I laughed, a bit anxiously, a dry, sandpapery sound. “Me, working at El Cielo?” That was crazy; it would be like stalking. “Thank you. Thank you so much. But I would be an inconvenience. A trouble to you, even. Underfoot and all that. And I’m really busy with school. So I’m not…” My barricaded defenses sounded false. Isabella could see right through me. I looked down at the reddening scorch mark of coffee across my wrist.
She knows about the accident.
Looking back into her black eyes, I was sure of it. She knew about Anthony Travolo. She knew what had happened, and she also knew that once I’d loved to cook, that cooking had been my joy and comfort. She knew, and she pitied me.
“It would be the right diversion,” she said.
“You’re very kind. It’s amazing that you would offer me your kitchen. But I…I don’t think I can.”
Such a weak response. All that I wanted to say and instead I said nothing. Mom was exiting the post office. Her brow furrowed when she saw that I was speaking with someone. Isabella straightened, turning to follow my gaze.
“Entonces,” she said quickly. “You have the address. We are open six days, six nights a week. Closed on Monday.” She hurried off. Her head—nearly doll-sized and much too fragile—was bowed against the wind as she pushed in the direction of the subway.
My hands gripped the steering wheel; I was braced for Mom’s questions.
“Who was that?” she asked as she opened the car door.
“Some lady, asking for directions.”
“But you didn’t know her? You seemed to know her.”
“Nope.”
Thankfully, she said no more. We drove home in silence. Whatever sliver of nerve had given me the confidence to think I could drive this car—even poorly—was gone. I’d lost. I bumped the curb twice and almost turned the wrong way down a one-way street. At least Mom didn’t say anything, for which I was grateful.
“You think I’m not ready,” I said once I’d gotten us into the garage.
“Practice will help,” she answered. “But maybe you and Holden could figure out another, nondriving plan for tomorrow? And then you and I can practice again together. We’ll ease into this.”
“Sure.” No way. I was going, and I was going with Kai. If Kai was with me, I’d be my best me. For driving, for everything.
Inside, Dad had made enough tacos to serve a soccer team, but soon I grew weary of him asking me if I wanted to have Holden or Rachel over for dinner.
No, I didn’t. I couldn’t. I wouldn’t.
Upstairs in my room, the night stretched empty.
I played and replayed my saved voice mail.
“Hey, Emb, it’s me. We are on for Coney Island—I got Chris to cover my shift, so…totally looking forward to Saturday. Got me thinking, too, that I haven’t been out there since I was like, what, eight years old? Okay, so I got class in twenty, better roll. Looking forward to it. Said that. (with a sheepish laugh) Awright.”
My lips moved along with his words. I smiled every time I heard him laugh. Each time I played the message, it was like the very first time. Over and over and over again, and it never got old.
My body was sleepy, but my brain was avid for more activity. I resaved Kai’s message, did some homework, then spent a bit of mindless time online. My usual searches, my usual obsessions. I went into my mail. I’d been searching my in-box archives for so long that I thought I’d covered everything. In my downloads, there’d been some other invitations to art exhibits, to a documentary showing at the Landmark Sunshine, and an invitation to a student group show at LaGuardia High School, where Anthony Travolo was listed showing his work along with a bunch of other kids, including Maisie.
But I’d placed this email in a folder marked “Travel.”
It was the only email. It was from him.
Okay, you wanted a story about something from fifth grade. You are kind of freakishly specific sometimes, Leferrier.
But I’m at your service.
So here it is: An All-True Fifth-Grade Story by Me, A. Travolo.
First time I struck out with a girl was fifth grade. Anna-Luisa Renaldi. I knew I’d caught her attention earlier that day, with my mucho kickass oral report on Ralph Nader (an A-minus, my only A that year). Me and my swollen head were on the playground at lunchtime recess when I saw: it was time to make my play. Problem was, I had nothing to offer except a few lame Jet Li moves. I’d practiced jujitsu over the summer. The more Anna-Luisa watched me, the stupider and riskier I got, until in my final action-hero sequence, I jumped and swung out into a high-kick slash half-gainer.
Instant wipeout. Face, meet pavement. Pavement, face.
No way to recover from that one. I blamed greasy monkey bars. I blamed my no-friction tennis sneakers. I blamed Anna-Luisa’s shiny eyes. I blamed all of her schoolyard girlfriends for chattering and pointing at me like a pack of monkeys.
But she pretty much never looked at me again.
I’m too old for the monkey bars. But now I think there’s a pattern to the insanity. When I saw you that night, I remembered every single thing about Anna-Luisa, and what I’d thought was love. Or at least my best fifth-grade version of it. I knew it all over again times a thousand.
I’m not wiping out this time, Ember. And when I see you next, I’m gonna show you my best Jet Li. Watch for it.
His email address was there in the address bar. On impulse, I sent a blank message to the account. It bounced back to me—null, of course.
My heart pounding, I printed his note, folded it, and buried it in my jewelry box along with everything else. His story knew how to make me laugh. It was sweet and charming. It was Anthony, talking to me so easily, so winningly—this guy and I had connected, and I couldn’t or wouldn’t look deeply enough in my heart or my mind to find him there. The boy I’d killed. Something was wrong with me—more wrong, even, than what Dr. P and all the Addington staff and my parents and Holden and Rachel and every last person in my orbit could begin to understand.
How could I have forgotten him? I was a freak.
23
Blink and Gone
I woke up in a fog. Finding Anthony’s note last night had spiraled me into a dark and restless mood. I hadn’t been able to complete my homework, or even a clear thought. Instead I’d roamed around the house, accepting Mom’s cups of tea and half watching television, and I’d gone to bed unsettled. Awake again, I was wrapped in a thinner skin of the same depressed confusion.