I blink. A blue dress? A lost shoe?
Oh my god.
“Ah, young love,” Sadie says, next to me. “Lucky bastards.” Tennis Dude didn’t answer her second text, so at the moment, we’re not sure if he’s coming out or not. She’s angerpointed, which is a Sadie-ism for being angry and disappointed at the same time. I understand.
I walk toward the shoe, and when I get to it, I kneel down to look closer. It’s a spike-heeled silver slip-on with crisscrossing straps.
“What are you doing?” Sadie asks.
I don’t know, I almost say. “Don’t you think it’s weird that she left it?”
Sadie shrugs. “It’s hard to run in heels.”
“Yeah.” I’m not convinced.
“Maybe she just really wanted to win that race.” Sadie starts walking forward again, away from me. “I mean, I wouldn’t run through this park barefoot, but to each her own.”
I pick up the shoe and stare at it. Frankly, I’m considering putting it in my bag. Why?
To run chemical tests on it.
To see if it disappears at midnight.
The problem with that method is that I’m fresh out of chemicals, and Cinderella’s shoes inexplicably stuck around even after the clock struck.
Well, that’s one of the problems.
Sweat prickles under my arms. I feel that there’s a good chance I’ve lost my hold on reality. I take a deep breath, then another one. I drop the shoe in the grass.
“All right,” I say. I take a few quick steps to catch up with Sadie.
She’s looking back at me intently.
“What?” I say.
“You know what,” she says. Then she shakes her head. “Forget it.”
We walk along next to each other for a while. I try to forget about the shoe.
“So,” Sadie says. “My brother might come meet us tonight.”
“Really?” I try to sound excited or at least neutral. Sadie has always tried to make Jack and I friends, but it never takes. We little sisters idolize our brothers, but at least mine has a personality.
Sadie shrugs again. “He said maybe.”
“Okay,” I say.
“Do you think I’ll survive a week in Virginia? Like, with my dad?” Sadie asks. I sneak a glance at her. She’s looking straight ahead.
“Sure,” I say, even though I’m not. I mean, yes, she’ll survive, but it’s hard to say what will happen with her father.
“Will my dad be different?” she says. “I mean, will he be better?” Her voice sounds the smallest bit shaky and it makes me snap my head toward her. Sadie is so rarely uncertain of anything that it’s jarring.
“I don’t know,” I say. “But you won’t know unless you go.”
She smiles. “Good point.”
We’re near the edge of the park, and I look up at the buildings lining Central Park West. Julia’s surgeon had an office near here, and I remember going with her to her first follow-up appointment after her surgery, the one we thought would fix everything. She was still using a wheelchair then, just as a precaution, and I had helped her get into it from the town car. While she was with the doctor, I read outdated copies of Better Homes and Gardens in the waiting room because I’d forgotten a book. When she was ready to go, I maneuvered her out the doorway and into the hallway slowly, her leg in its plastic cast safe against the chair’s footrest.
“Eight weeks until I can dance,” she said, tipping her head back to look at me. “And I can start to walk in three.” She looked back down and touched her knee gently. “In the meantime, get me out of here, Sylvie.”
Julia’s purse was open in her lap, so as I pushed her down the hall I could see what was inside. A purple hairbrush, a blackberry-flavored egg-shaped lip balm, a hardcover copy of a biography of Isadora Duncan that my mother had bought for her before she went into surgery. And there, touching the open zipper, a brown pill bottle with a white top.
I’d like to say that I felt something when I saw it. A dark-sky sense of foreboding, a little jolt of electricity up my spine.
But I didn’t. Because it wasn’t a clue, and nothing was wrong. It was just medicine, I thought, something a doctor had given her, and I had no idea what was going to happen next.
Rejected Romance Novels
AN HOUR LATER, THE SKY yawns above us, charcoal-colored and empty of stars. I know because I keep looking, waiting for secret constellations to appear in the gray. Sadie and I are drinking lemon soda mixed with a little vodka. Our friend Clara has the vodka, a water bottle full she swiped from her parents’ bar cart. They have so many parties they don’t notice, apparently, and anyway their housekeeper is the one who orders the liquor.
Mine just tastes like lemony carbonated sugar, with the light tang of liquor underneath the bubbles. I feel bubbly too, my bones a little loose, as if my whole skeleton might come apart. The sky spins gently above me.
The High Line is an old elevated rail track on Manhattan’s west side that’s been turned into a long, narrow park, winding its way next to apartment buildings and offices. It’s planted with tall grasses and clumps of flowers that might as well be wild, like someone dropped tiny meadows from the sky. It’s a bit of a tourist trap, I know, but I still love it up there.
Sadie settles down next to Tennis Dude (blond, tall, tan, still not very memorable—I swear I couldn’t pick him out of a lineup unless he was carrying his racket) and his friends. I hover at the edges of the group for a few minutes, listening to them talk about world soccer (Italy! France! Brazil!), and then I wander over to another bench in the middle of some black-eyed Susans. I can hear cicadas humming from inside of the vegetation, and I close my eyes for a second, pretend I’m somewhere else. Where? I’m not even sure where I’d go if I could choose.
When I open them, I see a boy I don’t know leaning against the rail across from me, talking to Clara and some of the guys. He’s tall, with messy black hair and dark eyes. He’s wearing a Pinegrove T-shirt, so of course I notice him. I catch his eye accidentally, but when I do it’s like flint striking a rock. I feel the spark.
He smiles, and I think: maybe I could just spend an hour kissing some cute boy. That would be a decent use of my time.
“Hi,” he mouths.
I smile.
He comes over and sits down on the bench, leaving enough space between us that he can sit half-sideways, his arm along the back.
“Hey,” he says.
“Hi,” I answer.
My brain spirals off in the direction of a romance novel—Love on the High Line, Elevated Train Track of Passion—but then he ruins it, stops my insta-love before it even gets started.
“I’m Sean,” he says. “You’re the ballerina, right?”
The air shifts around me then, the High Line tilts. I nod, but my mouth pulls tight. I wanted to be no one right now. Or at least I wanted to be me but have no one know it.
“Sorry,” he says. “That was probably creepy.” He smiles. “It’s just that I know who you are. My brother was friends with Thatcher.”
He shrugs like this is no big deal, but it makes my heart thump out of rhythm. Thatcher from the list. My sister’s stoner boyfriend, the one who got her the pills after her prescription ran out. Which means this boy thinks he knows something about me. Or, rather, he does know something about me, but he doesn’t know everything.
He doesn’t know what it’s like to have your favorite person transform before your eyes. He doesn’t know the world has gone all wonky inside my skull. He doesn’t know how very, very little I want to talk about Julia right now.
“Lucky brother,” I say. I keep every bit of sarcasm out of my voice. “Nice talking to you.”
I stand up and walk away, over to the edge of the walkway, then off it and straight into the garden edging it. I stand with the mini meadow at my feet, black-eyed Susans still blooming gold, long grasses spiking next to them. I can hear the cicadas again, their deep hum rattling in the grass. When I look up between the buildings, I st
ill can’t see any stars.
I lean forward, on tiptoe, my hips pressed against the guardrail. I look over the side. Just two or three stories down to the street, cars trailing red taillights pass twenty feet below and to my left. When I turn back around, Thatcher’s Friend’s Brother is gone. I’m alone for this moment, at least, half-hidden by vegetation.
I brace my arms against the guardrail’s metal top and lift myself up, then neatly lift one leg and then the other over the side. I’ve never been a gymnast but it feels like I’m on a pommel horse. And then I’m sitting, easy as that, on the railing at the edge of the High Line.
This is different from last time, on Sadie’s roof. Safer, maybe, because I’m not as high as I was then, or because I’m sitting. However:
I’d still end up dead—or at least terribly maimed—if I fell off the side.
What I’m doing—the dangling here—still makes me feel undeniably calm.
I sit there and revel in the calmness for a moment. I close my eyes and listen to the traffic noises below, the cicada hum. This is when I see a flutter of wings in my peripheral vision. I turn my head toward it just as it grips the handrail with its tiny, wiry feet. It has a reddish breast and blue feathers so bright it looks like it can’t possibly be real. A bluebird. I sit up straighter.
“Come on,” I say. “No more. I’m tired.”
The bird tilts its head and looks at me. It has beady black bird eyes.
“Fine,” I say. “What? What do you want?”
The bird doesn’t answer. (Am I expecting it to? Maybe.) It just keeps staring at me and I keep staring at it, until I hear my phone ding in my purse. The bird looks at my purse like maybe there’s a strange mechanical bird in there. I swear it does. Then it takes off in a blur of blue feathers.
I pull my phone out carefully. There’s a text from Rose.
I haven’t seen her, it says. She’s gone, Sylvie, and I think we have to let her go.
My heart sinks like a stone in a lake, falls so fast I wonder if it might keep going straight down off the side of the High Line. Would a heart bounce when it hit the pavement? Or maybe make a splat sound? I look down. My feet dangle over the street, two stories below. I start thinking about other things I could drop, like this book my sister sent me, which is messing up my life. My ability to forget. What would happen if I dropped it, on purpose, all the way to the blacktop and left it there for someone else to find? Would the weirdness transfer to someone else? Or has it already broken the universe, as far as I’m concerned?
I’m about to give it a try. My heart is beating hard—in my chest, in my ears—and my fingers rest on the cover of the book. But then I feel a hand on my shoulder and all these thoughts fly out of my head.
Theories of Gravity
I FEEL THE HAND ON one shoulder, then the other. I gasp a little, but almost immediately I feel better. Tommy. My heart rate starts to slow. Tommy will fix this. He’ll help me figure this out.
“I’m not going to jump,” I say, but my voice sounds shakier than I want it to. My heart rises up toward my throat. “You might as well start believing me.”
“It’s not about jumping.” The voice is right by my ear, but it’s not Tommy’s. It takes me a second to place it. “I’m afraid you’re going to fall.”
It’s Sadie’s brother, Jack.
Fantastic.
“I’m not going to fall,” I say, but he’s still holding on, squeezing my shoulders.
“You’re right,” he says. “Because I’m not going to let you.” He slides one arm across my collarbone and slips the other underneath my knees, then sweeps me right off the railing. He backs away from the edge, and then he doesn’t seem to know what to do next. He holds me, frowning, and in spite of myself I smile.
This isn’t awkward at all.
“I think you can put me down now,” I say, and he does.
“My hero,” I say. I keep my tone breezy but I can feel my cheeks pinking. I always feel stupid around Jack, and that’s even when I’m not putting myself in dangerous places.
“Do you have a death wish?” he asks. He doesn’t sound angry or accusatory. Just curious.
“Not that I know of,” I say. “What are you doing here, anyway?”
“Sadie invited me.” His tone switches to defense.
“And you actually came. You don’t ever come.”
“Yeah, well, I’m here now,” he says. “And my sister would be mad if I let you fall off the High Line. My mother too.”
Sadie catches sight of us at this exact moment and bounds over like a border collie.
“I wasn’t going to fall,” I say to Jack, but quietly enough that she won’t hear. He just looks at me, still frowning.
“What’s going on?” Sadie says.
Jack shakes his head. He actually looks upset. “I just pulled Sylvie off the guardrail.”
“Tattletale,” I say. I turn to Sadie. “I was fine.” I sound sure of myself this time, or at least I think I do, but Sadie’s face still clouds over.
“What is happening to you, Sylvie?” she says, grabbing both my hands. “I don’t understand.”
She must know about yesterday. Shit. I shake my head. “Tommy told you. Of course he did.”
Sadie narrows her eyes. “Tommy said you went too close to the edge of the roof. He said you were just standing there.”
“What the heck, Sylvie?” Jack says. “At our building? It’s fourteen floors up.”
“I’m fine.” I try to make this sound as final as possible. Then I switch the subject. “So, Jack, what are your plans for next year?”
Smooth. Real smooth.
“What kind of question is that? Who are you?” Sadie asks, her brow furrowed.
“Just an interested citizen,” I say. “Plus, he just saved my life. Right?”
Jack blushes a little and I almost feel bad about it, but then I remember how dumb I always feel around him. I wait for him to answer, but Sadie does it for him.
“He’s going to design bridges,” she says. “He’s going to UVA and he’s going to learn how to build bridges.” This sounds like a mini speech, like something she’s rehearsed.
“Really?” I ask.
“No,” Jack says.
Sadie shakes her head so hard her hair falls in her face. “Don’t listen to him. He’s pretending he’s modest.”
“I like bridges,” I say. I look at Jack. His green eyes look dark.
“So do I,” he says. “But I’m not going to UVA.”
Sadie puts her hands up. “No one needs to decide today,” she says.
“Most likely I’m going to take a year off,” Jack says, talking to me, not Sadie. “I’ll figure things out. I’ll probably work construction or something.” He shifts his gaze to a lit-up building to his left. “I skipped third grade anyway. I have time.” He sticks his chin out a little as he says this, like he’s challenging Sadie to disagree. She doesn’t take the bait.
“Anyway,” she says to me. “You need to stay away from everything higher than you.”
“Gravity is a cruel bitch,” I say. This is something one of my teachers at the Academy used to say. We were nine and giggled at his curse word every time he said it. Actually, for the longest time I misheard it as “cool bitch,” which would mean something else entirely, I guess.
“Gravity is science,” says Jack, Official Killjoy of Our Evening. “And if it was revoked, we would float off into space where there is no air and no sound. We’d just drift apart, in opposite directions, slowly turning in the airless space until we looked like pinpoints to one another. And then we’d disappear forever. I mean, we’d be dead already. But, you know, if you don’t consider that part.”
We look at him. He blinks.
“Well, that was uplifting,” Sadie says. She pats him on the shoulder. He’s blushing now.
“You’re right, brother,” Sadie says, nodding. “Gravity kills.”
Jack shakes his head. “Gravity saves.”
Look Up
WE STAY A WHILE LONGER, Sadie and I sitting on a bench together, watching the parade of High Line walkers go by. Across the way, Jack and Amal, Sadie’s friend from her pottery class, are sitting next to a clump of grass. Amal keeps touching Jack’s elbow. I don’t know why it bugs me so much. Maybe because he lets her?
Because he sort of hates me?
Sadie’s Tennis Dude comes over to sit on the arm of our bench. They commence flirting, so I just take out the book again and flip through its feathery pages. I read the first line of “Little Red Riding Hood.”
Once upon a time there was a girl who was so beautiful and kind that she was loved by everyone.
Seems sort of hard to take, honestly, that she could be loved by everyone. She never pissed anyone off? She never screwed up? Well, at least until we get to the day when the story takes place, where she’s supposed to take the safe way to her grandmother’s house and instead lets a wolf trick her into going through the deep woods. We all know what happens: What big eyes you have, Grandmother. What big teeth. It’s pretty much the same no matter what version you have.
Now I’m reading so intently that my lips are actually moving. I look up and of course—of course—Jack is still sitting on the bench across from me with Amal, and he totally sees me doing that. He raises his eyebrows at me, a slight smile on his lips. Because yes, it’s great for him to see me being weird. Again.
Sigh.
I angle my body away from him and reconsider the flower drawing. Sylvie Grace Rose Thatcher Daniela. It’s a list, sure, but maybe it’s also a map, a compass. A call for help.
My pulse kicks up. Maybe Julia’s telling me where to find her. Maybe all I have to do is go.
This is when Sadie pokes me in the shoulder. I startle.
“Jumpy, much?” she says.
I take a deep breath, let it out. “Just thinking,” I say. I glance to the side and see that Tennis Dude is gone. He must have wandered off to Wimbledon or wherever.
The Looking Glass Page 6
