At Your Service

by Jen Malone

  “Oh yeah. Then Broadway’s definitely longer.”

  “False teeth,” he reminds me. He does have a point. You can’t out-weird that one.

  “Oh, okay, how about this one?” I say. “We have Manhattanhenge twice a year.”

  “What on earth is Manhattanhenge? Is that like Mardi Gras?”

  I laugh. “No, it’s like Stonehenge in England, where the rocks are in a circle and it’s supposed to mean something astrological or astronomical or whatever. Two days a year the sunset lines up with the grid pattern of our streets. When the sun sets, it shines exactly in the center line of every east-west street in the city.”

  “All right, that’s quite impressive.”

  “Cooler than false teeth?” I tease.

  “Could be close.” Alex shifts in his seat and faces me just a little. “Seriously though, Sophie doesn’t usually explode like that. She’s very much in control of her emotions under ordinary circumstances. She’s just not herself today. Understandably.”

  I sigh. I know he’s right (I’ve seen her manners on display), and I should cut her some slack. Her sister is running around all alone in a city that I might love, but that probably seems enormous and scary to someone who comes from somewhere so small.

  I keep my voice quiet as I say, “It’s not like me to talk to a guest like that either, so I get it. I think we’re all pretty stressed. I can’t stop thinking about my dad and wondering if we made the right decision not to let the adults handle things.”

  Alex draws his legs in and hugs them to his chest. “Me too.”

  I sneak a glance at him. “What’s your dad like? Is he going to freak?”

  Alex slides down a little in his seat. “Fantastically. At home he’s really brilliant about Ingrid taking off. I think he finds it impressive the way she’s so eager to get outside and explore. He says he was the same way when he was small and seeing the world has helped him immensely as a king. To be honest, I’ve always been a bit jealous of the way he is with her. I just wonder sometimes . . .”

  I wait for him to finish, but he doesn’t. I prod him with a gentle, “Wonder what?”

  “If he thinks she’d make a better successor than me. I’m quite an ordinary lad with ordinary-lad interests. I don’t think he considers a passion for football—er, soccer—and video games to be a great mark of a leader or anything. He says I need more structure and responsibility to learn to take my future role seriously. Hence, all his talk about military school. I only want him to see that I do take it seriously and that I can lead when I need to. It’s more that I don’t get an awful lot of chances to show him.”

  I swivel in my seat to face Alex. I should be freaking out at how close our legs are and how my shoulder bumps against his every time the subway car lurches, but everything he’s saying is exactly how I feel and I just need to tell him.

  “It’s like that with me, too. I mean, it’s not like I’m in line for a crown, but more than anything I want to follow in my dad’s footsteps and be a concierge and help people. I guess making sure someone has an unforgettable trip isn’t exactly as important as being a world leader or whatever, but I love how people light up when they get to do something extra special and that makes me feel really good. I like making people happy. Plus, I really want my dad to see that I can be just as good at it as he is. I thought I was doing that, but after today . . .”

  Alex nods glumly. “After today, we could both be in the rubbish bin. And I could be shipping off to learn precision drills and boot-camp marches and, well, whatever else happens at military school. Even if Ingrid is safe and sound at the hotel eating bonbons in the bathtub right now.”

  Wow, I hadn’t even considered that she might have just gone back to the hotel. But I don’t have time to ponder that one because just then a couple things happen at the same time:

  A. The announcement comes on that our stop is next.

  B. Alex reaches over and holds my hand.

  C. Is there even any thought of a C after I just said what I said for B?!

  He looks at my shocked expression and smiles.

  “You’re quite different than I imagined, Chloe. We have a lot more in common than I expected.”

  We . . . we . . . we do? I am? Wait, what’s my name again? My brain is a jumble of thoughts that make no sense, like when the orchestra warms up before a Broadway show and it’s all just a bunch of noises that tumble on top of one another.

  Alex straightens in his seat. “Is this our stop? You said Herald Square?”

  It hasn’t even been a full minute of hand holding. Crud! Alex unlaces his fingers from mine and struggles to his feet as the car jolts underneath him. I struggle too, even though I’ve long since perfected the art of standing on a moving subway train. More like my legs are wobblier than an overcooked piece of Little Italy fettuccini due to the fact that he just held my hand. On PURPOSE.

  The train jerks to a stop and the doors slide open. I am in my own little floaty bubble high above the earth as I let go of the handrail and step off the train. So much in my own bubble universe that, for the first time in an entire lifetime of riding the subway, I forget to do the one thing the announcements are always telling people to do: “Watch your step as you exit the train.” I turn at the last second to make sure Pay and Sophie are getting off through the other set of doors farther down the car, and as I swish back, the doors slide closed.

  On me. Or, more specifically, on my purse, which is slung diagonally across my back. The doors open back up, but it’s too late. I’ve lost my balance and that’s all it takes.

  I go down hard.

  * * *

  I. Wonder if this explains Sophie’s distaste for her hot dog. It’s all becoming clearer now.

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Someone screams. No, wait, I think that’s me.

  I scream.

  I’m sprawled on my knees on the bumpy yellow warning strip of the platform, which kills to kneel on. My ankle is throbbing beyond belief and I go dizzy from the pain.

  Ahead of me, Alex stops and pivots in place. He spots me immediately and his eyes go wide.

  He takes three steps to reach me, and they look like the giant steps we used to attempt when we played Mother, May I? in the recess yard at school. Probably because everything is moving so super slow.

  He bends down and his arms go under my armpits, but I yelp in pain when my ankle bumps against the cement subway platform. Sophie and Paisley rush over.

  “Chlo, omigosh, are you okay?” Pay asks.

  I sort of half answer/half whimper a tiny yes, but my ankle is growing ten sizes bigger with every passing second. Around us, people are sympathetic, but not so much that they aren’t still trying to get past me to board the next train.

  Alex has a little frown line between his eyes as he looks around, then down at me. “Okay, Chloe. I’m going to carry you over to the bench over there, but I don’t want to jostle your ankle too much. Do you trust me?”

  I think of his hand warm in mine a few minutes ago and give him a nod.

  “Put your arms around my neck.”

  He leans down next to me and I follow his instructions. He puts one of his arms around my back and the other underneath my legs and stands, cradling me against him.

  Okay, my ankle might be screeching worse than the brakes of the PATH train pulling onto the tracks above us, but holy wow! Swept off my feet and carried away—literally—by the handsome prince. Granted, in the fairy tales the damsel in distress does not have a purplish-black bruise forming on her ankle that looks scarier than that Naked Cowboy guy who wanders Times Square in nothing but his underwear, boots, and a ten-gallon hat. But still. Gotta grab the fairy tale where you can get it.

  “Okay?” Alex asks, and I manage a squeaky yes. There’s a knot in my throat equally as big as the one on my ankle.

  I nod again and bury my face in his shoulder. He walks carefully to the far side of the station where there are benches, and I try to distract myself from the pulsing pa
in by trying to figure out what brand of laundry detergent his maids use to make his sweater smell so amazing.

  Alex settles me gently on a bench. A twenty-something guy wearing a rumpled black T-shirt and grungy jeans jumps up so there’s room to prop my leg.

  “Whoa. Dudes, that was like a rad scene right there,” says the guy. He peers around the guitar slung over his shoulder. “Are you okay?”

  Before I can answer, an NYPD officer is standing in front of us. “Are you all right, miss? I saw what happened and I’ll have an ambulance here in just a few minutes.”

  “No!” I scream. An ambulance means hospitals and paperwork and . . . Dad. All three things that will make finding Ingrid a statistical improbability. No can do. Not today.

  “I think it’s just twisted,” I say, reaching forward and rubbing at my throbbing ankle. It pounds like it has its own heartbeat. Thud, thud, thud.

  Pay and Alex lean over me. Sophie is just behind Paisley, biting her lip feverishly. I bet she regrets her last words to me now. Serves her right.

  “Chloe, don’t be an idiot. If you need the hospital, we’ll get you there,” Pay says. Then she drops her voice to a whisper so the officer won’t hear her. “Alex and Sophie can keep looking for Ingrid, and I’ll stay with you.” Her eyes are filled with concern.

  I glance at the policeman, but he’s preoccupied with his radio. “It would take them twice as long. They don’t know their way around the city. I’m okay. Mostly.”

  “How is it not going to take twice as long with you in no condition to walk?” Pay has a pretty good argument there.

  “We need to stay together.” I feel like a crusty old army sergeant in the middle of a bloody battle: I’m not leaving my men! But really, I’m not. We may be having the day from Hell-o Kitty, but I’m not ready to stop looking now. Even if my ankle is starting to swell so bad, it might need its own zip code soon.

  The officer finishes talking into his radio and bends down to talk to me face-to-face. “What’s your name, sweetheart?”

  I can’t seem to make his words compute, so Paisley answers for me. “It’s Chloe.”

  He smiles. “Okay, Chloe. I imagine that’s a bit of a scare you just had, so you’re probably going to feel a little strange for a bit. I’m Officer O’Brien and I can help. Do you want to give me the name and number of a parent or guardian? And then we’ll get you some medical attention and fill out a bit of paperwork.”

  I swallow. This. Totally. Sucks. Now that the shock is starting to wear off, the reality of what just happened sets in. I start to shake a bit and then a bit more. Alex maneuvers onto the bench next to me and his arm comes around me. I know this is the same thing he did with Sophie in front of Yankee Stadium, so this is just how he comforts, but omigosh a cute boy has his arm around me and that’s all kinds of weird.

  “How about that number?” Officer O’Brien asks.

  “Um, could you give us just a few minutes with Chloe, Officer?” Pay’s voice sounds confident now, even though I know her well enough to know she’s faking it.

  He looks confused. “Sure. I guess. But the ambulance is on its way. I’ll just . . . I’ll just head up to the street to direct them. Be right back.”

  “Okay, Chloe. What are our options here?” Pay asks, the second the cop is out of earshot.

  “We need to make a run for it, but obviously that’s pretty impossible for me.”

  “It’s not if I carry you.” Alex’s voice sounds confident too, but I definitely don’t know him well enough to know if he’s faking it or not. It didn’t seem like any effort for him to pick me up and get me to the bench, but we’re talking about a way longer distance now.

  Sophie decides to join in finally. “He can, too. He plays an awful lot of polo and you should see him swing a mallet. He’s really strong.”

  I hesitate. I’m fairly light. It could work. “It might be easier if we try piggyback. If you can use your hands to keep my knees close to your side, so my ankle doesn’t move too much, I think you could go a lot faster than carrying me the other way.”

  Much as I didn’t mind being swooped up by the handsome prince for those thirty seconds.

  “We’d have to go now. Like, right now,” Paisley says.

  “You kids are major baddies,” says the guitar player, who is still standing next to us. “I approve!”

  Gee, thanks. Now that we have his approval, we’re all set. Pay grabs a five from her wallet and tosses it into his open guitar case on the floor.

  “That’s for sending Officer O’Brien in the opposite direction when he gets back.”

  “Rock on,” he answers.

  Alex crouches in front of me. He looks a bit uncertain, but he says, “Ready? Tell me if it hurts too much. If it does, we’re abandoning this idea right away, getting you help, and calling our parents. It’s not worth it.”

  All I can manage is a nod. I want to scream with the pain of it, but I align myself with his back and put my hands on his shoulders.

  We have to head for the far exit so we don’t surface in the same spot as Officer O’Brien. As we speed-walk up the steps, the guy with the guitar starts playing, and I recognize the lyrics from an old Sheryl Crow CD in Mom’s acoustic collection.

  “So run, baby, run, baby, run, baby, run, baby, run . . .”

  I turn my face into Alex’s shoulder and giggle through the pain.

  Then I pick up my head to ask, “Hey, did you know that musicians who play in New York subways have to go through a really intense audition process to be allowed a spot on a platform? Some of them have even played at Carnegie Hall.” Alex is starting to breathe a little heavy from carrying me up so many stairs, but he manages a chuckle.

  “It’s nice to know you feel well enough to work the trivia, Chlo.”

  Chlo. Usually only Dad and Pay call me that, but I never, ever get goose bumps on my arm when they say it.

  I snuggle back into his shoulder. There’s a lot about today that’s been monumentally bad, but one or two moments have been just perfect.

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  As soon as we’re at street level, I direct Alex toward Thirty-Third Street and into Greeley Square. It’s just a small little triangle of a park where Broadway meets Sixth Avenue, but we can hide out in here and Alex can rest. He deposits me carefully at an umbrellaed café table. We’re getting our first stretch of true spring weather, and the weekend crowds hide us perfectly.

  Very close by, I hear an ambulance siren cut off as it reaches its destination, and I swallow. I was just a baby when 9/11 happened, but even I know that firemen, policemen, and EMTs are rock stars in New York City, and I feel totally terrible that we just ran out on so many people taking the time to try to help me. It could possibly be illegal, even though it wasn’t my idea to call the ambulance.

  I swallow and try to push it to the back corner of my mind, right alongside the worry over Ingrid, as we wait for Sophie and Pay, who kept going when we turned into the park. They’re on the hunt for a Duane Reade so they can grab some basic medical supplies for me. I’m hoping they consider horse tranquilizer “basic” because I could sure go for anything that will make this throbbing pain ease up.

  They should be back any second. It’s pretty hard to walk a whole city block in Manhattan without encountering a Duane Reade. I swear, there are probably more of them than taxicabs in this town. While we wait, Alex finds me a small paper cup of water from the sandwich kiosk in the square.

  “Sorry, I couldn’t get more than this. They kept trying to sell me a bottled water, even though I told them I had no money.”

  I snap my head up at this. The guy’s dad is worth billions-with-a-capital-B, and he doesn’t have any money? He could buy Herald Square, if he wanted. Now I’m definitely distracted from my pain.

  “You have no money? As in zero?”

  He stands and makes a show of turning his pockets inside out for me. A small piece of dryer lint flutters to the ground.

  “Never really been an issue
before now,” he says. He looks almost embarrassed.

  Oh. Oh, I get it. Why would a prince need to carry money? What could he want in his own country that someone wouldn’t just hand him? Sure, maybe they’d bill his dad later or something, but probably not even. And when he travels, he has his bodyguards and Elise and, well, people like me. I certainly wouldn’t have allowed him to pay for anything all day, if we’d still been out doing the tourist thing.

  But then, that means . . .

  “I don’t suppose Sophie has any money on her either, then, huh?”

  Alex sits back down. “Wouldn’t reckon.”

  And Ingrid has my wallet. So unless Pay came into a surprise inheritance between now and the last time we hung out, when her personal fortune included about sixty bucks in birthday money, we could be in a little bit of trouble here. Correction, a little bit more trouble. Because, sure, why not? This day hasn’t been quite sucky enough yet with a lost guest, another with a total attitude, and . . . what am I forgetting here? Oh, right, an ankle the size of Grand Central Station!

  Paisley and Sophie appear on the park walkway and wave in our direction. Alex waves back. I would too, if I felt like I had any reason to be perky. Pain coupled with broke status makes me cranky, turns out.

  “Hey, guys. How you doing, Chlo? Hopefully this stuff we got will help.” Pay tosses a bag on the table and reaches down to squeeze my hand. Sophie is still not quite making eye contact. Fine by me. Let her keep feeling guilty for her rotten words.

  “We have an Ace bandage to wrap your ankle, extra-strength pain reliever, and an energy bar, so you don’t have to take the medicine on a mostly empty stomach,” Pay announces, unpacking the bag onto the table.

  No horse tranquilizer, but totally practical supplies. Pay is super good in a crisis.

  Except, as great as this stuff she bought is, it cost money we don’t have. Couple that with the hot dogs at the stadium and the five she just tossed Guitar Guy, and I’m guessing we are just about at the end of Paisley’s birthday money fund.