Summer in the Invisible City (13 page)

Sam and I make a plan for Friday. We plan it over text messages, because now, apparently, Sam and I are friends who text. I'm going to meet him near his apartment and we are going to walk to Randall's Island because he says I need to see it. He told me it's bad how Manhattan kids never leave Manhattan and I need to explore more. I told him it's bad how kids from New Hampshire think they know everything about city kids just because they've lived here for a year.

I meet him on the corner of 103rd and Lexington.

“You ready for this?” he asks.

“Ready as I'll ever be,” I reply.

We walk to the eastern edge of Manhattan, where the island ends and the rushing East River and FDR highway tear across the landscape.

Sam points to a small footbridge that arcs over the river. It's bright white and delicate, almost fragile-looking, like lace.

—

Sam drags his fingers along the fence while we walk across the river, making a tinkling sound on the metal. Below us,
the water runs shiny and dark. The cars on the FDR whisk by at regular intervals.

Sam's shadow on the white is a blue puddle under his feet.

“I got an e-mail from my mom's ex-boyfriend this morning,” he says. “It was so random.”

“What did it say?” I ask.

“Just, like, whatsup.”

I wait for him to continue. When he doesn't, I say, “Is that a good thing?”

“
I guess,
” he says. “He was basically my stepdad. He lived with us from when I was five to when I was thirteen. It's kind of messed up that we don't have a relationship anymore.”

“Where does he live?” I ask.

“The town over from ours,” Sam says. “Not far. He's a math professor at a community college there. It's pretty funny. He doesn't seem like a math person. He's got tons of tattoos and he's in a punk band and stuff.”

“Oh really?” I say. “He sounds awesome.”

“He is,” Sam says. “He's the only adult I actually respect back home. Too bad I was such a little shit to him at the end.”

“Why don't you tell him that?” I ask.

“Tell him what?” he asks.

“What you just told me,” I say. “That you're sorry you were such a little shit and that he's the only adult you respect.”

Sam looks at me and then without prompting, he springs across the bridge and grabs onto the chain-link fence, his feet dangling momentarily beneath him, one of his dirty
sneakers pressing against the metal handrail. I look at him through my camera's viewfinder and take a picture. And then he pushes himself off and resumes walking.

“You're good at not talking about things you don't want to talk about,” I say when he'
s back at my side.

“See. We're both good at things.” Sam smiles. “You're good at photography and I'm good at not talking about things. And you thought I didn't have any skills.”

I laugh. “
But for real
, don't you like anything? Don't you ever think about where you want to go to college? Or what you want to be when you grow up?”

“When I grow up?” he repeats. “What does that even mean?”

“You know what it means,” I reply.

“Maybe,” Sam says.

I look up at Sam. His hair has grown a little in the few weeks since I met him. It seems funny now that when I first saw him, I didn't think he was especially hot. I mean, I liked his green eyes and his cute ski-jump nose, but he's not like Noah with everything all styled and perfect. But now, the more I'm around him, the more handsome I think he is. Like a camera coming into focus on something you didn't see before.

“Why are you looking at me like that?” Sam asks.

“I have to confess something,” I blurt. “I found Mandy on Facebook.”

He stops and stares at me.

He blinks. And then says, “What? How?”

“Are you mad?” I ask.

“No, not at all. But how? You don't even know her last name,” he says.

“I'
m a pro. Trust me,
” I say. “Amanda Muller, right?”

“Wow. I'm impressed,” he says.

“She's pretty,” I say tentatively.

Sam elbows my side. “What's with you and pretty? You're always pointing out that things are pretty.”

“
No I
'm not,” I protest.

“Yes you are,” he says.

“I'
m a visual person,
” I say. “
Besides. Don
't you think she's pretty?”

“I mean, yeah, of course I do,” he says. “She'
s beautiful.
”

The word choice surprises me and it makes something turn over inside of me.

“What about you? Who was this guy who didn't want to be your boyfriend?” Sam asks.

“Noah Bearman,” I say. “He went to my school but he graduated last year. Do you know him? He's around.”

Sam shakes his head no. “What happened with you two?”

“It was nothing. I mean, it was something. We hooked up at a party. And it wouldn't have been a big deal but it was like . . .” I stop walking. I don't know if I can finish my sentence.

“Like what?” he asks.

“Like. My first. My first everything,” I say.

Understanding spreads through Sam's eyes. “Oh.
Oh
.”

“Yeah,” I say. “And he was just really popular, and he was about to leave for college at the end of the year so he probably didn't want to be in a relationship. So it never happened again.”

Sam looks away from me, shakes his head. “Fuck that. What a jerk.”

“He's not that bad,” I say meekly. And then I ask, “Did you and Amanda . . . ?”

He looks at me crookedly. “Did we what?”

I look at him, like
you know what.

“Yeah,” he says.

“So you were each others' firsts?” I ask.

He smiles a little sadly. “No. Actually. Neither of us.”

“What? How old were you when you . . . ?” I ask.

“Fourteen,” he says. When I glance up at him that solemn expression has returned to his face. The one that ends conversations.

—

After a few minutes, we reach Randall's Island. It's sleepy and quiet. We walk down a dirt path, trees and green lawns spreading around us. Trees canopy overhead and small diamonds of light and shadow swarm the world.

A mosquito buzzes in front of my face and I swat at it lamely.

“Yuck,” I say, wincing.

“What?” Sam glances at me.

“Just a gross bug,” I say.

“It won't hurt you,” he says.

I roll my eyes, “Oh what, so now I'm a prissy city girl?”

“What did I say?” he laughs, surprised.

“I know what you're thinking,” I say. “And you know what? I think this whole hike is pretty rugged of me.”

“I didn't say anything,” he says.

And then he pauses, turns to me, and flicks my arm with his thumb and forefinger.

“What?” I ask.

“Hike,” he says. “Pshh.”

He tries not to smile, but he can't help it.

—

We arrive at a patch of matted grass on the bank of the East River and Sam sits down and wraps his arms around his knees. I sit down carefully next to him.

We have an unobstructed view of East Harlem. The redbrick projects we were standing in front of a few minutes ago stare back at us, shrunk down to toy size by the distance.

There are a few other people, families sitting nearby with picnic blankets and sandwiches and sodas. I finished my roll of film on the bridge, so now we have nothing to do besides just sit here. A breeze passes over us and then the air grows still again. Across the river, Manhattan is silent.

A few summers ago, my mom and I went to her friend's house in Connecticut for the weekend. My mom rented a car and drove, which was already strange because I didn't even think she knew how to drive, and once we were on the road, I realized she barely knew how. Then, on the way there, we got a flat tire and pulled over on the side of the highway and got out of the car.

When we were in our car zooming along just like everyone else, the road felt quiet and even. But standing on the side of the highway everything changed. The cars were deafeningly loud and fast, all jangling parts. And the street
was wider than I realized. The signpost we were underneath was massive and damaged. From the road, the signs looked small and neat. But up close, it towered over the road. Looking at the Manhattan skyline, dwarfed by distance, it feels so different than when you're in it.

“Hey.”

I look at Sam. I was so lost in thought I almost forgot he was there.

“This is nice,” I say.

He nods.

And then he says, “Philosophy.”

“Excuse me?” I say.

“That's what I want to do,” he says. “Study how people see things. Or whatever.”

I look at Sam and he's blushing harder than I've seen him.

“You have no idea how hard my dad would laugh at me if he heard me say that,” Sam says. “I can already hear him—what are you going to do with a degree in philosophy?”

I say, “I thought you don't care what your dad thinks.”

“
I don
't,” he says.

“I know you don't,” I reply, but he knows I know he's lying.

Sam yanks a fingerful of grass out of the ground and tosses it in my direction, but the wind carries it away before it reaches me.

He lies down on his back and I lie down beside him.

And then, Sam picks up my hand and my breathing stops. He holds my hand carefully, moving his thumb rhythmically across my palm. I wonder if he can feel me coming apart. He isn't looking at me, but he doesn'
t let go.

“I can't believe I'm your first guy friend,” he says.

“I like it,” I say, because that's all I can manage.

“You like what?” he asks.

I want to say, I like you. I like everything about you. I like how it feels when you touch me and say my name, or even when you just look in my direction. I like you as more than a friend. Instead, I say, “I like that you're my friend.”

After an uncountable number of seconds that feel infinite with longing, Sam lets go of my hand. He sits up.

I sit up, too. He looks at me and lets his knee knock against mine.

“Hey,” he says.

“Hey,” I reply.

I stare at the collar of his shirt. I'm burning up and I'm afraid if I look into his eyes I'll burst into flames.

Sam bites his lip so hard it grows red. He reaches out and brushes a strand of hair behind my ear. And then he leans in and kisses me.

Sam's lips are salty and crazy soft. His nose presses into my cheek, his hands hold my head like if he let go I'd crumble, and I might. His hands might be the only thing holding me together. Sam is making me go blindingly white-hot.

Then he stops, slowly letting go of me and pulling away.

I wonder if anyone in the history of the world has ever felt anything like that. I stare at him. What just happened?

Sam lies down and closes his eyes.

“Sam?” I say.

He doesn't open his eyes.

“What does this mean?” I ask.

“
I don
't know,” he says.

“I mean . . . are we like . . . ?” I ask.

“
Sadie,
” he says, flicking my upper arm.

“What?” I ask.

Sam is looking at me like he wants to kiss me again.

I hope he does.

But then he says, “You're great. I like being friends with you.”

The word
friend
stings. Maybe the kiss disappointed him. Maybe I momentarily slipped out of the friend category and now he's pushing me back into it.

Staring at Sam
's unreadable profile and those closed-camera-lens eyes, I know I'm not gonna get answers to any of my questions from him right now.

So all I say is, “I like being friends with you, too.”

—

Sam and I don't talk about anything on the walk back across the bridge. When we get to the subway, he says, “Today was fun.”

I say, “Yeah.”

He says, “Have fun with your dad tomorrow.”

“I'll try,” I reply.

And then I leave. We don't talk about the kiss or when we are going to see each other again. We don't even hug.

—

When I get home, my mom is sitting at the kitchen table eating leftovers. There are books and file folders piled up on the table. Of course she still files her paperwork in cabinets
instead of just doing everything electronically like the rest of the world.

“What are you doing?” I ask, slipping into the table across from her and taking a bite of her half-eaten samosa.

“Satya and I have been talking,” she begins carefully.

Satya is her best friend and fellow teacher at the Yoga Center.

“Okay,” I say. “About what?”

“She wants to go to India next fall. For three months,” she says. “And she wants me to go with her. This is all the information on the residency she wants to do. There's a Yoga institute in Pune where we can live.”

“That's incredible,” I say.

“It might be good for me,” my mom says, almost shyly. “Since, you know, you'll be off at college.”

It's the first time I've ever thought about what my mom's life is going to be like when I've gone to college. I'll be living in a dorm with other students and probably a roommate. She'll be alone. The thought singes my heart.

“That sounds amazing,” I say. “I hope you go.”

—

After dinner, my mom takes a bath while I make dessert tea. We call it dessert tea but it's just coconut milk and honey, and sometimes a chamomile or ginger tea bag, too.

I sip my tea leaning against our small gas stove. The yellow overhead lamp casts long leaves of light around our two-by-six-foot kitchen. It's a dinky kitchen, with its worn wood cabinets and mismatched tiles, but I feel, suddenly,
for the first time since we've moved into this apartment two years ago, that it's actually my home.