Like No Other

by Una LaMarche

  When I get downstairs after painstakingly pulling on some jeans and a striped polo shirt, my mother is waiting for me.

  “Dad took the girls to school,” she says, setting out a plate of eggs that I immediately wolf down standing up, both because I’m in a hurry and because it hurts to sit down. “And I am personally escorting your butt to the subway this morning to make sure you get on it.”

  I roll my eyes. “I’m going to school, Mom. You can relax.”

  “Actually I can’t,” she says. “Not until you prove to me that I can trust you again.” She checks her watch and motions at me to speed up my chewing. “Also, every single day that you don’t have work—the work at which I will be checking in to make sure you show up,” she continues, “I expect you home at four PM on the nose, okay? And please believe that if you’re even ten seconds late I will be alerting the authorities.”

  “Yes ma’am,” I say, taking a swig of orange juice and mentally calculating the fastest route to Devorah’s house from school. My last class gets out at 2:15, which should leave me just enough time to duck over there and see what’s going on before I’m due at Wonder Wings. Unless something happens, I’ll make it to work on time. And if something happens, well . . . I’ll burn that bridge when I come to it.

  • • •

  My mother wasn’t kidding; she literally walked me all the way to the Kingston Avenue subway station, escorted me down the stairs, and waited on the platform with me until the train came. Normally she takes the C to work, but since she had already gone so far out of her way she got on the 3 with me and took it two stops to Franklin to switch to the 5. The train car was sardine-packed as usual when it arrived, and I nearly died when she elbowed her way in and cut a swath through the rush hour crowds with her purse, yelling, “My son is injured, give him room!” I kept my eyes down, but I noticed a lot of Chabad men file on after us. I hope Mom didn’t give them the stink-eye.

  I relax a little once she’s off the train, and lean back against the door with my heavy backpack wedged between my feet. I should probably be doing the homework I’ve completely ignored since last Friday, but it’s next to impossible to get my mind turned to school. I promised my parents I’d bring my physical body into the building, but that’s about all I can guarantee, seeing as how that body is currently the flesh-and-bone equivalent of a pile of junkyard scraps. And seeing as how I have no idea what’s going on in any of my classes, I’ll just have to sit in the back today and count on my battle scars to get me a pass from being called on. So I close my eyes and focus on the one thing I’ve managed to study lately: her face, thick eyebrows setting off those striking eyes and dark lashes, freckle-spattered nose sliding seamlessly into those wide, creamy cheeks that look like cherry syrup poured over shaved ice when she blushes. Rosebud lips parted in a nerdy, adorably crooked smile. Wild, dark curls that smell like lavender honey.

  But as the train hurtles through the darkness between Eastern Parkway and Grand Army Plaza, I all of a sudden get this prickly feeling like I’m being watched.

  I open my eyes just enough so that I can see the grimy subway floor (but so my lids still look closed to other people) and try to pick up where the stalker vibe is coming from. After a few seconds I’m pretty sure it’s across the car to the right; in my peripheral vision I can see there’s a guy sitting by the door who’s holding a newspaper but not turning any pages. I know I’m probably being paranoid, and it’s some old dude who just fell asleep sitting up, but after yesterday I don’t feel that safe in a sea of black fedoras, even if we’re on a commuter train in broad daylight.

  I open my eyes and lift my head in one swift motion, and sure enough, there is someone staring at me from across the car. His face is partially hidden by the paper he’s strategically raised for cover, but I don’t need to see his nose and mouth to recognize those dark, calculating eyes.

  It’s Jacob.

  The instant he sees me see him, he looks down, but for a split second his shoulders jerk in surprise, and I know I’ve got the upper hand now. He’s by himself, without his wannabe cop sidekicks to protect him. And I’m not about to start a brawl or anything, but I’ll be damned if I let that scrawny little narc off the train without telling me what he did with Devorah.

  I lift my bag from the ground, trying to keep my facial muscles calm and steady even though deadlifting twenty-five pounds feels like being stretched on a medieval rack. I sling it over my left shoulder and then, turning the stare-down tables on him, start to snake my way through the car to where Jacob sits.

  He folds his paper primly and stands up, even though we’re still in between stops so standing just makes everybody squish against one another even more and get annoyed because he’s blocking a perfectly good empty seat. Without looking back at me, Jacob starts to push his way toward the far end of the car, causing people to suck their teeth and mutter expletives in his wake. I, on the other hand, break out my best dimples and say, “Excuse me, so sorry,” as I nudge past the familiar early bird crowd of nurses, students, and Wall Streeters. Everyone winces when they see my face and lets me pass without comment. At least I’ve got pity on my side.

  The train pulls into Grand Army Plaza, and a huge herd of Park Slope/Prospect Heights yuppies gets on board. I can still see Jacob’s hat bobbing slowly through the straphangers about fifteen feet away, but I’ll never get to him in a straight chase. So I make a split-second decision and squeeze out the middle doors, hit the platform running, and throw myself back in the doors at the end of the car just as they’re straining to shut against the crush of bodies. My legs kill me, but it’s worth it, because now I’m almost close enough to touch him.

  “Hey,” I say, loud enough for him to hear me but hopefully not loud enough to command the attention of the entire train. “I just need to know she’s okay.” But Jacob just launches himself through a trio of nerdy Asian kids and slides open the exit between the cars, his black coat disappearing as the train rounds a corner and the silver door slams shut. At the next stop I hop cars again, but he’s gone, swallowed by the sea of sleepy travelers streaming in from Atlantic Avenue who force me back against the doors again, trapping me inside.

  • • •

  The school day passes by like I’m watching it in fast motion. Everyone, even people I don’t know, stops me to ask how I’m doing, and somehow I manage to convince the entire student body that I got jumped by a gang in Prospect Park (thanks for the inspiration, Mom!). Ryan loses his mind when I show up in our AP bio lab; he thought I was in the Hamptons. But then he acts really sympathetic about my shoulder, and I decide I’m not going to tell him I lost the keys to his parents’ place until I’ve healed more fully. I make a mental note to call the car service company when I get home, and see if our lead-footed driver still has my duffel.

  Polly finds us during lunch in Fort Greene Park and plays nurse, bringing me some Ayurvedic ointment for my face. It’s weird how now that I don’t obsess about her anymore she’s suddenly interested in hanging out with me again, but I’m trying not to read too much into it. She tells me that J-Riv is spreading a rumor that he’s the one who jumped me, and we crack ourselves up planning a police report to call his bluff.

  As the end of the day closes in, I think about asking Ryan to come back to Chabadland with me, but (A) I’m pretty sure he’d balk, and (B) just in case I actually get the chance to talk to Devorah I don’t want to do it in front of a wingman. Plus, after Jacob ran away from me this morning I’m actually feeling pretty badass. When I find myself alone in the third-floor boys’ bathroom between fifth and sixth periods, I even do a little Travis Bickle routine in the mirror. “How you like me now?” I whisper at my reflection, jutting out my gnarled chin. “I thought so.”

  I leave my books at school, emptying my backpack into my locker before my last period, which is my weight-lifting gym elective, so I get an easy excuse note from the nurse and am breathing in the fresh air on DeKal
b at 2:05, ahead of schedule. I won’t be able to do homework without the books, but the heavy bag would weigh me down, and now more than ever I have a need for speed.

  Kingston Avenue is much more crowded than it was last Friday just before sundown, and in the bright glare of punishing three o’clock light I can see every Hasid as they react to me in their own personal way. Most flat-out ignore me, but some peer after me like I’m an animal on exhibit at the Museum of Natural History. (Please don’t feed the black boy, I think, punch-drunk from exhaustion.) A minority change course to avoid me, but from what I understand they’ve always been taught that strangers are bad news, so I try not to take it personally. The way I look right now I’d probably avoid me, too.

  As I approach the intersection of Kingston and Crown, I feel a little hesitation creep in through the bravado that I’ve been wearing like a Halloween costume since this morning—What if I can’t find her? What if she freaks when she sees me? What if she told her parents some cover story I know nothing about and am about to ruin? Why didn’t I just go home and write her a letter like a normal person, with my e-mail address and phone number, and let her reach out in her own time? Why am I acting like some action movie star and trying to be a hero when I’m so obviously not that guy?—but I try to shake it off. If I give up now, I might never see her again. And I’m willing to risk one last humiliation, or even another beat-down, to keep that from happening.

  I take a deep breath as I reach her house and climb the nine steps to the front door, which is inset into a little brick entryway that thankfully hides me from passersby. Alongside the mahogany door is a little gold rectangle engraved with Hebrew letters and a Star of David, set at an angle like an askew photograph; underneath it is a buzzer. I’ve been coaching myself up to this moment since I got off the train, and just like I planned, I reach out and press down on it before I can convince myself not to.

  I shift my weight and listen for movement in the house, but apart from cars on Kingston and the far-off ambient noise of some construction crew drilling into the sidewalk, I can’t hear any. It’s only two thirty, so it’s conceivable that no one could be home yet, but didn’t Devorah say she had a grandfather living with her? Where would he have to go on a Tuesday afternoon? I ring the buzzer again, then a third time, and loiter for five minutes before I give up and turn back to the street. I know I could wait here, catch them coming home, but then I’m trespassing, setting myself up in case they panic and call the real cops. I wish there was a way I could confront them in public, someplace I’m legally allowed to be. And then I remember the store.

  The door of Blum’s Quality Goods is propped open when I reach the corner, letting the perfect seventy-two-degree air drift in off the street into the neat, narrow aisles piled with boxes of note cards and plates wrapped in cellophane. There’s a standing fan oscillating lazily inside, ruffling the tattered trim of the fading striped awning, and as I step across the threshold a digital doorbell rings out. So much for stealth.

  “One second!” a familiar female voice calls, and my heart leaps into my throat. There’s no one at the register, the store is empty, and by some stroke of amazing luck, Devorah is right here. I can’t help myself; I drop my bag in the doorway and run down the closest aisle, back toward the voice, and come face-to-face with a startled-looking Hanna. She’s bent over a box of blue streamers, her red hair falling in a limp curtain over one shoulder, and gasps when she sees me.

  “Hi, sorry,” I say, trying to collect myself, the disappointment like a knife in the ribs. “Where’s— I’m looking for Devorah.”

  “You have to get out of here,” she whispers. “My parents are in the office.” She nods her head toward a door about ten feet from where we’re standing. I stand my ground.

  “Not without Devorah,” I say.

  “She’s not here!” Hanna whispers, and then raises her voice. “Hi, Mrs. Yenkin,” she says loudly, looking panicked. “How can I help you today?”

  “Then where is she?” I press, leaning on a nearby shelf for balance, knocking a bag of multicolored dreidels onto the gray carpet. Heavy footsteps shuffle around behind the closed door.

  “Hide behind that stack of boxes and I’ll tell you,” Hanna says. “If they see you, you’ll never get the chance—” Then the handle turns, and I drop to my knees, the four-foot shelf becoming my makeshift hiding place. Anyone who walks in off the street will see me. So will anyone who walks more than five steps out of the back room. I hold my breath.

  “I thought I heard someone come in,” a male voice says. No footsteps; he’s still in the doorway. A good sign.

  “Oh, um, Mrs. Yenkin came in, but she forgot her purse,” Hanna says, her voice high and nervous. “She’s coming back.”

  “What did I tell you about regular customers?” Devorah’s dad sighs. “You can always offer a one-time credit. We reward loyalty with trust. It makes them feel good and want to give us their business.”

  “Oh, right,” Hanna says. “Sorry.”

  “Did you finish shelving those streamers?” a female voice calls.

  “Almost done,” Hanna says cheerfully.

  “Put some up in the windows, too, like you did last year. Those were nice.”

  “Devorah always does the windows,” Hanna says, and there’s an awkward silence.

  “All right,” her father says finally. “We’re just finishing some personal business, and then we’ll be out. Make sure to break down the shipping boxes.” The door hinges squeal, and I’m about to unpause my aching lungs when it stops abruptly. “Whose bag is that?” he asks slowly. I freeze. My army-green backpack is still slumped at the base of the fan by the entrance.

  “Oh, someone must have left that,” Hanna stammers. “I’ll just stick it behind the counter.” The hinges squeal again, and then the door bangs shut. Hanna crouches down, visibly shaking. “You have to leave now,” she whispers. “Please.”

  “As soon as you tell me where she is.”

  “She’s in Monsey,” Hanna says. “That’s upstate.”

  “What’s she doing there?”

  “Go,” she pleads.

  “Where in Monsey?”

  “Some rehab place,” she says quickly. “It has an acronym, CRT or something like that, I don’t know. I only overheard.”

  The digital chime rings out, and Hanna shoots to her feet as a young woman in a long skirt enters with a toddler on her hip and another, barely much older, at her feet. Both boys have mini yarmulkes pinned in their hair. The woman stops abruptly when she sees me, and grabs her walking child’s hand.

  “I’ll be with you in just a minute,” Hanna chirps, but the woman shakes her head and turns around, triggering the doorbell yet again as she makes a hasty exit.

  “Hanna!” her father cries angrily through the door. “Could you hold one customer in the building, please?” I hear him get up from a chair, and know I’ve worn out my nonexistent welcome. My hamstrings snap painfully into action as I spring to my feet and make a dash for the door, grabbing my bag on the way.

  “Thanks,” I pant over my shoulder as I leap past the strip on the carpeted floor that would announce my presence and seal my fate. I’m already on the sidewalk by the time Devorah’s parents make their way out of the office, but as I break into a run I could swear I hear Hanna call out after me, her voice wafting through the still afternoon air like a trade wind, steering me on my way: Good luck.

  Chapter 27

  Devorah

  SEPTEMBER 16, 3 PM

  The Chabad Residential Treatment Center of Monsey (CRTCM for short, which really rolls off the tongue) is a ranch-style complex inset from the main road by about half a mile by way of a twisting gravel driveway and nestled almost invisibly inside a small clearing in a forest of trees. A series of low wood cabins are connected by quaint stone paths trimmed with round hedges, and there’s even a little square in the center with benches where
you can read or gaze out at the birds. Ironically, it actually looks exactly like the type of secular college campus I’ve fantasized about attending.

  Rose stayed with me through the intake process, which consisted of me filling out a series of highly personal and frankly presumptuous forms (sample question: What made you decide to abandon your faith?) and being shown to my room, an airy ten-foot cube with high, beamed ceilings, a big bed with a firm mattress and a down comforter, and a broad desk stocked with blank journals and felt-tip pens. I have my own bathroom—a luxury I’ve never experienced—but only because my bedroom door is locked from the outside. Normally, Chana the bubbly residential advisor told me, I would have a housemate in the adjoining room, but September is a sleepy month for CRTCM, as most families use the Jewish new year as an excuse to finally take action. “But we celebrate Rosh Hashanah,” she assured me. “We have a special service and everything. We get a ton of families from town who don’t even have relatives here come up just to hear Rabbi Perolman sound the shofar.” Rabbi Perolman is the CRTCM’s founder and head counselor, and I have my first meeting with him in ten minutes.