by S. Massery
We laugh, and I keep following him like a lost puppy. When we round the corner, I have a clear view of the harbor and the ferry docked at the end of a pier.
“No,” I say. I don’t think I can stomach a boat—even a huge ferry.
He looks at me, absorbs my fear, and takes my hand again. “Yes. Have you done this?”
I shake my head.
“No, of course not. Yes, we’re doing this. Ellis Island, here we come!”
He pays for the ferry, which I try to stop. He pushes me back, gently, his arm going against my collarbone. A flash of heat moves through me. The attendant, a high school student from the looks of him, looks at us with big glassy eyes and waves us in the right direction.
“Charlotte,” he says.
“Avery,” I reply.
“Tell me something.”
I think and come up with: “I go to college in Chicago.”
He glances at me. “Why are you in New York? Reading in a cafe?” He clears his throat and motions me up the ramp ahead of him as an elderly gentleman checks our tickets. “Reading a spy novel in a cafe?”
I smile. “Because I had the day off of work, and I like reading.”
“Oh, right.” He nudges me with his elbow. “You like spy novels on your day off. And coffee.”
“Coffee keeps me nice,” I say with a straight face. “But you’re one to talk. You were there with a romance novel.”
“I can’t believe you don’t like romance.”
We find seats on the top deck. There are almost too many people around—kids yelling, teens leaning over the railings. For a minute, the noise is overwhelming. I shift toward Avery, focusing on the brown and gold eyes that remain steady on mine.
“I can’t believe you abducted a stranger and took her to Ellis Island,” I joke.
He puts a hand to his chest. “Oh, how you wound me.”
I laugh and gaze out toward the Statue of Liberty. “Are you from here?” I ask.
“No.” He looks out across the water, too. “No, I’m from California.”
“Oceans away.”
He turns to me and smiles. It’s so blinding, I might die. “I’m glad I’m here. Otherwise, I wouldn’t have met you.” Our knees touch, but neither of us move. It feels like we are growing something fragile between the two of us.
Once we’re off the ferry, he tugs me to the side. We follow a path around the edge of the island. “You don’t want to go in there,” he says.
I have had a lot of people telling me what to do in my life. My mother, my father, professors, bosses, ex-boyfriends... “Why?” I ask. I stop and glance back toward the doors that tourists still file through.
“Because it’s boring in there. It’s dead. Literally, everything in there is dead. Out here? This has been here the whole time. It changes as the years go on, it grows, it dies, it breathes. Come with me,” he says. I hear Jared in my head over him, whispering, come with me.
Taking it as an omen, I go.
2
Past
Mom urged me outside, but I couldn’t go. I couldn’t do anything except stare at the bus idling at the curb. How on earth was I going to start my sophomore year of high school like this? I was a mess. I had spent most of the morning—and last night—crying. My eyes were still puffy even after I held frozen spoons on them for ten minutes.
“Get going, Charlotte,” my mother snapped.
“Yes, ma’am,” I whispered. I hoisted my new backpack further up my shoulder and stepped out the door. I almost tripped going up the stairs, and I froze at the top. This was so much worse than last year: I’d had Jared, then.
Now? He was gone. Poof. Three weeks ago, just shy of his junior year of high school, he got into a fight, and his parents retaliated by throwing him into a boarding school in the middle of nowhere. There was a rumor that they had taken his laptop and cell phone, too. Mr. and Mrs. Brown were friends with my parents. Even between the four of them, I couldn’t figure anything out. I just missed my friend.
When the bus pulled up in front of the school, I leapt to my feet and practically pushed people to get off of it. I stood on the sidewalk and inhaled the damp September air. It was foggy, heavy, wet air. I pictured Jared next to me, looking off toward the parking lot. I looked, too. Rows of teachers’ cars on one side, and around the corner, the older students’ cars.
Come with me, he said. I shook my head at my imagination and entered the building.
Go away, Jared, I thought, but I didn’t mean it. What I meant was, Come back.
The first person I saw was Colby.
I tried my hardest not to flinch, I really did, but the wicked smile he gave me told me he saw it. He saw me. Instead of coming toward me, though, and leaving the embrace of the girl draped over him, he turned into her and nuzzled her neck.
It took me a minute to realize it was Leah—the one that Jared had made out with only a few weeks ago. Now that Jared was gone? It was just Colby sitting atop the social pyramid. I wasn’t sure how to feel about that.
My first class was entirely made up of sophomores, which was a comfort. We were all pretending not to be scared little chickens in the hallways, like the freshmen outwardly were; they tucked together and tried not to ruffle feathers. In this classroom, though, we were bolder. We spoke louder.
The second class was mixed. I stared at the whiteboard, letting people fill in around me, until someone kicked the back of my chair. I glanced behind me and felt the blood rush away from my face.
Colby.
“Hey, hot stuff,” he whispered. “I was hoping we’d have a class together. Maybe two or three…”
I ignored him. I always ignored him. But when I felt him so close to me, his breath on my neck, an uncontrollable shiver rushed up my back.
“I knew you were affected by me,” he said before he leaned back.
I couldn’t concentrate the rest of class. My eyes darted all over the place. Third period, I waited by the lockers down the hall—they weren’t even close to mine—and waited to see who would go inside. A minute before the bell, Colby sauntered in, and my body froze.
Jared whispered, Come with me.
I glanced toward the doors at the far end of the hall. It was in the opposite direction of the classroom, and I couldn’t make myself go anywhere near that class. I didn’t want to feel Colby staring at me for another minute.
I walked quickly toward the doors, pausing only to fiddle at a locker that wasn’t mine when a teacher hurried past. And then, I pushed through the doors, and I was free.
Where are we going? I asked the Jared in my imagination as we scanned the deserted lot.
On an adventure, he said. I jogged toward the parking lot, ducking around cars, until I got to the edge of the baseball field. The right edge was lined with a low fence; the ground dropped down beyond it, into woods. A shiver ran through me.
I wandered through the woods until I found a large boulder that seemed a good spot to sit. I pulled out my notebook and pen, hovered for a second, and started writing.
Dear Jared, I wrote.
It has been three weeks, and I miss you. It’s the first day of school. Colby looks at me like I’m a piece of meat. It doesn’t matter, whatever you said to him, because he’s gotten worse. How could you get in trouble when he didn’t?
I miss you. I said that already. I’ll say it again: I miss you.
Why don’t you return my calls?
A tear dropped onto the page, startling me.
I’m on an adventure, I continued. Although, I’m sitting alone in the woods behind school writing to you, so, I guess I need to step it up a bit. It’s the first day of school and I’m skipping a class—can you believe that? I hope they don’t tell my parents. I remember you used to skip your last period to come get me from the middle school.
I groaned and threw down my pen. I couldn’t do this.
I closed the notebook and went back to school.
3
“Hi, Mom!” It is best to start our
conversation on a cheerful note, even if it’s slightly forced. She can never tell the difference.
“Charlie, honey, we miss you!”
I roll my eyes. She starts every conversation this way: by buttering me up before dropping me in the frying pan, depending on how the conversation goes.
“I miss you, too. How’s your week?”
I hear her start to settle into her chair. That thing has developed a nasty squeak. She converted the side parlor into her office, and she always looks tiny behind the massive oak desk. It is where she takes care of all her event planning, as well as the phone calls to her daughter. That action alone says, Charlie, you’re work. “Well, the Browns were sad to hear that you weren’t coming home this summer. Jared was asking about you! He’s gotten quite a bit cuter, I think—”
“No, that wouldn’t happen.” I haven’t seen him since we were kids… since he was whisked away before his junior year of high school. “Isn’t he in D.C.?” I cringe on the inside when I realize I know—and admitted to—his whereabouts. It’ll just spur my mother on further.
“Yes, dear, but he came home for the summer. I’ll text you his number in case you want to catch up with him. Your father has already booked your train ticket home for the weekend before school starts, so make sure to clear your schedule for then. You can reconnect with the Browns, as well, although Jared may be back in school….” I sense her frown through the phone.
I close my eyes as she continues to prattle on about the neighborhood gossip. Every time I blink, I see Avery’s face. His smile. His hand in mine. I can’t believe he took me to Ellis Island. I can’t believe we didn’t go in. We were there for under an hour. We made a short circuit around, bought some food, and got on the ferry back to land. We parted ways shortly after that, which left me feeling suspiciously empty. I hadn’t even gotten his last name.
My mother stops talking with a feeling of expectation; I had probably missed a question hanging in the air. I lie, “Sorry, Mom, you broke up for a minute there. Do you have bad service?”
“Well, there is one corner of my office that seems to fade in and out quite a bit. It must be all the wires and such. I wanted to see if you needed anything from me. You good?”
I swallow. Crying or complaining would just make her angry. She likes a happy, perfect daughter. She doesn’t ever ask how my week is going; she expects I can handle it. Before tears can form in my eyes, I say, “Yeah, I’m great.”
“Remember, yes, not yeah.”
“Sorry, Mom. Yes, I’m great. Can you have Dad send over the train ticket information if he hasn’t already?”
“I can do that. And look up Jared—they were quite insistent on your renewed contact!” The fact that she has brought him up more than twice makes me uneasy. I come up with an excuse to get out of the conversation that is quickly unravelling. Something about dinner on the stove. She accepts that without objection, and ends the call with, “Love you, honey! Don’t forget to eat your veggies!”
4
A week passes before I make it back to the cafe where I met Avery. I have a knot in my belly, directly related to the possibility of seeing him again.
I order an iced coffee, barely glancing around at the few patrons. He isn’t here.
Biting back a wave of disappointment, I leave the cafe and head toward one of the small residential parks in the neighborhood. My favorite book is in my purse, and I am not going to waste the last hours of sunlight. There are some benches around the edge of the park and along the pathways. But the true draw is the maze in the center. Of the many parks scattered around the neighborhood, each one has a maze with a different configuration. In the center are the more comfortable benches, a sacred thing in New York City. Of the many decisions I’ve made in my relatively short life, this is a good one. Finding a haven.
New York City is almost three hours from my hometown in Northampton. That seems almost far enough away to escape my parents. My mom called twice since I spoke to her about their Labor Day party, which is legendary among my parents’ friends. It’s an extravagant display of excess wealth. Men are required to wear ties, although coats are optional depending on the weather. Women either wear dresses or are refused entry. That had happened one summer. My cousin, Nathan, had brought a date and forgot—or “forgot,” depending on who you ask—to tell her the dress code. My mother and her sister, my cousin’s mom, threw fits. He and his date walked out and didn’t come back. I guess the shame was too much to bear. Or it was an elaborate excuse to get out of a stuffy party.
Speaking of shame, I am loath to admit that I dislike my job with the blog that has employed me this summer. I hate the research, and the political lean of the site is in an undesirable direction. My coworkers don’t trust me, and I have found that my fact-checking is often double checked. It irritates me more than I care to admit, but since my boss refuses to tell them to stop or tell me that I’m not doing a good job, I force myself to ignore it. Whining would do no good. My dad would turn red in the ears and say, Are you trying to embarrass this family? Maybe, Dad. I haven’t quite decided yet.
The iced coffee is gone by the time I circle the outer edge of the park—a ritual to ensure I won’t be followed into the maze by someone dangerous. I follow the curve of the shrubs until I find the entrance. The hedges extend a foot above my head, making it impossible to see out. After two turns that lead to a dead end, I find the center and let the victorious thrill roll through me. When I get there, I can’t help the grin that spreads across my face.
Avery sits on one of the benches, reading the same book as before.
“Well, this is a surprise,” I say.
He jerks upright, caught off guard. And then he, too, smiles.
“Charlotte.” My name sounds so rich coming out of his mouth. I step closer until I stand directly in front of him. He watches me. Takes my hand in his. Tugs until I am seated next to him. “What brings you here?”
I blurt exactly what I think: “I’m not stalking you, Avery.”
He laughs, the sound exploding out of him. I almost flinch. The birds behind us do the same, twittering and flying away. I watch them with a vague envy of their wings.
“I like you, Charlotte. Why have I never seen you before at my favorite coffee shop and my favorite garden?”
“Your favorite coffee shop?” I raise my eyebrows. “I’ve been going there for almost a month now and have never seen you.” Quieter, “I would’ve remembered you.”
My hand is still in his. He easily threads our fingers again, palm pressed to palm. I hope my hand isn’t too sweaty.
“I feel…” He stops. “I would have remembered you, too. I don’t know you yet, but I want to.”
My heart skips.
Is that it? Is that the warning your heart gives you before falling in love? Another ten minutes of sitting with Avery, and I will be doomed.
His free hand comes up and cups my cheek. He brushes his thumb across my lower lip. His hand slides down, as light as a feather on my neck, his thumb capturing the rapid beat of my heart.
Slow down, heart. I’m not ready for this.
Avery smiles again. It’s softer, the creases at the corners of his eyes not as prominent. My heart squeezes again.
I haven’t kissed anyone in over a year. What if I don’t remember how?
And then I don’t have time to think anymore, because he leans in and I close my eyes like I’ve done this with him a million times. His hand is still at my neck, his thumb hovering over my pulse. It moves a bit, a gentle caress, right before his lips touch mine.
It’s everything a first kiss should be. Sweet. Innocent. A close-mouthed affair. We pull away and stare at each other some more; all we do lately is stare into each other’s eyes, and then we are kissing with fervor. Our teeth clash once, but the awkwardness is lost as his tongue runs along my lower lip right before he nips it. He tastes like peanut butter.
My hands slide up his arms, trailing my nails along the back of his neck as my fingers push
into his hair and scrape his scalp. He groans into my mouth; his hand leaves my throat and twists around my braid. He tugs on my hair, tilting my head for better access. His other hand works its way up my rib cage, splayed fingers dangerously close to my breasts.
And all at once, it hits me that I am making out with a stranger. Kissing a stranger with more passion than I ever had for any ex-boyfriends. Sharing germs with a guy who I haven’t talked to for more than two hours total, whose last name is a mystery, whose life is a mystery.
Avery must sense my sudden hesitation. He pulls away, eyes cracked half open.
I lean away. Just because it was a good kiss doesn’t mean I want to invite it to happen again.
“Are you okay?”
“What’s your last name?” It comes out as a mumble. My cheeks burn.
“Rousseau.” He winks. “And my middle name is Carter.”
“Avery Carter Rousseau,” I say. It’s a pretty string of names.
“And you, Charlotte? What is your last name?”
His phone starts ringing before he can finish speaking. He raises an eyebrow at me, prompting me to answer him as he digs out his phone.
“Galston.”
I don’t see the caller ID, but his face darkens. He leans forward, pressing a quick kiss to my lips. “I’m sorry, Charlotte Galston, I have to take this.”
And then he is gone.
5
I can’t wait to get away from this party.
My dress is suffocating. The high neckline presses against my collarbone in a way that feels like fingers strangling me. I wind through the house, avoiding hallways and rooms where people are gathered. It’s a yearly thing: my parents hosting an end of the summer party filled with coworkers, friends, and family. It is always a weird combination of people they don’t quite like, people they do like, and people they love. My parents are masters at encasing everyone in the same phrase: So good to see you!
I make it to the kitchen without being called upon, into the pantry, and up the antiquated servants’ staircase to the second floor. I pause outside my bedroom door, pressing my forehead to the cool paint for a second. Further down the hall, in one of the other bedrooms, it sounds like people are arguing. After a minute, a girl bolts out of the room. She freezes when she sees me, one hand on her hair and the other tugging the hem of her dress down. I get the distinct impression of watching a deer frozen before an oncoming car, or a predator—Am I the predator? She is delicate and beautiful, but in a chaotic kind of way. Her eyes are bloodshot, dark brown orbs, open wide as if she’s seen too much, and can’t stop seeing too much. Her full lips hang open, mouth gaping. Her whole body is still until she sniffs, swiping a hand under her nose.
