by Sara Ella
I nod. What else do I have to do while I wait for Quinn to have her fill of this scene?
I make my way back across the ocean of gyrating bodies and stand in line behind a girl doing the potty dance. Hilarious. I’m probably the only one here who needs to pee out from under the influence of alcohol.
The line moves at a larghissimo cadence—or as Mom would say, “Slower than midtown traffic during rush hour.”
I pull out my phone and dial Information.
The operator’s nasal voice grates through the speaker. “City and state, please.”
“Manhattan, New York.”
“What listing?”
I enunciate each syllable. “Muh-ki Ar-cher.” I wait with suspended breath for her response.
“I’m sorry. I’m not showing anyone by that name.”
“Can you try Brooklyn?” The line inches forward, and I move with it.
Another beat. “Nothing in Brooklyn either.”
“Try Staten Island.” I visually rummage the crowd for Quinn. It’s impossible to tell who’s who in this jungle.
The operator sighs. “Nothing for Staten Island either.”
I bite my lip. I’m annoying her, but I have to know. “Union City, New Jersey?”
Two more beats. “No.”
Hope dwindles. “Okay. Thank y—”
Click.
The line continues to shorten every few minutes. While I wait, I comb the popular social media sites for Makai Archer. It’s a pretty unusual name, and the search quickly turns up nothing. Next, I Google and then Bing him. Zilch. Only junk spams the palm-sized screen.
I give up. The arched window overlooking the street is as tall as it is wide. Down below a guy opens a cab door for a girl with blonde hair more blinding than the sun. I’d recognize that mane anywhere. Quinn. She throws her head back, and I can almost hear the peal of her laughter over the music.
I put all thoughts of Makai Archer and peeing aside, leave the line, and dart for the exit. Again I have to worm through the overcrowded party. I call Quinn. Pick up, pick up, pick up. It rings once, goes straight to voice mail. Why am I not surprised? It’s not like this is the first time she’s done this to me.
“Everything okay?” Ky is lazing against the wall outside the door.
“Not really.” I take the steps two at a time to the garage. When I’m at the curb, Quinn is long gone. Now what?
Ky appears beside me. “Was that your friend? The blonde?”
She’s not my friend. “Yes.”
He clasps his hands on top of his head, looks up and down the street. “Oh, man, I would’ve stopped her if I’d known. Sorry.”
“Call Joshua.” Mom’s voice inside my head chirps loud and clear.
No. I don’t need him to rescue me.
“It’s not your fault,” I say to Ky. “It’s just . . . she was my ride.” I remove my sweatshirt from my waist. Shrug into it. Zip it to my chest. At least now I can wear what I want.
“Listen, I’m parked down the street. I could give you a lift.”
I gape at him. “You have a car?”
Ky lowers his arms and shrugs. “Give me a break. I just moved here.”
A foreigner. That explains it. “It’s fine. I’ll wait. Maybe she’ll come back.” Not likely.
“Nonsense. I’ll drive you. It’s really not a big deal. I was looking for an excuse to escape anyway.”
“Call Joshua now.”
I’ve got this. I have to learn to do things on my own.
“My car is this way.” He gestures to the end of the block, starts walking.
He seems nice enough. What’s the harm?
“Stop, Eliyana.”
Mom—
“This is a bad idea.”
I’m fine. “Lead the way,” I say.
After about half a block I can’t stand the quiet any longer. “So where’d you move from?”
Ky laughs. It catches oddly. “I’m sure you wouldn’t know it.”
“What do you mean?”
“You haven’t been there in a long time.” He runs a hand through his blond waves. “I think you were just a baby when you left.”
“Run. Now.”
I stop. Something isn’t right. My senses enhance. Everything, from the smell of asphalt to the water swishing in the sewer below, intensifies. Except my vision. That starts to blur.
Ky stops too.
I slide my right foot backward.
He turns. “This is me.” The blinking red stoplight ahead flashes in warning.
I slide my other foot back an inch. My cold hands already nestle in my sweatshirt pocket. I clutch my phone, a lifeline. “I think I might wait for Quinn after all. I’d hate for you to go out of your way.”
Ky looks down and shakes his head. A devilish grin spreads across his zit-flecked face. “It’s not out of my way, Eliyana. In fact, you are the only reason I’m here tonight.”
The sound of my name on his lips—the name I didn’t give him—finally kicks my butt into gear. What was I thinking? I free my phone, press hard on the Home button, and blurt the first two words I can form. “Call Joshua.”
“I wouldn’t if I were you.” He moves toward me. His hands clench and unclench.
One ring. Two. My whole body falls asleep, from shoulder to toe. What’s happening?
“El?” Joshua’s voice jets over the line on the third ring.
I try to speak through my quavering. “I need you to come get me.” I attempt to move back again, but my feet remain glued in place.
“I’m on my way. Keep your phone on. I’ll track you.”
Since when did Joshua become so tech savvy? “Okay.”
Ky doesn’t attack. He just creeps toward me like Sweeney Todd waiting for the right moment to cut a throat. I try to look away, but for some reason, I can’t. I can speak and blink, but otherwise I’m completely paralyzed.
Then I notice it. Same walk. Same height and build. His sweatshirt is gone, but it has to be him. Hoodie.
Joshua is asking me something, but his words don’t register. Focus. I may have only seconds left to speak to him.
“El, can you hear me? The guy. What does he look like?”
How does he know about Ky? “Blond. Pimples. Kinda skinny.”
Joshua growls. “Kyaphus Rhyen. Makai warned me about him. El, whatever you do, don’t look into his eyes.”
Too late. Ky knocks the phone out of my hand. It bounces off the curb and into the gutter. He breathes hot air onto my face. Traces it with one finger. For the briefest moment I almost think I catch a hint of regret in his eyes, a flicker of a wordless apology. But then it vanishes, leaving a determined glare in its place. Dark and cold.
My insides squirm.
He bares his teeth and licks his lips. “Come on, I won’t bite.” He reaches his other hand up to my neck. Then my world fades to black.
FIVE
Childhood
You’d think by this point I’d be used to getting ditched. The never-ending pattern of disappointment should have taught me to expect it. But despite Quinn’s selfish behavior, I thought she’d at least get me a cab before she left. Why do I bother hoping for the best in people? Aside from Mom, most everyone else has proven the only thing they’re capable of is letting me down.
I met Quinn the first day of senior year. Though it was only a few months ago, it feels like a lifetime.
“Is this seat taken?” A way-too-pretty-to-be-speaking-to-me blonde dressed as if ready to attend a funeral stands by my lab table. With one hand planted on her popped hip, she waves the other over the empty stool. A small black purse dangles from her overturned wrist.
I shake my head.
“Great.” She slides onto the stool next to mine and lays the purse on her lap.
I return my attention to the open textbook, pretending to study the periodic table of elements. I’m the only one in AP Chem without a partner, which means double the work. Like last year in Physics, no one chooses me unless assigned.
�
�I’m Quinn, by the way.” Marilyn Monroe meets Helena Bonham Carter sticks a fingerless-gloved hand between my nose and the book.
“Um, El.” I don’t look up.
“I just transferred from East Prep.”
I snort inwardly and flip the page. “You probably don’t want to advertise that information to the general public.”
“Why not?”
Poor thing, so innocent. So clueless.
I sigh, shut Advanced Explorations in Chemistry, and swivel to face her. “Because if word gets out you used to go to East Prep, you’ll be stuffed inside a locker before day’s end. Century-long rivalry, ya know?” Prep students may be of a higher breed, but they’re not above the occasional mutt-like behavioral slipup.
“Thanks.” She unsnaps her purse and applies fresh gloss to her poison-apple lips. Smack. “I’ll keep it in mind. So what class do you have next?”
I hate to ruin the possibility I might gain a friend my last year of high school, but . . . “You probably don’t want to be seen talking to me either.” I’m a glutton for punishment, but it wouldn’t be fair to sentence the girl to my personal purgatory on her first day.
She removes a bottle of black polish and begins coating her already-ebony nails. The ammonia odor wafts toward me. “Why not?”
I smother a choke. This is why I go with the natural look. “Seriously?” I glance at Mr. Newman. Will he reprimand her for using class time for personal pampering?
No. He’s sitting atop his desk reading The Prisoner of Azkaban. Again. Technically we’re supposed to be studying for the exam tomorrow. Really it’s just our twenty-three-year-old chemistry prof ’s excuse to pretend he’s teaching at Hogwarts, rather than our “completely mundane Muggle institution.” Yes, those words have literally flown from his mouth on more than one occasion.
Quinn blows on her nails, leaving my question without its obvious answer.
I roll my eyes. She has to notice my birthmark—a homing beacon for ridicule and rejection. “Let’s just say if you hang with me, there’s no way you’ll get in with the popular crowd.” Do I really need to spell it out for her?
She hops down from the stool.
Sayonara. Been nice knowing you. Oh wait, I didn’t.
The stool legs scrape linoleum as she scoots her seat closer to mine. It’s only a few inches away when she resumes her perch.
Well, that’s new.
“So, are you a native or a transplant?” Chatty, this one.
I shrug, hunkering into the Yankees sweatshirt I borrowed—a.k.a. stole—from Joshua last Friday during our all-night American Idol audition marathon. Making fun of fifteen seasons’ worth of people dressed as cows who sing rap-remixes of “Old MacDonald Had a Farm” is what we do best. “I’ve lived in the city since I was a baby,” I tell her, taking a whiff of Joshua-scented fabric. Only four more hours, then I can have the real thing. “You?”
She slides the bottle of polish toward me and stretches her right hand beside it. “Same. Live with my mom. Dad left when I was little.”
“Me too.” I lift the brush, wipe it against the bottle’s lip. Drip, drip. Paint splatters the tabletop. It’s black as well. Mr. Newman won’t notice.
“My mom works in fashion. What’s yours do?”
I move from her pinky to her thumb, giving each nail an even coat. “She’s an artist, a painter. Mostly watercolors and stuff like that.”
“Hey, there’s this really high-end art dealer who lives in my building. Lincoln something or other. I could totally introduce your mom to him if you want.”
“I don’t know. She kind of likes her privacy.” The art contest incident from last week is still fresh. Since then things have been awkward between us. I hate it.
“Oh, come on,” Quinn says. “Every serious artist needs a dealer. At least meet him.” She gives a nonchalant smile, as if changing people’s lives is something she does all the time.
“I’ll think about it.” What would it hurt?
“Great.” She plucks a phone from her purse, careful not to smudge her freshly inked nails. “What’s your number?”
I prattle off the digits as she taps them into her phone. My own phone vibrates. I glance at Mr. Newman, then withdraw it from my backpack. One new text.
hit the bux after school?
I smile and reply. Quinn’s screen flashes almost instantly. This must be the equivalent of passing notes in class, something I’ve never done.
Just like that, for the first time since childhood, I have a friend.
I arise from the groggy haze of my memory-slash-dream. I’m lying on the back seat of a car. Oily leather sticks to my face and carries the faint smell of coconut. I try to cry out, but my mouth’s gagged, my feet and hands bound. Is this what being drunk feels like? Streetlamps blur by. I’m going to be sick. I really have to pee now. Lovely.
“Ugh.” I groan against a throbbing migraine. I’ll never forgive Quinn for this.
“It’s not much farther, princess.”
I blink several times and try to zero in on the driver. Ky. Or what did Joshua call him? Kyaphus? How could Joshua know that? Does this have something to do with the conversation I overheard before I left the house?
The car’s steady vibration attempts to lull me back into oblivion. I open my eyes wider. Gotta stay awake. I have to scream the minute Ky lets me out.
He doesn’t have the radio on. The eerie silence is louder than Blake Trevor’s stereo. I need music. Now. Music mollifies me, helps me focus. Beethoven’s “Moonlight Sonata” comes to mind. I tap off the notes on my numb fingers. At least I have muscle control again.
One, two, three. Breathe in through my nose. One, two, three. Breathe out through my mouth. Oxygen enters my lungs, surfing smoothly on each wave of notes. My head bobs to the steady rhythm I’ve heard so many times. Mom’s favorite for me to play on the piano.
The melody repeats three times over before Ky brings the car to a slow stop.
Where are we?
When he comes around the side and opens my door, panic returns. He’s put his hoodie on. Stalker identity confirmed. A blade glints at his side—is it made of glass? He reaches for me.
I shut my eyes. Tight. Blood. Please don’t let him draw blood.
The glass blade is cold against my sore wrists. Every muscle seizes. Teeth grind. Lungs fail.
But Ky doesn’t hurt me. He frees me.
With my hands and feet loose, air greets raw skin. Ahhh.
“We walk from here.” He helps me sit. “Don’t try anything. This is no ordinary blade. I’d hate for you to get hurt.” His voice softens. If I didn’t know any better, I’d think he means it.
Ha! Not likely.
“Understand?”
I nod. Sweat trickles down my temple.
Grazing my cheek with the knife, Ky severs the gag. He presses the tip into my side. I don’t dare scream. “Get out. Slowly.”
I obey to perfection, stalling as much as possible. Will Joshua know where to find me? I don’t have my phone, so he has no way of tracking me. He recognized Ky’s name, so maybe—
“Move.” Ky forces the point closer, if possible.
I wince.
We’re standing on the edge of Central Park’s south end, right outside the Artist’s Gate. A statue of José Julián Martí on his noble steed guards the entrance. This is where he brings me? We’re closer to home now than we were downtown. A surge of hope bursts from my chest. I know this area of the city as well as the chords to “Daydream Believer.”
“Um, I don’t think you can leave your car parked on the curb.” I point to a red-and-white No Parking Any Time sign. “You’ll get towed.”
“Unimportant.” He wraps one arm around me. “Smile, princess. For the next few minutes we’re in love.”
Groups of various sizes cluster around the Park’s perimeter. I refuse to smile and he draws me closer. He nuzzles his nose into my hair, and I gag.
His blade cuts through the cloth of my sweatshirt. “Smi
le.” The hiss, as sharp as the knife, punctures the air.
This time, I force a small grin. Doesn’t anyone notice us? Don’t they see I’m being forced against my will?
He leads me down a flight of steps into the park. A canopy of pin oaks envelops us as we descend. Their splayed, fingerlike branches clutch a beautiful fall wardrobe of leaves in oranges and reds that will soon become last season’s garb. Beneath them, old-fashioned lampposts cast a white glow from every angle.
If I can get away, Central Park has plenty of hiding places. I know them well, and I’m betting if he just moved here he doesn’t.
“Do you come here often?”
“No.”
A few more steps. “How long have you lived here again?”
“Keep your mouth shut,” Ky snaps. Annoyed. Good.
“I was just wondering why a college student would want to throw his life away by kidnapping a teenager.”
He stops. Shakes his head. Laughs. “You stupid girl. Do you mean to tell me Elizabeth told you nothing?”
Whiplash. “What do you know about my mom?”
“Wow. She’s dumber than you are.” He drags me forward.
The insult raises several choice words to mind. How dare he say that about Mom. But I don’t speak again. Somehow this all fits together. Joshua knowing Ky’s name. Ky knowing Mom. These are the outer corners of one complicated puzzle. If only I had the middle pieces so I could see the entire picture.
We pass more late-night loiterers. A shifty-eyed man stomping out a cigarette at the base of a tree, attempting to hide his totally illegal act. A couple in matching joggers walking their Border collies. Three girls about my age passing a bag of Skittles back and forth as they chat. Laugh. Gossip. Oblivious in their own little bubble.
I will someone to look at me. To ask if I’m okay. To care.
As if reading my thoughts, Ky laughs, low and mocking. “People only see what they want to see, princess. They ignore what’s right in front of them. No one is going to save you.”
I swallow. Having been the target of bullies like Blake, I know too well most people would rather look the other way than try to help and risk their own skin.
The Pond is in clear view. He lugs me to it, then stops on the soggy shore. “Get in.”