The Girl in the Picture

by Alexandra Monir

  “All right, miss, place your finger directly on the scanner,” the officer says in the bored tone of someone doing this all day.

  “Okay.”

  My finger hits the scanner as I hold my breath.

  Our rehearsals for the Philharmonic Contemporary Youth Showcase take place every Saturday and Sunday for the next three weeks, so today I find myself once again boarding the Long Island Rail Road into Manhattan. The last thing I expect is to see Chace Porter joining me on the train platform, as if commuting together is our new normal. But there he is.

  “Hey,” he greets me, in the casual tone of someone who doesn’t seem to find this coincidence as surprising as I do.

  “Hi. Brooklyn again?” I ask.

  He nods.

  “Must be some surprise you’re planning.” I smile as my stomach gives a slight twinge. It must be amazing to be cared for the way he cares about Lana.

  Just then, the train hurtles into view. Once it slows to a stop, we step off the platform and inside a car, finding a pair of seats together on the upper level.

  “I was actually hoping I’d find you here,” Chace says, pulling his iPhone and earbuds out of his backpack. “I remembered this old song from when I was little. My grandfather was really into music, and he used to play it all the time. He kind of raised me, with my parents being so busy. Anyway, I thought of you. I don’t know, maybe it’s something you might want to play.”

  He hands me his earbuds, and our fingers touch. I quickly move my hand as a blush creeps up my cheeks.

  “That’s so nice of you to think of me,” I tell him. And it’s true; I can’t remember anyone else besides my mom or music teachers ever picking out a song for me.

  Sticking the earbuds into my ears, I’m greeted by a distinctly smoky voice.

  “Though some may reach for the stars,

  Others will end behind bars.

  What the future has in store,

  No one ever knows before.”

  “It’s Nina Simone!” I exclaim. “I love her.”

  He grins, and I close my eyes to listen. The rest of the world soon melts away as I fall into the song.

  “Tomorrow is my turn,

  No more doubts, no more fears

  Tomorrow is my turn

  When my luck is returning

  All these years I’ve been learning

  To save fingers from burning…”

  The heartrending melody, Nina’s hypnotic voice, and the gorgeous string and horn arrangements all leave me transfixed. But most of all, it’s the lyrics that cut through to my soul. As the song fades out, I find I can’t speak.

  “The chorus just seemed written for you,” Chace says, gently removing the earbuds from my ears. “ ‘Make life worth living, now it’s my life I’m living.’ I don’t know—it just made me think of you, stepping into the spotlight with the Philharmonic after all these years of working so hard behind the scenes.”

  I shake my head in wonder.

  “How is it possible that you know me so well?”

  He pauses.

  “I guess I just…see you,” he says in a low voice. “I see you even when you’re not there.”

  He didn’t really just say that. Did he? I stare into his beautiful blue-gray eyes. What is happening?

  “You do know I liked you first. Don’t you?”

  My heart jumps.

  “What?”

  “After we met that day in the theater, I kept trying to talk to you,” he confesses. “But then you pushed me toward Lana, and I knew.”

  “Knew what?” I ask, my palms growing sweaty.

  “That you weren’t into me.” He smiles sadly.

  “I…” I swallow hard. “I didn’t believe it. That someone like you would…”

  The train comes to a grinding halt, cutting off my words. We’re at the Atlantic Terminal station in Brooklyn. I exhale.

  Chace rises to his feet. He brushes his hand against my shoulder for a brief moment before stepping off the train.

  “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to freak you out.”

  “You didn’t,” I whisper. But it’s a lie. My mind is swimming with images of an alternate reality, where I’m in the arms of the boy who seems to know my soul better than anyone else. And it all would have happened, if I’d only had the confidence to recognize his attention for what it was.

  “Chace,” I call out, just as he reaches the train door. “You’re not in Brooklyn to plan a surprise for Lana, are you?”

  He shakes his head, opening his mouth to say more. But the train doors close and leave us staring at each other through the window.

  My mind is somewhere else entirely during rehearsal, but for some reason my playing only improves. Every time my bow descends on the strings, I see his face and the notes seem to cry out, punctuated by an emotion I’ve never felt before. Especially when it’s time to rehearse “Summertime,” the piece that got me into the showcase. I flash back to the New Year’s Eve party as I play, remembering the look on his face and our hushed conversation after. I think of Lana and my playing only grows more urgent, the strings wailing my guilt.

  But there’s nothing to feel guilty about, I remind myself. I’m not going to do anything about this…connection with Chace. I would never hurt Lana.

  As rehearsal wraps, our conductor and teacher, Franz Lindgren, calls me downstage.

  “You played with great passion today,” he tells me in his thick Scandinavian accent. “Please recapture that emotion in every rehearsal.”

  “Thank you so much, Maestro,” I say, my face flushing from his praise. Although the idea of reliving today’s emotions in every rehearsal fills me with a bit of dread.

  “Impressive,” Damien calls out from upstage, after the conductor steps out of the theater. “Two showcases under my belt, and I still haven’t gotten a shout-out from Franz Lindgren himself.”

  “Really?” I glance at Damien, who shoots me a grin as he packs up his cello. “Thanks. Though I definitely think you deserve some praise, too.”

  “You’re not going to hear an argument from me there,” Damien says with a chuckle, slinging his cello case over his shoulder. “See you next weekend, Nicole. Keep doing what you’re doing.”

  There’s a different energy in the air as I step onto the eastbound train, making my way to Chace’s row. I hesitate before taking a seat, wondering if this is wrong, if I’m playing with fire. Is it a betrayal to Lana to keep up a friendship with Chace, now that I know how he once felt about me? But as I look in his eyes, I know I can’t run away. I’m not sure I’d want to, even if I could. Still, I keep a wide berth between us.

  “How was rehearsal?” he greets me, though I can tell his mind is elsewhere—just like mine.

  “It was good, thanks.” I look closer at him. “Are you going to tell me what you’re really doing in Brooklyn?”

  He pauses.

  “I want to. Sometimes I think I’ll go insane if I have to keep it hidden any longer.”

  I sit up straighter. This sounds serious.

  “What is it, Chace?”

  He glances out the window, avoiding my eyes.

  “Do you think—would you still consider someone a good person, even if they once did something bad, something they regret every day?”

  My pulse begins to race.

  “It depends on what it is. But if we’re talking about you here, I can’t imagine anything changing my mind about you being good.”

  He rubs his forearms, as if the air has suddenly turned cold.

  “Maybe next time…” He takes a deep breath. “Maybe next time you can come with me. That’s probably the—the easiest way to explain.”

  “Chace, isn’t this something you should be doing with Lana?” I ask tentatively.

  He shakes his head slightly.

  “I can’t.”

  “But she’s your girlfriend,” I insist, stating the obvious. “It’s not right to keep secrets from her. I shouldn’t be keeping secrets from her.”

/>   “I know,” he says quietly. “I shouldn’t ask that of you.” But he doesn’t say anything more, and we sit in silence for a few minutes.

  “Okay, can I ask you something else?” I shift in my seat so my body is facing his. “It’s about…what you told me this morning.”

  He nods, his expression turning shy. And for a second I’m speechless at the thought that I can make the most gorgeous guy I’ve ever seen shy. Me.

  “If you—if you felt the way you said, then why were you so quick to take my suggestion and ask Lana out?” My face reddens with embarrassment as I ask the question, but I have to know.

  “I’m only human. And maybe I was a little ego-bruised,” he admits. “But I felt that you weren’t interested, and there she was. Lana is a beautiful, great girl. I knew I’d be lucky to go out with her.” He clears his throat. “I am lucky. It’s just…you’re different.”

  His words hang in the air, reverberating in my ears. “You’re different.” Normally when people say that to me, I can hear the clear subtext: You’re weird, you’re a nerd, what girl your age sits in a room playing the violin all day? You should dress better, you should go outside and get a tan, you should wear makeup. But when Chace calls me different, I know in my gut that he means it as the highest compliment. And for the first time ever, I smile at the word.

  “Thank you. I’ll never forget today,” I tell him. “The song, and—and everything else.”

  “Why does this sound like some kind of goodbye?” he asks.

  I take a deep breath.

  “Because Lana is your girlfriend, and she’s my friend. We shouldn’t be having talks like this or spending time together alone, not when…” I don’t finish my sentence, but it’s written in my voice. Not when we’ve possibly just crossed the boundaries of friendship into something else.

  He nods quickly.

  “I get it. You’re right.”

  I’ll be good, I’ll close the door before it can open all the way—but I won’t forget the way he made me feel. I’ll let the glow of his words carry me, keep me warm, and replenish me in the days to come.

  And that will have to be enough.

  It’s the first Saturday since Chace died, and all of us at Oyster Bay Prep wear the same expression of uncertainty. We’re grasping at loose ends, unsure of what to do with two days of free time when there’s only grief and fear to fill them. The concept of “the weekend” has lost all meaning in the shadow of his death. There won’t be the usual fall Saturday soccer game, followed by an after-party on the field when Chace inevitably leads our team to a win. You won’t find the typical cluster of friends squeezed into one dorm room, talking and laughing over music while sneaking sips from a bottle of wine one of us smuggled from home. The weekend Halloween festivities have all been canceled. There’s nothing for us to do but wander the campus aimlessly, or shut ourselves in our dorm rooms to wait—for an arrest, or for life to resume some semblance of normalcy.

  Detective Kimble won’t let any of us leave town while we’re still under investigation, so those of us close to home can’t even spend a night in the comfort of our childhood bedrooms. We’re all equally trapped. Not even my powerful mother could get permission for me to spend the weekend in DC, though she did manage to get Headmaster Higgins to concede to letting me out for an off-campus lunch. The thought of sitting across from Mom at a stuffy hotel restaurant wouldn’t normally cheer me up, but today it’s just what I need.

  I dress quickly, throwing together an all-black outfit, while Stephanie lazes about on the bed.

  “I wish I could go with you,” she says. “I don’t know what to do with myself here.”

  “Yeah, but you need permission from Higgins to go anywhere,” I remind her. And the truth is I’m glad she can’t come. There are things I need to ask my mom about, things I don’t want Stephanie to hear.

  I make my way down to the eerily quiet quad, which would ordinarily be teeming with students, and hike through the campus grounds until I hear the whoosh of noise. The paparazzi and nosy spectators camped outside the entrance gates have just spotted me. But before I can react, a black SUV pulls up. My mom’s security officer, Thompson, jumps out of the car and opens Mom’s door.

  “Clear a path for the congresswoman!” he bellows. I suppress an inappropriate urge to laugh as Mom cuts through the crowd to get to me and Thompson holds back the overzealous spectators.

  “You know what to say to their questions,” Mom murmurs into my ear, wrapping me in a hug.

  She grips my hand, and together we walk through the gates and into the din of shouted questions.

  “Lana, what happened to your boyfriend?” “What do you have to say to the claims about Chace Porter and Nicole Morgan?” “Lana, was there trouble in paradise between you and Chace?” “Do you think Nicole killed him?” “Tell us, what happened?”

  The rapid-fire questions blend into each other, drowning me in noise. But then Mom gives me a gentle nudge, and I remember what to say. I take a deep breath and turn to face the hungry crowd.

  “I am a girlfriend in mourning. I don’t know anything about the investigation. All I know is that the boy I loved is gone. Please grant me my privacy during this time.” My voice is quiet, but strong enough to silence them. And in the brief moment before their shouts start up again, Mom and I dash through the camera flashes into the waiting SUV.

  “I’m proud of you, mija,” Mom tells me once we’re safely ensconced in the backseat.

  “It was almost all true,” I reply.

  “I know.” She pats my hand soothingly, and it occurs to me that out of all the weeks in my seventeen-year-old life, this one has shown my mom in her most maternal light, starting from the moment she heard the news and flew to my side. I guess it just takes a high-profile crisis to bring that out in her.

  “You know I’d do anything for you, right, Lana?” she says, as if reading my mind.

  “I know. Thanks, Mom.”

  “You can tell me anything.” She peers carefully into my eyes. “I won’t be angry.”

  I shift uncomfortably in my seat. What is she getting at?

  “I don’t have anything to say.”

  —

  After stepping into the hotel restaurant and seeing all the heads swivel in our direction, my mom and I quickly duck out.

  “Room service,” we both agree.

  Upstairs in her suite, with its cheerful white-and-Tiffany-blue color scheme, I feel myself begin to relax, the tight fist of dread loosening its grip on me. Cocooned in this hotel room, away from the horror at Oyster Bay, I can almost pretend I’m on some sort of vacation—and that when I return, it won’t be to a school crawling with police and paparazzi.

  “I got you a few new things,” Mom says as she picks up the phone to dial room service. “They’re in the closet.”

  “Oh, thanks.”

  It’s probably more black clothing. Two days after Chace died, Mom was flicking through my dorm room armoire, taking note of how few mourning-appropriate outfits I had. I don’t know how she remembered to think of clothing at a time like this, but I shouldn’t be surprised. This is my mother, after all—the same person Glamour and Latina magazines both refer to as “Superwoman.”

  While Mom calls in our order, I open the closet doors. It’s one of the more spacious hotel closets I’ve seen, and it takes me a minute to find the three hangers covered in plastic. Sure enough, I find one black dress and two black tops underneath.

  I return the new clothes to their hangers, my nausea resurfacing. I never imagined I’d be dressed in black because of him.

  As I turn to leave the closet, my eyes catch a duffel bag peeking out from the top shelf. I stop short, recognizing the signature Henri Bendel stripes. That’s my bag—the one I apparently didn’t even realize was missing. Why on planet earth would my mom run off with it?

  I hear Mom switch on the TV to her favorite talking-heads political newscast, and I know I can bank on at least a few minutes of privacy while she�
��s distracted. I gently close the closet door and grab a hanger, standing on my tiptoes and using the hanger to pull the bag to the edge of the shelf. It falls into my arms, the tag with my monogrammed initials scratching my wrist. Mom definitely took this out of my dorm—but why?

  I unzip the bag, and my hands begin to tremble at the sight of the soft silver fabric inside. The blood rushes to my head. My legs buckle underneath me, a silent scream lodging in my throat.

  It’s my sweater—the Kate Spade one I wore to the party last weekend, the last night I saw Chace. Its sleeves are caked in dried blood.

  “Mom!” I try to shout, but my voice is strangled. “Mom.”

  My head is spinning, showing me images of things that can’t be right, can’t be real. As my mother approaches the closet, I point a shaky finger at the sweater.

  “What is this?” I whisper. “Why do you have it?”

  Mom lunges toward my duffel bag, stuffing the sweater back inside and zipping it closed before turning to face me.

  “I found it in your dorm,” she finally answers, and lets out a long exhale. “It was when I was looking for something appropriate for you to wear to the funeral. Thank God I got to it before Detective Kimble did.”

  I shake my head, her words failing to make any sense. It’s as though I’ve entered an absurdist play and everyone knows the lines but me.

  “But I didn’t—why is there blood—?”

  And then snippets of memory engulf me.

  Ryan Wyatt is standing behind the kitchen counter at Tyler Hemming’s party, pouring drinks into plastic cups like some kind of amateur bartender. I can’t find Chace anywhere, and my frustration is mounting when I finally spot him—talking in a corner with her. But that can’t be right. Whatever little thing they had is over. She told him herself that she never wanted to speak to him again. But there they are now, unaware they’re being watched. He says something that makes her smile and she looks like a sad clown, smiling with that teardrop scar on her cheek.

  I blink and the scene changes.