Everything has become suspended; even T has stopped struggling. Everyone’s eyes are on her, waiting.
“Yeah, right,” she says. “I’m such a slut. I’ve made out with your cousin. Just like I’ve made out with that leper back there in the haunted house.” She reaches up and flicks his hand off of her. “Enough, Marcus. Enough.”
It’s some quick thinking. It’s a pretty good try, given the circumstances, but when I look at Marcus’s face, I know it hasn’t quite worked. He looks wounded, like something inside him has worked itself loose. It’s a face that I’ve known so well, one that I’ve dreamed about, loved, but I can’t help what springs to my mind when I see it, a moment later, twist with rage: He’ll kill them both.
“Izzy…” he says.
No one finds out what he means to say, though, because a mountainous security guard comes crashing around the corner at that moment, followed by one of the missing girls, and I can see now that she’s younger than I first thought. Not trashy, just a scared fourteen-year-old wearing too much makeup.
“Can’t have y’all makin’ trouble out here,” the guard growls in a bass voice, and he rolls his bulk right up to Marcus, sensing somehow that he’s in charge here. “Get outta here.” Tyrone lets go of T, and T kind of slides down the wall, but Marcus looks anything but scared and gives the guard a disdainful thousand-yard stare. The guard is unarmed. There’s not even real menace in his voice.
“This here, is this your property?” Marcus says. He runs his hand over his head like he’s contemplating something. “Nope. I can’t see how any of this is your business.”
The guard looks taken aback for a second, and then he looks pretty pissed off. “You got some nerve, kid. I said, get outta here.” He takes a walkie-talkie out of his belt. “You don’t want to get tangled up with the police.”
Slow, like a cobra backing down, Marcus takes a step away from the guard, puts his hands up in false apology, and then he turns to Izzy.
“Let me guess,” he says. “You’re staying with T?”
She doesn’t answer. With a tiny head movement to signal his lackeys, Marcus ambles toward the street.
“See you later, cuz,” he says over his shoulder, grinning broadly, and his friends laugh and whistle as they follow him.
THE QUEEN
HE WAS A PRINCE, REALLY, THE SECURITY GUARD. HE let us follow him into his tiny office, where he gave tissues to Tristan for his nose and to Tina, Frodo’s would-be friend, for her running mascara. Then he let us watch on the security monitors as Marcus and company lingered in front of the haunted house, waiting for us, then got bored and wandered off.
“You leave and go straight home,” the guard told us. “But not the route you’d normally take.” He walked us to the door. “Y’all are good kids, I can tell. You don’t need to go getting mixed up in that.” This made Tina burst into a fresh round of tears, and she ran off, disappearing down Essex Street. I wondered, much later, if she remembered any of our names, if she heard about anything that happened after.
Every time we passed beneath a streetlight, I could tell that Tristan’s face looked terrible, already puffy and misshapen. He told us that Tyrone had gotten a couple of punches in before we’d shown up, but it had been the first one from Marcus that might have broken his nose. Brianna told him it didn’t look broken. I thought it did, but I kept my mouth shut. Other than that, we didn’t say much, just walked down Delancey, hands shoved in our pockets and our eyes darting around for any sign of Marcus and the others. Luck was on our side; we never saw them.
It felt like a small victory when we got to the bridge, as though we’d made it, we’d gotten away. And then a second later, the thought rushed at me that we were never going to get away, because we were going back to the neighborhood, where Marcus was always half a block away. But my feet kept moving, because where else was there to go? We joined the flow of people, Hasidic Jews and hipster twentysomethings, walking up and over the bridge on their way back to Brooklyn. In front of us, a girl with an elaborate floral neck tattoo leaped onto the back of her boyfriend. Cheerful Technicolor graffiti decorated the concrete. It was Saturday night, and I felt like we were the undertakers who had shown up at a birthday party.
The one good moment was when Brianna stopped walking and pulled something out of her pocket. “Frodo’s phone,” she said. “He forgot to take it back.” I started to reach for it, wanting to see for myself how bad the photos were, but before I could, Brianna took a slow, major league–style windup and sent the phone flying over the high fence railing and into the East River. We were far too high to see the splash it made, but it was satisfying all the same. Tristan laughed, even though the movement caused him to wince and finger his tender jaw.
When we arrived on the Brooklyn side, Brianna hopped on a bus toward her parents’ restaurant, but Tristan and I kept walking, partially out of habit and partially because we were in no hurry to get home.
“Marcus will calm down,” I said. I knew that this was wishful thinking at its finest, but I let myself keep saying the things I wanted to hear. “That’s what people do. He was angry, but now he’s cooling down somewhere.”
“Or he’s stewing in it, getting angrier.”
“But he’s your family. He’d never do anything to truly hurt you.”
“Right. He feels betrayed by his family. No one ever does anything irrational when they feel that way.”
South Williamsburg was eerily quiet, a world away from the bars and restaurants that lay to the north. We had the sidewalks mostly to ourselves except for a few men in their big fur hats running errands as Shabbat came to an end. I thought about their families waiting for them. I thought about ours waiting for us.
We came to a larger cross street and ducked inside a bodega to buy a cup of ice to hold against Tristan’s nose. On a wire rack by the door were a bunch of cheap Halloween costumes, polyester fabric tucked into cellophane packages.
“Wait,” I said. “Are any of these big enough to fit us?”
I didn’t have to explain. We bought two of the white Scream-style masks that came attached to black cloaks. They were designed for people much shorter than us, but even so, they covered us down to the waist. It would have to do. When we were a few blocks north of home, we put on the masks and parted, Tristan circling around to the end of the block closer to his building, me heading straight for the corner where my parents’ Brooklyn dream house stood.
My blood echoed unpleasantly in my ears, the throb of nervous fear, but I reached my porch without seeing Marcus or Frodo or anyone else, and I quickly switched to feeling silly for thinking the disguises necessary. I pulled the mask off and peered down the block where I thought I could see Tristan’s door open just long enough for a ghost to slip inside.
Home. I leaned against the inside of the door, my eyes closed, and allowed myself a moment of thinking about our old apartment, the smell of the foyer, the twenty-six steps (a flight of twelve, then seven, then seven) up to our floor, the wobbly table next to the front door that held my parents’ keys and umbrellas and whatnot and that must have been left behind during the move. That building had felt like home. For a second I felt sorry for myself, for having been uprooted and transported away from that safe haven. For half a second, I felt sorry for my brother.
“You’ve been out trick-or-treating, I presume?”
I jumped, startled, and lowered the Halloween mask from where I’d been clutching it to my chest. Hull was coming from the direction of the kitchen, holding a steaming mug. It smelled like the dandelion tea that I’d thought only my mother could stomach.
“Something like that,” I said. “Where are Mom and Dad?”
“Reviving date night.” The way he leaned casually against the newel post, newspaper tucked under his arm, made him look like he was about forty. “Reclaiming their identity as a couple, I think they said.”
“They’re such love children sometimes. I bet Dad wore that cologne that makes everyone gag. Sandalwood Sunse
t.”
“Everyone except for Mom. Turns her on.”
“Ew,” I said. “Don’t be gross.”
“Come upstairs,” he said, in a voice that was quiet, almost shy. “Keep me company.”
And so I followed him into his room. I hadn’t set foot in there for weeks, and it was reassuring to find that it actually resembled a bedroom now, though it was missing some of the things that had been hallmarks of his room in Manhattan. The poster listing all the Supreme Court justices in order of appointment, the carefully arranged collection of presidential biographies, the bust of Winston Churchill that he kept on his desk—all gone. I had to toss aside a book called The Drama of the Gifted Child and a biography of Elon Musk before I could drop into his creased leather desk chair.
“So, honestly: Where were you tonight?” he said, folding himself cross-legged onto the bed, carefully, so as not to spill the tea. His feigned nonchalance made my skin prickle with irritation.
“Long story,” I said. “Plus, definitely none of your business.”
“Okay, whatever. But you didn’t look very happy when you came in.”
“We both know you’re an expert on happiness.”
He shrugged.
“Why didn’t you ever tell me about the day in the park?” I said. “About Tristan?”
“Who’s Tristan?” he asked, honestly bewildered. I shut my eyes, counting the seconds it took him to figure it out, marveling at how little we now knew about each other. I got to a full seven before he said, “Oh, the chess player?” Another short pause. “Wait, are you involved in… une affaire de coeur with that guy?” I reopened my eyes in time to see his mouth drop open with the realization. Seven seconds to figure it out. Not bad, really. We were twins, after all.
“I guess you could say that.”
He cleared his throat with a careful little cough. “Wonders never cease. But isn’t he the patsy of that thug down the block?”
I wanted to snap that Marcus wasn’t a thug, but after the events of the evening, I wasn’t sure anymore. “Way to always bring nuance to your judgments, Hull.”
“That guy has an arrest record a mile long.”
“How do you know that?”
Hull sighed. “The internet exists, Izzy.”
“Yeah, but he’s a minor and… you know what, don’t tell me. Surely you have better ways of spending your time than digging for dirt on Marcus.” Of course, I was itching to know what he had found, because the memory of Marcus that night in the playground, that flash of metal in his palm, was looming large in my memory, but I didn’t want to give Hull the satisfaction.
“Look, I know you’re going to say that I have no right to interfere, but you shouldn’t mess with them. You should cut this off and run in the opposite direction. You should trust me on this one.”
“Sorry, but you don’t seem to be a trusted authority figure on how to deal with our neighbors. And besides, what do you know about Tristan? You didn’t even remember his name.”
“They don’t care about you, Izzy,” Hull said. “They’re not who you want them to be.” His voice was soft, breaking it to me gently.
“Who’s they?” I asked, daring him to say something truly racist, so I could dismiss everything he was saying, so that his warning would lose all of its credence. But he was too smart for that.
“The world, I guess.”
“So that’s it? We go through life not trusting the world? Never trusting anyone but ourselves?”
We studied each other for a few seconds. He looked small to me, sitting cross-legged on the bed, sort of fragile, like a kid at story time. It occurred to me then that he might be right, that maybe I’d spent too long being told that I was special and that I could achieve anything, when in fact the world was out to break me. “I think that’s right,” he said, finally. “Sad but true.”
“And you still think I’m naive if I disagree?”
He didn’t answer, merely stared down into his tea.
For years, talking to Hull had almost always made me feel better, but that night, I felt exhausted and panicky. We were receding from each other’s grasp, and maybe we’d already reached a point at which the changes were irreversible. I pushed myself out of the chair, but before I left, I summoned up the energy for a moment of courtesy.
“You know, I haven’t been so good these past couple months at paying attention to what’s going on with you. I assume you’re class president again?”
Hull smiled. “Nah. I missed the election while I was in the program. But it’s all good. I’m a new man now, Izzy.” Something about the way he said it was both sad and kind of admirable, and I improvised a little salute in his direction. Hull was doing his best to look out for himself in a world he believed to be cruel, and I couldn’t blame him for that, not really.
I heard him quietly say our twin word as I was walking out the door, but I was too heartbroken to say it back.
THE KNIGHT
SUNDAY IS SUPPOSED TO BE FOR LAZY UNWINDING, FOR recharging before the week starts again, but I awaken this morning with a ballooned face, a dagger-in-the-eye headache, and a sinking acknowledgment that I have a chess tournament at some school out near Coney Island that I’ve neglected to prepare for. I also can’t manage to scrape up much enthusiasm for showing my face, either to Auntie Patrice or to whomever is sitting outside my building right now, ready to beat the living crap out of me at the first word from Marcus.
I need Patrice to drive me so I don’t get jumped by Marcus or one of his henchmen on the walk to the train. No one will touch me if I’m with her; they’re not that stupid. After sitting in bed for a few minutes with my head in my hands, marinating in my own dread, I pull on some clothes and prepare to bite the bullet.
The joke is on me this morning, though, because there’s already a note from Patrice saying she has some Green Thumb event in Queens, and she’s already been gone for half an hour. With heavy fingers, I dial Mr. K’s number. It’s out of his way, but I already know that he’ll say yes and I already know that I’ll feel guilty about it.
After twenty minutes, I hear his Ford Escort wheeze around the corner before I see it. It rolls up in front of the building and slumps against the curb. Taking the stairs, I feel like one of those lab rats that learn to be fearful, anticipating a static electricity shock from the floor of their maze. Even familiar territory feels dangerous.
This is not simple paranoia. The car is right in front, only a few steps from the door, but that gives me enough time to notice that Tyrone is sitting on a stoop across the street, watching me. He grins, slides one index finger across his throat as I dive into the passenger seat.
“So we are ready, yes?” Mr. K says, with as cheerful a tone as his voice ever has, which is to say, not very.
“Sure,” I say. “Let’s go. I’m pretty sure I’ve made us late already.” I’m careful not to look through the driver’s side window toward Tyrone.
Mr. K puts the car in gear and glances at me sideways as I wipe the sweat off my forehead. He makes a tiny harrumph as he realizes I’ve been punched in the face, and I’m worried he’s going to put it in park again. But instead he sighs, eases the groaning Escort toward Franklin Avenue.
“I am not liking what I am seeing,” Mr. K mutters. “This is not good. This is because of the girl, yes?” I don’t have a good response, because it is about Izzy, but about much more than her, too. So I stay quiet and close my eyes, listen to Mr. K cluck wordlessly like a mother hen in the driver’s seat all the way to Coney Island.
A few times, looking down at the chessboard, I’ve thought about what it actually represents, what a battle must have looked like back in the ancient days when the game was invented. The spears, the clubs, the battle-axes, the maces. The mangled limbs and cleaved skulls. How close the participants had to be, face-to-face, as one drove a blade into the other’s flesh. That’s what we’re really talking about every time I take a piece.
I’m consumed by thoughts like these during the tour
nament, my nose throbbing in sympathy with the gore streaming through my imagination. I win two matches, though one is on a prayer and a stupid misstep on the part of the Korean girl I’m playing, whose eyes fill with frustrated tears before the match is even called. On a normal day, I’d feel bad for her, but I’m reduced to a more primitive state of mind. Maybe she was distracted by my pulverized mug: good. The third match twists out of my control, though with a desperate, last-ditch effort, I manage to achieve a draw. Out of the corner of my eye, I can see Mr. K take all of this in, his hands stuffed deep in his armpits, his eyebrows drooping. I know he’s disappointed in me.
I’m not matched against anyone from Westcroft, but I run into Dorie between the second and third rounds. She’s wearing a silver raincoat, even though it isn’t raining today, and she has Mike Huckabee cradled in one arm; he squeaks as she plays with the fur on his head.
“Damn,” she says. “Who did that to your face?”
It’s refreshing, I guess, that someone is willing to say it instead of carefully avoiding my face with their eyes, like all of my teammates did, but that doesn’t mean I’m going to answer the question.
“Well,” she says, dangling the guinea pig in front of my face, “Governor Huckabee would like to remind you that you’re always welcome at Westcroft.” Her white gloves smell strange, as if she’s worn them for days without washing them. The guinea pig bicycles his rear legs furiously in protest, and I feel for him in his helplessness. Dorie whisks him back into her arms and gives me a wave. “Later, gator.”
I watch her go, letting myself imagine what it would be like to go to Westcroft. In my mind, the school has morphed into a fortress that Tyrone and Frodo and even Marcus would never be able to breach. Maybe thick walls aren’t a good enough reason to transplant my life again, but I can’t keep myself from being tempted by the possibility.
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