by Sara Ella
“Is this why you’re here?” I snap at Joshua, cutting Wallace off. “Because you have to be?” My expression tightens.
Joshua’s cerulean eyes widen and finally lock on mine. “What? Of course not. El—”
“How long have you known?” My words slip through clenched teeth.
He hesitates. “Awhile.”
“So all this time we’ve been friends, it’s been a lie?”
“No. We were friends first. It was only a month ago Elizabeth came to me and asked if I’d be willing to take responsibility should something happen to her.”
“Responsibility?” My voice quivers. “Are you serious? I’ll be eighteen in less than a month. I can take care of myself.”
“That isn’t quite accurate,” Wallace interjects. “Your mother left everything to Mr. David. The home. Her bank accounts. She wanted to ensure you’d be looked after by a responsible adult. Someone who could work and provide while you finish high school and begin college.” A lady in a ridiculous black feathered hat taps Wallace on the shoulder with her dragon fingernail and he excuses himself.
Once we’re alone again I say under my breath, “You’re only three years older than me. How much more responsible can you be?”
“I’m going to take care of you. It’s what your mom wanted.” He bends the folder and shoves it into his back pocket.
I step back. Shake my head. Why would Mom keep this from me? And why isn’t she here so I can ask her?
“El.” Joshua reaches for me. “I’m sorry. We should’ve told you. If it bothers you that much, I’ll find someone else to be your guardian. I’ll do whatever it takes to make this transition as easy as possible. To make you feel safe. That’s all I want.”
Someone else. Transition. Easy. Safe. The words blur together as I retreat into the bathroom. Lock the door. Invisibility is the only way I know how to survive. Because if I let him see how much this hurts, if I let him witness the broken heart on my sleeve, he might find someone else to care for me.
Then he’ll leave me too.
And there it is. The truth. As much as I hate for him to stay out of guilt or pity or duty, it would be worse to see him go. Mom’s death is the hardest thing I’ve ever endured. If I lost Joshua, too, I don’t think I could bear it. I’m not that brave. So I’ll do what I’m best at. I’ll pretend. If he sees I’m okay, he’ll stay.
And I won’t have to feel this way ever again.
TWO
Think Again
Someone’s in my room.
I lie unmoving atop rumpled sheets. Sweat sticks to every crease and pore on my skin, reminding me I fell asleep with the space heater on again. Floorboards whine beneath my intruder’s weight. I keep my eyes closed and feign sleep. My breaths release as if rehearsed.
The light flicks on. An orange glow penetrates my eyelids.
“Happy birthday!”
I open my eyes. Mom?
So this isn’t real. Just a memory. A dream. Still, I’ll take what I can get.
She floats over to my bed. A Crumbs Bake Shop cupcake with a single lit candle rests in her palm. Blackout—my favorite flavor. Mom sits, her ageless smile beaming. “Make a wish.”
How could I forget? Every year it’s the same. At midnight on my birthday Mom wakes me and insists we begin celebrating. Except my birthday is still three months away. I laugh. “It’s not even September.”
Her brown eyes twinkle. What’s she hiding? “I know, but I thought we’d start the festivities early this year.”
Wax drips down a purple candle onto chocolate frosting. “Three months early?”
“You only turn eighteen once.” She says this every year, about every age. “As far as I’m concerned, all of autumn belongs to you this year. Now make a wish.”
“Hold on. I have a surprise for you too.” I open my nightstand drawer and withdraw the latest copy of the New York Times. Beaming, I pull out the “Arts & Leisure” section, pass it to her.
The paper crinkles as she unfolds it. “What’s this?”
“Your surprise.” I sit up and cross my legs, unable to contain the bouncing five-year-old inside. “I know you’ve postponed your dream because of me. Now you don’t have to.” I tap the paper. “Look.”
Mom gasps, covers her mouth with a trembling hand. All color drains from her face. “Eliyana, what did you do?”
My excitement falters. “I entered one of your paintings in an art competition. You know, the one that fancy gallery downtown holds every year? The one you’ve always wanted to enter but never have.” I nudge her with my elbow. More than just my mom, she’s my best friend. She deserves this.
Mom remains silent.
I shift uncomfortably. Weird. I thought she’d be excited. “Um, anyway,” I continue, the rush gone from my words, “you were selected as one of twenty artists to exhibit your work. They wanted to include your picture with the other winners, so I sent it in. I didn’t think you’d mind.”
She sets the paper down, her emotionless expression gives nothing away. Is she angry? Embarrassed? Finally she says to the wall, “You know how private I am.”
I do know. I had to sneak a candid shot for the contest because she’s always hated having her photo taken. Won’t even let me get my picture done at school, insisting she do my portrait herself, which means no yearbook photos for me. I’ve never argued against her protectiveness. Who’d want to remember my ugmug anyway? I have no Facebook account, no Twitter or Instagram. Not that I’d have any friends or followers if I did.
“Mom, your photo is in the paper because you’re an amazing artist.” My hand finds her shoulder. “I thought you’d be happy.”
She stands, tightens the tie on her robe. “Go back to sleep, Eliyana. I’ll see you in the morning. We have back-to-school shopping tomorrow. You need your rest.”
“Mom—”
“Good night.” She blows on the candle. The flame extinguishes.
And so does my dream.
The doorbell chime pulls me out of unconsciousness. I open sleep-infested eyes to a room veiled in darkness. Shards of moonlight pierce the cracks in my window blinds, scattering like broken glass on the floor. My mouth is dry and has that distinct cardboard flavor of dehydration. I smack and lick my lips. Bleh. I need water.
What time is it? I reach over and fumble for my phone, but it isn’t there. Why—? Right. I left it in the kitchen. My best guess is it’s sometime after eight at night. Then again, it could be two in the morning for all I know.
I lie still for a minute, allowing my body to wake. One eye itches and I rub it hard. Comb sleepy fingers through my hair and try to inhale some of the wind I just had knocked out of me. The dream—the memory—was so real.
The doorbell rings again. There’s movement downstairs. I’m familiar with the growing pains of my lifelong home—the arthritic pops of loose floorboards, the senile complaints of unoiled hinges. Joshua must be moving some things over from next door. If he’s going to be my guardian, he has to play the part.
I swing my jean-clad legs over the edge of my bed. A half-eaten granola bar with its trail of crumbs leading off the cliff of my nightstand begs to be rescued. My middle cramps, answering the cry audibly, but I can’t bring myself to pick up the square of oats and honey. I’m hungry, but I’m also not. No other way to put it.
I stand, and my ankles creak. What is it about grief that makes everything age? My muscles ache, pleading with me to get back in bed. It’s as if I’m being sucked deeper and deeper, swirling down a never-ending drain. Every time I slosh my way back to the ledge, life pulls the plug.
I walk over inside-out tees and unpaired socks on my way to the door, switching off the space heater as I pass by. Wrinkled papers and forgotten textbooks spill from my backpack. The pile of clothes and homework will only continue to grow. I have no intention of cleaning, or returning to school, in the near future. I’ve completed all my required classes anyway. What’s the point in going back?
An off-kilter smirk sur
faces. Quinn’s going to have a fit.
All the more reason to stay home. She may be my best girlfriend, but that isn’t saying much. Frenemy is more accurate.
Muffled voices drift from the first floor. I turn the glass knob on my bedroom door and open it a pinch. What’s going on down there? Is Joshua already having guests over?
An invisible knife rips through my chest. He has friends. Friends who aren’t me. Friends who probably include girls. Why am I only realizing this now?
My sockless toes curl when I step out onto the cool hallway floor. The brownstone is longer than it is wide, so the top of the stairs is just a stride away. I creep to the railing and peer into the foyer. Empty. The voices are too distant to be in the sunroom. They must be coming from the kitchen.
I skirt the banister’s curve and tiptoe down the stairs, careful to avoid the testy spots.
“You need to find someone else. I can’t do this anymore.” The voice is undeniably Joshua’s.
I pause on the bottom step.
“There’s no time,” a deeper voice says. “I already have my hands full with the other situation. You said you could handle this. Bring her back. Tonight.”
The metronome in my chest triples. That voice. I’ve heard it before. But where? I peer around the corner. Only Joshua is visible, standing on the other side of the bar, his back toward me. Even from here, the stiffness in his shoulders stands out.
“Tonight?” Joshua’s voice jumps up an octave. “Give her a chance to recover from the last life-altering event. Besides, she’s safer here.”
I step back. Why’s he talking about me? He can’t really be trying to find me an alternate guardian. Can he?
“Tonight.”
My breath catches at the finality in his tone.
Déjà vu registers somewhere in my brain’s encrypted files. I fight the impulse to peek around the corner again. I can’t just storm in there and throw a fit. No. Then Joshua will know I’ve been eavesdropping. I’ll have to talk to him about this tomorrow. When I can reason with him like the adult I almost am.
Step, creak. Step, creak.
I take a silent leap over a touchy floorboard and enter the dark bathroom across the hall. I’ve spent a lot of time in here lately.
Leaving the door ajar, I watch for movement in the foyer. Joshua enters first, his face paler than Mom’s pastel paintings.
The other man follows. He’s a head taller than Joshua with charcoal hair and intense eyes—eyes so recognizable, they stir something inside me. A memory? The man places a hand on the doorknob but doesn’t turn it. “What aren’t you telling me?”
Joshua scratches the back of his head. The way he does when he feels uncomfortable. The way he did earlier today. And the night everything changed between us. “I don’t know what you mean.”
At last, the man turns. One corner of his mouth slants north. “I think you do. I think you need to consider what it means that you’ve fallen for her. The consequences those feelings will bring.”
My pulse ceases to exist. Think again, dude. Joshua can’t possibly—
“You know she’s just a job, Makai,” he snaps. “It’s all she can ever be. Frankly, I’m ready for this whole thing to be over.”
My heartbeat returns. Fears confirmed. I’ve never heard him speak that way to anyone.
Makai gives a scarce nod. “Are you certain?”
Joshua crosses his arms. “I am.”
I back into the shadowy confines of the bathroom and grope for the toilet seat. When I find it, I sit. How many times will I cry today? I hate his ability to storm every fortress I work so hard to construct.
The front door thuds closed, followed by the dead bolt’s distinct click. Joshua and Makai are gone. I rise and enter the deserted hallway.
Why do I know that man? I close my eyes. His face is clear, but not in color. Black and white. Lines and shadows. Mom.
I lurch up the stairs and head straight for her room. The door has remained closed for a week. I haven’t been able to bear going in, but now I can’t wait. I enter and wince. This room smells more like her than any other.
Mary-Poppins tidy, just as she left it. A hope chest at the foot of her bed contains piles upon piles of sketchbooks spanning nearly two decades. I grab the key from Mom’s nightstand and unlock the chest. The older books are at the bottom. White sticky labels date each one, the corners curled and peeling. I’ve looked through them countless times. I know exactly what I’m hunting for. I need the book from the year before I was born.
I kneel by the chest and lift its lid. Well-greased hinges move in silence. The scent of old paper and charcoal wafts upward, growing staler as I shift the top layers aside. There it is. I turn my back against the trunk and slide down, then cross my legs and open the cracked spine. Some of the pages float to the floor. So much of her early work is in here. Mostly landscapes. Some journal entries too.
And then I find it—a portrait occupying the final page. The likeness is younger, but the intensity in the man’s gaze is unmistakable. Mom’s careful cursive transcribed two words at the top left-hand corner.
Makai Archer.
The book falls. My lungs inflate and deflate rapidly. Could Makai be my dad?
Nathaniel Archer was my grandfather’s name. I never met the man, only know he left us this house in his will because of my father—someone else I’ve never met. Mom didn’t talk about him either, but she kept her own last name so I can only guess their relationship didn’t end well. But then why would she keep this drawing of Makai?
I have to find him. I have to know. Joshua may think of me as a job, whatever that means, but this Makai person might have the answers I need. I snatch up the book and race down the stairs. A peek out the foyer window confirms what I’d hoped. Joshua and Makai are on the front steps, still talking. Perfect.
My cell phone is in the kitchen. I retrieve it as well as my keys from a hook by the back door. A glance at the time—8:37—reveals my theory was correct. I shove my feet into my gray-and-lavender Chuck Taylors, hopping on one foot and then the other to get my heels in. I return to the front of the house to wait. When Joshua goes next door for more boxes, I have my chance.
Makai heads west down Eighty-First. With as much stealth as possible I unlock the door, step into the frigid air, and secure the dead bolt. I shove my keys and phone into my hoodie pocket, still clutching the sketchbook in my right hand, and follow my target.
I speed-walk to keep up with his long stride. Once we’re out of sight of Joshua’s place, I’ll make my move. Mom would’ve killed me for going out at night alone. It’s early November, and the twinkle lights for the trees aren’t up yet. Pockets of light spill from streetlamps, and illuminated windows blush at random, breaking up the shadows.
Makai turns left onto Amsterdam, and I jog to catch up. I reach the intersection and follow his course. He went left, right? I squint. Nothing. I turn around and go the other way. He’s not there. He couldn’t have made it to the end of another block already. Not possible.
My shoulders slump. I guess I won’t be getting any answers tonight. My phone vibrates against my middle. I pull it free and open a text from Quinn.
hi! sorry i couldn’t b there 2day. just got back. hang 2nite?
I tap out a quick reply.
too tired. rain check?
Quinn’s response flashes back almost instantly.
k.
I end the conversation with a smiling emoji and pocket my phone. When I look up, a chill wraps my body and I shudder. A sense of panic sends a jolt of electricity through my veins. I take a step and then I stop. Then I walk in the opposite direction of my house.
I’m only wearing my “Beauty School Dropout” pajama tank beneath an aqua New York City hoodie. My thin jeans aren’t exactly helping ward off the cold either. Cars pass by, their headlights blinding me as darkness burrows in for the night. But the temporary sight paralysis isn’t my worst problem.
The bigger issue is the hooded guy four s
idewalk squares behind me—the one who stands in the middle of the sidewalk, impeding my path home. The one who’s been following me for nearly a block.
THREE
Be Happy
Don’t panic. Panicking will only make things worse.
Think. I need people. Starbucks, just another block away.
I focus on my destination and walk at an even pace. I scan the sidewalk—nothing but a plastic grocery sack, a discarded Kit Kat wrapper, and a little doggy surprise someone left by a tree. Stupid tourists. No native would ever be so inconsiderate.
Not a single warm body in sight. Nobody is dumb enough to go for a late-night stroll alone in this city—except me. They say the Upper West Side is family friendly, but creepers are everywhere.
And I’ve attracted one.
Should I run? No. Don’t alert the guy and speed up the mugging. Just drop the wallet and let him have it. I reach into my pocket. Snap! I was so fixated on following Makai, grabbing it didn’t cross my mind.
What if my stalker’s not after money? What if his intention is something else? I’ve never even kissed a guy. The thought of some stranger taking what he wants raises bile into my throat.
“Do not let fear control you. You’re my brave girl.”
Thanks for the vote of confidence, Mom, but it doesn’t do a thing for me right now.
I chance it and glimpse over my shoulder.
Hoodie keeps his head bowed, his features invisible, his hands buried in his sweatshirt pockets. He doesn’t look at me. Doesn’t he notice our too-close proximity?
“Don’t be afraid. I’m here.”
You’re not here though, Mom. Not even close.
I tuck the sketchbook under my arm, slide my phone from my pocket, and tap out 911 on the dial screen. My thumb hovers over the green Call button. My chest thuds. I might as well have a troupe of stomp dancers living inside it. I practically hear booming drums as the steps grow more complicated.