All of which meant that I probably shouldn’t call Beckett, even if I remembered his number, which I wasn’t sure that I did.
I glanced up at the 1-800-BANKRUPTCY ad and realized that I at least knew Cary’s number: I Cruise. I knew my home number, my dad’s work number, and—I was almost positive—both my parents’ cell phones. Realizing that made me feel a little better. But then I thought about Kat once again and remembered I had no way to contact her—and she had no way to contact me—and I was back to panic again.
What. Are You Going. TO DO?!
“Seventh Avenue,” the announcer said, and I looked out the window as the train started to slow down. I rubbed the dog’s fur with my thumb again as I tried to think about my next steps. Just a tiny bite of the whale—not everything, just what I needed to do right now. And what I needed to do right now was find Kat. Even though I was still furious, even though I was reeling from the loss of Ophelia, we still needed to find each other.
If I got off at this station, I could just switch back to go downtown two stops, and hopefully Kat would still be there on the platform. It was what I’d always been taught growing up: if I got separated from my parents, wait. Don’t go looking for them, they would find me. I had to believe that Kat was following the same advice. Because otherwise… I couldn’t think about that. That was eating the whole whale, and nobody could do that.
So Kat would be there, and we’d move past our fight somehow, and I’d get us up to Columbia. I’d been annoyed when Kat just expected me to have the answer, but I did, in fact, remember where we were supposed to be going. Ever since my phone had gotten wrecked, I’d been repeating it on a low loop in the back of my head so I wouldn’t lose it—B or D to Columbus Circle, transfer to the 1. Take the 1 train to 116th, and Mateo is in the dorm at 600 West 113th.
The train came to a stop, and I got off, looking around the station. Brad looked around too—his panting seemed to have lessened a little. There were pockets of Manhattan I felt I could navigate, mostly the blocks directly around West 72nd Street, where my dad’s apartment was, and East Fifty-Third, where his office was. But aside from that, the city was just so big, so fast, so intimidating. Did real New Yorkers get a sense of home when they got out at their particular subway stop, know all their favorite spots, feel that they could walk astride the city like it was theirs? I wasn’t sure—I had certainly never felt like that. I was just scurrying around it, head down, hoping I wouldn’t be found out, an interloper with a scarlet S—for suburbs—that everyone could see.
Unlike the previous station, this one was practically deserted, and less well-lit. As I looked around to try and find the downtown track, I could see that the pillars, the walls, and practically every available surface were plastered with papers that detailed all the track changes and delays at this particular station.
I walked closer to a series of the papers to try and understand what they were saying. There were the circles with the subway letters and numbers in them, and I tried to make sense of it as Brad nudged my hand with his head, like he was trying to tell me he wanted to be scratched. I hesitated—what if he had fleas and that was why he was itchy?—then gave him a quick scratch behind the ears. When I stopped, he nudged my hand with his head again, more aggressively this time, and I tried not to laugh as I scratched him again. The papers made no sense to me—the leaflet on top seemed to contradict the one below it—and I took a breath, then tried to read them calmly, without emotion, the way my dad told me he always had to break down briefs and court decisions. I was starting to read them again when I looked over and saw a guy heading toward me. He had pale skin and bleached-blond hair and looked like he was in his early twenties. I gave him a half wave, figuring that easier than trying to decode the MTA’s flyers would just be to ask someone what was happening with the trains.
“Hi,” I said, with an apologetic smile. “Do you know—” But I never got to finish, because the guy was suddenly much closer to me than I’d anticipated, and I could see the flash of a blade in his hand.
“Gimme your phone,” he said, his voice low and menacing. “Now.”
CHAPTER 10
Kat
In last year’s production of A Midsummer Night’s Dream, I’d had a stage fight with Dara Chapman.
I’d played Helena, even though I really wanted Hermia, which Dara got, despite the fact that I was shorter than her. Stevie was Titania, and the whole thing had been set at a Coachella-esque music festival; the critic in the local paper had hated it. We’d worked through the fight choreography for weeks, but in the tech rehearsal, when we were just supposed to be marking, one of the punches that she was supposed to have pulled went wide and hit me, hard, right in the stomach.
A gut punch.
It had left me gasping and fighting to get my breath back, but even more than that—it had been the shock of it all, the unexpectedness of it. And that was exactly what I felt as I stood on the subway platform, watching Stevie disappear uptown in the B train without me.
It’s okay, it’s okay, it’s okay, I repeated to myself like a mantra. Stevie had seen me not get on the train. She was going to come right back.
And when she did, everything was going to be okay. Because Stevie was turning around to come to me, because she would know that I was staying put. That was what you did, after all. If you got separated, you waited in place for the person you were separated from to come and find you, you didn’t go off chasing them. It was basic elementary-school logic.
I swallowed hard as I shifted my weight from foot to foot. I didn’t even want to move. I didn’t want to sit on one of the wooden benches along the back wall, next to a pay phone. I didn’t want to go anywhere that might prevent Stevie from finding me the second she got off the other train. Which was coming soon now. It had to be. Any minute. Any minute.
I forced myself to look out at the tracks, trying to stay in the moment, but everything that had just happened was pushing its way through in my thoughts. The fight we’d just had—the things she’d said to me—the things you said to her, the quiet, honest voice in my head piped up. We’d never had a fight like that, ever. But it wasn’t my fault that Stevie held on to things so tight that when she finally said how she felt, her face practically melted off. And I was just responding to her.…
It hit me a second later that I was doing just what she said I did, not taking responsibility. But whatever. We would sort it all out when she got off the train. As soon as she got here. Any minute now.
The B train pulled into the station on the downtown track and I scanned over all the passengers getting off, looking for any hint of Stevie and Brad. I could practically see her, stepping off the train onto the platform, throwing up her arms in comedic frustration, coming over to join me. Any second now.
But then the train doors closed and the train moved on—and she wasn’t there.
My heart thudded harder, and my it’s going to be okay mantra suddenly sounded to my own ears like a question. Because if she didn’t come—which of course she would—but if she didn’t—
I made myself keep breathing so I wouldn’t panic. Big breaths, from my diaphragm, the way Mr. Campbell had taught us. Pre-monologue, high-note breaths. And while I felt a little calmer, it didn’t change the fact that I was alone in New York—a place I was not supposed to be—which was not good.