Together at Midnight

by Jennifer Castle

  The truth is, I really don’t have anything better to do at home. I’ve been working at a telemarketing company, trying to earn as much money as I can for college, but they gave everyone the week off. Plus, if I’m here, I can’t hang out with my high school friends or see my ex-girlfriend, Eliza. That’s all good.

  “Sure, Dad,” I finally say. “You’re right. It should be me.”

  Dad claps me on the shoulder. “You’re a great kid, Maxie. You always come through in a pinch.”

  I totally do. When someone needs something, I’m there.

  But where am I when nobody needs anything? Who am I when nobody needs anything? That, my friends, is the question.

  An hour later, both families are packed up and ready to hit the road.

  Except me, of course. I’ve been sitting in the kitchen, nursing a giant cup of coffee. My sister, Allie, comes over and takes a swig. She’s fifteen.

  “Vaya con Dios, hermano,” she says.

  “Thanks.”

  Mom and Aunt Suze hug me in rapid succession. The little cousins hug me because Aunt Suze orders them to. My dad claps me on the shoulder again. Big E has fallen asleep in his recliner and I don’t know what’s louder, the TV or his snoring.

  Aunt Suze takes me aside and runs down the list of his medications. “He knows what he has to take, and when. Just check in with him a couple times a day to make sure.”

  She’s emptied the fridge of anything he’s not supposed to eat. Now she hands me a stack of menus from nearby restaurants, with certain items circled. I can order his lunch and dinner from any of those selections. Then she gives me a list of phone numbers for his myriad doctors. “But if it’s not an emergency, call me first,” says Suze. “I can be here inside an hour.”

  I look at the frown line between her eyebrows and understand, for the first time, how much energy she pours into my grandfather. It must be like she’s got three kids, not two. I’m overcome with sympathy and appreciation for her. Then, relief. That I can be useful.

  Just like that, both families are gone. Nobody wanted to wake Big E, so they never said good-bye to him. This might infuriate the guy, or maybe he couldn’t care less. I watch him for a few moments, his chest rising and falling. There’s so much heaviness to the movement. I know he’s just a person. He’s known me all my life. We share blood and a middle name.

  I’m scared completely shitless.

  Kendall

  WE RAN TO CATCH THE SUBWAY HEADING UPTOWN to Emerson and Andrew’s apartment, and I don’t want to talk about how hard it was getting my suitcase through Grand Central. Now I’m recovering in a seat tucked against the wall. The guy sitting next to me wears Ray-Ban sunglasses, black fingerless gloves, and a leather jacket. He’s reading a book in French and doesn’t seem to care that a panting girl and her ginormous luggage are invading his personal space.

  If he were a character in my novel, he’d be like Judd Nelson in The Breakfast Club, but also valedictorian of his class. Quiet and full of secrets. All the girls at his high school make fun, but secretly lust after him. One girl in particular is obsessed with his fingernails peeking out of those gloves, because they’re always clean and polished.

  This is a thing I do: turn real people into characters in whatever I’m writing. I draw a sketch of them, then jot down a few details. A name and where they live, what they do, what they want. Thought Worms that spring free from nowhere or everywhere.

  The people-watching is one reason why I love riding the subway in New York. Also, I’m fascinated by how it can be loud and quiet at the same time. Outside the train, it sounds like universes are colliding and shattering, but here in the car almost nobody talks.

  I check my phone. There’s a recent text from Mom.

  What time are you coming home from the city?

  This is sticky. I answer Staying overnight at Emerson’s, will text later because that’s all the information I have for her, and also for me.

  OK, she replies, and if a pair of typed letters can look pissed off, these do. I don’t blame her. I’ve been gone four months and Mom was looking forward to some mom/daughter quality time, and here’s proof that I’m awful.

  She also knows what a stupid idea this is. What am I going to do in Manhattan? I have almost no spending money left. I came back from Europe with twenty-four dollars and also some random currency from different countries. Coins that don’t feel the right weight, bills in strange colors, all with faces and names I don’t recognize (except Queen Elizabeth, duh). If I’m desperate, I’ll exchange them. But right now I just like to see them in my wallet because it feels like the rest of the world is waving to me.

  I open up a photo album on my phone that has twenty-seven images in it. I remember when Jamie sent me each one, and where I was, and what I sent back in response. One picture is of a tree flush with bright red leaves, a clear blue sky backdrop. Another is a shot of two tip jars at a coffeehouse where one says “Invisibility” and one says “Flight,” and the Invisibility jar was winning.

  Jamie never wrote anything with these photos and I’m glad because he didn’t need to.

  I want to see him so badly I feel it at the base of my throat, like heartburn but more romantic. Number Four on my list is hanging there, ripe to be checked off. Oh, what the hell. Since I’m riding a subway train in my fleece penguin pajamas and basically can’t get any more pathetic today, I find his number in my phone and start typing.

  Hi it’s Kendall. Hope you had a good Christmas. I’m back in town. Want to meet up?

  SEND.

  Of course, it might not actually send until I’m out of the subway, but the hard part’s over.

  “Kendall!” barks Emerson above the din of the train. “Did you hear me? We’re getting off at the next stop!” He taps my elbow because he’s learned this is an important step in getting and keeping my attention.

  “Got it,” I say. It wouldn’t be the first time I missed a stop on public transportation. So much noise outside me, so much noise inside me, you’d think the roar would be deafening, but actually, it’s the most soothing thing I’ve felt in days.

  More suitcase trauma, and then we’re on the street.

  Holy crap, I’m back in a city again.

  It’s grown some magic since the last time I was here. Colors and brightness, sparkle and shine. It’s amazing what electric lights and holiday window decorations will do to a generic street corner. Two blocks and two flights of steps later, we’re at the apartment.

  “Welcome,” says Andrew as he opens the door and I follow them inside.

  A fluffy black cat jumps down from something and rushes over.

  “Louis!” says Em as he drops his bag and scoops up the cat. “Daddy and Papa are home!”

  The apartment is small and cluttered, but in a way that seems carefully planned. “Nice,” I say, looking around. “It’s all really nice.”

  By nice, I mean, I want it. I want all of it.

  “Want to see the guest room?” asks Andrew.

  He leads me to a door, flashes me a big grin, and swings it open.

  It’s a closet.

  With a bed stuffed inside. And clothes hanging from the rods.

  “Um,” I say.

  “This is the whole reason we got this apartment,” says Andrew proudly.

  Emerson comes over and examines my face. “She does not look impressed.”

  “If she knew anything about the types of living space available to a pair of twenty-somethings like us, she would be,” Andrew says.

  “I am impressed,” I say. “You’ve been talking about living together in Manhattan since five minutes after you met and now look, you’re doing it. You’re adults.”

  “Well, that remains to be seen,” says Andrew, with a look over at Emerson, who’s now burying his face in the cat’s fur. “But we do like to pretend. And on that note, I have to change and get to the office.”

  I pull my suitcase into the closet. There’s enough room for it to stand there at the end of the
bed, but not to open it. Eh, I’ll make it work.

  After I’ve dug out some actual clothes and gotten dressed, I find Emerson sitting on the couch in the living room, the cat asleep on his lap. Andrew’s gone.

  “So,” says Em as I sit down next to him. “Go ahead and check your phone again.”

  “Whatever do you mean?” I ask with a smile.

  “You’ve been looking at your phone every sixty seconds. Who is he?”

  “How do you know he’s a he?”

  Emerson laughs. “Sister, I’ve known you were straight since before I knew I was gay.”

  “His name is Jamie. I met him last summer. He’s friends with Ari’s boyfriend Camden.”

  “Oh, one of those Dashwood kids you told me about.” Dashwood is the alternative private school Jamie attends. “Wait. He’s not the guy who crushed your heart when he said he only liked you as a friend?”

  “I wouldn’t say crushed. Trampled a bit, maybe. It’s much better now.”

  There’s more to the story but I can’t even think about it without wanting to puke, and since I don’t want to puke on Emerson’s cool beige couch, I’m not going to elaborate.

  “So give me the details,” says Emerson. “I need to live vicariously.”

  “When I was in Paris, I got an email from him out of the blue,” I begin. “It was a photo of a man leaning out a window, with his head in his hands. The picture had this total ‘I’m sorry’ vibe. So I emailed him a photo back, one I took of a little girl holding a balloon in the Tuileries Garden. We’ve sent a bunch of pics back and forth since then.”

  Emerson raises his eyebrows. “Just photos?”

  “Just photos. No text. No captions.”

  Emerson leans back and runs his hand along Louis’s back. “That’s pretty hot.”

  Yeah, it totally was. But now I want the words, and the sentences, and the paragraphs. I want everything.

  Almost on cue, my phone dings.

  DECEMBER 27

  Max

  I’M WAITING FOR MY FRIEND JAMIE AT THE G&S Camera Store, wondering why someone would ever pay $2000 for a telephoto lens. Through the front window, I can watch the parade of humanity going by. They say it’s the most crowded week of the year in New York City. Holy Reproduction, Batman. There are a lot of people in the world.

  When Jamie texted me last night that he was coming into the city to meet up with some girl he’s been e-flirting with, I jumped at the chance for some company. I even invited him to crash overnight at Big E’s. My buddy is late but I don’t even mind because I’m out of the apartment. That’s what spending most of yesterday watching football with my grandfather has done to me. We’re talking English football here. As in, soccer. Big E likes to wax on about how this is a more nuanced sport.

  If “nuanced” means nobody ever scores, then yes. Yes, it is.

  “See that guy, the team owner?” Big E asked me at one point. “I went to college with him.”

  Of course this isn’t true.

  “Did you know him well?” I asked.

  “Yeah, pretty well, for a while. Nice person, but he treated his girlfriend like garbage.”

  Then I asked, “How did you meet?” Big E ran with that for about twenty minutes of the most elaborate, detailed bullshit I’ve ever heard. In moments like that, I understand why he was such a legendary lawyer.

  This is how I’ve seen my father and Aunt Suze interact with my grandfather. It’s how I’m going to survive my days here. I’m going to ask him a lot of questions, and I’m going to answer all of his with a form of yes. Eventually, he’ll get hungry or sleepy. (Preferably the latter.) There will be no talk about me, and why the hell I’m Not at College. No talk about a new home aide either, or plans to move him into a facility and sell his apartment for a gajillion dollars. There will be zero reason for him to throw the remote.

  It must suck to outlive your wife, when everyone expected you to be the one to die first. To be given the gift of long life and not know what the hell to do with it. To be a sharp mind trapped inside a soft, weak, failing body.

  Someone elbows me in the waist.

  “Hey, man!” says Jamie when I turn around. He’s got his backpack chest strap clasped shut and he looks so out-of-towner dorky, I cringe.

  “Jamie!” I say, and we guy-hug. It’s actually really, really good to see him. “You look different. It hasn’t been that long, has it?”

  “At least a month. Maybe more? Dude, why don’t you ever drop by school for a visit?”

  “Um, you know why,” I say.

  “Oh, yeah.” Jamie’s face falls. “I do.”

  The why has a name: Eliza.

  “Well,” I say, “I’m glad you’ll be staying over so we can catch up.” I look around the store. “So you’re really going to buy that video camera you’ve been lusting after?”

  Jamie grins and nods. “Christmas money just put me over the top.”

  A sales clerk nearby hears this and shifts into Perky gear. “Our video department is upstairs!” she says.

  “There are departments here?” I ask. “There’s an upstairs here?”

  Jamie laughs at me. “Come on, I’ll show you my world.”

  I give him shit for it, but really, I envy Jamie. He has a thing. A passion. A reason to keep his eyes open.

  For me, that’s always been a girl. Eliza, and then before her, Nadine, and before her, Iris. I could go on. It’s only during the short breaks between these songs that I can really listen to myself. Up until now, though, I haven’t heard anything remotely interesting.

  In the video department, I accompany Jamie as he feels up every camera they’ve got on display. It’s basically obscene, the way he gropes. Cups them into his hand and fondles the buttons. I feel like I should give him some privacy.

  “Oh God,” he moans. “This is the one I’ve had my eye on, and it feels even better in person than I thought it would.”

  Gross, right?

  “When are you meeting up with this girl?” I ask, trying to bring us back to a PG rating.

  “One o’clock,” he says. “At the Met.”

  “Museum date. Nice.”

  “There’s a photography exhibit we both want to see.”

  “Sounds cool. She sounds cool.”

  Jamie pauses for a moment and takes a breath like he’s about to say something.

  “So, how are we doing?” asks the salesclerk as she appears out of nowhere.

  While Jamie buys the camera and arranges for it to be shipped to his house, I wander over to a wall of video monitors. I take a step and suddenly see myself on all of them. Not my whole self. My head and shoulders are cut off, but that’s typical. When you’re six foot three, you get used to parts of your body not fitting into things like camera frames. And portable toilets. And cars.

  I examine what I do see. The body could be anyone’s. If I didn’t remember I was wearing a brown plaid scarf, I would have assumed it was a stranger’s.

  “Oh my God, that was exhilarating,” says Jamie behind me. I turn to see him holding up a printed receipt for his purchase.

  “Mazel tov,” I say. “I hope you and your video camera will be very happy together.”

  We laugh. This feels good. It’s been awkward with him since Eliza and I broke up, and our circle splintered.

  “Come on,” says Jamie. “I now have twelve dollars to my name and I want to spend it on hot dogs.”

  We step out onto the street. The sun’s moved to a spot right between the buildings on either side of Seventh Avenue. It gives all the holiday lights a surreal middle-school-musical glow. We head uptown. At a sidewalk cart, Jamie buys us each two hot dogs, and I cover a pair of Cokes. We walk slowly and eat fast.

  “So, Max. How’s your life?” asks Jamie between bites.

  “Aside from the fact that I’m living at home and my job makes me want to stick hot pokers in my eyeballs? It’s stellar.”

  “Then, quit. Do something else.”

  “I’m making a lot o
f cash for school.”

  “There have to be other ways to do that.”

  Yes, there are. My mom’s brother Jake invited me to come live with him in Seattle for a few months. He could get me an internship at his tech company. We could do some traveling. He laid it all out for me at Thanksgiving. I didn’t tell anyone because I knew they’d all want me to go. Then they’d expect me to explain why I couldn’t. How could I, when I can’t even explain it to myself? It was easier to say No, thanks.

  “It’s only for a few more months,” I finally say, then decide to change the subject. “How’s Camden?”

  “Happy,” says Jamie. The simplicity of that causes me physical hurt.

  Our buddy Camden fell in love with someone who’s really good for him. I would never tell anyone this, but seeing Camden in a healthy relationship made me see just how unhealthy mine was.

  In other words, really completely fucking unhealthy.

  But when your girlfriend has been living in a toxic family environment for years, what do you do?

  If you’re me, you postpone your plans for college. You agree to stay in town, telling yourself it’s mostly so you can work a humiliating job and earn money toward your first year’s tuition. You give her everything she needs, emotionally and physically, plus the courage to seek help and call a youth hotline. You even walk her to her first Alateen meeting.

  You watch her start to help herself and be okay.

  Which is the moment you know you’re done.

  Which can be one moment too late to leave.

  “I should get back and check on Big E,” I say at the next corner. “Have fun with the girl. Text me when you’re heading to the apartment, I’ll come downstairs and meet you.”

  “Will do,” says Jamie.

  After another quick but significantly more awkward guy-hug, I walk away by myself. It’s something I know I have to get used to.

  Kendall

  HERE COMES JAMIE, HOPPING TOWARD ME UP THE front steps of the Metropolitan Museum of Art in a navy blue down jacket and blue plaid scarf, his curly blond hair squirming out of a stocking cap. This is the guy who read my blog and emailed me and sent me photographs every few days for months. I heard from him more often than my best friend, Ari. I was far away from everyone in my life and loving that feeling of being alone, but, you know. Alone is still alone. Jamie’s photos gave me someone extra special to carry around in my pocket.