Someday, Somewhere

by Lindsay Champion

  He must be talking to one of Ben’s parents. For some reason I thought Ben would be alone, like the last time we were at his apartment together. It didn’t even occur to me that his mom — or God, his entire family — would be there, too.

  “You know what? I just realized I can talk to him tomorrow,” I tell the doorman. “Never mind.”

  “Mrs. Tristan said to go right up. Fifteenth floor, apartment 1556.”

  “Oh. Okay.”

  He gestures to the elevator.

  Numb, I stumble over and press the button. Why am I doing this? Cass is right. If Ben doesn’t want to see me, that’s his decision. He’s not going to change his mind just because I’m here.

  But then, before I can stop myself, I’m upstairs, ringing his doorbell. What if I just turned around and went back down? It’s too late; the elevator would never come in time and they’d see me standing there. What if I took the stairs? There have to be stairs somewhere, for emergencies. There have to be —

  A blond woman opens the door. She’s wearing a gray sweater and white jeans, just like a mom on the cover of a Macy’s catalogue. Here she is in the flesh, a mother-on-paper.

  “Come in, come in,” she says.

  Like she knows exactly who I am.

  I step into the beautiful sanctuary once again, which is somehow even cleaner than last time. It’s more quiet and peaceful than I’ve ever imagined a home could be.

  “Hi,” I sputter.

  “Thank you so much for coming. I’m starting to wonder if it’s mono. Is there something going around school?”

  “Uh —”

  “Do you have his schoolwork? He hasn’t even picked up his violin in three days, which is so unlike him. Usually he’s in his room playing away, right through colds, the flu, everything, determined to stay ahead. He had pneumonia once, a 102-degree fever and almost had to go to the hospital, but there he was, up at seven and practicing.” She smiles apologetically. “Well, you know Ben.”

  I smile, too. Now I know where Ben gets the “talking too much” gene.

  “Can I see him?” I ask.

  “That’s very sweet, love — what did you say your name was?”

  “Oh. Sharon.”

  “I wouldn’t want you to catch anything, Sharon. But I’ll tell him you stopped by and asked about him, of course. Do you have the schoolwork?”

  Should I make some up? I could ask to borrow some paper and an envelope and write a note to Ben, begging him to forgive me. And stuff it inside the envelope and lick the seal and press it shut. And say it’s an assignment that only Ben can see.

  Instead I look at the carpet and say, “Tell him to read pages 110 to 125 of his music composition textbook.”

  “And did you bring the assignments?”

  I rummage through my backpack, knowing I have nothing to give her.

  “You know what?” I say. “I must have left the packet at home. I’m so sorry. Just tell him to keep watching the list of videos I sent him last week, and I’ll e-mail him the rest.”

  I back out of the apartment, hands shaking. Everything shaking. Mrs. Tristan looks confused but waves, says goodbye and that it was nice to meet me (well, not me but Sharon). She shuts the door.

  I don’t breathe until I’m safe inside the elevator. Somewhere around the third floor my heart settles back into my rib cage. So Ben has mono. Unless he’s pretending to be sick to avoid me.

  I can’t believe I’m even thinking that. Of course he has mono. No wonder he hasn’t responded. It’s all perfectly understandable.

  Still, he could text and tell me what’s going on. Or send an e-mail. Unless he’s in the hospital, unconscious, there’s really no reason he wouldn’t. He’d never want me to worry — would he?

  The more days pass, the more I don’t know.

  {36}

  Ben

  There’s a crack in the corner of the ceiling. It looks like a lobster claw. Soft curves on the outside and jagged edges in the middle.

  Just breathing feels like torture. It takes up all the energy I have.

  There’s a water stain above my head. I imagine rain falling on the roof, dripping through the ceiling and then pouring onto my face. I take a deep breath, as big as I can, and suck in every drop of water until the room is dry. My lungs are wet and sloshing inside me, soaking up every last water molecule like a sponge until I can’t breathe anymore.

  Sleep comes again.

  {37}

  Dominique

  On the eighth day I give up hope. We’ll never talk again. It meant nothing to him. I bet he goes on dates with different girls every week. He’s probably been to the Village Vanguard three times since he took me. I was nothing special. I am nothing special.

  {38}

  Ben

  {39}

  Dominique

  I’ve started skipping lunch and going to the library instead. The noise of three hundred kids all yelling and laughing at once and the greenish fluorescent lights and the old-tire lunch meat smell are too much to handle right now. I have a routine: I grab a dance book from the nonfiction section, hole up in a computer station and read while checking my e-mail for messages from Ben.

  But today I break the routine. I don’t even bother to check. The disappointment hurts too much. I know nothing is there.

  {40}

  Ben

  On Thursday morning things start to make sense again. I’ll go over to Yaz’s and see if I can try some of his violins. He’ll tell me the truth. He doesn’t sugarcoat anything. He’ll tell me what I really sound like. I still feel like shit, but at least I have a plan. A reason to wake up.

  In bed I hug my knees to my chest, trying not to cry. I’m normal. Everything’s normal. I’m here. I’m okay.

  I take my phone off the nightstand and try to turn it on, but the battery is dead. I can’t remember the last time I checked it. Two, maybe three days ago? I stumble over to the desk and plug it in. There are texts from Amy and Kelly saying they hope I feel better. “Mono suuuuuucks” Jun-Yi writes with a thousand u’s stretched across the screen. The texts go all the way back to last Monday. Has it really been that long? And why does she think I have mono?

  Then I check my e-mail. And there’s one from Dominique.

  I read it. Shit. Why didn’t she feel she could be honest with me from the beginning? I never would have judged her. She’s the most glorious human in the universe. Why would I care if she doesn’t actually go to NYU? What a stupid thing to lie about.

  Actually, she lied about everything.

  Do I even know this girl anymore? Did I even know her at all?

  And then it hits me. I haven’t been honest with her, either. She thinks I’m the best violinist at Brighton. She thinks I’m on track to becoming the next Joshua Bell. She probably thinks she’ll spend her life staying in four-star hotels and traveling the world with me. If she only had any idea how far from the truth that is. No one at school wants to work with me anymore. They’re afraid of me. Who am I to be upset with her, when I can’t even face the truth about myself?

  * *

  I pull on an undershirt and wander into the living room. Milo is there, playing some video game I’ve never seen before, where you have to shoot these weird alien pirates who are invading a ghost ship in the middle of the ocean.

  “What day is it?” I ask.

  Milo puts the game on Pause. “Why, Ebenezer, it’s Christmas Day.”

  “Shut up. Is it Thursday?”

  “Yeah, 6:36 on Thursday.”

  “In the morning or at night?”

  “Jesus. Night. You were really zonked out.”

  “Yeah.”

  “Mom’s been telling people it’s mono.”

  “Huh.”

  “It’s not mono, is it?”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “Exac
tly what you think it means.”

  “Well, I don’t know what it was, but I have to go over to Yaz’s and try some of his violins. Something’s wrong with my E string.”

  “So you’re … fine now? That’s it? That’s all you’re going to say?”

  “I hate to disappoint you, but yes. See you later.”

  “If you go to Yaz’s right now, Mom’s literally going to murder me. She canceled my tennis lesson and gave me fifty bucks so I would sit here for two hours and then bring you a bowl of pasta at seven.”

  “She’s being ridiculous. I don’t need you to babysit me.”

  “Ben.”

  He narrows his eyes and gets really serious. I don’t know what his problem is.

  “What?”

  “I saw inside your closet.”

  Milo looks down. He’s afraid to look at me.

  “Who the hell told you to go in there?”

  “I wasn’t snooping. Mom asked me to find your robe and … I didn’t say anything to her and she hasn’t seen it. Just … Ben, why did you do that?”

  “It’s not a big deal.”

  “How much money did you spend?”

  “You have no idea what you’re talking about. You have no fucking idea.”

  “Well, you’re sure not making it very easy for me to figure out. Do you know how worried Mom and Dad were this week? Mom spent half the night in there with you. She’s working a double right now, probably after getting four hours of sleep for the last eight nights. Not like that’s a big deal to you. You’re just a robot who does the same thing every day until, all of a sudden, you just crash.”

  “I was sick!”

  “When I get the flu, I sit in bed and blow my nose a lot.”

  “This is mono. It’s completely different from the flu.”

  “You weren’t tested. She didn’t even take you to the doctor. She’s a nurse, for God’s sake, and she’s in as much denial as you are. She just wants it to be mono because she’s sunk so many hours and so much money into your music career at this point that it would ruin her life if this didn’t work out. She can’t face the fact that her son isn’t just an eccentric musician but actually has something wrong with him. Seriously wrong. I’m sorry, but I’m sick of everyone tiptoeing around you, treating you like you’re some kind of fragile genius who can’t be disturbed. You’re not just stressed about learning this piece. This is something else entirely.”

  “Well, by all means, Milo, expert on everything. Tell me. What the fuck is wrong with me?”

  “Something’s off, Ben. Mentally. This kind of stuff keeps happening, and it’s getting worse and worse every time. I don’t know if it’s depression or OCD or —”

  I scream, grab the game controller out of his hand and throw it against the wall as hard as I can. It makes the world’s most satisfying smash. Fortissimo.

  I don’t need this. I don’t fucking need this. I’m leaving. Until the damp, cool air in the hallway washes over me, I didn’t realize how hot and stifling it was in the apartment. In the elevator I text Yaz and tell him I’m coming over.

  I’m halfway to Yaz’s before I realize I’m only wearing an undershirt.

  {41}

  Dominique

  Cass and I are walking to Spin Cycle after school, playing the celebrity game. It used to feel like a secret escape from our real lives, but now it just feels pathetic and sad. The same old actors over and over again. Nothing ever happens and no one ever wins.

  “Jackie Gleason,” Cass says.

  “Gene Kelly,” I say.

  “Always with Gene Kelly. I’m going to ban him from all future rounds.”

  “Fine, Greta Garbo. And you can’t use Gene Kelly, either.”

  “Damn it.”

  “Do you want a hint?” My phone buzzes in my pocket. It’s probably my mom, wondering if I can pick something up on my way over. “Hang on.”

  But it’s him.

  VIOLIN BOY BEN

  Meet me at corner of 20th and Irving

  at 9:00 a.m. on Saturday, mi amor.

  Dancing shoes mandatory.

  Tiny earthquakes run up my fingertips. Everything’s trembling. Mi amor. My love. He loves me. In Spanish.

  “I have to sit down.”

  “What?” Cass asks, grabbing my shoulders. “What is it?”

  “He texted.”

  “About time.”

  I sit down on a stoop in front of a bodega. Cass squeezes in next to me.

  Should I be mad? After ten days of the silent treatment, he’s expecting me to drop everything and meet him at the corner of Twentieth and Irving, like it’s nothing? What the hell happened? Is he okay? I thought he’d written me off. I thought he didn’t want anything to do with me. I thought he was gone forever.

  And then all the old stress flies back. What kind of dancing shoes is he talking about? I can’t wear my real ones outside — they’ll get ruined. And what outfit do I wear? I’ll have to borrow something else. Another dress. But Monica’s mom hasn’t dropped off any clothes this week.

  For a minute I think I should ignore his text like he ignored me, but I can’t. Now, after Ben, my old life doesn’t fit. It’s like I was putting on the same black shirt every day for the last seventeen years and then one morning I woke up and put on a bright gold one and realized the black one was way too tight and completely the wrong color. I just never noticed before.

  * *

  “Dominique! ¿Cómo estás? ¡Tanto tiempo!”

  “Still no habla español, Rico.”

  I’m standing at checkout aisle three at Dollar Plenty, where Rico, the assistant manager, is manning the register in a red vest. On the front pocket, his vest says “Got a dollar? Then you’ve got plenty” — a slogan I recognized as terrible even when Mom used to work shifts here when I was five.

  “How’s your mama? Haven’t seen her in a long time.”

  “Still running the laundromat.”

  “When is she going to ditch that old shack and come back to work for us? Have you seen that giant new place on Route 1? It’s like Disneyland.”

  “Actually, that’s why I’m here. I was wondering if, um, you have any shifts available.”

  “For your mom?”

  “No, for me. Not, like, a full-time thing, but maybe a few hours after school a few times a week?”

  “Instead of the laundromat?”

  “No, in addition. Just to have a little more spending money.”

  “Does your mom know you’re over here?”

  “Not exactly.”

  “What if I called her right now? You think she’d be cool with this?”

  I put my hand on his arm. “Please don’t.” Then I realize I don’t know this guy well enough to touch him, and remove it. “Please.”

  “We’re all maxed out on employees. Can’t hire anyone new. But even if I could, you know I can’t go against your mama. Did you try Lombardo’s?”

  “I’ve tried everywhere.”

  “I’m sorry, Dominique.”

  “It’s okay,” I say. “Thanks anyway.”

  * *

  I’m alone in the back room, prepping jackets to go out to the dry cleaner and feeling pretty freaking hopeless.

  There are only two options. I could explain to Ben that I’m too broke to visit him, and maybe he could get me the money somehow. But even after telling him where we live and that we’re not exactly rich, he still doesn’t understand what that means. He can’t. And honestly? I don’t know if I really want him to understand.

  And there’s the other option. The option I don’t even want to think about: not to go. To tell him I’m sorry, but it’s too late and he missed his chance and he shouldn’t have waited so long to text me. Mono or no mono, he should have tried.

  I put a black trench coat on a hanger and hook it o
n the dry-cleaning rack. As I’m smoothing out the wrinkles, I notice a bulge in one of the pockets. People leave all sorts of stuff in their pockets, then blame us if it gets damaged in the wash. Like the exploding-pen incident when I was in fifth grade. A woman screamed at my mom for half an hour because she’d forgotten to take a pen out of her own pants. When she ran them through our washers, ink got all over the rest of her clothes. After she was finished yelling, Mom quietly handed her the money back, then spent the next two hours scrubbing pen marks out of the machine with rubbing alcohol.

  I reach my hand in the coat pocket. It’s not a pen or a pair of gloves. It’s money. Like, a lot of money.

  I count it. It’s all twenties. Fourteen twenties, to be exact — $280.

  I look at the tag Mom has scribbled on in red ink and attached to the jacket: “L. Petersen.”

  I don’t recognize that name.

  I don’t think she’s a regular.

  If L. Petersen can just take out $280 and slip it into her coat pocket and forget it like it’s nothing, she can obviously afford to lose it.

  I need it more than she does.

  It’s fate, I convince myself.

  It’s a sign Ben and I are meant to be together.

  Here’s the worst part: it doesn’t even occur to me to do the right thing.

  I shove it into my backpack and pretend it never happened.

  * *

  I stuff things into my shopping basket like I’m one of those spoiled rich girls on TV. Well, I’m at the Salvation Army on Sixth Street and not Urban Outfitters, but still. A long, flowy silk halter dress that ties with a velvet cord around the neck. A small, woven cross-body purse with two tiny pom-poms on the zipper. A stick of expensive eyeliner with the plastic still on it. A pair of black satin ballet flats — worn but exactly my size. I know I’m not going to have this kind of money again for a long time, maybe forever, so I should save some of it. But I can’t help it. I keep shoving more and more things in the plastic basket. A silver necklace with an iridescent stone that looks like an opal. Metallic nail polish. Nothing even remotely practical. As I stand in the fitting room with the dress and the purse and the shoes, I look in the mirror and see myself transforming into the person I’ve always wanted to be. The person Ben would be proud to be seen with. For the first time in ten days I smile.