Together at Midnight

by Jennifer Castle

  “I make these,” says Kerstin. “I’d like you to have one.”

  I hold out my hand and let her drop the bracelet into my palm. Open my mouth to say thank you.

  Before I can do that, someone hits my hand, knocking the bracelet into the snow.

  “Stop it!” shouts Aksel, the words thick as smoke. Followed by a whole lot of extra-angry-sounding German.

  Kerstin steps forward and slaps his hand the way he slapped mine. She shouts at him. It’s unnerving, not knowing exactly what she’s saying. She pauses, then speaks again, more slowly.

  Aksel’s face freezes when she says this last thing. There’s a long pause where I wish Eliza and I could teleport out of the situation to anywhere else. A tropical beach, or even the dentist’s office. Now Aksel simply turns and stomps away. Back to the staircase, back down toward the street.

  Kerstin watches him, her eyes filled with tears.

  “Are . . . are you okay?” I ask.

  She looks at me. “Thank you again,” she says, then heads toward the river.

  Eliza and I watch her go.

  “What the fuck was that?” asks Eliza.

  “I have no idea,” I say.

  There’s a terrible heaviness in the pit of my stomach. Eliza doesn’t believe in regret, so she won’t understand. Somehow all that was a mistake.

  I don’t know how or why, but in my efforts to be a nice boy, I made a bad situation worse.

  Kerstin

  I’M VERY SURE AKSEL’S ON THE PHONE AT THIS moment.

  Talking to his girlfriend.

  Yes, my husband has a girlfriend. And I just told him that I know.

  What he did to that American boy was not from jealousy. It was from guilt. They are both the same to me, if it makes him look like a fool.

  The thing Aksel still doesn’t know is that I lied.

  I don’t refuse to use the subway because I’m afraid of getting lost. Why would I get lost? I’ve traveled to fourteen countries in ten years. Sometimes, when I’m out doing errands, I get lost on purpose for the fun of it. Also, I know how to use a map.

  Aksel never questioned it when I told him I thought the New York subway was too confusing. I could tell he was pleased to find a weakness in me.

  The real reason I don’t take the subway in New York is because of what happened when I was seventeen.

  I was visiting the city for the day, by myself, to go to a museum. Two men followed me up the steps in a subway station. One put his arm around my waist, while the other went for my bag.

  I fought back.

  One of my kicks was a good kick, and the man coming toward me lost his balance and fell on the stairs. Then they both ran.

  I had bruises. But after that, I felt like I had escaped the one bad thing that was meant to happen to me, and from now on, nobody could hurt me. It changed me, that day. Sometimes, I am almost glad it happened.

  So I didn’t expect to feel so nervous on my first morning here with Aksel, when we started down the steps to a subway stop. It was the way the sound echoed. The U-Bahn in Munich doesn’t echo that way. Only underground in New York do sounds echo that way.

  When this boy offered to take us to the High Line, I was so surprised by the gesture, I said yes without thinking. Now I see it must be a sign, that I was ready to put that day behind me for good.

  Maybe I am ready to put some other things behind me for good.

  Aksel will call me in five minutes. I may as well set my watch now. He will say he’s sorry, he will bring me a coffee. This is our pattern, this is our dance.

  But I rode the New York subway again.

  What if I didn’t answer when he called? What if I sent Aksel home by himself?

  I could get a job as a nanny for a family who wants their kids to learn German, or as a salesperson in a store that thinks my accent sounds sophisticated. I could stay at the hotel until I find a roommate. I could tell everyone I was staying in New York for a little while, and then never leave.

  I have five minutes to decide.

  Right now I’m just walking. Alone. And it feels, yes, very much all right.

  Kendall

  THERE’S A JAZZ TRIO PLAYING IN THE PARK, AND A small crowd’s gathered around them. It’s not frigid but it’s not warm, so I’m surprised anyone’s brave enough for busking today. But the city is packed and they’ll probably make a fortune. Jamie stops to listen so I stop with him.

  Even with the music it’s my first quiet moment in a while, quiet enough for a Thought Worm to snatch the opportunity. What’s Max up to right now? Did he tell Eliza about Luna and the dare and everything? What was the fifth kindness, and is it wrong for me to wish he hadn’t done it without me?

  “Hey,” I say, crushing that Thought Worm and grabbing Jamie’s forearm. I don’t feel like I can grab his hand again (yet). “Can we keep walking?”

  He nods, then tosses a dollar bill in the empty guitar case in front of the jazz trio before we move on.

  “So, what have you been up to these past few days?” he asks.

  “Helping my brother move out of his apartment. Seeing Wicked with my mom. Walking around a lot.” I pause. “I hung out with Max.”

  Jamie breaks his stride for a second, then regains it and asks softly, “What did you guys do?”

  “We went to Central Park,” I say, which is a truth. It sounds so simple when I frame it this plainly. “Mostly we talked about Luna.”

  This doesn’t feel like a lie or even an exaggeration.

  “Are you guys as freaked out about it as I am?” asks Jamie, his voice more relaxed now.

  I pause. Why haven’t we talked about this yet? “Yes,” I finally say.

  “Thanks for getting that info from the hospital,” he says. “I wish I knew how she’s doing today.” His voice breaks down and I realize he’s been struggling with this, too, but on his own. And he was the one who ran into the street, who knelt on the cold pavement next to her.

  “We all wish that,” I say, wondering exactly how many people I’m speaking for.

  “I wish I could have done more.”

  “You did what you could. You were pretty awesome, actually.” Then, because I can’t help myself, I add, “You did more than those of us who were standing right there.”

  Jamie frowns, shakes his head. “Don’t beat yourself up about that. How were you supposed to know what was going to happen?”

  I shrug. “We weren’t. But maybe doing the right thing would have been a start.”

  That lands hard between us, and neither Jamie nor I have any idea what to do with it. Finally, Jamie holds up his camera and trains it at the dog park a few yards away. I am very familiar with this tactic. When in doubt, take pictures.

  As I watch him, I think about what’s going to happen later. Or rather, what I want to happen later. It’s so obvious, it’s almost painful. We’ll kiss at midnight and then we’ll continue. I won’t stay in the city, I’ll go home and back to Fitzpatrick, with a boyfriend. I’m already liking this plan.

  We eventually circle back to the bench where Ari and Camden are waiting for us.

  “Can we move on?” asks Camden.

  “What did you have in mind?” I ask.

  “There’s a bakery in Little Italy I’d like to show you.”

  Jamie makes a lead the way gesture with his arm. Camden gets up and starts walking ahead of us. We follow.

  I walk next to Jamie and after a block, he takes my hand.

  Max

  “SHOULD WE GO ALL THE WAY?” ASKS ELIZA.

  “Beg your pardon?”

  “All the way to the end of this thing,” she adds with a teasing smile, pointing south. Toward the terminus of the High Line, blocks and blocks away.

  “You tell me,” I say, out of habit.

  “No, you tell me.”

  This isn’t like her. Eliza’s someone who needs to be in control. She does this because the second she walks into her house, she’s not in control anymore. But maybe the city is more my turf.


  “The whole path is pretty cool,” I say. “It takes a while but I think we should do it. You trust me?”

  “Max, I’d follow you anywhere. You know that.”

  “Actually, I don’t.”

  She grabs my arm, then stands on her tiptoes to kiss me lightly. (On the lips.)

  “Silly Maxie,” she says. “You always seem to know where you’re going.”

  If this is true, I’m doing a great job of fooling the world.

  “There’s something different about you,” I say.

  Eliza stares at me. Swallows hard and almost nervously. Another un-Eliza-like move. “Is there?”

  “Yes.”

  She shrugs and spins away from me. Starts walking. As always, I follow.

  I first met Eliza when I was thirteen and she was twelve. She started at our tiny alternative school in the middle of the year and everyone was excited for a new student. Rumor was, she’d been pulled out of public school because she was being bullied. She had a total shell-shocked air about her, at first. And she was little. Like, short. The older girls took her under their wings, engulfing her so completely that I’m not sure I saw her at all that year.

  The first time I really noticed her and how special she was, was in the school play the following spring. They were performing Twelfth Night. She was Viola and she was perfect.

  But I was shy and not sure how to handle these growing limbs of mine. How would I ever be able to control two weird, long arms? Also, my feet knew I was clueless. They rebelled against me whenever they could, making me trip or lose my balance. I tried to keep my distance from the girls, but in a small school like ours, there’s no room for that.

  I watched Eliza date one boy, then another. Rumor had it, she also had a summer boyfriend. I dated, too, but at some point I was fully in love with her. Eventually, she was in love with me, too. At least, that’s how she tells the story. Her story also says that we were always meant to be in each other’s lives. When someone tells you a story enough times, it’s hard to separate fact from fiction. Sometimes the fiction is all you need, when facts are confusing as hell.

  Fact: It would be great if she met someone else, because maybe I could stop feeling guilty.

  Also fact: I’ll be devastated when she meets someone else, because she’ll no longer need me.

  I’m suddenly overcome with a strange sensation that I know how to destroy Eliza, if I wanted to: I could tell her about the past few days. Detail every hour Kendall and I spent together. Explain our dare and how it’s already changed me. Eliza wouldn’t know how to process all that. She’d see it as a betrayal, even though we are done and over.

  It feels reassuring to have this in my back pocket.

  We continue to walk south on the High Line. Eliza seems preoccupied with the buildings on either side of the walkway. Most of them are apartments. I can tell she’s trying her damnedest to peek into them.

  “This is the perfect place for an exhibitionist to live,” she says, pointing to some windows across from us. “You could pull up all the blinds, dance around naked, and nobody could tell you not to because you’re in your own house.”

  Eliza just laughs and starts walking again. Yeah, she is way too content. I catch up to her and put my hand on her shoulder. When she spins around, all I say is:

  “Tell me.”

  Our eyes lock. I’m pretty sure I’ve got a real Stern Father thing going on my face. Her smile fades, but not completely. She bites her lip and makes a decision.

  “I’m dating someone.”

  “Okay,” I say. “Thought so.”

  Eliza scans my expression and I do my best to give her exactly the reaction she’s looking for.

  “You’re happy for me, right?” she asks.

  “Yes, of course.” I pause, knowing what I have to do now. If I can make my mouth form the words, that would help. “Who is he? Someone from Dashwood?”

  “No,” she says as she shakes her head. Well, that’s good. All the dating among our school population has a creepy inbreeding vibe sometimes.

  “I’m not going to grill you. Whatever you want to tell me, I’ll be glad to hear.”

  “Actually, I could use your advice,” she says. Uh, yeah, that might have been the one thing I wasn’t glad to hear.

  “Sure,” I say.

  “Silas is great and you’d really like him. The thing is, he’s older and he’s offered to get me a fake ID so we can go out to bars together. Do you think I should let him cover it or should I insist on paying for it myself?”

  “Older. How much older?”

  “Thirty.”

  I stop walking and turn to her. “As in, thirteen years older than you?”

  “Those are just numbers, Max. Jesus.”

  Eliza stands with her hands on her hips, daring me to stay upset about this. Am I overreacting? Is this no big deal if it’s no big deal to her?

  I think about her parents’ strange relationship and I think about our strange relationship. I think about Luna and that guy. The way he was clearly used to having some kind of power over her. How she was trying to resist it. How much Luna reminded me of Eliza in so many ways. Not to mention the fact Eliza’s still seventeen. A minor.

  Yes. This is definitely a big deal. But I can’t fight this battle with her right now.

  “Insist that you pay him,” I say, trying to keep my voice casual. “It sets up a good boundary.”

  Eliza nods, and we walk in silence for a little while.

  “Why aren’t you with him tonight?” I finally ask.

  “He has to work. It’s fine, waiters get great tips on New Year’s Eve.”

  When she stops to visit a restroom, I type a text to Jamie.

  Do you know Eliza’s dating a guy who’s 30?

  My thumb hovers over the Send button. What’s Jamie doing right now? I can’t picture Jamie without picturing Kendall. Maybe they’re wandering around some pocket of the city, taking photos and sharing moments. Hopefully, Kendall’s happy. Getting what she’s clearly wanted for so long. The image of a happy Kendall is a good one. She’s smiling. The light in her eyes is on the highest possible setting.

  Still, the thought of interrupting their good time is not an unpleasant one. Maybe I’m not the nicest person they know.

  Which would be a huge fucking relief.

  Kendall

  THIS BAKERY ISN’T MUCH BIGGER THAN MY GROSET, but smells a zillion times better. I huddle with Ari and Jamie at a wobbly table in the corner as Camden brings us espresso and a plate of powdered, sugary-looking lump-things.

  “To this year and next year,” he says once he sits, raising one of the tiny white espresso cups.

  We toast and I drink. Holy crap. I didn’t know a year could taste so bitter. But it’s cool, our being here. I take a little photo of it in my head and post it on an imaginary social media page only I can see. Look! You’re doing something interesting with people you like a lot!

  Jamie’s phone buzzes and he digs it out of his pocket. When he looks at the screen, he frowns a little, then puts it back in his pocket. Takes a sip of espresso. Then he takes the phone out of his pocket and stares at the screen again.

  “Everything okay?” I ask.

  “Yeah,” he says. “Uh . . . my mom, asking annoying questions I don’t know how to answer.”

  Jamie swivels in his seat so his back is to us and starts to type. Eventually he turns around, lets out a deep breath.

  “Sorry about that,” he says, flashing me The Grin. It’s because of this grin that I’m in this micro-bakery right now. It’s the grin I want escorting me into tomorrow and next year.

  Something on the floor catches Ari’s eye. She bends down and comes back up with a small flowered tote bag in her hand.

  “Uh-oh,” she says.

  “I’m guessing that doesn’t belong to those guys,” says Camden, indicating the two super-old men at the only other table in the bakery.

  I take the bag from Ari and peek inside. There’s a wa
llet, makeup bag, and fat manila envelope. I pull out the wallet, holding it as gently as I can, as if showing someone, or maybe the wallet itself, that I mean no harm.

  “We should give it to the guy at the counter,” says Jamie. “I’m sure someone will come looking for it.”

  The guy at the counter looks like he wants to curl up somewhere and sleep for a week. I picture him emptying the wallet and tossing it in the trash. If he were a character, I’d name him Monty.

  “Let’s see if there’s a name here,” I suggest, opening the wallet. There’s a little bit of cash, mostly dollar bills. I go for the cards and find a driver’s license.

  Shelby Dearden, it says. The address is in Brooklyn.

  I dig some more. Shelby Dearden has loyalty cards for three different drugstores and two fro-yo places. This girl gets around. I dig deeper into the card compartment and underneath all of that, find a couple of business cards. Shelby Dearden, they say. Member, Actors’ Equity. And there’s a phone number.

  “Aha!” I say, holding up the card.

  Outside the bakery, where it’s quieter, I dial the number on my phone.

  “Hello?” a woman answers.

  “Hi. My name is Kendall and if you’re missing a bag, I have it.”

  There’s a pause. “What kind of bag?” She sounds wary.

  “A tote bag with flowers on it. It has your wallet and an envelope—”

  “Oh my God!” she says. I hear rustling on the other end of the line. “I am missing a bag! I thought I’d slipped it inside a big shopping bag but it’s not here. And you found it? Where did you find it?”

  “At the Ambrosio Bakery,” I say.

  “I was there earlier. My God, that bag has a friend’s play manuscript in it, with all my notes. I just got home to Brooklyn . . .” She pauses, and after a few moments of silence I wonder if we got disconnected. Then she says, her voice strange and soft now, “But I can come back. It would take me maybe forty-five minutes. Can I meet you somewhere?”

  I look in the window of the bakery, at Ari and Camden and Jamie idly sipping their espressos. We are young and sort of stupid and planless and it’s New Year’s Eve. We have three hours to kill before we can go to Emerson’s party. Finding a bag and not stealing its contents and calling the owner, that doesn’t feel like a big enough kindness to count in the dare. That’s just me, being raised well and acting on instinct. If I’m going to finish this, I want it to be with an action that feels deliberate.