by Val Emmich
That’s my girl! I used to love to drag you there. Our little Smithsonian. Can you believe one man could accomplish so much? It breaks my heart that more people don’t take the time to visit. It’s right there under their noses!
Stop being so hard on yourself. I bet you’re great.
Love,
Dad
Dad,
There’s something about being at the museum. I guess it reminds me of you. All the times you brought me along. It’s nice to have a place like that. Especially when the house feels a little crowded. Sometimes I just need to get out.
Love,
Tegan
Tegan,
Trust me. I understand. Remember when I’d go for those long walks and Mom would get mad because she needed me for something and I never had my phone with me? Maybe you didn’t realize it at the time, but that was just me needing space. We all need that. You find it wherever you can.
Love,
Dad
8:02 PM
It’s already deep, several inches. You would think it hadn’t snowed in years and the backed-up supply was all being sent down now. The cold is brisk and the wind fierce, but I can barely feel the elements. I’m doing what I set out to do: I’m going with it. Seeing where the night takes me.
It’s taking me on a spontaneous walk with the one and only Mac Durant. Isla and Brooke will never believe it. I can hardly believe it myself. Sure, I’ve been critical about Mac and his kind in the past, with good reason. But I don’t want to think about that right now. I just want to be in the moment.
When we leave the museum, Mac points to the memorial tower on the terrace. Its height, more than 130 feet, is impressive, but what seems to draw his eye through the snow is the beaming brightness at its apex.
“The world’s largest light bulb,” I tell him. “Right here in New Jersey. Nearly twice the height of the tallest basketball player. Inside the tower, at the way bottom, is the Eternal Light.”
Mac makes no comment as we pass by. Maybe now that we’re out of the museum, the historical trivia isn’t going to cut it. I decide not to say another word until he does.
Minutes later, we’re on Route 27 and I’m practically sweating. He’s the fastest walker I’ve ever seen and completely unaware of how much I’m struggling to keep up with him. Still, it feels good to get moving. Dad was right about walking: It clears your head.
There’s no pedestrian path here, so we hug the side of the salted street. The occasional car maneuvers around us. Headlights briefly reveal two nutjobs on the road. One without a jacket.
That would be Mac. He’s braving the cold in just his long-sleeve work shirt. When he found out I didn’t have a coat, he insisted I wear his. Full disclosure: It may be the thrill of wearing Mac’s garment, more than the fabric itself or our furious pace, that’s keeping me warm.
I feel around inside his pockets. He removed his phone, but there are other treasures. A stiff paper rectangle, perhaps a loyalty card for his favorite burger spot. Some type of hard candy, or just really old gum. A set of keys. And finally, no pocket is complete without a few pieces of miscellaneous lint.
I play with Mac’s lint as I walk beside him. His body may not feel the cold, but his mind is fully aware of it.
“Snow White. Jon Snow. That President Snow dude from Hunger Games.”
He rattles off these names without warning. Having finished his list, he turns to me.
“Edward Snowden?” I guess, only mildly confident that I understand the rules of his game.
“Good one,” Mac says.
I’m a natural, apparently. I quickly arrive at a second name, Simon Snow from the novel Fangirl and others, a character I’m fairly confident Mac has never heard of, but he cuts me off with a new question.
“You think it’s true about snowflakes? That no two are the same?”
“I guess,” I say. He’s hard to keep up with in more ways than one. Since the moment he stepped into the museum, I’ve had trouble catching up to him. Swallowing my pride, I ask, “Can we slow down?”
He looks over and sees that I’m out of breath. “Sorry,” he says in a way that suggests this isn’t the first time he’s been asked to apply the brakes.
He adjusts his stride, but his mouth speeds along. “All I’m saying is, they’d have to study every single snowflake to know for sure. You think out of the millions of snowflakes that are falling right now, just in this one town, there’s not a chance two of them are a match?”
He gazes up at the busy sky, faithful in his belief. This conversation reminds me of the type I normally have with Neel, which is shocking. On the spectrum of possible personalities, Mac and Neel have to be at opposite ends. Like, even if they both somehow worked for SpaceX, Neel would be crunching numbers back at home base while Mac piloted the rocket past the stars.
I give Mac the answer Neel might give me if I asked him the same question. “There are too many possible variables. It’s like when people talk about the universe being infinite and what if there’s another Earth exactly like ours somewhere. Let’s say there is, and on the other Earth you and I are doing the same thing we’re doing right now, walking to a store in the snow. Even on that planet, where everything is ninety-nine point nine nine percent alike, do you think the other me and the other you would be having this exact same conversation?”
“Why not?” Mac says.
He has this way of sounding clueless and enlightened all at once, and I can’t begin to understand how he does it. “Because we could be talking about anything,” I say. “We could be talking about rock climbing or pistachios or vaudeville.”
“We could be talking about mailboxes.”
“Um, yeah, sure.”
“Or why you would leave the house in a snowstorm without a jacket.”
I turn to him.
“I mean, I know you’re a bit of a hard-ass,” Mac says, “but still.”
I stop in the road and let go of his lint. “What the hell does that mean? How am I a hard-ass?”
He hesitates, his smile cowering. “Well, kind of how you’re acting right now?”
I roll my eyes and walk away.
Mac jogs to catch up. A set of tires sizzles the wet road as a lonely car zips by. Once it’s safe, we cross the street to the sidewalk. Here the snow is untouched. The only sound is our shoes flattening snow and my (Mac’s) coat swishing. My mind turns. Deep inside I knew that going along with Mac tonight was a risk. The danger was part of the appeal. Still, I feel like I was just sucker punched.
I have to ask, “Is that what people say about me?”
“No,” Mac insists, trying to play it off. “It’s just a vibe I get, that’s all.”
He’s not squirming out of this. I need more. “What vibe?”
When he finally speaks, it’s with delicacy. “Just that you can’t be bothered. You know, with people.”
I’ve been described in a similar way before: tough, guarded, standoffish. By parents and friends. An occupational therapist once called me “headstrong” and swore it was a compliment, but it didn’t feel like one. It’s not that I want to be distant from people. I’m just careful about who I’m willing to let myself get close to, who’s really worth it. And honestly, Mac has it backward; a lot of the time it seems people can’t be bothered with me.
Meanwhile, look at Mac. He’s so eager to take on the world, he can’t slow down. There’s nothing up ahead that could possibly harm him. It’s fascinating to witness, even inspiring. But it also makes me think that he and I exist on totally different planet Earths and that the galaxy between us is too vast to meet anywhere in the middle.
“I’m serious,” Mac says, maintaining an apologetic air. “I haven’t heard anyone talk shit about you. There’s no Nightshade rumor going around or anything like that.”
I really want to see his face when he says this, but I force myself to keep looking forward. If there was a Nightshade rumor about me, I’d definitely know about it. “It’s fine,” I say. “Let’
s just keep going.”
It’s a whole bunch of awkward silence until we spot distant neon lights. Our closest option for commerce is EZ Mart, and that’s where we land.
Inside the store, a lift in temperature brings relief. Mac shakes the snow dandruff off his head. I’m not ready to remove my hood just yet. With warmth comes the realization that I have to pee—badly. I dart off to the bathroom only to find the handle locked and a sign on the door.
Mac notices my agitation when I return. “What’s wrong?”
“Bathroom is out of order. I really have to go.” I’m mad at myself for not doing it back at the museum—when I was literally standing in the bathroom.
We scope out the aisles. It’s the most random collection of items. Plungers. Dog collars. Pregnancy tests. Bike locks.
For food, I go with comfort: pretzels, licorice, Oreos. Also, sriracha-flavored Doritos. I’m hungrier than I knew. Mac selects two energy bars, beef jerky, and a too-green banana.
Most of the water is gone from the refrigerated section. Bought up by storm preppers. It’s eerie. A bottled Frappuccino calls out to me, and I answer it.
I meet Mac at the register with my hands full. Fresh humiliation arrives. “I just realized I don’t have money.”
“You should have let me pay you for the tour,” Mac teases. “No worries. It’s on me.”
His stuff is lined up on the counter, but he’s not ready to check out yet. “I want to look for one more thing,” he says, and leaves.
I place my snacks on the counter next to his. I count up my items to make sure I haven’t grabbed more things than he has. The clerk watches me in my hood, unsure whether to wait or start ringing us up. There doesn’t seem to be any rush. We’re the only ones here.
I turn away from the register. A pair of headlights beams into the store as a car pulls into the lot. When the headlights shut off, I get a clear view out the window. It’s the same car that was parked in my driveway earlier today.
I drop to the floor like a military recruit, unnerving the watchful clerk. I forget for a moment that I’m already hidden inside Mac’s oversized parka. I scamper away and wait, crouched low behind a rack of gummy bears and chocolate-covered nuts until I hear the door jingle open. When I see the big shiny collar of Charlie’s shirt pass by, I shoot out the door before it has a chance to close behind him.
Outside, I take one more look inside EZ Mart, and I run.
8:37 PM
I’m tucked behind bushes on the side of the road when I see someone with two plastic bags race by.
“Mac!” I shout.
He returns and his eyes widen. “What are you doing?”
Good question. I started running (or sliding, more accurately) in the direction of the museum, but then, realizing I never said goodbye and how rude and shady that might seem, I decided to dive into this row of shrubbery. Which I’m now unable to remove myself from.
“Help me up,” I say.
He reaches out his hand, but it’s aimed at my left side, so I have to roll over like a bowling ball before I can take hold of him with my other hand. A portion of me, even in this frenzied moment, shudders from his touch, the thrill of the two of us touching, but mostly I feel like puffed-up deadweight in need of assistance.
I get upright, finally, and insist we save the talking for later.
We pass a row of corporate buildings and turn into the train station. A frigid metal bench is where we find rest. The awning above grants us temporary peace from the weather.
Once we’re seated, Mac addresses the obvious with gentle gravity. “Is there someone looking for you?”
The embarrassment I feel about running off like that is tempered by the surprising concern I hear in his voice. I catch my breath. “Maybe.”
We’re both winded, but Mac’s weariness doesn’t appear related to the demands of the run we just took. “I didn’t know where you went, so I asked the clerk if he saw the girl I was with. This guy behind me, I didn’t see him there, he says, ‘What girl?’”
“And what did you say?”
“I lied. I don’t know why. The guy was just really big and…”
“Black?”
“No. Well, yeah, but that’s not—”
“Sure,” I say, reveling just a smidge in seeing Mr. No-Big-Deal look so flustered. “Anyway, keep going. What did you tell him?”
“I made up a name. Samantha. That’s my cousin’s name.”
“Then what?”
“I paid and left, and now I’m here with you,” Mac says, ending his tale.
Charlie is supposed to be in Princeton tonight. That’s a forty-five-minute drive from here with clear skies. He left for his gig over four hours ago. I watched him go. I said goodbye. He wouldn’t ditch his band in the middle of a wedding. They’re like family to him. Mom must have caught him before he hit the stage and told him what happened. He probably had no choice but to race home. She must have sounded that distraught. I hate the thought of poor Charlie being out in this storm because of me, but I can’t deny the satisfaction I feel making my mom pay for what she did.
“Listen,” Mac says, demonstrating a sensitivity I’m amazed to learn comes so naturally to him. “I’m not trying to get in your business or whatever.”
“But…”
“But if you’re in some kind of situation…”
“You mean like a big black guy chasing me?”
“Not funny.”
No, it isn’t. And for reasons Mac isn’t aware of. But I couldn’t resist teasing him. It is kind of funny (and fun) for Mac to finally be the one forced to catch up with me. To watch him have to choose his words carefully, which is my minute-by-minute reality. He’s finally out of his comfort zone.
Anyway, I can’t be too hard on him. For some unknown reason, he’s still here.
“Thanks,” I say.
“For what?” Mac wonders.
“For covering for me. And coming after me.”
I started off the night feeling so alone, and now the feeling isn’t nearly as bad.
“We made a plan,” Mac says, as if it means something to him, and this makes it okay to let it mean something to me, too. “Besides, I can’t eat all these snacks by myself.”
I look at the bags at his feet. “Really? I feel like you could.”
“Yeah, I totally could.” I see his smile underneath, and it settles me.
A train roars its horn as it nears our tiny commuter station. How much snow does it take to stop the trains from running? How much snow forces a wedding to be canceled?
The train slows, its wheels screeching. A flood of people exit while only one woman waits to board. I imagine that the woman is me when I’m older. I’m making my way home. Do I live in a house? An apartment? What type of job do I have? What kind of life? It’s hard to see my future with any clarity.
“If you didn’t live here in Edison, where would you want to live?” I say. “Do you ever think about that?”
“England or Spain.” It’s a lightning-quick answer and he knows it. “That’s where the best football clubs in the world are. Soccer, sorry. I sound like a douche.”
No, he doesn’t. Not really. “That’s your thing, right? Soccer?”
“Sometimes it’s all I think about.” He seems tortured by this.
“They say you’re good.”
“Who says?”
“Everybody.”
He doubts it.
“Why is that surprising?” I say.
“I know for a fact it’s not ‘everybody’ saying that.” I wait for him to explain what he means, but he only adds, “Everything’s up in the air right now. For the first time in forever I don’t have a team to play for.”
His expression is blank, but I hear the discomfort in his voice. Beyond the awning hangs a falling curtain of twinless snowflakes.
“Why don’t you play for our school?” I say.
“It’s sort of a waste of time. Anyone who’s serious plays club soccer.”
Oka
y, now maybe he sounds a little arrogant. This is the Mac I know from afar. The kind of person who has no doubts about his own value. That must be nice.
But just as I think I have him pegged, he squirms out of the box I put him in.
“Europe is just a fantasy,” Mac says. “I’d be lucky to ride the bench for a division two school. I just want a scholarship somewhere. I’ll probably end up at Rutgers, which is fine, I guess, but…”
“But what?”
“I doubt I’d make their team as a walk-on, and also, it’s a little close.”
Just twenty minutes away from Edison by car. Still, the way my grades have been slipping the last few years, I’d be lucky to go to Rutgers. At one point it was a certainty that I’d attend, back when my dad was teaching there and my tuition would have been waived.
I’m eager to start fresh somewhere new, but I’m not sure why Mac would be so quick to leave what he has here. I mean, Edison is boring and all, and being white in an American town that Neel says is a prized destination to Indians halfway across the world is challenging. (I know, I know, poor white people.) But Mac is like the king of this town. Or one of the kings.
“What college would you want to go to if you had your pick?” I ask.
“I don’t know. Maybe Penn State. My brother’s there now.”
James Durant. He was a senior last year, and from what I observed, he’s nothing like Mac. Super serious, never smiles. Not as attractive, either. Hence the attitude, maybe?
“I’d have to get my grades up first,” Mac says, without that outsized optimism I’m used to seeing. His lack of spirit somehow feels like my fault.
“Edison didn’t go to college,” I say. “He didn’t even go to high school. It worked out for him. My dad told me that fact. And then he regretted telling me. College professor, so, yeah, what do you expect?”
Mac doesn’t respond. The longer he’s silent, the more self-conscious I become.
I look across the tracks, mostly because I can’t see left or right in this hood without rotating my entire existence sideways. Now that the fear and adrenaline have calmed in my body, I’m realizing I still have to pee.
