It’s Jamie. Carrying a bouquet of flowers that flap as he moves. He rushes into the street and kneels at the front of the stopped bus. Drops the flowers and they land at the girl’s feet, which is all I can see of her.
I step backward, stumbling as I go. Holy shit. Shit, shit, shit.
Jamie isn’t the only one at the girl’s side. There are others, appearing from different directions as if they were all waiting in the wings of a stage. People are on their phones. Hopefully at least a few are dialing 911 and not simply taking a video.
This is when it occurs to me to look for the guy. The girl’s guy.
He’s gone.
But I do see Kendall, hovering behind the bus shelter, her face in her hands. I go over to her.
“No, no, no, no, no,” she’s whispering to herself.
“Kendall,” is all I can say. My tongue feels huge and dry in my mouth. Now I realize I’m shaking.
“That didn’t happen,” she adds, and breaks down in tears.
Now there are sirens.
Look alive, Max. Don’t be completely useless. “Come on,” I say, pressing my hand lightly on Kendall’s back. “In here.”
I guide her into a sandwich shop, where others are gathered in the window to watch what’s going on. I pull out a stool for her, and she sits.
“You should call someone,” I say. Keeping my voice calm is helping the rest of me be calm. Or at least, faking it.
Kendall nods and takes out her phone. Tears still winding their way down her cheeks. She talks to someone named Emerson, her voice wobbly, catching on every other word. When she starts telling him what we saw, I move back over to the window. I’m not ready to hear this become a story so quickly.
The ambulance is pulling away. Jamie’s standing on the corner, looking for us. I indicate to Kendall that I’m going back outside and she nods, continues talking.
“Tell me,” I say to Jamie when I reach him. “Dead?”
Jamie’s a pale guy, but right now he looks vampire-drained. “I don’t know. They packed her up and whisked her away.”
A police officer approaches me. “Did either of you boys see what happened?”
Jamie shakes his head and swallows hard. But I say, “Yes.”
The cop takes out a pad of paper. “Go on.”
So I do. I try to summarize what I saw and heard, without letting myself think about it. Just the facts, sir. By the time I’m done talking and the cop turns to another witness, I see Jamie putting Kendall into a cab. After it pulls away, he steps into the street to pick up the crumpled flowers. Stares blankly at them for a moment. Then tosses them in a trash can.
I look around. My bags of food have vanished. I don’t even remember putting them down.
“Come on,” I say, tugging Jamie away from the trash. Be useful, I say to myself. “Let’s get out of here.”
When we reach the awning of my grandfather’s building, Jamie pauses and looks up at its Park Avenue facade. It has actual stone gargoyles at the top. He takes out his phone and snaps some photos.
I’m thinking, kind of a weird thing to do after watching someone get maybe-killed. Then again, a totally normal thing to do if you’re in shock. Am I in shock, too?
“Hey, August,” I say to the doorman. He’s wearing a long overcoat with tassels on the shoulders. The guy’s worked here since I was a little kid.
“Mr. Levine,” says August, pushing the elevator call button for us.
“Mr. Levine!” cackles Jamie, then doubles over laughing.
“We just had a really intense experience,” I explain to August, clapping Jamie protectively on the shoulder. By focusing on Jamie, I don’t have to deal with how freaked out I probably am.
“What’s intense is this lobby,” Jamie says. He’s looking at the mosaic tile walls, the chandelier, the overstuffed leather couches I never see anyone, anyone sitting on.
“It’s a different world, for sure,” I say.
Jamie seems equally impressed with the elevator, which is only a standard elevator, but perhaps he doesn’t get out much. He takes at least three pictures of its interior during the short ride to the third floor.
I hand Jamie our bags of replacement food, purchased from another deli two blocks out of the way. This lets me concentrate on sliding the apartment key into the lock as quietly as possible. I’m not sure why I feel the need to be so quiet. We can hear the TV on full volume through the wall.
Inside, Big E is out cold in his chair. Small mercies.
After we put my grandfather’s groceries away, I lead Jamie down the hall to my aunt’s room. I’m about to open the door when I find myself turning to Jamie, pointing to the other door. My father’s old door.
“This is going to sound weird,” I say, “but do you want to sleep in my room with me? There’s already an air mattress. I think maybe you shouldn’t be alone.”
“Because I’m completely wigged out?” he asks, with a sad smile. “Yeah, an old-school slumber party is a good idea.”
We put Jamie’s backpack in my room, then settle into the den with sandwiches.
“Want to watch something?” I ask, grabbing the remote. This one looks pristine, living blissfully far from Big E’s quick-tempered fingers.
“Sure,” says Jamie as he slides onto the couch.
I flip through the channels, hoping one will offer what we need. A buddy cop movie, or anything with animals that talk. But my eyes glaze over and all I see on each channel is the bus stop, and different versions of what could have happened.
In one version, the guy with the guitar steps between the couple, as I’d expected him to do. Click. The woman with the stroller asks the girl if she needs anything. Click. The older couple yell at both of them to take their drama elsewhere. Click. Then there’s me. Not standing frozen to the sidewalk.
I tell the guy to leave her alone, that she’s made her wishes clear to him. Or I simply tell him to back off and give her space. He gets so upset, he runs away. He’s the one who dashes into the street and gets mowed down. No, if we’re going to reimagine this, let’s cut out the tragedy and go all the way. The guy takes off, disappearing forever, and the girl realizes she deserves so much more. The next day, she meets someone who’s perfect for her and they live happily ever after.
“You’re thinking about her, aren’t you?” asks Jamie.
“Her name was Luna,” I reply. “Or at least, that’s what the guy she was fighting with called her. You thinking about her, too?”
“Dude, her blood is on my sneaker.”
I look at his sneaker. She is 300 percent more present in the room now.
“Maxie?” yells Big E.
“Coming!” I shout, jumping up and hurrying into the living room.
“I’m starving,” he says.
I defrost a casserole and pour him milk from the deli. Jamie peeks his head out of the den.
“Who is that?” asks Big E when he sees him.
“My friend Jamie. Remember? I told you. He’s staying the night.”
I motion for Jamie to come join us. His face says please don’t make me but he does it anyway.
“You look a lot like my son when he was your age,” says Big E to Jamie. And you’d think that would be a compliment, but after he says it, my grandfather scrunches up his face. So, maybe not.
“Do you need a blanket, Big E?” I ask him.
He shrugs. I know he does. He’s just pissed that someone has to put it on him.
After I’ve covered him up and refilled his sports water bottle and retrieved the remote from where it fell on the floor, Jamie and I go back down the hall.
“It’s good you’re here, man,” he says.
This could mean so many things. I’d be happy if even one of them were true.
DECEMBER 28
Kendall
I’M BEING MOCKED BY A MAROON TUXEDO JACKET.
It’s hanging above my feet in the guest room/closet, all sharp-cornered and neat and simple. Me, I’m none of those things, es
pecially right now.
I can tell it’s morning, not because of the light because there is no light, but because of the sound of the coffeemaker and hushed, worried voices coming from the living room.
After Emerson met me at the cab and brought me upstairs last night, we lay on his bed together, flat on our backs with our heads touching.
“Do you want to talk about it?” he’d asked me.
“No, thanks.”
Talking about it meant telling him the whole story, about the standing and the watching. That girl and guy must have been fighting for a good three minutes. I heard him call her Luna, I think. Three minutes of him bullying her, three minutes of me doing nothing. Well, not just me. Max, too. And one, two, three, four, five other people (I’m not counting the kid in the stroller). But Emerson thinks I just saw a girl step into the street and get hit by a bus.
“You could have PTSD,” Emerson had said. “I’m a teacher. I’m trained to deal with this stuff.”
“Please don’t sound so excited about it,” I told him.
Now I haul myself out of bed, purposely messing with the tuxedo jacket while opening the door. One shoulder sags halfway off the hanger, and I already feel better.
“Monkey’s up!” chirps Andrew when I emerge from the closet.
“Did you sleep?” asks Emerson, furrowing his brow. Oh my God, it’s the same brow furrow as Mom’s. There is just no escaping it.
“More or less,” I say, and even that’s a lie. Emerson doesn’t understand that I don’t really sleep because the Thought Worms are against it, and they are especially rebellious after a day and evening like that.
Andrew says, “I was just telling your brother that I can work some press contacts to find out what happened to her.”
Her. I almost like that better than an actual name, like she’s a proper noun that doesn’t need explaining.
“Can you do that?” I ask.
“He can try,” says Emerson. “It might be on the news, too. If there was security footage.”
A wave of horror hits me. I can see it now: a viral video of the “incident” and those of us standing by, doing nothing. Another example of New Yorkers not giving a damn! Modern apathy!
“I’d rather wait and see what Andrew can dig up,” I say, and sink into the chair.
Andrew pours me a cup of coffee. “There’s bagels,” he says.
I nod, but honestly, I’m not sure I’ll ever be hungry again. My phone, which I left on the kitchen counter, vibrates to let me know I have a message waiting.
Holy shit, says the text from Jamie. I still can’t believe that happened. Feeling freaked out. Headed back upstate now. Let me know how you’re doing.
I text him back Doing okay, talk soon and then think about this boy, although it feels like I’m not allowed to. Me kissing him and our breath mingling together in those moments before Max showed up. Before everything showed up.
Now I’m picturing Luna again, because she must have had a first kiss with that guy. There must have been a time when she was thrilled at the thought of him touching her, at all the possibilities that sparked.
Luna. I will let myself think about her more. She’s dead or in a coma, or awake, but suffering. How can we not know what happened next? Stories have endings, dammit. They shouldn’t trail off into multiple choice.
“I have to get to work,” says Andrew, shrugging into his coat. “I’ll call later if I snag some info for you.”
Emerson and I both watch him tug his gloves on, finger by finger. These precise movements confirm for me that he’s the owner of the taunting tuxedo jacket.
Andrew kisses us both good-bye and when he’s gone, Em turns to me.
“When’s Mom getting here?”
Oh, crap. I totally forgot about Mom, and about Wicked and her being upset and basically everything else in my life. I check my phone and there’s a message waiting from her, too.
“She says she’s coming in at three so we can have an early dinner first.”
I can’t talk to my mother about what happened and I can’t explain why.
“Want to come with me to return all the ugly stuff I got for Christmas?” asks my brother.
I can’t talk to him either, because he wasn’t there and I already omitted vital information from the story. I really want to call Jamie, but I’m afraid talking about Luna will kill off everything good about yesterday. I still want the everything good. Is that selfish and shallow of me?
Suddenly, I know what comes next.
“There’s something I have to do,” I say, “but can I meet up with you later?”
I walk west from the apartment. It’s cold but sunny, and all that’s left of the snow that fell before Christmas is a few blackened piles of slush in random corners.
I cringe at the sight of every bus and stand a good five feet from each curb when waiting for the lights to change. Every time I hear a raised voice behind me, I freeze and turn to see who it came from. The city goes about its business, even though something bad happened. Then again, bad things happen all the time, everywhere.
It does feel better to be out on the street, part of normal life, although of course this is not my normal life. I’m just borrowing it, really, until I can find one of my own.
The intersection of Park Avenue and Eighty-Second Street is over fifteen blocks away but I get there more quickly than I expected. There are apartment buildings on all four corners and I have no idea which is the one I want.
“Hi,” I say to the doorman at the first building. “Is there a guy named Max staying here?”
It sounds even weirder coming out of my mouth than I thought it would. The doorman gives me a confused, slightly wary look, like I’m one of those situations they’ve trained for.
“I mean, I’m looking for a friend. He’s staying with his grandfather, but I don’t know his grandfather’s name.”
The doorman shakes his head firmly and with certainty. “I’d know if there was someone staying with a grandfather. Sorry.”
“Okay. Wrong building, I guess. Thanks.”
A similar exchange happens at the next building, and I really, really want to take it as a sign to just abandon this idea.
“You must mean Mr. Levine!” says the doorman at the third building.
“That’s Max?” I ask. “Or his grandfather?”
“Both. Is he expecting you?”
“No,” I say, and I’m about to explain when the doorman makes a call. I turn to the gigantic lobby mirror and glare at my reflection.
“He’ll be right down,” says the doorman as he hangs up.
I sit on a leather couch. The lobby reminds me of a room in a French chateau our Movable School group visited in the Loire Valley.
The elevator dings.
“Kendall?”
I turn and there’s Max, looking confused and surprised but maybe not in a bad way.
“Hi.”
“Jamie left about a half hour ago to catch the bus.”
“I know.” We’re silent again. If I can’t even talk about this to Max, with whom I have nothing to lose, why am I here?
Max comes over to the couch and when he sees me sprawled on it, he smiles a bit, a smile edged in sadness. There’s something protective about the way he stoops over me, although he probably stoops for everyone.
“What?” I ask, sitting up straight.
“Did you have as bad a night as I did?” he asks.
I let out a sigh that sounds a lot like a sob. “If your night was hellish, then yeah.”
Max laughs and looks relieved. “I’m so glad somebody else knows what this feels like.”
There’s no need to explain what this means and it can’t really be named anyway.
“You want to get some breakfast?” asks Max.
Don’t cry, you dork. Don’t you dare cry.
I nod, biting my lip so hard that it bleeds.
We’re walking toward Lexington Avenue and the silence pushes against me from the inside. I really
suck at silence, even in mortifyingly awkward situations like this. Especially in mortifyingly awkward situations like this.
When I can’t take the pressure of it anymore, I ask, “So you’re just hanging out with your grandfather until the semester starts?”
“Well, yes and no,” Max says. “There is no semester. I deferred school for a year.”
“Oh. I didn’t know that.”
More silence. Dammit, he’s going to make me ask. Maybe I can control myself.
“Then what have you been up to since you graduated?” Okay, so, maybe not.
“Not much at all,” he says. I sense the baggage in that statement. He’s saying a lot even though it doesn’t sound that way.
“How’s Eliza?” I ask, because we already know I can’t control myself.
After a few seconds, Max replies, “I hear she’s okay. It’s been a while since we talked.”
I pause, nearly tripping over my own feet, then fall into step again.
“You guys broke up?”
“At Halloween.”
“I’m sorry to hear that,” I say. And I am, really. Because I probably had something to do with it.
“Her favorite holiday. Not the best timing, but that’s how it went down.” I glance at him and he’s glancing back at me. There’s a moment of oh crap and then we both look away. “It’s all good now, we’re friends,” he adds.
Then he stops and points to a coffee shop, an old-school one, all vinyl and fluorescent lights like on the Seinfeld reruns I watch with my dad. Max opens the door for me and we rush inside to grab a window booth.
“Jamie said that before everything happened, you guys had a good time together,” Max says as he unwraps his plaid scarf and tucks it next to him on the seat.
“Are those the words he used? A good time?”
Max thinks. “It might have been amazing or awesome. One of the really good A words.”
“Okay, I’ll take that,” I say. I picture the flowers Jamie bought for me. I try really hard to picture him buying them, handing a deli clerk his money with a giddy smile. Not in Jamie’s hand as he ran toward the girl, and definitely not lying in the street.
Maybe if I had done something to help Luna, or even helped someone help her, this morning would be different. I’d be sitting across from Jamie right now.
Together at Midnight Page 4