wearing my dad’s ratty Yale Law sweatshirt. It makes me look like an apple on legs, but I swear it still smells like him. Ghosts might manifest as scents, you never know.

  Theo must hear the elevator, because he looks up, his face breaking into a smile. His hair’s an even wilder mess than it was this morning.

  He’s seen me. It was so much easier when Mr. Gutierrez still worked here. He was more than a doorman, he was our door grandpa. According to my mom he spent forty years of his life in this small mirrored lobby, captain of the ship, walking Mrs. Cohen’s dog, Dominic, for her in the snow, reminding me to wear hats in the cold. Then the building changed hands, Mr. G. retired, and we got buzzers. Ours sounds like an electric shock, and the intercom is worthless. Mom says we’ll grow old waiting for them to fix it.