A Summer Like No Other Page 11

  The first person who enters the subway is a woman with hair to her shoulders and a big smile that shows a gap in her middle teeth, and she’s holding the hand of another woman with dark hair, who’s the second person to enter the car. She gives her girlfriend a kiss on the lips, before whispering something into her ear. They both start giggling. The third person to enter the car is a guy. The guy’s not wearing a coat despite the freezing temperatures. His Hugo Boss shirt is tight around his muscles and his jeans must cost more than an entire semester at the School of Performing Arts. Based on the price of his outfit, he’s not jacketless because he can’t afford one; it’s a fashion statement. A fashion statement that could freeze him to death.

  Maybe I could count the couple as only one person and if the next passenger is a woman, then I would talk to Nick. A group of guys enter the subway.

  I sink into my seat.

  The universe has spoken—I won’t talk to Nick today.

  My phone vibrates in my back pocket and I slide it out. A text from my brother—not Nick.

  Sorry I couldn’t make it home this weekend, this experiment is killing me. Literally, it could kill me. Playing with virus is dangerous.

  I crack a smile. Roberto can be a tad dramatic, but he’s also a genius in physics and medicine and whatever else he touches. He’s going to graduate from college two years early and save the world.

  I type back: Be careful.

  Always

  I settle into my seat again, trying very hard to not remember what Roberto told me about the amount of viruses and bacteria and all that jazz crowding public transportation. A guy sitting two benches down is eating chicken tenders, and the scent surrounds me. I’m not hungry—not after eating lasagna with Nonna, but the smell reminds me of carefree evenings on the rooftop of Nick’s house two years ago during Thanksgiving break. That’s when our families still got along, and that’s when we decided we didn’t want to simply sit at their fancy table with their fancy meals and their fancy friends. We ordered KFC and climbed on the roof and talked all night. The three of us: Roberto, Nick and me.

  A little girl with straight black hair and eyes slanting upwards enters the car with her mom. She has a big smile on her face and points to the seat in front of me. “Can we sit, Mommy?” Her mom nods.

  They sit in front of me and the little girl snuggles up to her mom. Their purple jackets look similar with a snowman on the front pocket. The girl glances around and then she stands up to touch my bag.

  “Lola,” her mom calls and she sits back down, still staring at my bag.

  Her face lights up and her grin turns wider. She reminds me of the kids on the poster for the Buddy Walk that was organized two weeks ago in the city to raise awareness about Down syndrome.

  “Are you a ballerina?” she asks slowly with a laugh in her voice, her finger pointing to the pictures on my bag: ballet pointes and a dancer in a tutu.

  “Yes, I am,” I reply—trying to ignore the feeling in my gut that comes with the words. I don't know what it is, but it's unwelcome. I miss the joy that used to light my chest when I'd speak about dancing.

  “I have Down syndrome,” she says—very matter-of-fact, and before I can react she continues, “But I’m going to be a basketball player.” Her mom kisses the top of her head.

  “She’s an amazing basketball player already.” The mom winks. “But she also wants to be an ice skater and a lacrosse player and a gymnast, depending on what she sees on TV.” She laughs. And a smile dances on my lips. They look so happy.

  “I’m sure you’ll be great,” I tell her. She nods firmly as I wave goodbye. "This is my stop."

  She waves back at me. “You’re going to be great too!” And her vote of confidence means more to me than the latest “you can do it” speech I got from one of my teachers. Maybe because she seemed to believe it, while my teacher had a pity look on her face, the one that says, “I’m obligated to give you a pep talk, but in reality, you kind of suck.”

  The auditions are in three days. Three. Days.

  I know I can do it. I know I have what it takes.

  Note to self: work harder.

  CHAPTER 2 - NICK

  THE HOUSE SMELLS LIKE the apple pie our cook made for dinner last night: caramel and cinnamon. I think he took pity on me since our planned family dinner turned into a “Nick eats alone and plays video games all night” type of dinner. He knows apple pie with meringue is one of my favorite desserts. My true favorite dessert is the one Em made this summer: cannoli. Right before we started making out. She still had the taste of the Italian dessert on her lips.

  I should remember not to think about Em, or about the way her kisses put fire in my veins, or about the way she felt in my arms. Because getting hard at my parents’ house when they’re only a few feet away is so not the way I want to end my weekend.

  I shift on my feet and grab my bag, ready to head out without so much as a goodbye. I guess I’m still pissy after they ditched me yesterday. Most of my friends rave about the time they get to spend away from their parents, but that’s much different when the time you get to spend with them is the exception to the rule. I wouldn’t mind a few awkward dinners, a few questions about the school, my life. Something.

  “You’re already leaving?” Mom pops out of the living room, where she was on the phone for some fundraiser she’s organizing in two months. She’s not as sad as she used to be, but she’s still not entirely present when she’s home. The therapy sessions they drag me to at least once a month have helped, but it’s like she focuses so much on mending her relationship with Daddy Dearest that she’s not sure how to handle me. There are times when she reaches out to me, carves time in her busy schedule to talk to me and other times, when we barely see each other on weekends.

  “It’s late,” I reply and rub the back of my neck. I’m much taller than her, but when she’s looking at me a certain way, I revert back to my five-year-old self who didn’t want to stray far from her. Back to when I believed my parents were heroes. I want to laugh at past-me and tell present-me to get a grip.

  “I’m sorry we were so busy this weekend, but I promise next week, you and I will do something fun together.”

  “Okay.” I don’t hold my breath.

  “How is Emilia doing these days?” she asks, narrowing her eyes at me like she’s trying to read through my usual bullshit.

  “She’s doing well.” I keep my tone as light as possible; even hearing Emilia’s name feels like someone’s punching me right in the chest. I fucked it all up and I don’t know how to make it right. If I had a normal relationship with Mom, if Dad wasn’t all set on me not dating Em, maybe I could ask her for advice. Em says she’s seeing someone. I don’t believe her...not because I think I’m irreplaceable but because she doesn’t look happy. If she had moved on, she’d be happy. Right?

  “I’m glad to hear that,” she replies, touching a vase she received from the former governor of New York’s wife, rearranging it slightly so it’s perfectly in the middle of the small pedestal. I clench my fists. And it’s my turn to really look at her: her lips are pursed as if she wants to say something else but doesn’t while her hands are shaking a little, and they only shake when she’s worried about something

  “I....” My voice croaks like a thirteen-year-old boy’s.

  Her fingers trace the pattern of the vase—a blue flower. “We haven’t seen her in a very long time,” she says. I clench my fists harder, exhale loudly, trying to lift the pressure on my chest. Mom’s doing better, and I don’t want to push her away, to hamper her recovery, our recovery, by asking what’s on the tip of my tongue. Did you know? My mind screams, begs her to read my thoughts. Did you know Dad blackmailed me into dumping Emilia and dating other people—especially daughters of his buddies—to win a business deal?

  She tilts her head to the side. “We haven’t seen Roberto in a long time either.”

  “They’re busy. Everyone’s busy.” My tone is a bit more biting than intended. “Anywa
ys, I have to go, but I’ll be back next Friday night or Saturday.” I force my lips into a short smile. The anger building up inside of me like a crescendo doesn’t have much to do with Mom—it’s more about me being a coward.

  Every week, I tell myself I’m going to have the balls to confront Daddy Dearest. Every week, I brace myself to tell him I will no longer do as he tells me, that I won’t give in to his blackmailing. No more dating girls because he says so. Every week, I fail. Either he’s not home, or he’s with Mom and she shouldn’t become collateral damage. She seems so fragile at times, so ready to simply leave us behind and never look back.

  Her phone rings and she raises a finger. “Wait a second,” she tells me before picking up. Something about the fundraiser again. She puts her nothing is wrong mask on; her voice is stronger, but it’s not happy. I’m pretty sure none of her so-called luncheon friends know about her problems.

  My parents drag me to therapy “for the greater good of our family.” I usually grunt a lot on the way there, but it’s not all that bad. Mom apologized for leaving me behind when she needed time to think. She told me it wasn’t about me, but it sure as hell felt that way when she packed up her bags and went on spa-cation for three months. I drove all the way to see her for her birthday, with Em holding my hand. Mine was early October and she didn’t even call me. I told her that. She cried and my throat tightened so much I didn’t think I was ever going to be able to breathe normally again.

  “What do you want, Nicholas?” the therapist—Dr. Grahams—asked me during a grueling one-on-one session we all had to take before our family hour. I didn’t answer, and he scribbled on his notepad. “Your desire to be accepted by your father should not overshadow your own needs, your own person,” he said, and asked me to keep that in mind.

  I’m trying to.

  “Of course, Laura. You’ll be the first to know,” Mom says and rolls her eyes at the same time. “Listen, I have to go. Nick is about to leave for school.”

  I stare at her and then shift my bag to my other shoulder.

  I don’t want to ask Mom if she knows about Dad’s blackmailing. Believing she didn’t know is much easier. I need to believe one of my parents is not out there to use me.

  She hangs up. “Tell Emilia hello from me,” she says and I wince.

  Way to sucker-punch me without knowing it, Mom.

  “Sure thing,” I reply. I’ve told Em I was sorry about how we ended things last summer. But I’ve never told her why. I’ve never told her how much I wish things were different. How much I want her back.

  The therapist also told us of the importance of making amends, of how the truth would set us free.

  Yeah, right.

  Asking Mom if she knows about the blackmail gives me more jitters than the auditions coming up. But telling Em? Managing to do a butterfly—lifting myself off the floor as high as possible, twisting my body and landing gracefully on one knee—is nothing compared to spilling out the truth.

  I can take the hate in her eyes, but not the hurt and the disgust.

  Mom air-kisses me, landing a hand on my shoulder. She’s definitely a bit more touchy-feely since we started therapy. “I know you’ve got a busy week coming with the auditions. And I know you wish your father would be more supportive.”

  “Understatement of the year.” I drop my bag to the floor and cross my arms over my chest. You’re being defensive, our therapist would say. I hesitate between mentally giving him the finger for intruding on my thoughts or shrugging because he’s right.

  “He’s learning. He’s doing better already.”

  True. Even with me, he’s doing better. He hasn’t asked me to date anyone for his business for the past three months. He’s been much more careful around me, and he’s been much more silent too, less pushy, less annoying, less everything. Definitely not more supportive, but not as destructive.

  “You’ll see. It’s going to be a great year for you. For us. For our family.” She touches my shoulder again. It’s awkward but it’s there.

  “Okay, Mom. See you next week.” And I do something I haven’t done in such a long time. I bend down and press my lips to her cheek. “Love you, Mom.”

  Her hand flies to her face and her smile isn’t fake. “Love you too, Son.”

  I can’t remember the last time she’s said it. I almost try to make a joke about it, anything to deflect the hope building inside of me, anything to not get hurt in the future if all goes down to shit again. But then I look at her and how she’s trying, how she’s opening up, how she’s working hard on herself.

  My lips turn up into a smile. Not the “I’m happy to leave this place” smile that I usually have when I go back to school.

  This time it’s a real, no-afterthought smile.

  CHAPTER 3 - EM

  LEAVING THE STUFFY subway behind, I climb the stairs to the Central Park exit. The cold air engulfs me. I tighten my scarf and put on my winter hat—Nick has the same one. They have our respective names on them. Nonna gave them to us for Christmas a few months ago, and talk about awkward around the tree when Nick opened his. He was there because his parents were in couples’ therapy and Roberto begged Dad to let Nick spend Christmas with us. Dad wouldn’t have agreed if Mom didn’t plead his case.

  I pretended to have a date on Christmas day with a mystery guy to avoid him. I pretended to have moved on. I pretended my heart didn’t hurt seeing him sad.

  I’ve done a lot of pretending since last summer.

  I push the door of the School of Performing Arts. “Good evening,” I tell the young receptionist who’s working the weekend shift. She glances up from her magazine and waves—she’s been there since February, apparently paying her way through grad school at NYU. The spotless entrance and the posters and brochures give way to narrow hallways. I turn to get into my dorm room. Some students go home on weekends, especially if, like me, their families live close by, but my roommate, Natalya, hasn’t been home in a few months. She’s supposed to fly back to Maine right after the auditions.

  “Hey,” I tell her as I enter our small room and carefully place my bag on the chair by my desk. The standard dorm room doesn’t allow for much distraction: no TV, bunk beds, two desks and one big closet. And as usual, Nata’s side is full of stuff while mine is spotless. Nata is glancing through pictures, her iPod buds in her ears. She takes them out and smiles.

  “Hi. How was your weekend?” She puts up her long blonde hair in a messy ponytail that looks amazing on her.

  “My weekend was good. I wanted to come back earlier to rehearse though, but didn’t want to leave my Nonna.”

  “I get it. I wish I could have spent more time with my babushka.” Nata’s voice is sad and I want to kick myself in the butt for reminding her about her loss. Her grandmother passed away in January and it was a very tough time for her.

  My mind fills with pictures of Nonna—laughing, hugging me, telling me she believes in me—and I hold on to those pictures, pushing away the way she looked on her hospital bed after her stroke last January: small, so small. And so fragile. I busy my hands with emptying my bag from the weekend and putting my dirty clothes in the hamper. I should have done my laundry at home, but spending time with Nonna was more important.

  “Do you want to go grab something to eat at the cafeteria?” Nata asks. I sometimes bring her food from Nonna’s restaurant, but she’s super careful with what she eats. I should be too.

  “No, thanks. I’ve got a few things to do,” I reply, pointing to my laptop. “Got to make sure I ace some of the classes, in case I don’t get a part in the showcase.”

  “You’re going to get one, and an amazing one,” Nata says. She doesn’t say the best one because, well, when you’re competing for the number one spot, you only wish it for yourself. “Do you want me to bring you anything?”

  “I’m fine. I ate lasagna before coming back, but thanks.”

  “Sure. I won’t be long.” She glances behind her shoulder. “I’ll pick up the mess when I get
back, promise.”

  My lips turn up into my I don’t believe you but it’s okay smile and I reply, “Yeah, yeah. Whatever.”

  “I promise I will. I had to rehearse a lot this weekend. I couldn’t get myself high enough in the air for a simple grand jeté.” She sighs. “No matter how many times I tried, my body wouldn’t cooperate.”

  “I’m sure you managed at the end.”

  “It was okay, but not perfect.” She smiles slightly. “Yet.” She closes the door behind her. Nata’s not only gorgeous, she’s also well on her way to becoming the first junior ever to get the main role in a showcase.

  I pick up one of her books and put it on her nightstand, sliding the picture of her and her best friend a bit to the side. They’re jumping into a lake, laughing and holding hands.

  At school she’s so much more reserved. Some students think she’s shy, others believe she’s full of herself because she’s gorgeous and talented—with her blonde hair falling down past her shoulders, her blue eyes, the way she lights up the scene as soon as she steps into it—but most either want to be her or be with her. Nata and I have been roommates for three years, and she’s one of my only friends here—but even I don’t really know what’s been going on and why she’s been looking down.

  I sit back at my desk. Maybe I should have gone with Nata to the canteen to keep her company, but another reason we’ve been pretty good roommates is that we give each other some space.

  I inhale deeply, count to three and click on a document entitled “Letter – Fourth draft.” I’ve been working on it for three weeks, and it’s still not ready. I need to get every word right, and that has nothing to do with any school assignments.

  It’s a letter for my birth mother.

  Dear Claire,

  I hope it’s okay I call you Claire. My name’s Emilia, that’s the name my parents gave me. I’m not sure why I’m writing this letter.

  I’m not sure if you’ll even read it, but I want to tell you a story. A story about me and maybe, you’ll decide that you do want to meet me after all.