You in Five Acts

by Una LaMarche

  “Hey,” he said, walking up to us with a tight smile. “You guys were great.”

  “Did Liv come with you?” you asked hopefully.

  “No,” Dave said. “Actually that’s kind of why I came in the first place—no offense.”

  “You didn’t find her?” I asked.

  He shook his head.

  “What’s going on?” You dropped my hand and turned to Dave. “You don’t know where she is, either?”

  “Her parents say she didn’t come home last night,” Dave said.

  “Oh no,” you whispered, your hands flying to your face. Real guilt hit me then, like a baseball bat to the stomach. I’d been the last one to see her, and all I’d managed to do was make her run.

  “Could we have all non-dance department guests wait in the lobby?” Ms. Adair called out over the din. “We’re getting ready for a group photo.”

  “I’ll wait, I guess,” Dave said, looking miserable. “I’ll keep trying her.”

  Every weekend when the new stuff comes in she just shows up. It was Saturday. That meant if she was anywhere, she’d be looking for Dante.

  It took forever to get all of the families to file out the narrow opening, but when they were finally gone I pulled you aside.

  “I might know where she is,” I said, keeping my voice low. Mr. D was starting to pull people into lines. Excited chatter was still bubbling all around us. Everyone was comparing notes about who talked to them after the show.

  “What?” You drew back, confused; anger flashed in your eyes. “But, how—”

  “Dante,” I said quickly. “There’s a party tonight.”

  “Diego! Joy!” Mr. D boomed. “I want you two front and center.” We reluctantly took our places, standing stiffly as the photographer fiddled with his equipment.

  “If you keep the parents busy,” I whispered, “I’ll make some excuse that I have to leave to run an errand, and I’ll go check it out.” You stared at me, incredulous, and I couldn’t blame you. Even I didn’t really believe me.

  “No,” you said. “I’m not letting you go alone.”

  “Well, I’m not letting you go,” I said.

  “Offstage drama?” Lolly muttered from the row behind us. There were muffled giggles.

  “SMILE!” the photographer yelled. We looked out and did our best imitations.

  “I didn’t ask permission,” you said once we unfroze, ignoring the others. “Look, you really think she’ll go with you? I know her, I’ve known her since I was six years old. It should be me.”

  “I don’t like the idea of you being there,” I said, as we made our way toward the dressing rooms. “It’s not exactly the crowd you’re used to.”

  You stopped cold. “I don’t care.”

  “OK,” I sighed. “But you have to change.”

  “No shit, so do you. You look like Bruno Mars at a bullfight right now.” Your tone was still pissed but your eyes were softer. “What about Dave?” you asked.

  I felt shitty for ditching him, but Dante and his friends would not be kind to Dave’s brand of privileged pretty boy. “No,” I said. “We definitely cannot take him.”

  “What do we tell him?” you asked, pausing by the entrance to the girls’ locker room.

  “Nothing,” I said. “It’s better if he doesn’t know.”

  I was trying to act so brave, like some big man getting ready to take care of business. It felt like my mess, and I wanted to show you I could fix it, make you feel safe. I pictured us ending the night in some sweaty embrace, all dirty and hyped-up like the end of an action movie.

  “I love you,” you would say, flashing a low sunrise of a smile.

  “I love you back,” I’d respond, before kissing you passionately.

  Yup, I was a regular Ethan, with my dialogue and action sequences all ready to go.

  I just didn’t know the ending yet.

  Chapter Thirty-One

  May 13

  One hour left

  THERE WAS A MAN playing djembe drums in the 66th Street station, his hands flying so fast you couldn’t even see them. The beats ricocheted off the tile walls as we booked it for the approaching uptown train, a supercharged heartbeat layered under the metallic scream. We’d told our families we had to talk to Dave about something, and that they should go ahead without us. Then we went and told Dave we had to go to dinner with our families. We promised each other that we’d run, literally run, to the party, go in, grab Liv, if she was even there, and leave.

  It was supposed to be easy.

  The train was packed with the Saturday night crowd, a mix of families with young kids heading home and singles with no kids heading out. You and I squeezed in silently between the high-heeled girls with heavy makeup and tiny bags and the tired-looking moms clutching sleeping kids. We white-knuckled the pole on opposite sides, catching each other’s eyes every so often, nodding along with the lurch of the train, trying to pretend it was all okay.

  The party wasn’t at Smoke Dog’s that time but at a building across the street, the apartment of someone Dante would only identify as “T.” It was a narrow, peeling walk-up on 104th, sandwiched between a Baptist church and an empty lot. There was a deli downstairs, and one of Dante’s “associates” was leaning against a dented ice machine outside, one leg up on the building, his eyes half-lidded but watchful. I could feel them on us from a block away.

  “I think you got the wrong address,” he said as we stepped up to the door and peered at the row of unmarked bells. His face was fleshy, like an overgrown baby with a patchy mustache. A scar cut through his left eyebrow like a lightning bolt. From somewhere up above, a heavy bass thumped against the crumbling concrete.

  “I’m Dante’s cousin,” I said, and he laughed, a quick, sharp exhale through his nose. He dialed his phone while we waited. I wanted desperately to hold on to you but knew it would make me look bad. Your face was calm, expressionless. If you were nervous, you didn’t show it.

  “Yo, D,” he said, “You invited some kids?” He smiled and looked us up and down. “Yeah . . . a girl, too.” His face darkened then, and he turned away. “Nah, nothing,” he said. “I called him twice already. You called your guy?” There were a few more tense exchanges before he hung up and acknowledged us again. “Fourth floor,” he said, opening the door, which apparently hadn’t been locked. There was a tiny hole in the glass, right in the center, surrounded by a sunburst of shallow grooves.

  The hallway inside stank of mildew and weed. We climbed carefully up the stairs—I realized, too late, that you could barely put weight on your ankle and were clinging to the bannister; I should never have let you come—past three other doors that were scary quiet. One had a big BEWARE OF DOG! sign but no sign of any dog, one was piled high with garbage, and the third didn’t even have a doorknob, just a hole covered with flaking duct tape. Dante was waiting for us on the fourth floor landing, which vibrated with the hip-hop pumping inside the apartment. His face was tense, his eyes even shiftier than usual.

  “Sorry about Tino,” he said. “He’s a little on edge because the delivery’s late.”

  “We’re just here for Liv,” I said, keeping myself firmly in between you and Dante. “She in there?”

  “Unfortunately.” He rolled his eyes and pushed the door open into a huge, teeming mass of people. The living room was a crush of bodies, moving in and out of sync with the bouncing backbeat of the music. The air was thick with smoke, and lighters flicked in the dark like fireflies. Dante nodded us in, saying, “I don’t even know what she’s on tonight. It’s nothing I gave her. She’s actually being a real fucking downer, so you’re doing me a favor.”

  I felt you stiffen behind me, but somehow we both managed to squeeze past Dante without punching him in the face. I instinctively reached back for you, but you didn’t take my hand.

  • • •

  We
found her sunken into the corner of a stained, ratty couch on the far side of the room, with her legs folded up under her, bobbing her head and moving her jaw in jerky circles. The street lamps shining through the dusty window shades threw shadows into the hollows of her cheeks. Her hair was plastered to her head with sweat.

  “Oh my God,” you whispered when you saw her. She didn’t look as bad as when I’d seen her in the park—she looked much, much worse.

  The other people at the party didn’t seem to notice. One girl was on the edge of the couch, basically sitting on Liv’s shoulder, like she wasn’t even there. A burly guy with bright, restless eyes was sitting next to her, looking pissed and mumbling to himself. When we came over, he sprang up.

  “I’m done babysitting this tweaked-out bitch!” he yelled, and the circle of people standing around the table laughed and nodded.

  “This ‘tweaked-out bitch’ is my friend,” you yelled even louder, and my heart sped up in the long seconds of silence before the angry guy finally just mumbled some curses at you and stalked away.

  “Hi, baby girl,” you cooed, kneeling in front of Liv. Her eyes floated down to your face and then immediately crinkled shut. Her lower lip trembled as you took her hand and stroked it, whispering, “It’s OK, it’s OK.” I stepped back against the wall, not sure of my place. All I knew was that you belonged in yours. Liv didn’t need a babysitter, or some wannabe white knight. She needed someone who loved her. She needed you.

  “I’m sorry,” Liv sobbed into your shoulder.

  “No apologies,” you said, starting to cry, too.

  “These bitches,” sighed the girl on the edge of the couch. The music changed. The floor seemed to slant. I felt uneasy. Suddenly I really didn’t want to be at T’s apartment anymore.

  We should have left right then. If we had left right then—

  But I didn’t want to scare you for no reason. I leaned over the couch and peered out the window. Below, on the street, everything looked normal. A bus droned by. A kid dribbled a ball. Just then, my phone chimed loudly in my pocket and I could feel everyone’s eyes on my back like I was wearing a target.

  “Sorry,” I mumbled, and I heard a deep voice ask, “Who the fuck is that?”

  It was a text from Mom: Are you on your way?

  “We should go,” I said to you, but you were still deep in whispers with Liv and couldn’t hear me. I reached down and grabbed your arm.

  “We should go,” I started to say again, but I’d only gotten out the first two words when the bleep of a police siren drowned me out.

  Murmurs like tremors cracked through the room. Someone turned the music down. I got shoved out of the way as a few guys rushed to the window. They moved in unison, like some ungainly corps de ballet.

  “Oh shit!” one of them yelled. Then: chaos. People pushing and shouting, tossing full cups and lit cigarettes on the floor in their rush to get out.

  My heart thudded helplessly against my ribs as I pulled you to standing. Someone kicked the coffee table into us and you screamed out in pain.

  “Let’s go, let’s go!” I yelled. Liv was still curled on the couch.

  “Help me get her up?” you asked. Outside, I heard the sound of tires skidding to a stop. The room was emptying out. There was weed piled on the coffee table just a few feet from us. I wasn’t great at math but it looked like enough to get someone in trouble. I didn’t even want to think about what else was in the apartment.

  “Can she walk?” I asked, my voice far away, drowned out by the thick hum of blood in my ears.

  “She’ll have to!” you cried.

  There was no yelling downstairs, no “Freeze!” or “Come out with your hands up!” The lookout by the ice machine had probably been long gone by the time the cop car turned the corner. I whipped my head around, looking for Dante to tell me what to do, but he was gone, too. Everybody was gone—everybody except us.

  Don’t run. That’s another thing mom had always told me. If the police stop you, don’t run. No matter what. But my body was screaming at me to GET OUT, every muscle fiber straining to move. And we hadn’t even done anything. There was no way I was going to ruin everything I’d worked for when life was finally starting to line up for me, not with all those shiny business cards in my back pocket, lined up like wishes just waiting to be granted.

  “We gotta go. NOW!” I yelled, finally loud enough to get Liv’s attention. I grabbed her around the waist and dragged her onto her feet as you bolted for the open door, Liv stumbled forward a few steps before starting to move more assuredly.

  “There’s a back exit,” she slurred.

  In seconds, we were running.

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  May 13

  15 minutes left

  WE RACED DOWN to the third floor, me, you, and Liv, in that order, as another siren sounded outside. Luckily the urgency of the situation had finally sunk in halfway down the stairs and flipped Liv’s switch, so even if she wasn’t moving fast she could talk. No one lived in the second-floor apartment, she told us. It was empty, sometimes used as a meeting spot. There was a window in the back that opened onto a ladder. We could drop to the ground in between the buildings, to an alley that fed onto First Avenue.

  I pushed past the stack of rancid garbage bags and got the door open just as the cops banged past the mailboxes in the lobby, their walkies hissing with dispatchers radioing in other nearby threats. I pulled you in behind me, hearing you suck your teeth as your ankle banged against the door frame, but there wasn’t any time to look back and check on you. Hesitation was not an option.

  “I think my heart’s exploding,” Liv croaked.

  “Just breathe,” you said, although I could tell by your voice that you weren’t following that advice.

  “We’ve got runners!” I heard a cop shout, the cry clanging off the stairwell, and for a split second I thought he meant us before I heard all hell break loose outside, shouting and scuffling, and then, in the distance, the unmistakable popcorn pop of a bullet that flooded me with terror. I’d seen police break up parties in our building before, watching the flashing lights turning our kitchen windows red, then white, then blue. People would scatter, some getting chased and thrown in cuffs, still mouthing off even bent over the back of the cruiser, but I’d never seen a serious bust. I’d never seen live fire. As we reached the promised window at the back of a dark, dusty bedroom, I felt more like I was in a video game than real life. What was that crazy one Ethan always talked about? Destiny? Mine seemed to be slipping through my fingers. I would have given anything to disintegrate into pixels.

  The window was already cracked open, but it was stuck like that, so I had to wedge my shoulder under it to shove it up the rest of the way. Searing pain shot through my neck and I grunted as the glass crashed loudly against the top of the frame.

  “Oh, no,” you whispered. No noise was good noise.

  “Out,” I directed, helping you first, then Liv.

  “My legs feel funny,” she said, looking up at me with wild, glassy eyes. The drop was at least twenty feet, onto concrete. If she fell and didn’t die, she probably wouldn’t walk.

  “I’ll carry you,” I promised. “Just make it to the ground.” I said it like it was easy. As I swung myself out, feeling for the rusty metal bars with my worn-out Converse, I could hear footfalls on the stairway, getting louder. Closing in.

  I should have gone first; Liv was barely moving, and I kept stepping on her knuckles by accident, making her cry. You helped as much as you could, guiding her slippery wedge boots from one rung to the next, but there were a few times when her feet shot out, or she lost her grip, and one of us had to grab her to keep her from falling. The ladder didn’t go all the way to the ground, either—it was a fire escape, and stopped about seven feet short. You made the jump first and landed hard—I could hear the smack, which sounded so much like the neck snap from my dr
eam that I looked to make sure you were still alive. Somehow, though, you were already back up and reaching out for Liv, who dropped down onto you like a rag doll. As I navigated the last few steps, cursing myself for ruining the tread on my piece-of-shit shoes, I heard the telltale spit of the walkie up above.

  I let go of the bar—hands up, don’t shoot—and fell just as a cop peered out of the window above us.

  “Stop right—!” he yelled, but we had disappeared around the corner.

  “I’ve got three on the ground in the back!” I heard him radio to someone else.

  I didn’t need to remind you to run that time.

  • • •

  We bolted across the street, toward the dark labyrinth of buildings of the East River Houses. I’d played there so often as a kid, I knew the layout cold. If we cut to the left there was a path, a straight shot past the basketball courts to 105th Street. If we cut right we could turn south, coming around the pavilion onto 102th. It was dark enough that once we got past the line of street lamps, we could fade into the background. We could disappear.

  I looked over my shoulder once, just long enough to check we weren’t about to get shot in the back, and almost tripped when I saw the scene on 104th. There were four police cruisers, parked nose to nose, blocking off the whole street. Outside T’s building, at least two people were on their knees on the sidewalk; one was lying on the asphalt, facedown, with a cop straddling him.

  Are you on your way?

  I thought of Mom, sitting there in the restaurant, trying to keeping my brothers from spilling their sodas on the checkered tablecloth, wearing the pearl earrings she wore every time there was a special occasion. Whatever she was picturing me doing, it wasn’t this. Another siren blared as a fifth cruiser sped around the corner two blocks down.

  I grabbed your arm and started sprinting, instinctively heading north, toward home, even though I didn’t know what I’d do once we got there. I could tell I was dragging you—you could barely walk, let alone run—and Liv was slowing us both down, and my lungs were burning, but I couldn’t stop. Nothing mattered except getting out. We passed by a court where a couple of guys were playing a late-night pickup game, and they laughed, shouting after me that I’d better get you home quick before you changed your minds.