The Sky at Our Feet

by Nadia Hashimi

  “Is anyone here a doctor?”

  “The ambulance is on its way, but the marathon’s made a mess of traffic. Oh man, this isn’t good! Put a stick between her teeth so she doesn’t bite her tongue. Someone grab a stick!”

  No, I think.

  In a blink, I’m pushing my way through the ring of adult bodies. They’re hovering over Max, and someone’s got two hands on Max’s jerking arms, pinning her to the ground.

  “Stop it!” I shout.

  “We’re trying to stop it, kid. Just back up and let us handle this.” The circle of people tightens, and I realize they’re trying to squeeze me back out. I won’t let that happen. I can’t let that happen.

  “Stop what you’re doing! You’re going to hurt her!”

  “Is she your sister? Where’s your mom?”

  I elbow my way closer to Max and pull those hands off her arms. I’ve never been so loud speaking to adults, but this is Max they’re talking about. Max needs them to hear me.

  “She’s having a seizure. Don’t hold her down. Roll her onto her side and don’t even think about putting a stick or anything else in her mouth unless you want to choke her.”

  Something, possibly the anger in my voice, makes them listen to me. My hands are trembling.

  Please stop, I pray silently. Please make it stop.

  When I open my eyes again, Max is groaning softly. Her body has stopped thrashing, and her arms and legs lie motionless. She looks okay. She looks like she’s sleeping.

  “Is it over?”

  “Man, I hope so. Poor thing.”

  I can hear the relief in their voices. I count five adults—five people who came when I called for help, even if they didn’t exactly know what to do.

  I stare at Max’s face, watching the pink slowly return to her lips, when a long shadow is cast over her. I look up and see a blue uniform. My heart hammers away in my chest. There’s no mistaking things this time. This is not a train conductor or a security guard or even a late Halloween costume. This is a real live police officer looming over me, his eyes hidden by sunglasses.

  “Is she okay?” He leans in and checks her pulse by pressing two fingers to the inside of her wrist. Reassured, he stands again and starts asking the adults questions about what happened.

  “Looking better than a second ago. We’re waiting on the ambulance. This fella right here knew just what to do, though.”

  “Good job, kid!”

  Someone slaps my shoulder. I shrug and look at the ground. A man pushes his way through and taps the policeman on his shoulder.

  “Officer, we’re so glad you showed up when you did! We’re visiting—it’s our first time in New York City, and this is way more excitement than we’d planned on having! Can we bother you with a question? Our son left his teddy bear on the subway, and we were wondering how we could file a report . . .”

  The police officer has one eye on Max as he listens to the man reporting a missing stuffed animal. Looking past him, I realize that this officer did not come in a police car. A few feet away there’s a magnificent-looking horse with a shiny, sable coat. She whips her tail and lifts one foot briefly, almost like a wave.

  I turn my attention back to Max. My heart is thumping in my chest nervously. I should turn myself in to this officer, but I’m not ready to do that. I’m not ready to give up yet.

  Max is blinking rapidly. The fog is lifting, just as it did for me in the hospital’s emergency room after my concussion.

  “Jason D,” she whispers. The look on my face must tell her to look around and figure out what’s happened. Her eyes rove upward and find the police officer. I can see her forehead wrinkle with frustration.

  “Are you all right?” I say quietly so that only she can hear me.

  “Mm-hmm,” she replies with the slightest nod.

  “There’s an ambulance coming. You’re going to be fine.” I put my hand on hers.

  “Jason.”

  “Yeah, Max?”

  “I’m glad you were here.”

  “I’m glad too.”

  “The police . . .”

  “I don’t think he knows who we are.”

  I look over at the officer. He’s recording the names of the people who had stopped to help Max.

  Max closes her eyes; her lashes make dark half circles.

  “Jason D,” she whispers, eyes fluttering softly. “Take my backpack and just walk away. They’re not even paying attention.”

  “No way. I’m not leaving you,” I say, shaking my head. “I can’t just walk away when you’re like this.”

  “Not my first seizure, Jason D. Not the first time I’ve been like this.” Her words are heavy and slow, like she’s speaking underwater.

  That’s true, but I don’t want her to feel alone.

  “But these people don’t know what to do for you.”

  “I’ll tell them,” she says with determination.

  I don’t doubt that.

  Her eyelids are still heavy, but color is slowly returning to her cheeks. She’s got faint freckles I never noticed before. I put my hand over hers.

  “What kind of friend just leaves when . . . when—”

  “The ambulance will be here any second now, and so will my parents,” Max insists, her words coming out slow and a little unclear. “Come on. We rocked it today. There’s still a chance for victory.”

  Victory, the winged figure from the statue. The muscled horse behind her.

  Red twirling lights approach. An ambulance has pulled up to the curb, and one uniformed paramedic is pulling a stretcher out of the back of the vehicle while another is bent over Max, taking my place. The police officer crouches down too.

  When I stand up, Max’s backpack is in my hands. I slip my arms through the straps.

  The corners of Max’s mouth turn up in the slightest hint of a smile. That’s when I know she’ll be okay if I go, maybe even better if she knows I’m still pressing on. The second line of the riddle echoes in my head.

  Two days later, he rides out on Friday.

  This can’t be me thinking about doing this. I’m not the kind of kid who does things like this.

  I can’t see Max anymore. She’s somewhere behind the two paramedics, the police officer, three of the good Samaritans who stopped to help, and the little boy who left his teddy bear on the subway. On top of that, more people are now joining the circle of onlookers because everyone’s a little curious about what’s happening.

  The horse snorts and looks my way. It feels like the pieces of a puzzle falling into place.

  I’m not thinking. I’m not even doing. It’s just happening.

  No one notices me inch my way to Friday, hidden from view by the ambulance with its swirling lights. No one notices how I first touch her silky coat of hair and feel her muscles ripple under my hand. The sculpture was cool, but the real thing is amazing. The horse lowers her head as I approach, and I feel my spine straighten. As Max is lifted off the ground and transferred onto a stretcher, no one sees me plant one foot on a fire hydrant and grab the horse’s reins. I hop up and slide my foot into a stirrup. I swing my leg around to straddle the horse. I have the reins in my hands and lean forward to press my body against her thick, strong neck. Her ears flicker, as if waiting for instruction.

  I’ve come this far, I think. There’s nothing to lose now.

  “Come on, Friday. Let’s go!”

  Twenty-One

  A storm of shouting erupts behind me. I think I can hear the police officer’s shouts in the mix, but mostly I just hear my own panicked groans.

  “Oh no . . . whoa . . . watch out, girl!”

  When Friday raised her hoof at me, she probably assumed I had ridden a horse before. By now she’s probably figured out how wrong she was to assume anything. My bottom thumps against the saddle like one of those rubber balls tied to a wooden paddle. The general in that statue and every cowboy I’ve ever seen on television make it look so easy.

  It’s not.

  I’m hal
fway down the block when I dare to look over my shoulder.

  “Oh man,” I mumble. The police officer is running toward me while everyone else watches, hands over their mouths. The horse is jogging or trotting or skipping or whatever it is that horses do. I’m trying to keep my balance when she takes one extra-big hop, lifting me a couple of inches into the air. When I fall back into the saddle, my leg slaps against her flank and she whinnies.

  She’s clearly read my leg hitting her as a sign to speed up. It’s hard to unkick her, and I can’t think of how else to tell her this was a quicker getaway than I’d imagined.

  “Whoa . . . whoa . . . whoaaaaaaa!” I yell. She has taken off down the street with my unintended encouragement. I think the cars have stopped, but it’s hard to tell with my eyes mostly closed. I’m hugging Friday’s neck as tightly as I can, but I’m still being thrashed around like a rag doll, prepared to be thrown to the ground any second now. She veers right and then left. I don’t know which street I’m on, and can’t begin to figure it out.

  I twist the reins around my arms until I’m feeling a lot more secure. I look back again, and the police officer is a blue dot against a blur of cars. He’s still coming after me, but the distance between us is growing.

  Where to now? Should I just ride through the park? A boy on a horse is pretty noticeable. I could try to disappear underground, but I can’t exactly ride Friday onto a subway car. I’m going to have to get off this horse and duck back into the crowd.

  Max’s bag slaps against my back. I shout at Friday to stop, tugging on the reins. She snorts but I feel her step ease up a bit. I give the reins one desperate pull.

  “Please!” I yell. “Please stop!”

  Friday eases her gait and my body starts to relax. I lift my head and spot the dark-green railing that marks the subway station just up ahead. This is my best shot. The police officer must have taken a shortcut because he’s back in view, but nearly two blocks away. Friday comes to a stop, her hooves tapping against the asphalt even as she stands. On our left side, there’s a stack of empty milk crates on the sidewalk. I unwind the leather reins from my forearms and nervously slide one leg up and over Friday’s saddle while I inch myself to the crates.

  “Just hold still one second,” I whisper.

  I hop off the crates and take a deep breath. A shopkeeper is staring at me, and so are two trendy-looking men and a woman in athletic gear clutching an infant to her chest. I brush at my pants and give them a small wave like all is right with the world.

  I start to walk toward the subway entrance. I don’t dare run because I don’t want them to think they should stop me. I have to stay calm. They seem too stunned to act, but that won’t last long. I make my way down the stairs, taking note that I’m at the Eighty-Sixth Street station. Coming from the bright afternoon, the subway entrance feels dark and cavelike. A few of the overhead lightbulbs have blown out and need to be replaced. There are ticket machines and a subway map displayed against the white-tiled walls. A train pulls into the station, and just past the turnstiles, clusters of people are waiting for the subway doors to open. The glass booth in the center of the station is empty, and there’s no one around watching me. I’m still close enough that I can hear shouting coming from aboveground.

  I look at the turnstile and see how easy it would be to duck under the metal bars and slip onto that train just as it leaves the station. The officer is still out of view and won’t know where I’ve gone.

  It’s a pretty decent plan, I think, even as I consider my options. I take a look around the train station, feeling like I’m up against a ticking clock, when a riddle interrupts my thoughts.

  I can only live where there is light, but I die if the light shines on me. What am I?

  A heartbeat later, the police officer flies down the stairs, his feet barely landing on the steps. He leaps over the turnstile like an Olympian and pushes his way through the people bursting off the train. Some of them look annoyed when his shoulders bump against theirs, but they swallow their anger when they realize he’s a police officer. The cop scans left and right and hears the mechanical voice warning passengers to stand clear of the closing doors. He steps onto the train and moves quickly through the subway car, looking for me.

  The subway train starts to move out of the station, slipping into a large black hole. The officer looks confused, like someone’s just pulled a rabbit out of a paper bag. The people on the train look puzzled too. They’re not sure why this perplexed, panting officer is looking at all of them like they’re in cahoots.

  How does a boy vanish into thin air in a subway station?

  It’s quite a riddle.

  I can only live where there is light, but I die if the light shines on me. What am I?

  A shadow.

  One day, I think as I stand upright, the officer will figure it out.

  From the small, shadowed space between two ticket machines, just a few feet away from the stairs that lead back to Eighty-Sixth Street, I step out into the dimly lit subway station and walk toward the light.

  Twenty-Two

  A group of teenage boys enters the station just as I leave. I stay as close to the handrail as possible to leave space between us. They are carrying duffel bags with lacrosse sticks over their shoulders. I keep my eyes to the ground, wondering if anyone will recognize me as the boy on the police horse.

  Friday is tethered to a signpost and looks at me as soon as my foot hits the sidewalk. She snorts and flicks her tail.

  “I’m sorry I got you mixed up in this too,” I whisper. She blinks but doesn’t look away. Crazy, but I feel like she didn’t mind our ride, even though she’s supposed to be on the police officer’s side. Did she sense how much I needed her help? Did she know I needed to get away?

  Shopkeepers and pedestrians are going about their regular business. Did they see me riding past them just a few minutes ago? I guess nothing can surprise New Yorkers. I keep my eyes on the concrete squares of sidewalk and plod onward, making my way back down from Eighty-Sixth Street to Seventy-Fourth Street. Max is surely at the hospital by now, but I still want to stay clear of the spot where I left her. Even an amateur lawbreaker like me knows not to return to the scene of the crime.

  I wonder if the Amber Alert has gone off again—Max and I really have sent the city spinning. My mom would not be happy with what I’ve done, I think guiltily.

  When I get to Eightieth Street, I turn right and walk back to the edge of the park. I see people, some carrying signs with messages about the marathon, but I don’t see any runners here.

  That’s when I spot the enormous building to my right. It looks like some kind of royal palace with its arched entryways and tall columns, and I half expect a robed king and queen to step out along with armored knights. It stretches for blocks, and there are three tiers of stairs leading from the sidewalk to the heavy doors farther down from where I’m standing.

  I wish Max were here with me. I climb the first set of steps and tell myself I can only sit for a moment. I put Max’s backpack next to me and think how lonely it looks without her.

  I blink twice and my eyes focus in on a sign that reads Metropolitan Museum of Art.

  There’s another sign, a long vertical one that hangs like a drape between two columns. I read the letters stacked on one another like a word tower: Vincent van Gogh.

  A young couple comes down the steps. They are each so busy with their cell phones that I think they’ll probably walk into a wall. The guy crumples something up and tosses it at the trash can beside me. He misses—not surprising, since he barely looked up.

  Auntie Seema would have tapped on his shoulder and made him pick it up. I figure I owe the city big time, and the least I can do is pick up this one piece of trash. Before I stand up to toss it into the bin, curiosity hits me and I uncrumple the ball. It’s a brochure about a visiting van Gogh exhibit. I see the painting of a vase filled with sunflowers, some in full bloom and some wilting. Inside the brochure are more words and more painting
s. On the back page, there’s a painting of an outdoor café, tables and chairs set out on what looks to be a summer evening. The last painting is a dark sky filled with stars over a quiet village.

  I read that van Gogh was Dutch and that he was born in 1853. He created more than two thousand pieces of artwork in the Postimpressionist style.

  I read more and see that he was described as “troubled” and suffering from “mental illness.” I wonder how a person with mental illness could also be “celebrated” and “gifted.” Then I see a word I heard for the first time this weekend.

  It has been suggested that Vincent van Gogh may have suffered from a form of epilepsy and that his disease may have led him to have the many visions . . .

  That sounds an awful lot like what Max told me she has.

  I wish I could show this to her. Did van Gogh need surgery too? I wish she could see this famous artist is just like her. Or she’s just like him. They’re just like each other. He wasn’t normal. He was better than normal.

  Auntie Seema might know. I stuff the brochure into Max’s backpack.

  I’m back on my feet. I feel more alone now than I did before I knew Max. So much has changed this weekend. I have to push on, though. The only hope I have of hearing from my mother is if I can get to Auntie Seema’s home. Thinking of my aunt gives me the strength to put one foot in front of the other because I know that, even if she’s not my mom, Auntie Seema will wrap her arms around me and make everything better.

  I keep my eyes peeled for flashing lights, fleets of runners, and blue-uniformed officers. I see only taxis, people of all ages, and sunlight glinting off windows. Nothing is out of the ordinary.

  I hear the voices of a man and a woman behind me. By the way they sometimes break out with “Hey, there, chunky monkey,” and “Did you make a stinky?” I can tell they’re pushing a stroller with a baby in it. I listen to their conversation. They’re talking about ordering Thai food for dinner and making the appointment for the baby’s next set of vaccinations. I listen because as long as I know they’re not talking about me, I’m invisible to them, and that’s exactly what I need.