by Sara Ella
Hoodie walks right past me.
A much-needed sigh hushes my heart. I wait a full minute, then click off my phone and tuck it away.
Hoodie enters an apartment building.
Why was I so paranoid? One look at my face and the guy probably would’ve bolted. I should’ve just turned and said “boo.”
A car alarm shrieks blocks away. Cabs pass at regular intervals, and the occasional beep of a locking vehicle diminishes my feelings of isolation. My breaths form clouds in the night air.
I pull my sweatshirt hood over my ears, wishing I’d brought earbuds for my phone. Music would be nice right now. Something to take my mind off Mom. And Joshua. Does he really think I’m just a “job”? Do our three years of friendship mean nothing?
Stop feeling. Stop caring. Stop loving. At least then it wouldn’t hurt so much when someone leaves—or wants to leave.
When Broadway’s lights come into view, approaching footsteps interrupt my thoughts. My peripheral vision reveals nothing, so I look back.
Return of Hoodie—Episode Two.
What am I doing? Why didn’t I go home after he passed me? I was too focused on my own heartache to use common sense. Stupid.
I’m not athletic, so running won’t save me. I nearly collapsed during the tap-dance number in Anything Goes at school last year. My talents are much better served singing from behind a curtain while some pretty face lip-synchs the words. Our drama teacher stole the brilliant idea from Singin’ in the Rain.
A hand grabs my arm.
I whirl. The sketchbook goes flying. My hands grasp Hoodie’s shoulders and my knee meets groin in a move I didn’t know I was capable of.
Hoodie lets out a guttural noise and a string of curses.
Adrenaline takes over. I turn and book it. My sneakers slap pavement, and a rush of cold floods my ears. Scaffolding drapes historical buildings in the midst of facelifts. I weave in and out of lanky metal poles, orange cones, and painter’s plastic. By the last few feet my throat burns and my breaths come in gasps. When I’m finally basking in Starbucks’ glow on the corner of Broadway, I allow myself to pause and glance down the street. I’ve lost Hoodie—for now.
I open the glass door, and Michael Bublé’s charming romanticism welcomes me. Go on. Rub it in, why don’t you? “Everything” plays low over the coffee shop’s speakers, perfect ambience for lovebirds and local authors pulling swing shifts. Torture for me. The barista glances up, then looks away. Nothing I’m not used to. I prefer it, actually. Better to be ignored than taunted or teased.
The whir of bean grinders and the whoosh of steam wands create a much more soothing melody. Caffeine is the last thing I need. My blood brews through my veins like it’s bursting from an espresso machine gone haywire. I can’t resist the intoxicating scent of fresh Colombian though. Now I really do wish I had my wallet.
A hand touches my shoulder. I jump three feet.
“What the bleep, El?”
I pivot on my heel.
Quinn Kelley stares back at me. Her ice-blue eyes bulge out of their black-lined frames. “What’s the matter with you?”
I shake my head. “I thought you were someone else. This guy . . . he tried to attack me on my walk here.”
Quinn’s raised eyebrows turn down. “What do you mean ‘on your walk here’? I thought you were too tired to go out.”
Of course that’s the part she focuses on. How do I explain? I’ve only known her a few months. We may have been fast friends, but I can’t tell her I was following some strange man who might be my father. I’d sound crazy. “I . . . changed my mind. I decided to take a stroll to clear my head.”
“You should’ve texted.” Her tone patronizing, she passes me. “I would’ve come to get you. Creepers are everywhere, you know.”
I know. “I didn’t think of it, I guess.” I make a face behind her back. I’d like to see her execute such an escape.
Quinn isn’t listening. She’s already at the counter, prattling off her convoluted modifiers to the barista. Sometimes I think she drinks her coffee that way so she sounds cool when she orders it.
Man, she pulls off the Goth look. Real Goth. Turn-of-the-century, vintage Goth, not The Rocky Horror Picture Show kind. She’s really not who I’d expect to see dressed this way. Lacy black stockings cover her never-ending legs and disappear into matching lace peep-toe heels. Black lace overlays her maroon party dress. Of course she adds her own touch to the look. Cherry-red lipstick instead of black, a silk rose pinned at her hip to match.
When she saunters back, she flips her platinum ponytail over one shoulder. “I ordered your drink for you.”
I stare at my drab shoes. She’ll hold this over me somehow. “You didn’t need to.”
Quinn rolls her eyes. “How else are you going to party with me all night if you don’t get your fix?”
“I’m not going to a party, Q. I just need to catch my breath, and then I’m going home.”
“You can’t sit home and mope for the rest of your life.”
The barista calls her name, and she’s gone again.
Now I’m tired, the adrenaline rush evaporated. Mope? Is she serious? I didn’t fail a chemistry exam. My. Mom. Died.
She returns with drinks in hand and passes me one.
I should stand up to her, tell her exactly where she can take her snide comment. Instead I say, “Thanks, but I’m really not in the mood for a crowd tonight.” I sip and sigh. How can someone who makes me feel worse about myself most of the time know me so well after only a few months? The three-sugar soy latte is perfect.
“Oh, enough sulking. What you need is a little fun.” She drinks her customized iced chai through a green straw, leaving an imprint of red lipstick when she pulls away.
“I’m not sulking. It’s been a long week.” I let the words hang. I shouldn’t have to explain myself.
“You’re coming with me, and that’s final. You owe me for the drink anyway.”
Why am I even friends with her? She latched onto me the moment we met and hasn’t left me alone since. I’m a glutton for punishment. Or maybe I know I don’t have any risk of heartbreak with Quinn. Either way, with or without her, I’m miserable.
I open my mouth to protest again, and the last person I expect to see traipses through the door. His hands hide within the front pouch of his navy Yankees hoodie, and his shoulders nearly touch his ears.
Joshua’s gaze locks with mine. His shoulders fall. Is he relieved? Angry? I can’t tell. He walks over. His slow gait gives the impression of uncertainty. “Hey. I thought you were asleep.”
Quinn speaks first, as always. “You wanna come with us?” She’s made it clear she disapproves of Joshua, so her invite is out of place.
“Where to?” His eyes never leave mine.
“A few parties. Maybe a club or two. You in?”
Joshua doesn’t even peek at her. “Did you walk here?” Does he think we’re the only two people in the conversation?
I level him with a deadpan gaze. Keep it together, El. “I’m sorry. I didn’t realize I needed your permission to leave the house.”
He inches closer. “You could’ve been hurt.” He has no clue how true his statement rings. “I would’ve walked you if you’d asked.”
“Is that your job now? To chaperone me everywhere?”
For once, he doesn’t have anything to say.
“Am I missing something here?” Quinn steps between us. “Did you two break up?”
Ugh. She has no filter.
“We’re just friends.”
Don’t feel. Don’t care. Don’t love. Don’t let him see how much his words affect you.
Quinn narrows her eyes. “Whatever. Are you in or not?” She plants her hands on her hips, almost knocking the silk rose loose, and taps her peekaboo toe against the tiled floor. Lips pinching, she sweeps her glare over him. She doesn’t really want him to join us, so why is she inviting him?
“Maybe another time.” Joshua scarcely looks her way
and then addresses me alone. “Come back with me. There are some things we need to discuss.”
I should. I need answers. Does he know if Makai is my dad? Where did they want to take me tonight?
I almost say yes, but I can’t be around Joshua right now. If I go back with him, we’ll argue. I’ll break down. Then he’ll leave for sure. He already told Makai to “find someone else.” Which is exactly why I need to figure out who Makai is and how he’s linked to me. And I need to find out on my own.
“Like Quinn said, we’re going out.” Did I just agree to do the thing I don’t want to do?
She grabs my hand, pulls me toward the door, and waves at Joshua. “See you, Josiah!”
I don’t even bother correcting her.
The air in the cab is drenched with the stale smell of body odor and exhaust fumes. The contents of Quinn’s Coach bag pile between us on the bench seat: lip gloss, mascara, an antique compact, a half-eaten roll of Life Savers, a pocketknife, and a faded receipt. She opens her compact and begins retouching her already flawless makeup job.
I rest an elbow on the window ledge. Lean my face against my fist. I made Quinn tell the driver to take us back up my street first. But it was already too late. Mom’s sketchbook was gone. Now we take West Side Highway all the way downtown. As we near the insomniac area of the city, the Hudson illuminates. Like yellow brick roads, columns of light create golden paths along the surface. If only they led someplace over the rainbow. A place where even an ugly girl could catch a break.
“What are you wearing under that potato sack?”
I glance to my left. Quinn gathers her things, returns them to her bag.
“You mean my sweatshirt?”
She nods.
“A tank top. Why?” I suck in my cheeks. I have a feeling I know her answer. Whatever she says to persuade you, just say no.
“Lose it.”
I cross my arms. “Are you joking? It’s freezing outside.” How can she stand to go out in November wearing clothing no thicker than lingerie?
She tucks a loose strand of hair behind her ear. “We’re not going to be outside, are we? Now take it off. I’m not walking into the party with a mannequin from Old Navy.”
“My hoodie’s from Aéropostale.”
“Whatever. Blake Trevor’s the most popular guy in school. We can’t walk into his party looking like rejects. His college friends will be there.”
I stifle a groan. Blake Trevor? The guy has made my life a living purgatory since freshman year.
“Your rack is your best feature, El. Flaunt it.”
I loosen my clenched jaw. Is she serious? She hasn’t asked about Mom’s wake or how I’m feeling. What am I doing here anyway? Once we drop her off, I’ll take the subway back. Except . . . ugh. My MetroCard is in my wallet at home. No way am I wasting money on a return ride to the Upper West Side. A girl’s got to have principles. And double no way am I asking Quinn for cab fare—just one more thing for her to hold over my head. I’ll have to deal. It’s only a few hours, right?
Her face relaxes a smidge. “Look. I know you’ve had a hard day, and I’m sorry I couldn’t be there. I’m just trying to help you get your mind off it. Okay?”
No. It’s not okay. But I nod anyway.
She smiles. “Good. Be happy. You know I heart you.”
I offer a semigrin in return. For all her faults and selfishness, Quinn has stuck by me even though I’m not exactly the most popular choice for company. Besides, she helped Mom make her first big art sale. For that I am indebted indefinitely.
“I heart you too.” And despite everything that’s happened today, I almost mean it. But how can I face a roomful of Blake’s jerky friends? The cab slows and my stomach acid roils. Maybe I should’ve eaten the granola bar after all. At least then I’d have something to throw up.
FOUR
Dark and Cold
The windows are going to explode. Blake has the bass setting on his stereo way too high. When we pull up to the curb before his loft, the cab seats vibrate from the volume as Michael Jackson sings “Smooth Criminal.” Quinn gets out first and pays the driver, adding a nonchalant “Keep the change” like any Fifth Avenue regular.
I open my door. Take a deep breath. I can do this. I can become more familiar with The Perks of Being a Wallflower for a few hours while Quinn mingles with guys way too old for us. Of course, who am I to talk? I’m in love—was in love—with Joshua, and he just turned twenty-one in September. Maybe she’s right. Maybe I do need to have some fun for a change. Or, at the very least, I need the distraction. It will give me time to figure out how to find Makai anyway.
I rise from the cab and tie my sweatshirt around my waist, then tug my tank top over my jeans so my midriff doesn’t show. This is the exact opposite of being invisible. Thankfully, the purple cotton neckline brushes my collarbone. The trivial modesty does nothing to pacify my rock ’n’ roll nerves. Someone could plug me into an amp for all the reverberations under my skin.
The renovated firehouse is plain and out-of-date on the outside, but once we pass through the garage, climb the stairs, and enter the loft, it’s like stepping into an Upper East Side apartment. Everything from track lighting to custom crown molding screams money. This kind of place is Joshua’s utopia. As an architecture major at Columbia, he loves taking something most people would see as junk and rendering it beautiful again.
Too bad I’m not a building.
“Hey, you made it.” Blake Trevor in the flesh greets us with outstretched arms and a sloshed grin. Wasted already. Where are his parents? Would they even care to learn their teenage son is a lush?
Quinn pushes him against his chest. Her black fingernails dig lightly into his fitted polo shirt. “Of course. We wouldn’t miss it.”
Blake smiles wider, then turns his attention to me. His smile scrunches into a sneer.
I hug my chest and shift.
“Well, if it isn’t Bloody Mary.” Blake slurs one of the many nicknames he’s used for me over the years.
“Blake, be nice.” Quinn tosses out the comment. She’s standing up for me, but she’s not. Maybe she only brought me because she knew I’d be sober enough to call a cab at the end of the night.
Blake belches. This dude has no shame. “C’mon, Quinny. I was jus’ havin’ some fun.” His letterman jacket has a beer stain on the front, but he doesn’t seem to notice—or care. Plastered much?
I can’t stand here any longer. “I’m going to get a drink.” I have to yell over the music. “Do you want anything?”
“I’m good.” She links one arm through Blake’s, and they disappear into a swarm of alcohol-infused partyers. What does she hope to gain from hanging with a guy like him?
Music is my thing, but the heavy metal garbage now blasting from the speakers isn’t music. Mom always said if you can’t understand the lyrics, it’s just noise. So true.
I meander through the crowd. Dancers holding red plastic cups of skunky amber liquid bump me as I pass. When I finally exit the maze of bodies and reach the kitchen, I feel as if I’ve been hula hooping for all the twisting and turning I’ve had to do.
I open the fridge and scan the drink choices. All two of them—beer and light beer. Gross. I grab an empty cup and fill it at the tap on the refrigerator. The cold water soothes my throat after the hot coffee. A stack of pizza boxes sits on the counter. My mouth waters. I can’t put it off any longer. I open the top one. Yuck. Nothing but grease-caked cardboard and stringy bits of cheese.
The next two boxes, same thing. In the fourth I find a few slices of cold pepperoni. It’ll have to do. One by one I pick off the processed-meat circles and toss them onto a napkin. When I take my first bite, I sigh. It might be cold, but my stomach doesn’t care. When was the last time I ate?
Once I’ve finished my slice, a guy with an Amazin’ Mets tee layered over a long-sleeved thermal, horrid acne, and a mess of blond waves joins me. “Anything good left?”
Out of habit I angle my face so my hair
falls over the right side. “I only got down to the fourth box.”
He searches the stack. An entire pie topped in veggies lurks at the bottom. “You want one?”
I glance at him past a curtain of dark locks. “Sure.”
He leans against the counter and hands me a slice. “I’m Ky.”
“El.” I take a bite. Much better.
He smiles and chews. “You go to Upper West Prep with Blake?”
I nod. “Yeah.” Unfortunately. “You?” I’ve never seen him before. Maybe he’s new.
The volume lowers a smidge. U2’s “With or Without You” combines couples across the loft.
“Blake and I share a mutual friend. I just started at NYU.”
A college guy? I guess it’s the acne that makes him seem younger.
Ky shifts. “You wanna dance?”
I consider him, waiting for the punch line. No one has ever asked me to dance. Even those considered freaks and geeks tend to avoid me. I am literally the last person on anyone’s dance card.
Except, this time, the punch line doesn’t come. Ky just smiles crookedly, waiting. Confidence emanates from his relaxed posture. In the way he doesn’t hide. It’s as if he doesn’t care what he looks like. So I find myself saying, “Okay.”
Before he takes my hand, he reaches forward and tucks my hair behind my ear. His bold move stops my breath in my throat. “Cool tattoo.” He smiles. Doesn’t flinch.
Cool tattoo? What planet is this guy from?
On the edge of the floor, Ky wraps his arms around my waist, and I put my hands on his shoulders. We sway in silence, which is fine by me. I’m not up to talking. When Bono’s voice trails off, we part and stand there. Ky clears his throat, rocks back on his heels. We open our mouths in synchrony.
“Go ahead,” he shouts over the vocal stylings of Jimmy Eat World.
“I’m going to use the restroom. Do you know where it is?”
He points toward the loft’s north wall. A line has formed in front of what I assume is the bathroom door. Great.
“I’m gonna grab a drink. Meet me outside? This music is going to make me go deaf.”