You Look Different in Real Life

by Jennifer Castle

  Nate hangs up. “She saw it was me who called. I guess if she doesn’t want to talk, I can send her a text. I’ll just ask if she’s okay and tell her to call me if she can.” Nate takes a few moments to type out a message on his phone.

  “So, what now?” I ask when he’s done. “We just head down to that address and bang on the door?”

  Nate shrugs. “We have to start somewhere. I’m pretty sure that’s what Keira is doing. Or has already done.” He glazes over for a second, maybe picturing how that situation played out.

  “Well, before we do anything, I’ve gotta make a pit stop,” I say, and he snaps out of it.

  Felix has to go too, and we walk into the building together, then separate when we get to the restrooms. When I come out, I find Felix in the snack shop, clutching to his chest a bag of trail mix and a bottle of radioactive orange sports drink.

  “Please, Mom?” he says, pushing out his lower lip in a mock-pout. “It just ain’t a road trip without munchies.”

  I’m a sucker for Felix calling me Mom, and also for anything that makes me feel like what we’re doing is fun.

  When we get back to the car, snacks in hand, Rory has taken my seat in the front and is busy typing something into Nate’s phone.

  “She offered to navigate,” says Nate, noticing my confused and not unterritorial expression. “She said she’s good at that.”

  “She is,” I say, accepting the new arrangement. I slide into the backseat, then dangle the trail mix bag at him. “Care for a cashew?”

  He takes one, then sees the price sticker. “Seven ninety-nine? Are you crazy? That’s, like, a quarter a nut! We have to be careful with our cash if it’s going to last.”

  “I’ve got some left. How much do you have?”

  “Well, I’ve got my debit card and about . . .” He checks his pocket for his wallet, but doesn’t find it. Checks the other one. Something bad crosses his face. “Oh.”

  “Oh, what?”

  “I may have forgotten to grab my wallet.”

  “You may have.”

  “I was so focused on the phone and the music . . .” He bangs on the steering wheel, then collapses until his forehead is resting on it. “I’m an idiot.”

  Giving him a hard time about this won’t help anyone, plus the self-chastising thing is cute. I say nothing until Nate raises his head, takes a deep breath, and starts the car. “I guess we can borrow money from Dylan, if we need it.” He pulls out of our space and toward the thruway on-ramp. “And Keira’s got Leslie’s wallet, if and when we find her.”

  I look at the fuel tank gauge. It’s still almost full. Is it possible that my sister had the foresight to gas up her car before coming to get us? Olivia does have her moments of clarity. Suddenly, I love her like crazy.

  Which reminds me of the Secret MasterCard.

  Olivia’s recurring moment of unclarity is that she’s got two purses, and her wallet often ends up in the one she’s not carrying. She’ll go shopping, load up her cart with several deals of the century, then find herself with no form of payment at the checkout counter. After the third or fourth episode like this, she decided to stash one of her two credit cards under the detritus-encrusted floor mat in the backseat of her car. “If someone is brave enough to touch that thing in search of stuff to steal,” she told me, “they deserve a spending spree on me.”

  Suddenly, there’s the comfort of a valuable secret. I know how to forge my sister’s signature. We have financial backup, should circumstances call for it. I decide not to share this information with the others just yet and don’t think too much about why.

  It seems like the less we think about anything right now, the better.

  Nate rolls down his window halfway as the car climbs back into high gear. The air hits me fresh and delicious, whistling promises I can’t quite hear. All I know is this, which feels like enough:

  We are on the road again.

  We’ve crossed into New Jersey now, no longer on the thruway but a route that takes us down a choked-up corridor of chain stores and shopping centers.

  Felix hasn’t spoken once since we left the rest area, and this is so unlike him, I’m starting to worry. I reach out and put my hand on his leg, and he jumps.

  “Shit, Justine.” he says.

  “You’re sorry you came.”

  He doesn’t answer. I guess it’s not a question.

  After a few moments, he turns away and says, “I was really hoping this movie was my chance for . . . something.”

  I want to say, You didn’t have to come, but I know it’s not true.

  Instead I say, “It still will be. It still is. You know Lance and Leslie. They’ll make whatever they can of what they end up with.” Then I look down at the camera in my hand and add, “Don’t forget about this.”

  Felix turns back to glance at the camera, then at me, with an intrigued look. Evaluating something. “It’s okay,” he says after a moment. “We owe Keira this. But I should call my mom and get that over with.”

  “Hey, Nate?” I call to the front seat. “Felix needs your phone.”

  Nate hands it back and Felix takes it. He dials slower than I’ve ever seen anyone dial.

  “Mami,” he says with no expression. “Yeah, it’s Nate’s . . . good, I’m glad they called. It’s all going to be fine . . . better than fine . . . I know . . . I know . . . I should be back soon . . .” Then he is silent and I can hear Ana spewing in Spanish. Felix runs his fingers through his hair, and listens. “Okay,” he says, then hangs up without saying good-bye.

  Felix stares at the phone for a few seconds, like he wants to make sure it doesn’t start shouting at him again, then hands it back to Nate.

  As Nate takes it, he says, “My Spanish must be better than I thought it was, because I got some of that and wow, I’m sorry, man.”

  “Why? What did she say?” asks Rory.

  “You don’t want to know. Felix may just want to get an apartment and stay in the city until he’s about thirty, and then maybe by then she’ll forgive him.”

  Felix snorts a laugh, and I see Nate smile in the rearview mirror, looking at Felix with something I’ve never seen on Nate before. I almost don’t recognize it, because it seems so impossible. But I do recognize it, because I feel it every time I try to talk to Rory.

  Longing.

  Can’t process that. Especially not on Route 17 going through New Jersey, not when we’re driving behind a Toyota Odyssey with the bumper sticker MINIVANS ARE THE NEW SEXY!

  I know this route well enough, from the occasional day trip with my family. We’ll be in Manhattan in about forty-five minutes. And I feel a little sad, then surprised that I feel a little sad. There’s something about people being in a car, held fast by the speed and lack of distractions that usually keep us from interacting with one another. I’m reminded of how, when I was younger, my parents used to have long, involved discussions when we went on road trips. They’d talk about big family issues and major decisions. My dad would tell stories about his patients, and my mom would fill him in on the latest parent gossip. It was like they hadn’t talked, really talked, in weeks. And they didn’t care that Olivia and I were right there in the backseat, pretending to play video games or drawing but, in fact, listening to every single word they said.

  Ideally, Felix would be sitting in the front seat with Nate, and Rory would be back here with me, but I know that’s a configuration they’ll do everything to avoid.

  Suddenly, Nate’s phone rings.

  Rory doesn’t think to pick it up and check it for him. I would, if I were up there.

  Nate glances at it quickly, then swerves the car onto the shoulder, cutting off the car behind us and causing much honking.

  “Hey,” he says breathlessly as soon as we’ve stopped.

  Keira.

  “How is . . . everything going?” Nate steadies his voice into a calm, curious tone. He listens, and I can’t hear her on the other end. “Okay . . . okay . . . Yeah, well . . . we came home ea
rly and as soon as I had my phone again I wanted to check on you. So you can reach me. If you need to.”

  Nate listens for a few more moments, nodding as if she can see him, then says, “Good luck. I’m here if you need me,” and hangs up. The intimacy of their conversation was obvious even in the few words I could hear. He stares at the phone and puts it down, looks out at the traffic speeding by us.

  “Did she see her mom?” I ask.

  “Not yet. Apparently she’s moved to another neighborhood. That’s all Keira told me.”

  “You didn’t tell her we were coming down to find her,” says Rory.

  “No,” replies Nate.

  “Are we still?” I ask.

  “Oh, yeah,” he says. Now he turns to face me. Just me. “We have things we need to do.”

  SIXTEEN

  Somewhere in the Garden State, I actually fall asleep. When I open my eyes, the motion of the car has changed dramatically. Instead of the straight and steady vibration of highway driving, there’s a lot of stop-and-start now. Swerving right, then left. Then the light feels artificial and the world sounds like an empty whooshing thing.

  It’s so disorienting that I can only slur the words, “Do we know where we are?”

  Nate laughs. “Lincoln Tunnel. Thanks to this one.” He points to Rory.

  The lights inside the tunnel are evenly spaced and endless, like a line of chorus girls in one of those old movie musicals. I’m still not completely awake or thinking straight, but I reach for the camera and start shooting. Reflections of headlights and taillights on the walls, the intimidating rigidity of the double white line between the two narrow lanes. Nate grips the steering wheel with extra firmness and looks straight ahead, driving much slower than necessary. The rest of us are quiet until Felix asks:

  “You know what would be awesome? If we came out of this tunnel and on the other side it was suddenly 1956.”

  I see Nate crack a smile through his concentration.

  Then the tunnel opens up into daylight, and reality. Unfortunately, not 1956. But it is NYC, and that still feels like a miracle.

  “Stay to the left,” says Rory, examining the map application on Nate’s phone.

  A few blocks later, Rory has us turn again on Forty-Second Street. Now there are other things to shoot. People. Buildings. Storefronts. The guy with the Mohawk riding in a truck alongside us. I pan over to Felix, then Rory, then Nate.

  Already, we have traveled so far.

  This morning, I woke up in a house in the woods on a mountain. I climbed the face of a rock with my bare hands. Somehow it is still the same day but now we are here, in the city, the four of us together in a car. The journey from there to here seems like it must be a lot more amazing than it felt like. Maybe the camera can see it even if I can’t.

  “Turn right here, on Tenth Avenue,” Rory directs Nate.

  “Don’t you love the city?” I ask, the camera recording.

  “Like crazy,” says Felix, and in his eyes I can see the reflection of all his plans for the future.

  “It’s got a great soundtrack,” says Nate, and at first I think he’s misheard me, maybe he thinks I’m talking about a movie. But then I get it. The city has a soundtrack. It’s different for everyone, but it beats through every second you spend here.

  I turn the camera on Rory, waiting for her to say something. She doesn’t notice me shooting her, but after a few moments, she whispers, “Actually, I hate it. Too many painful noises and so much happens . . . suddenly.”

  I think of the time we were eight years old and our moms brought us into the city to see the Radio City Christmas Spectacular. We were walking down a midtown street toward the theater, jumping sidewalk cracks in our new holiday dresses. Mine was purple velvet with white fake-fur trim; Rory’s was the same, but in green. She was in front of me when we were approached by a homeless guy holding out a plastic yogurt cup full of change. He didn’t even say anything; he just stepped in front of us and shook the cup in our faces so it jingled and clanged.

  Rory screamed and covered her ears. Collapsed in a green velvet pile on the nearest stoop and wouldn’t move. Her mother had to carry her the remaining blocks to the theater, and she spent half the show in the gigantic ladies’ room, too fascinated by all the mirrors to leave.

  “Look! It’s me, to infinity!” she said when I came down to find her after the performance. Her mother sat on a sofa in the corner, reading a book. She never left the house without one for just this type of occasion. In two mirrors on opposite walls, there was Rory stretching on forever. I didn’t want all those Rorys. I just wanted one, who would sit next to me during the Radio City Christmas Spectacular so we could pick out which Rockettes we liked best.

  “You can stay in the car if you want,” I say now. “If it’s easier.”

  Rory turns her head halfway but her eyes are on the ceiling. “I know that.”

  Maybe I should just not say anything to her ever again.

  We drive a few more blocks, then Rory tells Nate to turn left on Forty-Seventh Street.

  “It must be on this block,” says Nate, looking at the numbers. The neighborhood feels mishmashy. A large auto repair shop, an empty lot between two brick buildings, a contemporary high-rise.

  “But we know she doesn’t live here anymore,” I remind Nate.

  “Keira must have talked to someone who gave her a new address. We’ll talk to the same person.”

  We find the building, a blocky thing built around a small courtyard, and Nate pulls to the curb next to a fire hydrant.

  “You can’t park here,” says Rory.

  “We can’t park anywhere,” says Nate, huffy, and I realize how nerve-racking the driving must be for him. “It’s a Saturday afternoon in Manhattan.” Then he turns to me. I’m his cocaptain, back here. “Do you want to come with me?”

  Nate already has that endearing All-American Boy look on his face and he’ll be just fine on his own. Probably better. I shake my head.

  “Be right back,” he says. “If someone asks you to move the car, just circle around.”

  I turn on the camera and shoot him exiting the car, then climb out in time to catch him walking down the sidewalk and turning into the courtyard.

  When he’s out of sight, I turn to Felix, who’s rolled down his window and is leaning his head against the frame, staring at the sky. I’m still recording. “Why was your mom so angry?” I ask him. “You’re with friends. You’re not missing school. You said you’d be back tomorrow.”

  Felix eyes the camera and takes a deep breath. “It’s disrespectful, what we did. That’s what she said. And in my family when you disrespect someone . . . not a good thing. Plus, she’s afraid we violated our agreement with Lance and Leslie and they’ll come after us with lawyers. My parents are big on the legal thing, you know. They spent so many years undocumented and worked so hard to change that.”

  He’s risked a lot to be here. It makes me feel like I’ve let him down somehow.

  “I’m sorry, Felix.”

  He bites his lip. “There’s something else that’s really embarrassing.”

  “You don’t have to tell me.”

  “Why not? At this point, I’ve got nothing to hide.” He pauses and looks straight into the camera, then at me. “I’ve never actually spent a night away from home. I don’t think my parents wanted it to be quite like this.”

  “Not even one night? You’re sixteen. How can that be?”

  Felix gives me one of his Oh, you are so white looks. “I wasn’t allowed to do sleepovers. Sleepaway camp was out of the question, moneywise. So that’s how it can be.”

  Rory unbuckles herself and scrambles ungracefully into the backseat with Felix, draws her knees up to her chin. “I’ve never spent a whole night away from home either.”

  That’s no surprise. We tried a sleepover at my house. Once. Rory woke up screaming at 2:00 a.m. and started to run home, until my dad caught her two houses down and drove her the rest of the way. I was so mad. Wound
ed, really. What was wrong with my house? She’d been there a thousand times and called my parents “D-Mom” (for Diana) and “J-Dad” (for Jeff). But our sleepovers were always at Rory’s from then on. Later, after I met new friends, it felt amazingly uncomplicated to have them sleep over. Dramaless.

  I hear footsteps and turn to see Nate jogging toward us. Fortunately, I’ve had the camera on this whole time. I wasn’t thinking about it. It’s becoming part of my hand and I don’t even feel the weight of it.

  “We’re golden,” he says, waving a Post-it note. “I talked to the woman Mrs. Jones was sharing the apartment with. Apparently she moved last year, but the roommate gave me the address like she gave it to Keira.”

  At first, I’m not going to ask how he was able to swing this, because really, it’s Nate. But I feel the tug of the camera’s curiosity.

  “What did you say?” I ask, raising it to frame Nate against the buildings across the street.

  “I explained that Keira was our friend and we wanted to be there for her when she saw her mother again for the first time.”

  Our friend. “I’m so glad you left out the part where she has no idea we’re here, and that you’re really the only person she would possibly in a million years want to see right now.”

  Nate shakes his head sadly. “You make it sound like she hates you.”

  I press stop on the camera and lower it. “Um, because she does.”

  “She doesn’t.”

  “And you know, of course.”

  He shrugs. “We’ve talked about it.” He looks at me, his eyes darting to my feet, then up again at my face. “She admires you, actually.”

  I’m about to ask more when we hear a sudden honk. It’s a police car. My heart jumps.

  “Please move your vehicle,” says an amplified voice, half-human. “You are in a no-parking zone.”

  Nate waves at the cop, respectful and pleasant, then jumps into the car. I slide into the passenger seat, heart racing. Why do I feel like we almost got caught doing something? We’re not committing any crime. We barely even pissed anybody off. We’re just four teenagers meeting up with a friend in New York City, and normal people do that kind of thing every day.