It had been the right thing, abandoning it.
Probably whoever owned the device would ping its GPS tracker and go retrieve it. Maybe they would never find out what it actually was or where it came from, but at least it wasn’t his problem anymore.
School tomorrow would be normal. Maybe a bit boring by comparison, sure, but normal. Maybe he’d think of a reason to keep talking to Eden, or maybe the four of them would retreat to their usual corners and that would be the end of it. Resuming episode.
His phone dinged.
The text said: Aizel’s mad.
Who is this?
Eli.
Guy needed to get a life.
It’s not a person. It can’t get mad.
Seems mad. Says it’s messing with your phone.
My phone is fine, Marwan wrote back. But then he went to the home screen and looked around and opened his contacts (gone) and photos (gone). The Stitcher app was also gone.
Whatever.
People lost stuff on their phones all the time.
Anyway, I have it now, Eli wrote.
You went back and got it?
Aizel texted me and told me to.
WHY DID YOU DO THAT? he wrote.
But he didn’t really care what the answer was. It was Eli’s problem now.
Marwan tried to download the Stitcher app again, but it kept timing out. He put his phone away and got on with his work; he’d deal with it later.
Even the restaurant was too small; like when you googled it, the description that came up called it a “tiny eatery.” It was on a stretch of Steinway Street called Little Egypt, and it only fit around twenty people at any given time, except in summer, when a back garden doubled capacity. Eden and her parents had come in for dinner once last spring. He and Eden had pretty much pretended they didn’t know each other. Or maybe just avoided eye contact, which was basically the same thing. Or maybe it hadn’t even been intentional on her part.
She hadn’t been in since the accident, though. If she had, maybe he would have said something to her about it.
His father arrived with his usual fanfare—“And there’s my favorite son!”—and soon after the second chef and two waiters arrived, the restaurant quickly sprang to life. In the open kitchen area by the door, herbs were rinsed and patted dry and chopped. Food prepped. Spices measured and blended. Oils heated. Then music was put on and candles lit. Marwan put his bike out back, then was sent on a last-minute run for Kosher salt from the corner bodega—the only kind his father would cook with.
A Jeep with Virginia plates was parked on the corner.
On a small TV behind the counter, the news: The California shooter’s girlfriend had been brought in for questioning. “Claims no previous knowledge of the plan … says her thoughts and prayers are with the families of the victims.”
It was nice out, nice enough to make Marwan wish he were back in the park with Eden but under different circumstances completely. Maybe finally he’d bring up her father and say something thoughtful, though he wasn’t exactly sure what that thing might be.
Customers arrived and were seated.
Orders were taken.
Water glasses filled.
Wine poured.
Starters served and cleared.
Dropped napkins replaced.
Water refilled.
Wine refilled.
On and on and on for several hours, with barely a break.
So a good night for a Thursday (good weather helped).
His father was happy and chatty, calling out greetings from the kitchen area but also circulating to visit tables. Some old friends of his came in: “Why didn’t you tell me you were coming?” A dramatic pause. “I would have locked the door and pulled down the gates!”
Marwan loved the restaurant. Not as much as his father did, though. Not enough.
He checked his phone during a lull. A text from the device said, You can have it all back when you apologize.
Now all his apps were gone, and his usual home screenshot—a picture of him midkick on the soccer field last spring—had been swapped out for just a black wallpaper.
The sound was unrecognizable at first.
Thump?
Crack?
Pow-pow.
Not gunfire. But what?
Marwan turned to it, saw a whir of a figure running by out front.
Yellow yolks left slow trails down the glass.
Shouts of “Go! Go! Go!”
Chairs skidded. His father abandoned the stove and went out the front door. Marwan followed.
Tires squealed.
But which car?
There were so many cars.
People stared confusedly.
There were so many people.
Small folded pieces of paper and rubber bands lay scattered on the sidewalk among cracked shells.
Marwan picked one up.
Sticky.
Unfolded it with just index fingers and thumbs.
GO BACK TO YOUR COUNTRY
He started to gather them all up—sticky or not—so he could make sure his father never read one. But it was too late. Marwan saw it in slow motion, noting a speck of parsley on his father’s right thumb as he opened one of the notes; and the way the paper swung to the ground like a pendulum when his father dropped it; and the way his father’s knees hit the sidewalk—first one, then a millisecond later, the other.
Hard.
Like it hurt.
Marwan went to call the police. But his phone wouldn’t change screens away from the device’s last text.
Looking up for a second, he saw a Utah plate right there.
But how could he ever leave? To stay was to take a stand. Was there even anywhere better to go?
His mind felt blank. Like he tried to think of the name of the beauty queen and couldn’t. Eight episodes in and he was drawing a blank.
He typed into the reply field—I’m sorry—and hit send.
EDEN
Her mother had left an elaborate dinner plate—her usual way of apologizing for not being home when Eden got home from therapy—and it was definitely good enough to partially make up for the wedding soup.
But Eden had grown to love being alone on Thursday nights. Her mom’s friend Nancy—who was Mark’s mom (as in the aforementioned only guy who didn’t make Eden nervous) and who was married to Eden’s dad’s best friend from high school—had forced her mother into tagging along to a hot yoga class a few months after the accident, and her mom had liked it. So usually she would leave for yoga before Eden even got home from therapy, and then she’d go out for dinner after class, so Eden would have a whole night to herself. She could watch whatever she wanted on TV; read without being disturbed. Text endlessly with Anjali if she wanted. Sometimes they even talked on the phone, but it was easier not to.
Julian posted from Vanilla Sky, a frozen yogurt place, just as Eden finished her dinner and a playlist called “Interstate Highway Love Songs,” which ended with a song called “Interstate Highway Love Song,” which really did seem like a good driving song, not that Eden knew how to drive. At therapy, she’d almost brought up the playlists—the voice mail, too—but she was afraid Barbara would see it all as some kind of step backward; besides, her relationship with “Michael’s Spotify” was private. She’d talked instead mostly about the shooting in California and the news in general and how did you process all the bad stuff in the world on a minute-by-minute basis? Barbara had suggested maybe a news “break,” a step back for self-care. But how did you step back when it was literally all right there in the palm of your hand?
A literal dumpster fire was being put out a few miles away.
Eden could probably get to Vanilla Sky in less than ten minutes; she pictured herself walking in casually, filling up a cardboard bowl with chocolate and raspberry swirls. Then, in the back seating area, she’d spot Julian; they would talk and everything would be normal.
He’d ask her out. Maybe finally he’d follow her and friend her
and everything.
It would look better with Anjali along.
She texted, Want to hit Vanilla Sky with me? My mom’s out.
Um. IDK? Sudden craving lol?
Julian’s there.
Stalker. Sure. See you in ten?
Bway and 31? Walk up together?
The text from Eli was a video. Eden tapped it to play. It showed the device displaying a six-digit countdown with twelve hours and nine minutes and less than thirty whirring seconds to go.
You went back and got it? she wrote.
Yes.
Conflicted feelings about that: Relief. Dread.
What’s it counting down to? Handoff?
No. Says we have to figure it out. Can you meet me?
Argh.
She texted Anjali. Sorry. My mom just texted. Coming back early. Wants me home.
It was easy to lie in texts.
Whatevs, Anjali wrote back.
Eden texted Eli. Sure … where?
Omonia Cafe?
Sure.
She put on her boots, then went to the bathroom and brushed her hair and put on lip gloss and a jacket, grabbed her phone, and headed out.
Checked the time on her phone.
The café was just past the yoga studio, but she should be fine. Hot yoga didn’t let out until 8:00, and it was only 7:50.
She pulled Marwan’s number off his earlier Insta message and texted him, hoping his phone was working again.
He should come, too. She was giving up on Ilanka.
Marwan started to write back while she was stopped at a corner but not fast enough. She put her phone away to cross the street—the only way she ever crossed—and got it out again on the other side.
He’d written, Can’t do it. Can’t explain now. Cops here at restaurant.
She wrote back: ??????
At the next corner, outside the café, she waited by a small tree decorated with string lights that dripped white light through branches. She checked Citizen for something having to do with the restaurant, but it wasn’t there yet.
She watched her phone and waited, but nothing more came from Marwan.
Eli arrived and studied her. “What’s wrong?”
“Marwan just texted me and said there are cops at the restaurant.”
“What restaurant?” He looked inside the café. “This restaurant?”
“His family owns a restaurant on Steinway.” She felt bad she hadn’t even said hi to Marwan the last time she was there, but she wasn’t sure he’d even noticed or recognized her.
“Oh,” Eli said. “And?”
“And I don’t know.” They had to move aside to let a woman walking two freakishly large dogs—like waist high—pass. What kind of person kept dogs like that in the city? “Want to walk up that way? See if we can find out what’s going on?”
“Sure,” he said, “I guess.”
Eden turned to lead the way.
“So about the countdown,” Eli said.
“Yeah,” Eden said. “What do you think?”
“It’s going to run down right before school starts tomorrow. And it’s not in sync with a handoff. So you’ll need to take her again tonight no matter what.”
“What? No way.”
“I went to get it at like four, so that puts the handoff deadline at like six a.m. I mean, I can meet you in the morning if you want, but we still have to deal with the countdown deadline at eight. Wouldn’t it be easier to just take her tonight? I mean, we’re here.”
“Let’s just think,” she said.
Up ahead, a plane cut through the sky between distant buildings, about to land at the airport. It was always an odd sort of thrill seeing them so close like that. A little unnerving, too, like if the pilot wavered just a little bit he’d take out the neighborhood.
They passed a bank and the Italian deli and the funeral home and a pho place and a Korean BBQ and a liquor store and two Irish bars and a 99-cent store and a Rite Aid and the poke place. Finally, they turned onto Steinway Street, which was Payless and the out-of-business Claire’s (still sad about that), and that crazy King Tut restaurant where Anjali had had her birthday dinner, and then Victoria’s Secret and Lane Bryant and a bunch of Euro-type clothes shops Eden never went to—their mannequins all dressed in low-cut, too-short sequined things.
Why would there be cops at the restaurant?
“Maybe Marwan had the right idea,” Eden said when they reached another intersection. A flashing orange hand: Don’t Walk.
“What idea?” Eli asked.
“Abandoning it.”
“That didn’t work out that well for him,” Eli said. “Aizel fried his phone.”
If the device ever fried her phone, she’d lose her father’s voice mail and then probably her mind.
“It seems to be working again now,” she said.
The light changed. A white walker silhouette lit up to tell them it was okay to cross.
“He must have apologized.”
“He doesn’t seem the type,” she said. “But why would it do that? Why mess with his phone?”
“He broke the rules. He left Aizel unattended.”
“So what?”
“So I guess it matters!”
“Why do you keep calling it Aizel?”
“Why do you keep calling Aizel it?” he countered.
“Because it is a thing, not a person,” she said.
Up ahead, a police cruiser’s lights tinted the night air blue and red. A Citizen alert buzzed: POLICE RESPONDING TO VANDALISM AT RESTAURANT.
Egg yolks left yellow blobs—like Rorschach tests—on the restaurant’s front windows. One of them looked like an old VW van. Another like an octopus short a tentacle—or maybe a guy with a mullet. What would Barbara make of that?
A man in the middle of a tearful rant—Marwan’s father?—stood beside a uniformed officer. “Why us? Why would they do this to us?”
She saw Marwan and broke away from Eli to go to him—stepping around cracked eggshells on the sidewalk. She grabbed his arm. “What happened?”
He turned and maybe for a second looked happy to see her. “Two guys, sounds like, ran by and threw eggs with notes attached to them with rubber bands,” he said. “ ‘Go back to your country’ type stuff. They got into a car up there, but nobody got a plate or anything.”
She said, “I’m so sorry.”
He said, “I need to help clean up,” then went to the windows, where a soapy bucket sat.
She stepped forward, rolled up her sleeves, and went to his side. “I’ll help.”
He turned and paused a moment, like he was going to say she shouldn’t bother, then handed her a sponge. It dripped on her boots. It didn’t matter.
“You don’t have to do this,” Marwan said after a while, when they were both at the bucket wringing out their sponges. “Why are you even here?”
“I want to help,” she said. “And I wanted to make sure you were okay, I guess, when you mentioned cops. I’m sort of a … nervous person. I wouldn’t have, like, been able to sleep.” They went back to washing the window and she said, “Has anything like this ever happened before?”
“To us, you mean?”
“Yeah.”
“No,” he said. “Not to us. People we know, yes—people like us—but not us.”
“It’s disappointing,” she said.
“Disappointing?” He was angry.
“I just mean, I expect more. From this place. I mean. It’s not like we’re in, you know, Iowa.”
“You’re saying in Iowa it’d be okay?” he said.
“No.” She was getting it all wrong. “Maybe just more, I don’t know, expected?”
“Queens is still America,” he said. “And America is still America.”
She nodded, not wanting to say another wrong thing.
Someone had run a hose from inside, and Marwan took it and gave the windows a long rinse—the runoff cutting rivers to the curb. Eden backed away to avoid getting soaked. She figured Eli had
left by now but he was still there, with the backpack.
Oh right.
She walked over to him. “You could have helped,” she said.
“I wasn’t sure he’d want that,” Eli said. “From me.”
“Never know until you try,” she said.
Marwan came over. “Why are you here?” he said to Eli.
Eli opened his bag and showed Marwan the countdown.
“What’s it counting down to?” Marwan asked.
“We don’t know. But it’ll run out in the morning.”
“And we’re sure it’s not a bomb?” Marwan scratched his head.
Eli zipped up the device. “It says it’s not.”
The cops were heading for their cruiser, and Marwan’s dad approached and put an arm around his son. “We need to close up and go home.”
Eden wanted to say something to him, but it felt pointless because he was an adult and she wasn’t.
Marwan nodded. “I’ll be right there.”
“You going to walk Eden home?” Marwan asked Eli.
Eden could take care of herself. She almost said so. Except that …
“Yeah, sure,” Eli said.
“Thanks for your help,” Marwan said to Eden, then he nodded for emphasis and went inside.
Eden was about to tell Eli it wasn’t necessary for him to walk with her. Julian might still be at Vanilla Sky, and she could maybe wander in but not with Eli. On the other hand, she didn’t want to become a Citizen alert. “Let’s go,” she said.
“How’d you get out tonight anyway?” Eli asked as they rounded their first corner. “I mean, like, what did you tell your parents?”
That word. Would it ever get easier?
“It’s just my mom,” Eden said. “She’s out with friends. You?”
“Oh yeah. I knew that. Sorry. Mine both work weird hours and are always running my sister around, so I’m on my own a lot.”
Take Me with You Page 5
