by Amy McNamara
Where the World Falls Away
“EVIE, HOLD UP!” MS. VAX CALLS out of the art room when I slink by. She’s got Otis Redding cranked and no class at the moment.
I whip a U-turn, quicken my pace, but she comes running after me. “I know you heard me,” she laughs, pushing her huge, round red glasses up onto the top of her head and placing a hand on my arm. “Got a second?” There’s this weird glint in her eyes.
I check my phone. “I’m—” but I’ve got nothing. I’m free right now, and I only came up here because I was hoping to find her studio empty. “Yeah, sure, I guess.”
I follow her into the room and over to her corner near the front. She sits right on top of her desk and crosses her legs, a huge grin spreading across her face.
“Sit,” she says. “I have some news!”
I perch on the edge of a stool.
She rubs her hands on her knees like she’s dying to tell me something.
“Of course, you know by now, I’m a meddler,” she says, like we’re already in the middle of a conversation. “And I sincerely hope you’re thinking about art school after this.” I open my mouth to say something, but she lifts a hand to keep me quiet. “And, I know you’re reluctant to go public with your maps, but they’re so wonderful!”
I have a sinking feeling. “Yeah . . . ?”
“But, honey, that TeenART call for submissions was too fabulous an opportunity for you to miss.” She beams at me and clasps her hands. “I submitted on your behalf. Teachers can do that. We’re encouraged to recommend a student. I sent them some of your work.”
“What? How?” I don’t know what she’s talking about. Ms. Vax has none of my work right now.
She brushes my question away like a fly, the silver bangles on her wrist clanging.
“But that’s not the best part, and I’m so excited to tell you this! The grant officer called me this morning to let me know they’ve selected three students from Bly as potential candidates, and my dear, you are one!”
If she were a fairy, which when I was littler I used think she might be, her wings would be fluttering so wildly right now she’d lift off her desk. But she’s no fairy.
I stare at her. She’s always worn a ton of makeup, her eyes encircled in lavender shimmer and her lips a color that can only be described as tangerine pink. Her face is a palette.
Her words sink in.
“Wait, you did what?”
“I sent them one of your maps. You’d written ‘Where the World Falls Away’ on it? I found it on the table near the back.”
She laughs then, a big ridiculous-sounding Ha! like this is some kind of miracle.
When I don’t laugh back, she pulls her glasses off her head and fiddles with the frames.
“Well, okay, not exactly on the table. It had slipped into recycling, but it was so good, Evie! It is so good! Oh, honey, say something? You look so serious!”
I don’t know what to say. My first instinct is to run out of here and find someplace to hide. Then anger bubbles up instead and I open my mouth to attack her, to hurl something at her like, Is your life so empty you have nothing better to do than mess with mine?
“I don’t want to do this,” I choke out instead.
A million feelings crowd me out of myself. My fear of showing my work to people, being expected to make it, of being held to some kind of invisible standard. What if they hate it? Reject me? Or worse, let me in? My maps are real to me. They’re mine. Places I don’t need to worry about anyone else.
Her eyebrows are lifted so high right now they’re about to merge with her hairline. TeenART’s already shoving me into the glare of accountability. And art school? I’d have to tell my mom I’m not good at anything else, that I don’t have a plan, nothing practical in mind for the future.
I press my lips together tight and take a deep breath through my nose.
Ms. Vax clasps her hands near her heart. “The nomination guidelines were straightforward. One or two images, a small amount of general information about each student, and a paragraph about how you think they’d benefit from this opportunity. Evie, I wrote about your talent and your reluctance to . . .” She hesitates, looking for the right words. “To express it to the larger world.”
Black spots dot my field of vision. I’ve never fainted before, but I’m wondering if this is how it feels.
“That was my private thing!” I say, louder than I mean to. “I recycled it.”
Her face falls. She nods. “I took a chance. Possibly overstepped. I know that, and maybe it was even a little sneaky of me, but hear me out. Dr. Holmes and I have been talking, and Evie, this is something that would be so good for you. This is a risk worth taking. You need this.”
The light coming in through the huge windows behind her is bright, then dim, then bright again, like the clouds are pulsing through the sky as rapidly as my panicked synapses. I feel like I’m moving, flying faster through light than I’m ready to go.
“A representative from the foundation is coming to visit. She’d like to interview the candidates for final selection. Beyond thinking about how you might want to talk about your work, there’s no real preparation. It’s not a test or anything, they just want to meet you, Evie. See who it is behind the work.”
I can’t make myself say it out loud yet, but sometime soon I need to tell her art can’t be my path. I’m not a rich kid. I need a better plan, some kind of work, job, career. I’m made of panic. I cover my face with my hands.
“My maps are for me.”
She hops off the desk and plants her hands on my shoulders. She means to be encouraging, but I feel pressed in place, trapped.
“I’ll send you the details. This isn’t the kind of thing to walk away from. They were enthusiastic about your work. You deserve this opportunity, Evie.”
I lower my hands and look at her. She’s so close it’s like she’s trying to stare inside me.
“This foundation is well-known. They are rigorous supporters of art in general, and women in art in particular. If they offer you a spot, you’ll have a stipend, a mentor, a studio space. Evie, it’s a dream. You’ll learn so much, and it will be so good—just what you need on an application for college. I can see by your expression that you’re freaking out, but honey, you have to listen to me when I say there’s no risk here.”
Everyone’s risks are different.
She leans forward and with both hands squeezes my shoulders again, the tension in them hot. “All you have to do is show up and see how it goes. As soon as I have the date and time for the interview I’ll let you know.”
I get up and leave her room without another word.
Want or Yes Or
“OH MY GOD, GET IN THERE! This is so not a big deal.” Em gives me a little push. “Evie, you never go for what you want. Wake up, girl.” She steps close and pats-slash-slaps me lightly on the cheeks like she’s trying to get me to snap to.
I’m frozen in place outside the door to the Roebling House because none of this feels right. This whole day’s a mess. Or maybe Emma’s right, and I’m looking through crap-colored lenses, exercising my bad old habit of holding back—but I don’t think so. Something is off, and I still haven’t forgiven her for the whole Urban deal. I don’t know why I let her talk me into doing this, coming here.
Visitors and tourists come and go around us, the door jingling open and shut, and for a second I think I’ll turn around and get out of here before it’s too late, but then Em has me by the shoulders, and she steers me in.
Margaret’s at the register wrapping up a ticket reservation.
“Evie!” she says, sounding thrilled I’m there. “I was just asking Theo if you were ever going to come in and pick something out.” She smiles warmly at me. Em’s made herself scarce, and I have the weird feeling she’s disappeared entirely. She’d better not steal anything in here. I’m so nervous I’m clenching my teeth.
“Hi,” I say, feeling overly polite. I keep my voice low. “Um, I actually came to as
k Theo something. Is he around?”
“Upstairs,” she says, lifting her bright eyes to mine. She’s a fox too. “You know the way. He’ll be happy to see you!”
I turn to look for Em. She’s over by the books, watching me.
“Wait here.” I mouth to her. I don’t need her up there with me, flirting with him.
She gives me a fake pout, then smiles. “Don’t take no for an answer!”
I blush at the thought of Margaret hearing her and step around the register, through the door marked “Private.”
“Hello?” I call out as I climb the stairs.
“Hi?” Theo’s voice comes back a question.
He’s at the dining room table working on his laptop, shirtless, in gym shorts. When he turns to look at me, I gasp. His left eye and cheekbone look like uncooked meat, red and purple, and his eye’s nearly swollen shut.
“Your eye! What happened? Are you okay?”
Theo’s face is like a time-lapse of feelings, each expression racing over the next until he shuts it all down. He pushes his laptop aside and stands.
“My stupid brother thinks he knows what’s best for everyone, but he really needs to mind his own fucking business.”
“Lazarus?”
“No, Alo,” he deadpans, then shakes his head, lips pressed tight. “I don’t want to talk about it.”
Every instinct tells me to turn and leave.
“Hi, so, um, I hope it’s okay I’m dropping by like this,” I stammer instead, “but I didn’t know how else—”
“Sorry I haven’t come around,” he says, looking down. “A lot’s been going on.”
“No problem!” I sound like an eager idiot. So much for Emma’s advice to play it cool. “I mean, I figured you were busy, and I have been too, and I wouldn’t even be here, show up like this normally, but, um . . .”
Chester gets off the couch behind me and comes loping up to sniff my crotch.
“Chester! Back off, dude,” Theo says, rolling his good eye at me apologetically, then wincing. “Dog has no manners.”
I set my bag on the arm of a big squishy armchair and try to gather my wits. He looks so hot in those dark gym shorts. Even with his swollen face. God, his knees are cute, and his straw pile hair—the mess of it, and those icy eyes, well, the one still visible. I can’t believe I kissed him. He kissed me. We did that together. For a second I remember the taste of his lips, and something starts vibrating deep inside me, and I have to clear my throat or else I’m going to laugh or cry or generally lose control. Love’s terrifying, but Emma’s right. I have to go for it, take a risk. Reach far, then further.
I close the distance between us, step up close, and slide my hands into the back of his hair, pulling his wrecked face down to mine. I press my body into his and we stumble against the edge of the table. This is the kiss he gave me, the one I’ve been wanting to give back, the kiss I’ve wished for ever since our last one. My lips act like I know what I’m doing, like I’m even better at this than I was before, until it’s crackling between us, electric, monumental. I kiss Theo like there was never a time I didn’t know how to do this. His skin smells good, clean, and we’re so close to each other, closer.
Only then he steps aside. Stiff, uncomfortable. Moves so there’s an arm’s length between us.
I’m a collection of sensations, my lips tingling, my heart racing through me so madly my fingers twitch. Theo’s moving his mouth like he’s going to say something, and then he starts to talk, but I’m kiss deaf, my ears all blood and thunder, so I interrupt him, barrel forward and say what I came for.
“There’s a party this weekend. I came to see if you want to go to it with me? Together?”
My voice comes out weird, though, like my body’s read his body language, assessed the situation before my brain’s had a chance to catch up.
Theo’s face freezes.
A map of this moment would be schematics. Robot girl misinterprets human boy.
He turns away, looks at his laptop screen, then looks back at me again.
“It’s a Bly thing,” I say fast, trying to sound human. My jaw’s tight and my teeth feel ready to chatter. Theo’s face is so closed he looks like a stranger, not the guy from the roof, the one with the warm chest, the thudding heart. It’s like we’ve never met, much less kissed for so long my lips went numb.
“Everyone will be there,” I forge ahead. “It’s kind of an annual deal—this kid, Ben—”
Theo shakes his head, cuts me off.
“Hey, can you sit a sec?” He motions to the chair next to him. “I want to show you something.”
I look at the chair he’s pulled out, but moving through space requires a strange amount of concentration, like I’m new to this body or something.
We sit. Why does he smell so good? The only words to describe it are want or yes or mine. Other words start to bang around in my head too. Like run! and stupid girl and good-bye. And then Theo turns toward me, and there it is, in his eyes.
This was a mistake. Coming here. He’s not happy to see me and he’s about to say something I really don’t want to hear.
I swallow. Cross my arms over my chest, then cross my legs, try to remember how people sit in chairs.
Theo takes a breath, like he’s trying to figure out where to start.
“Remember when I told you about that day I walked out of the Apple Store and stepped over a homeless guy?”
I nod.
“The whole way home on the train I felt sick. I couldn’t figure out what I was supposed to do. I wanted to go back and hand it to him. Or return it and give him the money. Instead I just sat there, holding that slick silver and white bag—I couldn’t reconcile it, the experience of shopping like some aristocrat, this pricey, sleek machine . . .”
He trails off. Thinks a minute. Shakes his head.
“I mean, this is the same equation we face all the time, right? Especially here, in this city full of kings. We have so much and some people, most people, have so little. Agonizing is selfish bullshit. The real question is, what can we do about it?”
I’m quiet. I don’t know what he wants me to say, where this is going.
Theo sighs, drops his head in his hands a second, then looks up at me.
“My family’s having this debate. What should Theo do with his life. My parents say I have to go back, finish college. Laz too—like it’s even up to him.” He clears his throat. “Last week they staged this . . . intervention. I’m supposed to stop boxing. They think I’m drifting. Wasting my gifts.” He fiddles with the curling edge of a sticker on his laptop. Shakes his head. “But it’s not up to them. Especially not Laz. He’s the worst. He needs to mind his own freaking business. Just because he does everything they tell him to doesn’t mean I have to too.”
He rubs his face. Bounces his knee up and down.
“I don’t know, Evie. I was going to tell you, but . . .” He takes a deep breath. “I want to do something decent, you know? Use my skills to help out. Make a difference for someone else. The night before we met, I stepped into this fight—this guy was in that alley in SoHo, the little dark one between Lafayette and Crosby, and he was knocking his girlfriend around. People were walking by like it wasn’t happening, and I almost did too, like it was private business, but then I realized that’s bullshit, so I stopped. It didn’t seem real, you know? I was amped from sparring at the gym, and when I saw him yank her hair another time, I told him to knock it off. Leave her alone.”
He’s animated, talking faster, his face flushed.
“Then the guy turns to me with this, like, murderous look”—Theo’s eyes darken— “and he beat the shit out of me.”
His head jerks back like he’s just taken a hit. He looks at me. I don’t know where this is going.
“And the girlfriend?” I ask.
“She ran into the bar and called the police.”
“That’s why your face looked like this when we met?”
He nods and absentmindedly touches the
scar on his lip.
“So you helped her.”
“Yeah, and everyone was all pissed at me for it! The cops, my parents, even Father Joe. They said domestic violence is the worst and I could have been killed, but I felt incredible after that night, like I did something real—it meant something to someone in the world, more than all this day-to-day crap we call living.”
I start to relax a little. None of this is about me. He’s working stuff out.
“So you’re going to . . . what?” I ask. “Be some kind of superhero vigilante? Start a school and teach self-defense?”
Theo’s quiet a long time.
Then I get it. He’s saying good-bye.
“Evie, you’re so great, and I—”
My heart sinks. I blink back at him, hold my breath.
“I shouldn’t have started something, this, with you,” he says quietly. “I can’t do it. It’s the wrong time for me, a mistake. I’m sorry.”
There it is.
It was too good to be true. I know this lesson already. I can’t believe I’m learning it again. The whole thing was a dream. And not the kind that happens to me.
I slump back against the wooden chair, gutted. Why is it so painful to get your hopes dashed? It’s embarrassing. If Emma were here, she’d tell me to buck up, act like I don’t care, at least until I’m out of here.
Those schematics would look like a maze. Leading to an off switch.
Robot girl powers down to avoid total circuit disintegration.
“So, no college.” But I don’t even know why I’m talking. My voice is all desperation, and when I say it, I realize a small stupid part of me was hoping we might end up facing The Future somewhere together.
“No college.”
My bag falls off the chair and Chester starts snuffling through it, pulling stuff out.
“Chester, leave it,” Theo says, stern. Chester ignores him.
We sit there a second, listening to Chester push his wet muzzle through my things, then Theo leans back in his chair to grab his collar, get him out of my stuff.