by Tish Cohen
I follow her through the door and slow to check if the doorman’s name tag says ARTHUR. It does, so I stop to tell him his brother is coming over for dessert. Arthur is thrilled and tries to chat with me but Carling yanks me away. Out on the busy—and freezing cold—sidewalk, she puts her arm around me. I don’t mind one bit; it gives me a chance to be warmed by my mother’s sweater. “Our London is a real friend of the people, have you noticed, girls? She brings a certain groundedness to our little group. Makes me feel like a better person. Like, at any moment, I might go dig a well in Sierra Leone or bottle-feed a goat in Belize.”
Sloane snorts. “Knowing you, you’d probably hand the poor goat to your Molly and tell her to duct-tape its noisy parts. You’re better off adopting Izz. She’s starving just as bad as any goat.”
“Why is everybody picking on me?” asks Isabella, folding her arms across her chest. “I’m going home.”
“Leave Izzy alone, girlies,” says Carling. “She’s the only person on earth who’s got my back. Right, Izz?”
Isabella stares out into traffic. “I guess.”
“I’m being serious about this charity thing,” Carling continues. “My boyfriend’s going to work at his dad’s office and pay for his own car, which doesn’t make me look good. So what if I give back to society? Donate money or something?”
“Easier than getting a job, that’s for sure,” says Sloane, peeling brown polish from her chewed-up thumbnail and dropping the curled shards to the ground.
“You read my mind, Sloaney. Tomorrow I’m going to get up early and sponsor one of those kids in a third-world country. You know, where you give up one coffee per day and it pays for, like, rancid milk and pencil stubs for a kid in Ethiopia.”
“This is seriously impressive,” says Isabella, tucking Carling’s hair behind her ears. “You’re like a really hot Mother Teresa.”
I look at Carling’s platform sandals, her skintight jeans, her long blondish hair and peach-kissed lips, the way she glances at her reflection in the windows we pass. “I can barely tell them apart,” I say.
Carling grins and blows a kiss to a couple of tourists.
The Park Street station was the first subway station in the country. Built about a hundred years ago, the entrance looks like a grand old mansion, only shrunken down to the size of a freestanding public restroom. It’s getting dark outside, so the lights from within cast a pretty green glow on the sidewalk as we approach. The girls skip nonchalantly inside and down under the ground, but I slow down, taking it all in. The gum-spotted steps, the gust of heated wind that rises from below and lifts my hair. The disappearance of street sounds—no more honking, car engines, bus motors. The stale, pungent, earthy smell of soot. Filth. Microscopic particles of metal that fill my lungs.
I’ve never been on the T before. While the others might be bored by the thought of traveling underground, it’s a shameful thrill for me. We buy tickets at the glass booth, stuff them into the fare box, and push through the turnstile. More rushing air. The faraway metal-on-metal screech of a train slowing down.
As planned, waiting for us down on the platform are Griff, Leo, and two guys I’ve seen around school but never met. Carling rushes up to Leo, who gives her a self-conscious hug, and Griff moves close to Isabella to be swatted by her purse. The other boys are introduced as Jeffie and Mike.
With Carling still hanging from his neck, Leo glances at me. “You came.”
I nod and turn away from Carling’s eyes.
Sloane ruffles Griff’s gelled hair. “And how are you going to get into Crush, Little Man?”
He flashes a California driver’s license. His photo is badly Scotch-taped over the original, which belonged to someone named Aaron Zitzer, born in 1985. “I’m twenty-four, with a very serious growth-stunting condition called focal segmental glomerulosclerosis. Don’t tell me you’ve never heard of it.”
“I have,” says Isabella. “The actor from Diff’rent Strokes has that. But where’s your proof?”
Griff holds up a fifty-dollar bill and grins. “Here’s my proof.”
A hopeful voice comes from behind us. “You kids have a few dollars for an old geezer?”
We all turn around to see a life-worn man sitting on the bench by the tracks with a huge bottle of wine on his lap. All around him is evidence of his vagabond existence: ripped sleeping bag blackened with city grime, sacks full of rotted cardboard and bits of cloth, a rickety stroller stuffed with filthy jackets and plastic bags filled with plastic bags.
“Good thing you ladies have us around,” says Griff. His nose is so stuffed tonight it sounds like he’s underwater. “If only to stop Sloaney from falling in love with the locals.”
I sneak another glance at the homeless man, paying particular attention to the layers of T-shirts under his shirt. The hero wrapper making his pocket bulge. The battered ladies’ purse strapped across his chest.
“London has inspired me,” says Carling. She fishes through her tiny patent bag and pulls out a twenty. “You people are looking at the new Carling Burnack. The Carling Burnack who cares.” She turns to face the man and flashes him a smile.
“Leave him alone, Carling,” says Leo.
With a flirty wink, she spins around and sashays toward the man, swinging her hips as though she’s headed down a fashion runway. It’s pretty clear her actions have little to do with philanthropy and everything to do with being the center of attention.
The blackened tunnel behind us starts to rumble, then roar, with an oncoming train. The money in Carling’s hand flutters, then flaps in the rushing wind. When the silver train whooshes into the station on our left, the fierce wind gust snaps the bill out of Carling’s hand and sends it bucking and darting through the air until it loses force somewhere over the empty tracks on the other side, and somersaults down to the ground below the platform.
“Aw, hell,” wails Carling. “You try to be charitable one goddamned time …”
The homeless man waves his hand, looking resigned to what is probably only a minor disappointment in the lousy scheme of his life. “Thanks anyway, princess,” he says. “God will remember you.”
Carling ignores him and hands her purse to Leo. “I’m going after it.”
“You are not,” says Leo. “You’ll get yourself killed.”
She looks at him as if he’s crazy. “It’s only about eight feet down. I’ve jumped off boathouses higher than that.”
“Yes,” says Isabella, “into lakes. The Red Line is filled with rats. Plus there’s the third rail. And a train could come at any moment. Don’t do it, Carling.”
“There’s a ladder right there.” Carling points to a spot near the mouth of the tunnel where a thin black ladder leads down to the tracks. “I’ll be back up in ten seconds.” She presses herself against Leo. “If I get hurt, will you save me?”
“Me? I’m not jumping onto the train tracks.”
She slithers her arms around his neck and plays with the curls at his collar. “What if I got pushed? Would you save me then?”
“No way.”
Griff snorts. “Why should the boy ruin a perfectly good pair of jeans? It’s not like it was me who needed saving. Now that would be worth wasting some denim.”
Leo laughs. “Not quite. But I would point out the girls who pushed you to the cops.”
Carling pulls away from him and wanders to the edge of the empty tracks. Behind us, the other train closes its doors and pulls away. For a moment, it looks as if she’s just waiting for a train like anyone else.
“Don’t do it,” says Isabella.
“She won’t,” Griff says. “You know Carling, she’s just gunning for attention.”
Carling looks back at us. She doesn’t belong down here. With her wild, sunstreaked waves flung across her right shoulder and dewy olive skin, it’s as if someone has lassoed the perfect summer day, sculpted it into female perfection, and set it up against a backdrop of soot-stained billboards and blackened exit signs to show just how depr
essing it is down here. It’s pretty clear Leo has noticed. His eyes are drinking her in as if parched. She blows him a kiss, which makes his mouth twitch to one side. Then, without any warning, she jumps.
We gasp and rush to the edge of the platform. Leo, Sloane, and I get there first, along with the homeless man, to find her sitting in a giggling, inebriated heap between the tracks, the rumpled twenty in her hand.
“Carling, get up here now!” I plead.
“I think I’m drunk,” she says. “But I got my money back.”
“Now, Carling,” says Leo. “Straight to the ladder and climb up.”
“You’re so cranky, Leo,” she says. She points at all of us, laughing. “Hey, it’s like you guys are my audience.” With that, she stands, starts humming and fake stripping, pulling off my mother’s sweater and twirling it on a finger above her head while she swings her hips.
“Carling,” says Leo. “Cut it out. Climb up now!”
She giggles, dropping my sweater into the grime. “Look. The third rail. Should I pee on it?”
We all shout, “No!”
I feel a faint rumble beneath my feet. “A train’s coming! Please climb up, Carling!”
“I don’t hear it.”
“Carling, now,” shouts Leo. “Up the ladder this minute!”
She crosses her arms and looks at me, an evil smile spreading across her face. We can hear the train now; the sound inside the tunnel changes from a distant hum to a roar. “Hey, London. Why don’t you come down here and get me? Doesn’t that sound fun?”
She wouldn’t. No way. Even Carling Burnack wouldn’t resort to this kind of blackmail. “Me?” I squeak. “I’m not climbing down there.”
“No? If I were you I’d rethink it. Because you never know. All this danger just might force me to start doing yoga.”
You sick and twisted little bitch. You freak-of-the-earth sicko. You scab on the flesh of humanity. I should stand perfectly still. Ignore her. But I can’t. My heart clashes against my ribs as I step closer to the ledge and squat down. “Carling, this is crazy talk.”
“Jesus Christ, Carling,” says Leo. “Get the hell up here!”
“No.” She juts out her chin like a stubborn toddler. “Not until London comes down.”
A faint reflection of headlights illuminates the tunnel walls but I have to go. I don’t even care if she tells on me. She’s drunk, she’s insane, and she’ll be killed if I stand here any longer. Tears sting my eyes and my body is shaking so hard I think I might pass out. The roar of the train is getting louder; the headlights are now in full view. A horn blares. Carling looks straight at me. “You better hurry, London. I don’t want to die.”
I spin around backward and step on the ladder. It’s greasy with soot and one foot slips. I right myself and start down.
People at the other end of the station race to the mouth of the tunnel, waving their arms, coats, briefcases, anything to get the driver’s attention. The horn blares again and the brakes screech so hard I think my ears will split. Everyone, everywhere is screaming. It’s all for nothing. The driver is doing everything he can, but a high-speed train needs a certain distance to stop and Carling isn’t twenty feet from the mouth of the tunnel.
In one motion, Leo yanks me up to the platform and jumps off the ledge. I fall hard and roll over to see him down on the tracks, where he barrels into Carling with his shoulder, stands, and heads for the ladder. He races up the rungs and dives up and onto the platform. They both hit the ground seconds before the face of the train bursts into the station.
We all drop to our knees around Carling, who is only mildly shaken by what happened. The train inches into position and the doors open. Strangers pour out of the back end of the train and step around us. Train employees crowd our little heap, looking down at us, reprimanding. The conductor arrives and shouts something I’ll never remember. Everything has become too blurry to be real.
Leo crawls over to me; his face is smeared with soot and he looks angry. “What were you thinking?”
Wait—he’s mad at me? I’m shivering now and wrap my arms around myself, hunched over my knees. “She was going to be killed!”
He squeezes his lips together and stands up, pulling me to my feet. I guess that’s it. I’m back on his naughty list.
The stationmaster arrives and now we’re being led to an office under threats of police arrest. As we trudge along, still in our own personal bubbles of shock, Carling flirts with him, explaining she lost her balance and just tipped over the edge. Whoopsie. She looks back at us and giggles. “You should have seen your faces, guys. You were, like, so freaked.”
No one answers. Sloane catches my eye. Her expression is flat. Worn out. As if she might be feeling, as I am, that Carling’s friendship just isn’t worth it. Then Carling turns to Leo, who by some miracle is holding my dirty sweater. “Leo, you saved me. You totally rock as a boyfriend.”
“Save it,” he says, his face flushed. “You and I were done the moment you stepped off the platform.”
Carling grins, sticks out her tongue at him, snatches up my sweater, and follows the stationmaster into an inner office where two policemen are waiting. I have absolutely no worries about either her freedom or her relationship.
(What Carling Burnack Gets = What Carling Burnack Wants)2
chapter 23
the kiss after the kiss
Other than the crowd outside the Central Square warehouse—a dirty, low brick building with boarded-up windows wedged between enormous buildings with signs that could be a hundred years old—you’d never guess there was a massive party going on inside. The place is packed with teenagers, probably from every part of Boston, maybe even beyond. But even with all these people, I spot tons of kids from Ant: the Benadryl girls, the kid from pre-law who has the neck of a giraffe, some of the girls who’d been in line behind me the day I didn’t pay for my yoga pants.
The fun was over for me before we arrived. The flashing strobe lights, the throbbing bodies on the dance floor, the stench of alcohol and puke—they have no magic for me. All I want is to go home and make sure Dad put more lotion on his hands.
As expected, Carling sweet-talked her way out of trouble with the police. Smiled, flirted, swayed her slender hips, and convinced them her tumble was the fault of her new Italian shoes, the towering heels of which seemed a bit wobbly. Before she left the office, she practically had the cops ready to fly to Milan and apprehend the designer himself.
I can’t say as much for her relationship with Leo. He disappeared the moment we arrived at Crush and I haven’t seen him since. Griff’s fictitious disease didn’t fool anyone at the door, but a few of the guys from school snuck him up the fire escape and through some upstairs window. He won’t last long in here. Even if he’s kept in dark corners, it’s a matter of minutes before either his puniness or his obnoxiousness gives him away. As it is now, he’s surrounded by a half dozen model-type girls, who must have been dazzled enough by his celebrity disease and his fake California address to bump and grind with him from north, south, east, and west on the dance floor.
As soon as we got here, Carling, Izz, and Sloane met up with Willa and a few others from school and headed upstairs to some really dark room they call the Cave. The entire floor is built up to about waist level—making the ceiling so low you can only crawl inside—and covered in scratchy industrial carpet. The only light in the room comes from the hall or the plasma TV at the far end that no one is watching. Kids lie strewn about, propped up against pillows and walls.
Willa leads the way inside, climbing up onto the platform and slithering on hands and knees to a clearing in the back corner. The other girls follow.
“I think I’m going to have my room built up like this,” says Isabella as I approach. “Who needs furniture?”
Sloane points to a blond guy posing against the opposite wall. He’s wearing a tuxedo, with the tie and shirt collar undone, and from the way his head is bobbing, he looks hammered. “He’s cute in a rich-bo
y-just-gambled-away-his-fortune kind of way.”
Carling nods and pulls a small bottle of vodka from her purse. She takes a long gulp from the bottle and squeezes her eyes shut with disgust before passing the bottle to Izz. “I agree. Go talk to him.”
Sloane grabs the bottle and sips, still eyeing the guy. Vodka spills down her throat and soaks the neck of Isabella’s blouse. She wipes her collarbone and smiles. “Nah. He’s wasted.”
“So are you.” Carling snorts, pointing at Sloane’s wet shirt.
“I’m not wasted. I’m clumsy.”
The bottle is pushed into my hand. I sip, swishing the vodka around my mouth as if it can wash away this entire evening, but all it does is burn the inside of my cheeks like Dad’s mouthwash.
Carling says to Sloane, “I’ll give you ten bucks to crawl over to him and retie his tie. But you have to talk dirty to him while you do it.”
Sloane shrieks with amused disgust. “I’m not talking dirty to him!”
“Then just do up his tie.” Izz places a crisp ten on the carpet in front of her feet. “Go.”
“I’ll do it for fifty.”
“No way!”
Carling pulls out two twenties. “That’s fifty. Now go.”
Sloane grins and crawls across the floor. The guy pushes his shaggy hair out of his eyes and perks up when she settles herself beside him. It’s too noisy to hear what they’re saying, but Sloane is doing an awful lot of blushing and hair flipping. At one point she touches his dangling tie but doesn’t tie it. Carling stomps her foot and waves the little pile of money, but Sloane clearly likes this guy. Without looking away from him, she shoots Carling the finger.
“How dull,” Carling says with a pout. She hands the ten back to Isabella. “Sloaney went and fell in love.”
“I’m glad,” I say. “It shows she has a soul.”
Isabella eyes me. “God, London. You’re so predictable.”
I just shrug.
Sloane comes crawling back to us. “Okay, guys. I’m totally into this guy. You know who he is? His mom is Astrid Saatchi, the—”
