Summer in the Invisible City

by Juliana Romano

  “Um, yeah, I think so,” I say. The truth is, I saw the e-mail yesterday but I wasn’t sure yet how or when to ask Allan.

  “Check,” Izzy says.

  Izzy and Phaedra watch expectantly as I scroll through my e-mails on my phone.

  “I got it,” I say.

  “Forward it to him,” Phaedra says. “My mom is so excited for him to come.”

  Usually, I’m very deliberate about writing to Allan. I time it so that I hadn’t written to him too recently, and I craft my sentences to create the right tone, but Phaedra and Izzy are waiting so I have no choice but to scribble something quick. I forward the e-mail and click send.

  “Done,” I say, trying to smile.

  “Good. It’s gonna be so fun,” Izzy says. “There are always lots of people there from school. Do you remember Noah Bearman who graduated last year? He’s so hot. He’s always at these things because he and Phaedra are family friends.”

  “I know Noah,” I say.

  “Yeah, duh, everyone knows Noah,” Izzy snorts.

  “We . . . hooked up,” I say. “In tenth grade.”

  Phaedra was typing something into her phone, but now she stops, sits upright, and stares at me. “Are you serious?”

  I nod.

  “You and Noah Bearman?” Izzy repeats. “Really?”

  “Really.”

  “He is so beautiful. You are so lucky,” Phaedra says softly.

  The fact that Phaedra Bishop thinks I’m lucky makes the world swing momentarily upside down.

  “What happened? What’s the story?” Izzy demands. She pats the bed next to her commandingly. “Sit down and start talking, girl.”

  “There’s not that much to tell,” I say. “It was at that big New Year’s party in tenth grade. Did you guys go to that?”

  “Hooking up at a party is different than actually hooking up,” Izzy says. “Was it like a dare or something?”

  “No, actually,” I say, feeling a little insulted that it’s so hard for Izzy to believe. “We were alone. We talked for a while and then yeah . . . it was definitely . . . real.”

  “You slut!” Izzy laughs. It’s supposed to sound funny and affectionate but it stings.

  Phaedra is staring at me.

  “How far did you go?” Izzy asks.

  “We went all the way,” I say. And then, looking at their wide eyes, I can’t help giggling. It’s surreal to have Izzy and Phaedra staring at me with so much unchecked envy.

  “Wow. No offense, but I thought you were a virgin,” Izzy says. “I just assumed.”

  I shake my head no. “Are you guys?”

  Phaedra shakes her head no. She doesn’t take her eyes off of mine.

  “I technically am,” Izzy scoffs. “But I’ve done everything but. So I’m practically not a virgin.”

  I look at Izzy. It’s funny, I’ve always assumed Izzy was more grown up and experienced than me in every way. It’s strange to realize that there are things that I’ve been through that she never has.

  “Sex is different from everything else,” Phaedra says. “Right, Sadie?”

  I don’t have a basis for comparison but Phaedra seems so certain. So I say, “Sex is different.”

  I look at Phaedra and I think I see something burn in her usually placid blue eyes. Maybe some guy made Phaedra feel the way Noah made me feel: like I was the center of the world one second, and then the next second, that I didn’t exist. Could someone make Phaedra Bishop feel like a nobody? It seems impossible because she’s the girl who has everything. But for some reason, looking at her now, I feel certain that somebody did.

  “Anyway, enough Noah,” Izzy interjects, scooting off the bed. “Didn’t you say your mom had a bag of clothes we could go through?”

  “There.” Phaedra points to a bulging black trash bag in the corner.

  “I think I should go home. My mom is getting home early tonight so we were going to have dinner together,” I say.

  “Oh, come on, just stay,” Phaedra pleads with a smile.

  “You are going to freak out when you see these clothes,” Izzy says. “When Lucy Bishop cleans out her closet . . . I mean, this is serious business. She’s going to donate this stuff to charity, but we get first dibs.”

  “That’s really tempting—” I start to say.

  “I’m going to order us sushi for dinner. This might take a while,” Phaedra says, reaching for her cell phone. “Sadie, are you sleeping over?”

  All I want to do is go home and eat leftovers and watch TV with my mom. I want to help her choose fabric samples and listen to her getting-ready-for-bed sounds while I read.

  “You have to stay,” Izzy says. “We can go to this amazing coffee place before class tomorrow.”

  This is the invitation I’ve been waiting for. Once Izzy and Phaedra and I become real friends, I’ll be able to turn down plans with them. But until then, my position is precarious. I have to be sure to play my cards right until I’m officially in the group.

  —

  When it’s time for bed, Phaedra walks me downstairs to get me an extra toothbrush and towels in case I want to shower.

  “Thanks,” I say, taking the brand-new toothbrush. “This is perfect.”

  Phaedra smiles and nods, lingering. Her hair is pulled into a ponytail and she’s already washed off her makeup and put in the retainer she sleeps in. Standing under the fluorescent lamp, she seems alarmingly young. It’s funny how easy it is to put people on pedestals. Up close, everyone is kind of the same.

  “I’m really glad I’m getting to know you,” Phaedra says, lisping a little because of her retainer.

  “Me too,” I say.

  “Good,” she says. “And I just wanted to say I think it’s really awesome how you don’t try and get attention for all this stuff, like who your dad is and who you hooked up with and everything. I like that you want people to like you for who you are.”

  “Oh, thanks,” I say, but I wonder if that’s true.

  “I’m like that, too,” she says. “I feel like we’re kind of similar.”

  I’m stunned. “Oh, wow! Thank you.” It feels so good to get her approval that I only feel a little bit guilty about the fact that Izzy wasn’t included in the moment, too.

  Phaedra clicks her retainer in and out and in and out, fidgeting for a minute. Then she says, “You need anything else?”

  I shake my head no, and she smiles like a little kid.

  —

  Back in Phaedra’s room, I sleep on the couch while she and Izzy sleep together in her bed. I haven’t heard from Willa since our fight. What would she think if she could see me now?

  I check my e-mail before I fall asleep and I see that Allan responded.

  “S. Thank you for coming to the opening. I’m going back to LA soon and would love to see you again. How about lunch, just you and me, on Saturday?”

  I write back quickly, “Yes to lunch. Exciting. Also, did you get my e-mail about my friend’s mom’s art gala? We can go to that afterward.” After I click send, I place my phone on the dark floor.

  Streetlights from outside wash in through the giant trapezoidal window and cast a geometric pattern on the dark wood attic ceiling.

  It feels empowering to be getting so close to Allan that not every e-mail has to be a formal letter. Soon, I think, we are going to be as close as normal fathers and daughters. Who knows. Maybe I’ll turn into one of those girls who makes fun of her dad for being a dork. I always knew it wasn’t too late for us, and it’s turning out I was right.

  Chapter 27

  The next day is our four-by-five landscape critique. Izzy and I walk to class together from Phaedra’s house. Even at nine a.m. it’s so hot I’m sweating.

  I tell Izzy about Allan’s idea for my landscape project as we suck down our iced coffees.

  “Th
at’s rad,” she says. “Just a postcard? That’s so badass.”

  “I don’t know.” I sigh. “Benji might not be into it.”

  “Who cares? You should do what your dad suggested,” Izzy says. “Seriously, if you could take art advice from Benji Whateverthefuck or Allan Bell, I think you know who to listen to.”

  “What if Benji thinks I’m just trying to get out of doing the assignment, though?” I ask.

  “No way. Benji loves you,” she says.

  While Benji critiques other people’s pictures, I debate what I’m going to do. The landscape photograph I took with the four-by-five from the roof the other night turned out beautiful: sparkling and detailed. I know Benji would admire the range of grays. But what about Allan’s suggestion?

  Benji calls my name when it’s my turn, and Izzy gives me a thumbs-up.

  “Be strong,” she whispers.

  I nod and swallow. I walk up toward the front of the classroom, gripping my postcard in my trembling hand. I hold my breath as I pin it up and return to my seat, waiting to see what Benji will say.

  An uncomfortable silence rolls through the room.

  “Are you just handing in a postcard?” Cody winces. “That’s so weird. You didn’t even take it. That doesn’t count.”

  “Who says that it doesn’t counts?” Izzy asks. “If she found it, that means it’s her artwork.”

  Benji looks at me. Then he carefully walks up to the corkboard. He plucks the thumbtack out of the wall and picks up the postcard. I watch as he slowly walks over to my desk and places it on my desk in front of me.

  “I can’t accept this,” he says. “You didn’t do the assignment.”

  “It is technically a photograph of the city, though,” I say, but my voice wavers. I can’t remember any of the things Allan said that made this seem smart.

  “See me after class,” is all Benji says. And then walks back to the front of the room. I can feel everyone’s eyes on me, radiating fear.

  —

  “I’ll wait for you outside,” Izzy whispers to me, as everyone’s packing up. “Remember, Benji is an idiot.”

  Benji waits until the room is empty and then he sits down at the desk next to mine.

  “What happened?” he asks. “You didn’t have time to take your own pictures?”

  “I took my own pictures!” I exclaim. “They came out well. But I wanted to show the postcard because I thought, I don’t know . . . I thought it would be interesting.”

  Benji frowns. “Sadie. It was incredibly disrespectful to the whole class to hand in a postcard in the middle of a critique.”

  “Why?” I ask.

  “Because everyone worked really hard to get the assignment done,” he says. “It’s a—pardon my French—kind of a fuck you to the whole class.”

  It stings to hear Benji curse and I suddenly feel really bad.

  “I’m disappointed,” he says. “I’m not going to lie to you. You’re too smart for that.”

  “But, that’s not how I meant it,” I object. “I love the class. I just, I collect postcards. I love postcards. And then my dad suggested that it would be interesting to hand in a postcard. And he’s an artist. I mean, you know that. You were at his opening . . .”

  Benji leans back in his chair, contemplatively. Then he says, “Your father is a really important artist.”

  “I know,” I say.

  Benji’s face doesn’t reveal what he’s thinking. He says, “He lectured at Yale when I was in graduate school there. The auditorium was packed.”

  “That’s good, I guess,” I say, unsure what Benji is getting at.

  “His work changed the way people think about photography. And sculpture,” Benji continues, as if he’s reading a Wikipedia page.

  “I know,” I say, squirming a little. “He’s cool.”

  Benji doesn’t smile. “He is cool.”

  The way Benji says the word “cool” sounds like it means something different than it usually means.

  “Did you like his show last weekend? The new work?” he asks.

  “Yes,” I reply, although, I hadn’t really looked at his work or thought about it for very long.

  Benji looks at me. He tilts his head so that his swatch of hair shifts to the other side the way it does when he’s thinking. Then he abruptly stands up.

  “Give me your landscape prints,” he says.

  I take out my prints and hand them to Benji.

  He looks at the picture I took from the rooftop on Friday.

  “Look at that bird,” he says. “Wow. You got so lucky. That’s amazing.”

  “I know! I felt so lucky!” I gush, smiling for the first time all day. “I didn’t even realize that bird was there when I took the picture. I didn’t see it until I printed it. That’s my favorite thing about the picture, how the bird on that billboard and the real bird are kind of looking at each other.”

  “You did a nice job with your light settings here. It’s finally not too dark,” he says, his eyes fixed on the picture.

  “Benji?” I say.

  Benji’s eyes slowly lift off the photograph until they’re meeting mine. He waits for me to continue.

  “I’m sorry about the postcard,” I say. “I didn’t mean to be disrespectful.”

  He is stone-faced for a minute longer and then he nods. “You did the work. So I’ll accept this print. But don’t pull another move like that. I’m not kidding. Consider this a warning.”

  I nod.

  “Is that clear?” he asks.

  “Yes,” I say, nodding so emphatically I’m getting whiplash. “Totally.”

  —

  “I told you Benji was superconservative,” Izzy says after I tell her what Benji said. “Don’t listen to him.”

  We’re standing on the cement sidewalk and the clouds are a matching gray. It’s the kind of day that’s hot but sunless. Everything is bathed in a milky light, so bright that my body doesn’t even cast a shadow on the ground.

  “You think?” I say. “The whole thing is confusing.”

  “He’s probably just jealous that you’re Allan Bell’s daughter and he’s nobody,” she says.

  “Right,” I say.

  “So. Anyway. What are you going to wear to Phaedra’s this weekend?” Izzy asks.

  “I don’t know,” I say, not listening.

  “Well, let me know if you want to borrow something,” Izzy says. “It’s a big deal. People pay a thousand dollars a ticket to go.”

  And then Izzy leaves, heading toward the subway, and I know I’m supposed to be excited about a party with Phaedra and Izzy and Allan but something dirty and ashamed swirls around my heart. I can’t put my finger on what it is, but I can feel it there, swinging around heavily, tugging like a fish that’s been caught on the end of a line.

  Chapter 28

  Sam and I make a plan for Friday. We plan it over text messages, because now, apparently, Sam and I are friends who text. I’m going to meet him near his apartment and we are going to walk to Randall’s Island because he says I need to see it. He told me it’s bad how Manhattan kids never leave Manhattan and I need to explore more. I told him it’s bad how kids from New Hampshire think they know everything about city kids just because they’ve lived here for a year.

  I meet him on the corner of 103rd and Lexington.

  “You ready for this?” he asks.

  “Ready as I’ll ever be,” I reply.

  We walk to the eastern edge of Manhattan, where the island ends and the rushing East River and FDR highway tear across the landscape.

  Sam points to a small footbridge that arcs over the river. It’s bright white and delicate, almost fragile-looking, like lace.

  —

  Sam drags his fingers along the fence while we walk across the river, making a tinkling sound on the metal. Be
low us, the water runs shiny and dark. The cars on the FDR whisk by at regular intervals.

  Sam’s shadow on the white is a blue puddle under his feet.

  “I got an e-mail from my mom’s ex-boyfriend this morning,” he says. “It was so random.”

  “What did it say?” I ask.

  “Just, like, whatsup.”

  I wait for him to continue. When he doesn’t, I say, “Is that a good thing?”

  “I guess,” he says. “He was basically my stepdad. He lived with us from when I was five to when I was thirteen. It’s kind of messed up that we don’t have a relationship anymore.”

  “Where does he live?” I ask.

  “The town over from ours,” Sam says. “Not far. He’s a math professor at a community college there. It’s pretty funny. He doesn’t seem like a math person. He’s got tons of tattoos and he’s in a punk band and stuff.”

  “Oh really?” I say. “He sounds awesome.”

  “He is,” Sam says. “He’s the only adult I actually respect back home. Too bad I was such a little shit to him at the end.”

  “Why don’t you tell him that?” I ask.

  “Tell him what?” he asks.

  “What you just told me,” I say. “That you’re sorry you were such a little shit and that he’s the only adult you respect.”

  Sam looks at me and then without prompting, he springs across the bridge and grabs onto the chain-link fence, his feet dangling momentarily beneath him, one of his dirty sneakers pressing against the metal handrail. I look at him through my camera’s viewfinder and take a picture. And then he pushes himself off and resumes walking.

  “You’re good at not talking about things you don’t want to talk about,” I say when he’s back at my side.

  “See. We’re both good at things.” Sam smiles. “You’re good at photography and I’m good at not talking about things. And you thought I didn’t have any skills.”

  I laugh. “But for real, don’t you like anything? Don’t you ever think about where you want to go to college? Or what you want to be when you grow up?”

  “When I grow up?” he repeats. “What does that even mean?”