by Seven Steps
“Whatever.”
I cross my arms over my chest and feign being calm and uninterested, though my insides are rioting. I want to hate Eric. I think I did hate him for a while. But, between the flowers he sends to my house every day and the passage of time, that hatred is beginning to slip.
Crap on a stick.
“I told you not to wait for me after practice.” I power walk toward the subway station, hoping to lose him. Despite my speed, he walks backward, facing me. He’s not even winded.
Figures.
“I’m just making sure you get home safe, Red.”
I roll my eyes. I’ve asked him not to call me Red a million times. It was cute when we were a couple and I was Red and he was Ship. Now, just thinking of our nicknames for each other makes me want to kick him. Hearing him say mine out loud makes me want to run away screaming.
I raise an eyebrow at him. “I can take care of myself, thank you very much.”
A proud smile stretches his handsome features. “Yes, you can. Either way, walking you home makes me feel better.”
I kick a sheet of newspaper that lies in my way. “I don’t need you to keep me safe.”
His voice softens to almost a whisper. “I like keeping you safe.”
I stop my power walk and turn to him.
Eric has a way of making me feel like I’m his to protect and admire. Like an ancient, delicate, beautiful statue. But I’m no longer his to keep safe. He cemented that with his lies two months ago.
“Look, we can’t keep doing this. We’re not together anymore. You can’t keep coming around and saying those things. It’s confusing.”
He shrugs, as if I’ve just told him the sky is blue.
“I’m not confused.” His eyes tell me there’s more to that statement.
I don’t allow myself to think about what that more could be. “We’re broken up.”
“For now.”
His cockiness infuriates me, and I speak through locked teeth.
“Not for now. Forever. You lied to me, remember? You only dated me on a sucker bet.”
His face turns from cocky to grim. “I may have started dating you because Jake asked me to, but I never lied to you. When I told you I loved you, I meant it.”
“You’re lying.”
As quick as lightning, he reaches out, wraps his hands around my upper arms, and steps closer. His eyes are blazing, like blue fire, making my breath evaporate in my lungs, and my knees wobble.
“When I said I loved you, I meant it. That was not, and will never be, a lie.”
Our gazes turn deep and searching. His eyes are truthful, pained, full of longing.
Does he see the same emotions in me?
A lump forms in my throat, and I’m glad for it. It keeps my stupid mouth from spouting off things I know I’ll regret later.
He pulls me into a hug, and my eyes drift shut. I allow myself exactly three seconds of Eric Shipman. Three seconds to feel his heartbeat beneath my fingertips. Three seconds to smell his ocean breeze cologne. Three seconds to remember the taste of his mint-flavored kisses.
I keep my hands at my sides. They want to grip his shirt, but I won’t allow them to.
When the three seconds are over, I push him away and angrily wipe at a stray tear.
I must be strong now. Eric’s deception has crushed my heart once. I can’t allow him to do it twice. I take two steps back, then run in full sprint toward the train. I must get away from Eric before I do something stupid, like forgive him.
I focus on my anger, holding it over my heart, burning away my feelings until there are only ashes left. When I reach the entrance to the station, I take a steadying breath before descending the stairs.
I can’t let Eric know how much he’s gotten to me. How much I still feel. There’s too much to lose.
Stay in control.
I clear my throat, brush the hair from my face, and square my shoulders.
“You okay, Red?””
Crap. I didn’t lose him after all.
His voice is good-natured and teasing, like he knows I’m slowly losing my mind. I guess my façade isn’t as solid as I hoped.
“You’re pretty fast. Maybe if this swim thing doesn’t work out, you can be on the track team. They’d be happy to have a set of legs like yours.”
“Shut up.”
“You look a little flustered. Maybe we should stop for some water.”
“I’m not flustered.”
He takes my hand and places it over his heart. It’s beating hard beneath my fingertips. “I just wanted you to know that, if you are flustered, you aren’t the only one.”
My heart lurches, and I slam shut the door of my emotions before they all tumble out of me at once.
The boy is relentless. I have to get away from him before I completely lose it.
I snatch away my hand before he can feel it tremble and follow the crowd deeper into the underground station. I try not to think about the warm presence walking directly behind me and focus on the dirty white-tiled walls instead.
A single, unmanned booth stands on my left, next to a row of MetroCard machines, each with a line of two or three people.
Two women smile at me from behind a cart full of neatly organized colorful magazines and books. I don’t smile back.
It’s a rude thing to do, but I have bigger things on my mind than the opinions of strangers.
I scan my card at the silver turnstile and walk toward my train. The smell of gyros, body odor, and mold mix and waft through the air. The familiar scents calm me, and my shoulders relax.
A gray train squeals into the station, and my mood lifts.
Perfect timing.
I walk onto the train car and lean against the conductor’s door.
I don’t look at Eric as the train pulls out of the station and bounces unevenly beneath my feet for nearly twenty minutes. When the doors open to my stop, I push my way toward the exit in typical New York style.
Suddenly, my bag slides down my shoulder. One yank sends it flying off my body and into the arms of a short man dressed in all black. I only have time to glimpse a scar above his right eyebrow and a black wool cap before he takes off, weaving and bobbing through the crowd with my pink backpack bouncing behind him.
I quickly snap out of my shock and lunge forward, clawing my way through the crowd.
“That guy stole my bag!” I cry out. “Somebody stop him!”
I fight through the mass of bodies, stepping on toes and pushing people aside.
“Let me through! That guy took my bookbag!”
The crowd thickens, pressing in on me as if they’re trying to stop my progress.
I shove them harder, struggling to keep the bright pink bag in sight.
Then, from somewhere ahead, I hear a gruff voice shout.
“Hey!”
Gasps ripple through the throng of travelers, and I hear what sounds like a scuffle. A man screams. Then, the people around me completely stop moving and phones come out. They’re watching something.
“What’s going on?” I demand. “Did someone find my bag?”
I tap the person next to me.
“What’s happening?”
The person is a middle-aged man with an unfriendly face that matches his unfriendly voice.
“I don’t know. Someone’s fighting.”
And then, as if I was annoying him, he rolls his eyes and continues to watch the scene that I’m too short to see.
Jerk.
One thing is for sure. I’ve lost sight of my bookbag. Months of homework, my favorite pen, and my mermaid binder are now a distant memory.
Crap on a stick.
What did this thief hope to gain, anyway? There isn’t any money in my bag. My wallet and phone are in my coat pocket. Unless he’s a student who’s interested in poorly-taken chemistry notes, the bag is worthless.
I take out my phone to check Facebook but—surprise!—no Internet service.
This day has gone from amazing
to sucking in less than an hour.
Midway through playing the same level of Candy Crush for the tenth time, the crowd finally starts to move again. It takes another two minutes to walk out of the station and up the stairs.
That’s when I see him.
Eric.
He and two cops in heavy blue coats and fur hats are huddled close together. One of the cops is scribbling something on a pad while the other cop holds a handcuffed man by the wrist.
Right away, I notice the scar over his right eyebrow.
The thief. They caught him. How?
Eric’s grin tells me the rest of the story.
Eric caught him? He must have, because my pink bookbag is hanging from his shoulder.
“Here she is,” he announces. “The owner of the bag. My lady.” He bows gallantly and presents my bag to me like a knight presenting his sword to a queen.
My cheeks warm in embarrassment.
“You got my bag for me?” I ask, gently taking it out of his hand and pulling it onto my shoulders.
He looks pretty proud of himself.
“But how did you know someone took it?”
He shrugs. “I heard you screaming.”
I stare at Eric for a moment. My very own knight in shining armor. In less than an hour, he’s saved my butt not once, but twice.
The goose bumps reform at my neck. Fortunately for me, that’s when the police officer with the pen and pad decides to speak up.
“We’re going to take this guy in,” the officer says. “Have your parents call the station later, okay?”
“Yes, sir.”
He hands me a pink slip. I reach for it with trembling hands. Exhaustion settles onto my shoulders, making them sag. My limbs feel heavy and my head light.
The officer scans me briefly, then turns to Eric.
“See that she gets home safe, will ya?”
“Yes, sir.”
The officer turns back to his partner.
“All right, John. We’ll take this one in, then you can buy me a hero. Extra pastrami and provolone.”
John grumbles, and the officers take the thief away.
Eric’s eyes drop to mine.
“You okay, Red?”
It’s the second time he’s asked me that question today. The second time he’s been there when I needed him.
“I’m fine.” There’s no edge to my voice this time. No hostility. No malice. Just me, with my pink bookbag, trying not to tremble.
I’ve been in New York City practically my whole life. I’ve never been mugged before. Though it’s not a violent crime, I still feel violated, weak, and afraid.
I push my hands deeper into my pockets and avoid Eric’s probing eyes.
“You sure?”
No, I’m not sure.
“Please, just walk me home.”
He looks at me as if I’m about to fall apart.
“Okay.” His hands go to my lower back, gently guiding me toward my building.
We walk the three blocks in silence. When we arrive, I trudge up the stairs like a zombie before I hear Eric’s voice again.
“You sure you’re all right, Red? Maybe I should walk you up to your apartment and tell Duckie and your dad what happened.”
“No. I’ll be fine.”
He takes a small step forward. “Why do I get the feeling you’re not going to tell them?”
I shrug one shoulder. “I don’t want them to worry. If my dad finds out I was mugged, he’d probably send me to school in an armored car.”
“What’s so bad about that?”
A small smile slips onto my lips. “I thought it was your job to keep me safe.”
Crap. I didn’t mean to say that. I must be more tired than I thought.
He takes another step forward, and my stomach twists into knots.
“I’ll always keep you safe, Red. You can count on it.”
Gratitude slips into my heart, quietly covering over the hostility I felt toward Eric earlier. I’m grateful he stopped me from fighting Vanessa and that he retrieved my backpack. I’m grateful because he was nice to me, even when I was mean to him. After months of pushing him away, Eric never gave up on me. On us. That deserves more than just platitudes. It deserves something heartfelt.
“Thank you for being there for me today,” I say.
I mean it deep down in my bones. I hope he knows that.
He climbs the bottom stairstep.
“Any time you need me, I’ll be here, Red. Just say the word.”
The truth in his eyes startles me, breaking through my weariness.
“What do you want from me?” The words tumble out before I have a chance to stop them. “We’re not together anymore. So… what do you want from me?”
My heart slows while I wait for his response. It’s a question I’ve wanted to ask ever since we broke up and he didn’t disappear from my life.
It was easy to push Bella and Jasmine away. I told them we were no longer friends, and, after a week or two, they stopped calling and coming by. But Eric would not be shaken off so easily. He walks me home every day, even though I tell him not to. He sends me flowers every day, and every morning he says good morning to me, even when I don’t say it back. Eric has made himself a staple in my life, and at this crucial moment, I need to know what role he expects to play going forward.
His eyes sparkle with an emotion I recognize all too well.
Hope.
“I want to be your friend.” He steps up to the second step. “Can we do that? Can we be friends?”
I know this is a bad idea. I should tell him to leave me alone and never come back. I should stop taking the train so he can’t walk me home anymore. I should be mean and cruel and drive him away. But I can’t bring myself to do any of those things because, deep inside, I know I want Eric in my life. Even if it’s just as my friend. Even if it hurts.
I nod.
“Sure.”
He smiles wide, reaches up, and tucks a strand of red hair behind my ears.
“Okay. Friend.”
I can’t help but laugh.
“See you tomorrow, Red.”
I give him a little wave. Then he turns and walks away.
He’s called me Red again, but this time, I guess it’s not so bad.
No.
Not so bad at all.
3
My family’s penthouse is on the thirteenth floor of 76 Central Park West. Our place is nice, but my favorite thing about our building is our floor’s hallway. It’s all blue, cream, and pink marble. At night, when the high windows fill with moonlight, it’s like the entire building is under water.
Mama died six years ago, and I come out here sometimes at night just to think about her. She loved the ocean, so sitting in a shimmering hallway that looks like a sea shell makes me feel closer to her. She told us she was born in the Caribbean Sea, but I don’t believe it. Grandma Sadie is so pinch faced and bitter there’s no way she had a baby anywhere but a stuffy, sterile hospital room. One thing was certain, though. Mama may not have been born in the ocean, but she did die there. While we were on vacation in the Bahamas, some drunk college kids ran over her with a speedboat.
It’s strange the things I remember about that day. I remember the clouds were wispy and white. I remember the smell of oil and beer. I remember how my mother’s face stretched with horror when the boat collided with her body. I remember the name of the boat. The Sea Witch.
Those kids will never see the outside of a prison again, and here I am. Sneaking out in the middle of the night to sit in hallways that look like seashells, trying not to forget what my mother’s perfume smelled like.
I use my key to open the front door and step inside. Nine seashell hooks are built into the wall, and I hang my coat onto the one with the red A painted over it.
I spy my latest flower on a gold table that sits beneath a golden mirror textured with more seashells. Every day, a red flower in a decorative pot is delivered to my apartment.
Eric sta
rted sending me flowers the day after we broke up. I turned the flowers away at first. They were just a reminder of what we’d lost. What we could never have again. After two weeks, the lobby of my building started to look like the botanical gardens. Mr. Seba, the doorman, didn’t say anything, but I could tell he was starting to lose patience. After the fourth week, Mrs. Fleckenstein wrote a formal complaint to Daddy that the smells were irritating her sinuses. Within the hour, all the flowers were lined up in my room, and from then on, the fragrant deliveries were placed on the gold side table in the hallway. Around week six, I began to look forward to the smells and bold colors.
Eric is determined. I have to give him that.
Today’s flower is a red calla lily. I stop and give it a sniff. It doesn’t have much of a scent, but I take a second whiff anyway.
Tomorrow, Mrs. Grim will take the flower to the small greenhouse on the roof. From there, she and Alana, my sister, will take care of it, along with dozens of other plants I can’t even begin to identify.
I make my way into the huge living room. My twin sisters, Alana and Adella, are stretched out on two of the three gray couches. Alana wears pink, non-prescription glasses, while Adella wears green ones.
“Hey,” I say.
Their faces are buried in their phones and they don’t look up at me. The smell of popcorn hangs over them, and I spy an empty, yellow bowl near Adella’s feet.
“You’re late,” Alana says.
I adjust my bag on my shoulder, not ready to put it down just yet.
“The train was late,” I say, pretending to examine my fingernails. “And I was mugged.”
The twins’ eyes go wide. To strangers, the two girls are indistinguishable. Same dark eyes, pale skin, budding bodies, and straight, black hair. But I clearly see the differences. Like the scar in the middle of Adella’s forehead from a run-in with a glass table when she was five. Alana had no scars. She’s a girly girl who wears pink like it’s her own personal statement. Adella—Dell for short—is more of a tomboy.
“Oh my God, are you okay?” Alana asks, jumping out of her seat. Dell comes up behind her, and they give me equally worried eyes.
“I’m fine.” I say it as if getting mugged were a normal occurrence in my life.