Take Me There (37 page)

Time for some serious action. I’m on fire. I almost rip the controller in half. Nothing can stop me.

Danny watches me make a sweet energy-sword play. He shrieks, “Tasty!”

That’s pretty much the extent of our conversation for the next two hours. Here’s what we don’t talk about:

Not that I’m thinking about any of this. I just want to chill in the year 2552 for a while.

“You’re so in,” I tell Danny at the dance.

“It would appear so, wouldn’t it?” he yells back over the music. “Not to be an obnoxious prick or anything.”

“Of course not.”

Voting isn’t until Monday, but it’s obvious he’s got the election in the bag. We were supposed to go back to class for two more periods after the assembly. Which I guess we did, technically. Or some of us did. A lot of kids bailed after. And those of us who stayed didn’t exactly get work done. The teachers all had this creeped-out look like it was Columbine Part Two or something. All anyone wanted to talk about was who did it? And how did they get the lights to go off when no one was in the lighting booth? And why wasn’t Danny disqualified?

The answer to that last one is easy. They couldn’t prove anything. And in New York City the rules about punishing students are really tight. Mr. Pearlman knows that if he disqualified Danny without any proof, Danny’s parents would be up his butt so fast he’d wish he kept Vaseline in his desk drawer. They only manage to nail kids whose parents don’t care. If Mr. Pearlman accused Danny and suspended him or whatever, Mr. Pearlman would probably be the one to get in trouble.

Example. I remember the best teacher from seventh grade, Mr. Leto. It was the beginning of the year and some kid wasn’t doing the Do Now, which is this short assignment you’re supposed to do right away. So Mr. Leto goes over to him, and he’s like, “Jose! Do the Do Now!” And he tapped his gradebook really lightly against Jose’s head. According to Jose, Mr. Leto pounded him over the head with a brick. He ran out of the room yelling, “Mr. Leto hit me!” And the principal came in and Jose was crying. Then Mr. Leto didn’t show up for a whole month.

Mr. Pearlman knows that’s his reality if he does anything without absolute proof. Works for me.

I take in the scene. Rhiannon by the drinks, talking to Nicole. Tony doing that lame dance he always does. The way the girls standing on the side are trying to look like they don’t care that no one’s asking them to dance. The boys pretending not to notice them, even the ones they like. It’s all such a game. And for some reason, I’m over playing it.

I’m trying to avoid looking at the lead singer’s breasts, but it’s really hard. She’s this cute chick with a tiny shirt cut so low it doesn’t take much effort to imagine her naked. But I don’t want Rhiannon to think I’m interested. I’m just looking. Kind of like admiring fine art at the Guggenheim.

Ripping my eyes away and forcing myself to notice other stuff, I check out the bar and see that
The Breakfast Club
is playing on TV. The TV is set up with couches and a coffee table around it to look like someone’s living room. Actually, the whole place looks like someone’s living room.

I point to the TV and yell over to Rhiannon, “Check it out!”

She yells back, “Yeah! I saw!”

“Nice!”

“Totally!”

We watch the band some more. Or, Rhiannon watches and I try to focus on the keyboard. And then she goes, “Are you wearing cologne?”

I’m like, “What?” Even though I heard her.

“Are you wearing cologne?!”

The correct answer is yes. But now I feel like a nimrod because I kind of put it on for her. And if I admit that I’m wearing it she’ll probably figure that out, because I’ve never really worn cologne before. So I pretend that I still can’t hear her.

When we’re out on the street after and all talking about how sick the band was and how hot the bar is, I’m trying to think of a polite way for Rhiannon and me to ditch Danny and Nicole. This was a blast and all, but I could use some downtime.

Danny’s got his own agenda. Eventually he says, “Peace out,” and leaves with Nicole.

“Do you feel like going somewhere?” I ask.

“Yeah,” Rhiannon says. “I’m not even tired.”

“Me neither.”

So we get a cab. And then we walk. We end up at the pier. Which we have entirely to ourselves.

Someone’s home in the apartment tower across the street. You can see right in, since the tower is mostly glass. It was designed by Richard Meier, this rad architect we studied in mechanical drawing. The people in there are so lucky. Their view is amazing. I wonder how many of them really appreciate what an incredible home they have.

I listen to the water. All this quiet is righteous.

I’m all, “Nice how I reserved the whole pier, huh?”

“It’s sweet.”

“Yeah. I’m sweet like that.”

I think about my new playlist. And the iPod in my pocket.

I’d only known Rhiannon for like a month when we were doing homework at my house and I put a Jet CD on. She said she didn’t know who they were. I told her it was total Rhiannon music. I was right. And I haven’t been wrong since. So I made a playlist of Rhiannon music.

Then I get that anxious pang again. And I’m still not sure why. But I’m starting to get the picture.

“What’s wrong?” she says.

Busted.

“Nothing. Well . . . I guess there is something. Since you’re asking and all.”

“What?”

“There’s no light show.”

“What?”

I point to the building across the river. Its slanted top is all dark.

“Oh.” Rhiannon looks. “Maybe it’ll start later.”

“It better.” I wipe my hands on my jeans. I should have brought mints.

There are some flowers on the grass. Rhiannon watches them bending in the breeze. She says, “I like those flowers.”

“They’re nice.”

“Those pink ones are so pretty.”

“Well, they’re not as good as the ones in your locker, but . . .”

She gives me a weird look. “How do you know about that?”

“About what?”

“Did I . . . I didn’t tell you about the flowers, did I?”

“What flowers?”

“Those . . . flowers Steve left in my locker?”

“I don’t know anything about those flowers. I only know about the flowers
I
left in your locker.”

“No way! That was you?”

“Yeah.”

“But how did you know . . . ?”

“Remember when we were walking past that house on Charles Street and they had all those flowers outside? And you said how they were—”

“—so pretty.”

“Yeah.”

“I totally forgot about that.”

“Yeah, well. I didn’t.”

She just looks at me for a while. Then she goes, “Do you want to sit?”

There’s that pang again.

“Um . . . I was thinking of . . . not sitting.”

“And doing what? You want to walk more?”

“Not exactly.” I take out my iPod. I separate the earbuds. I put one in her ear. “I’d rather do this.” I put the other one in my ear. I select the first song on the playlist. It’s “Look What You’ve Done.”

And then we’re dancing. I just made it up. iPod dancing. I’m not exactly the most romantic guy, so this is kind of extreme for me.

There’s this feeling I get when we’re together like this. It feels calm. All the noise in my head is quiet. And it feels like I’ve finally found where I’m supposed to be.

So when I kiss her, it’s like nothing else exists but this.

But then her cell chimes. It’s the worst timing ever
.

She says, “Let me turn this off.”

“It’s a text?”

“Yeah. Sorry.” She checks the screen. “It’s from Nicole.” And then she’s like, “Oh my god.”

“What?”

“It says, ‘
Help me
.’”

“That’s all it says?”

“Hang on.” Rhiannon types back. I move next to her so I can see the screen. She types:
where r u?
and sends it.

A few seconds later, the screen says:
211 W 80
.

That’s all I need to know. I remember when he told her he lives in her neighborhood. So it’s pretty obvious where Nicole is.

“Is that between Broadway and Amsterdam?” Rhiannon says.

“Yeah. I know where it is.”

“Let’s go.” She types in:
don’t move. we’re coming
.

On the cab ride over, I tell Rhiannon about overhearing Mr. Farrell and Nicole. And how he said he lived in Nicole’s neighborhood, so maybe she’s at his place.

“Why do you think she texted instead of calling?” Rhiannon says.

“I don’t know.”

“I hope she’s not, like, trapped inside.”

“I’m sure she’s okay,” I tell her. But images of what could be going down keep harassing me. Maybe I should have said something before.

By the time we’re running down West 80th Street, we’re both freaking out.

If he did anything to her . . .

We find her across the street. Sitting on the curb. Crying.

“Nicole!” Rhiannon runs over to her. She collapses on the curb and hugs Nicole. “What happened?”

But Nicole is crying too hard to answer. Every time it seems like she’s about to tell us, she just keeps taking these big gasping breaths. All she can get out is, “I—I—” It’s like she can’t get enough air.

“Let’s get out of here,” I say. I put my hand on Nicole’s shoulder. She’s shaking really hard. And crying even harder.

She’s having a major meltdown.

We get Nicole to her place. Her mom’s asleep, so we try to be quiet and sneak Nicole back to her room. Rhiannon gets her into bed and piles blankets on top of her. I pace around, furious at myself. How could I have let this happen?

After Rhiannon brings Nicole some water and the crying slows down, Nicole starts talking. But she’s not making any sense.

“She . . . she knew. Maybe not at first. But she knew eventually.”

Rhiannon gives me a look like,
Who’s she talking about?

I shrug. The only thing I want to do right now is ask Nicole if Mr. Farrell hurt her. But when I step forward and go, “Did he—?” Rhiannon shakes her head at me. But I have to know. “Did he . . . do anything to you in there?”

But Nicole says, “No. I never went in.”

Then we just listen.

“There was this one night when she came home early. From her bridge game. And I heard her coming upstairs. And then . . . that’s when he left my room. So she saw him. She saw him leaving my room.”

“Who?” Rhiannon asks.

But it’s like Nicole didn’t even hear her. She just keeps talking.

“Maybe she knew for a while. Like on some subconscious level. But she didn’t want to admit it.”

She can’t be talking about Mr. Farrell. If Nicole’s mom caught him in her place, she would have gone ballistic. Everyone would know.

“After she found out . . . that’s when we moved here.”

“I thought you moved here because your parents got divorced,” Rhiannon says.

Nicole focuses on Rhiannon. She pushes the blankets off. She’s not shaking anymore.

And she says, “That’s why they got divorced. My dad abused me.”

I can’t believe it. None of us knew.

“I think I want to talk about it,” Nicole tells us.

“Okay,” Rhiannon says. “We’re here.”

So she begins.

Excerpt from a screenplay by Nicole Nelson:

 

CAMERA
zooms in on
DR. RIBISI
and
NICOLE
near a big window
. DR. RIBISI
is sitting in an armchair. She is writing something on a notepad
. NICOLE
is sitting on a couch, with her feet up
.