Summer in the Invisible City Page 6

  Izzy learned that I’m an only child and that my mother once danced ballet at Lincoln Center. Also, that’s when she learned that my father is an artist.

  Now, walking down the street with her, I’m aware this is the first time we’ve been alone together outside of photo.

  “So, you and Phaedra are best friends?” I ask.

  “Basically,” Izzy says. “I mean, I have a lot of best friends. Most of my best friends graduated already.”

  “Oh really?” I ask. “Like who?”

  “I was really close with a lot of people two years ahead of us,” she says. “Like Madison Mills and that whole group. Reeny and Wyatt and Noah and all them. I wish that our grade was like that. There’s no one exciting in our grade.”

  Noah. Would I go up in Izzy’s esteem if I told her what happened with us? Or down?

  “Anyway, to answer your question, yes, Phaedra is probably my best friend in the city,” Izzy continues before I get the chance. “I’m really close with her whole family, too. I went with them to Italy during winter break last year. It was amazing.”

  “That sounds amazing,” I say. “Phaedra is so mysterious.”

  “Pssshhh.” Izzy scoffs. “Everyone treats her like she’s made of porcelain or something. But she’s totally not. She’s actually really regular.”

  “She is?” I ask.

  “I know it can be hard to tell because she’s kind of reserved or whatever,” Izzy explains. “People always think she’s a snob or something, but she’s actually just shy.”

  What I want to say is Why in the world would Phaedra Bishop have any reason to be shy? But instead, I say, “That makes sense.”

  “But I also made some really good friends at RISD last summer,” she says. “I did their precollege program and I became friends with all these amazing kids who live in Boston and all over. I think those people are kind of my real best friends.”

  “Their summer program looked fun,” I say, faking a casual, indifferent tone. The truth is, I had wanted to do the RISD precollege summer so badly, but it was seven thousand dollars and my mom said no way. We had one of our biggest fights ever over it.

  “Oh you should have done it! It would have been so fun to be together,” Izzy chirps.

  A hot wind curls down the street and the first thick drops of rain splatter on the pavement.

  “Yay!” Izzy cries. And then she throws her arms around my neck, hurtling herself onto me in an almost football-player tackle and I laugh.

  —

  Izzy and I duck into a deli to buy umbrellas. Izzy grabs one of those super energy drinks out of the fridge and places it in front of the cashier.

  “This is very bad for you. This poison,” the old man behind the counter says, in a thick, foreign accent.

  “I know, it’s horrible,” she says, batting her dark lashes at him.

  He smiles. He likes her. After he gives her change, he tells her she looks like his sister who still lives in his home country. She asks him where he’s from and he says, “Turkey. Where are you from?” and she says, “Nowhere. Just here.” And he says, “New York. Best city in the world.” And she says, “Yeah yeah yeah whatever.” And he laughs.

  —

  Even with our umbrellas, Izzy and I are sopping wet when we stumble into the New Museum lobby twenty minutes later. Inside the museum is dry, quiet, and antiseptic white. The exact opposite of the storm that churns outdoors.

  The show we came to see is a painting exhibition on Level 3. As we wander up through the galleries, we pass strange sculptures and text pieces, and a silent film projected in a big darkroom. I don’t understand what I’m seeing, but I like how each object in the museum is meant to be meaningful. In the real world, things that are important and things that are unimportant are all shuffled together, but here, everything is worth looking at and considering and the rest is erased.

  Izzy sets the pace, deciding when we move from one room to the next. She looks like she belongs here, the way she doesn’t second-guess how much time she spends in front of any one artwork before moving on.

  Finally, we reach the painting exhibition that we came here to see. The paintings are much smaller in person than they looked on the Internet. Each one is a still life of flowers. They are painted really simply; a child could have made them. Still, the combination of pinks and lavenders is mesmerizing. No matter how bright their colors are, all the flowers look sort of sad.

  There is one that shows a single red rose in front of a bright blue background, and the rose’s shadow looks kind of like a lollipop. It reminds me of a birthday card I made for my mom when I was little that she had framed. I wonder what happened to it. It hung on the wall at our old apartment, but I haven’t seen it since we moved. It’s probably in one of the boxes we put in storage in a warehouse somewhere deep in Queens. It’s strange, how just looking at a painting of a rose can make me think about my old apartment, and things I’ve lost, and dark rooms in large faraway buildings.

  “What’s your dad’s art like?” Izzy asks as we ride the wide elevator back down to the first floor after we’re done seeing the show.

  “It’s . . . hard to explain,” I say. “He’s having an exhibit in New York this summer. You can come with me to the opening if you want.”

  “Omigod, really? Yeah, I’ll come,” she says. She leans against the wall and inspects me from across the elevator, smiling. I wish I knew what she was seeing.

  —

  In the bathroom before we leave, Izzy refreshes the makeup that the rain washed off, putting on sky-blue eye shadow.

  “Pretty color,” I say to Izzy. “It’s so blue.”

  “You like?” she asks. “I’ve been really into it lately. It’s so out it’s in, you know? I think the key to being fashionable is just to do the opposite of whatever the magazines tell you to do. Want to try some?”

  Izzy hands me the case, and I lean in toward the mirror and paint the eye shadow onto my lids, just like Izzy did.

  “What are you doing after this?” I ask Izzy.

  “Don’t know,” she shrugs. “Phaedra’s meeting me here now.”

  “Phaedra is coming here?” I repeat.

  “Yeah,” Izzy says. “She’s actually being really annoying about plans. She keeps flaking on me and then she does this thing where she’s, like, ‘where are you?’ She acts like I’ve been being hard to reach, but I’m totally not.”

  “Oh, really?” I say. “That’s annoying. Are you gonna say something?”

  “Say something?” Izzy laughs. “Yeah, right. That’s just how friends are. The more you love them, the more mad they make you.”

  “I guess so.” I want to ask her more but she’s engrossed in her reflection again.

  Izzy gives her hair a final tussle and then turns to me and smiles. “Ready?”

  —

  Outside, the rain has momentarily stopped. Phaedra is leaning against the wall. She’s perfectly dry, as if she brought her own mild weather with her.

  Izzy gives Phaedra a hug. “Were you waiting long?”

  “Just got here,” Phaedra replies. To me she says, “Hi, Sadie.”

  This is the first time Phaedra has ever said my name.

  “Hey,” I reply, trying to sound normal. “We just saw this painting exhibit, it was really good. You should see it.”

  “Oh really?” Phaedra says. She smiles, which lets me know I said the right thing.

  “It was great,” Izzy agrees. “Anyway, did you hear from Paul?”

  Then, Izzy and Phaedra start texting and making plans for tonight on their phones. They speak to each other in the code people use when they’re friends, saying things like “last time” and “the other guy” and “the one whose sister went to my camp.”

  “What are you guys doing after this?” I ask.

  Izzy looks up. “Meeting up w
ith some people.”

  I want to ask who and if I am invited, but then Phaedra steps into the street to flag down a taxi and one careens over to the side of the road and screeches to a halt.

  “Bye, girl,” Izzy says. “See you Monday.”

  And then they’re gone, tumbling into the cab and laughing and going who knows where. I stand there for a moment on the curb, stunned to be left behind.

  Izzy and Phaedra are good friends and they probably had these plans for a long time. Still, I wish I was going with them. I wish it so badly that it’s as if I can feel the ground burn beneath my feet.

  Chapter 14

  Allan came to my recital, after all.

  There were ten girls in my class, and ten sets of parents watching us from behind a strip of red masking tape that Anyeshka had put on the hardwood floor. It felt amazing to have my mom and my father there.

  Waiting in line before my solo, the pianist banging out our songs, I felt like something important was about to happen. Arms in first position, my right toe pressed to the ground, just waiting to burst across the stage. I knew the moves by heart: sashay-sashay-leap, then fifth, then élevée, and then curtsy.

  There were only two girls in front of me and my heart was starting to race. I looked out at the parents. My mom smiled as she watched the girl who was doing her solo. And then Allan turned abruptly and left the room. No. Come back, I willed him with my mind. He didn’t know it was almost my turn.

  He missed my solo. My limbs felt heavy as I skipped across the stage. My mom had seen me practice a million times at home, but Allan had never seen me dance. At the end we curtsied and all the grown-ups flooded across the tape and embraced us.

  “Where’s Dad?” I asked. The word regained its unfamiliar sound, tasting ashy in my mouth. The best girl in the class was standing next to me. I just wanted her to hear me say it once.

  “I’m not sure,” my mom replied calmly.

  We walked out of the classroom into the damp, linoleum-floored hallway. Allan was leaning against the turquoise wall, typing on his phone.

  When he saw us he put his phone away.

  My mom stood behind me, her hands resting on my shoulders.

  “Good job, Sadie,” Allan said.

  “Did you see my solo?” I asked, suddenly hopeful. Maybe he had watched the performance from the hall.

  Allan shrugged. “I got this phone call I had to take so I left right after the part where you were . . . you know . . . twirling.”

  “That was before my solo,” I said lamely. I stared at the floor. The tips of my pink ballet shoes were scuffed up and graying, and the elastic band that stretched across my foot looked homemade and pathetic. My feet looked nothing like the beauty of a real ballet dancer’s feet.

  “Hey,” Allan said.

  I looked up at him and he reached out and ruffled my hair a little. “You were great. You were fantastic.”

  And then he bent down so his face was close to mine.

  “The whole show was like your solo because I was only watching you,” he said seriously.

  “Really?” I said. Allan’s words parted the clouds that had settled over me, and now the sun burst through.

  “Can we get ice cream at Luigi’s?” I was asking both my mom and Allan, but I was looking at Allan.

  Allan straightened up and looked at my mom. “I have to go, actually.”

  “But you like Luigi’s,” I protested. “Remember? You said the coffee ice cream tasted like real coffee.”

  Allan’s eyes met mine for a fraction of a second and then they flicked back up to my mom. “I can’t.”

  “That’s fine, Allan.” My mom sighed.

  “But—” I started to object.

  “I’d love to but I can’t. But great job, today. You’re a star,” Allan interrupted. He squeezed my shoulder quickly and then he turned.

  I stood there, frozen in place, and watched Allan disappear down the hall. While he walked, he wrapped his scarf tight around his neck, preparing for the cold outside. I could feel myself sinking into a hole in the linoleum floor.

  “Come on, Sadie,” my mom was saying. “Let’s get you changed.”

  But I could barely make out her words. All I could hear was the silence that Allan had left behind.

  July

  Chapter 15

  The world seems half-empty on the Fourth of July weekend because so many people are away. Most of the rich bankers and the real estate agents are at their country houses, and everyone else is at home with their families or at the beach. It’s funny knowing a place so well that you can feel its pulse change, like your own breathing slowing down in the moments before you fall asleep.

  Willa and I walk around her neighborhood in I-don’t-care clothes and drink Frappuccinos as the summer day fades to dusk. We stroll down a leafy block, past a big brick school with a grid of darkened windows, and then a row of brownstones. I can see inside to living rooms with paintings and bookshelves, warm lamps flicking on as the evening sky grows dark outside. The sounds of someone practicing piano music, playing the same few bars over and over again, emanates from deep within some building.

  This is the best thing: walking around on a warm night and letting the world envelop you. When my mom and I lived near the park, we used to walk around the reservoir every night when the weather was good. We’d do as many loops as we needed to until we stopped feeling worried or tired.

  Tonight, Willa and I have a destination. We are going to Video World, the old movie rental store that’s somehow still in business. It’s the only video store I know of, and Willa and I love it there. We spend more time picking out movies than watching them. We even love the cases that the DVDs come in, all plastic and greasy with these low-res pictures of the stars taped to the front.

  I’m walking in the DRAMA section when I see Heathers.

  “What about this?” I ask Willa.

  Willa looks up and wrinkles her nose. “What’s that?”

  “It’s Izzy’s favorite movie,” I say nonchalantly.

  Willa raises an eyebrow.

  “I think I’ve seen it, actually,” Willa says, after a minute.

  After a half hour of cruising the aisles, we leave with two things that we’ve both already seen: Pitch Perfect and the whole first season of Game of Thrones. It’s a perfect combination for a sleepover.

  —

  We ride the elevator up to Willa’s floor with her upstairs neighbor Miles. Miles is a year younger than us but a foot taller, not including his curly hair which adds another three inches. He’s bone skinny and pale, with huge blue eyes and glasses, like a not-cute Harry Potter. He goes to an uptown prep school and he’s such a genius that he skipped a grade, so he’s going to be a senior next year, too.

  “I see you guys are having about as wild of a Friday night as I am,” he says, and he nods at our bag of videos and sloppy stay-at-home clothes.

  “We’re party animals. What can I say,” Willa deadpans.

  —

  Back at Willa’s, we order pizza and curl up on the big, soft couches. Everything about Willa’s apartment is perfectly worn in: framed school photos on the wall and scratches in the guest bathroom marking her and her sister’s growth every year.

  We’re halfway through the second episode of Game of Thrones when Willa’s sister, Danielle, comes home.

  “Hey, kids,” she says, dropping her purse on the floor. “What are you watching?”

  She’s wearing tight black jeans that show off her long skinny legs and a white tank top that makes the tan on her arms glow. Danielle and Willa have matching features and the same straight brown hair, but everything comes together on Danielle in a way that it all falls apart on Willa.

  “Sshh,” Willa says. “None of your business.”

  “I’m going to open a bottle of dad’s wine. Don’t tell,” Danielle say
s, traipsing into the kitchen.

  Danielle is one of those girls who is equal parts sweet and scary. She went to one of the uptown all-girls high schools, and for some reason she always looked like even more of a bad girl in that old-fashioned plaid uniform. When Willa and I were younger, we used to go through Danielle’s drawers when she was out and tally all of the condoms and cigarettes, speculating about all her secrets. We’d spend hours wondering who she liked and when she’d first had sex.

  “Cute shoes, Sadie,” Danielle says when she comes back.

  “Thanks,” I say, proudly peeking at my vintage sandals.

  “Willa, why don’t you ever wear cute stuff?” she asks, swatting the back of her sister’s head.

  Willa ducks away. “Leave me alone.”

  Danielle looks back at the screen.

  “Lemme guess,” she says. “They all die.”

  “Stop talking, we’re watching,” Willa whines. “You’re being so annoying.”

  “I just wanted to tell you—”

  Willa grabs the remote and pauses the TV show. Then she glares at her sister. “Fine. Speak.”

  “I wanted to tell you I’m going to a party tonight at someone’s apartment from your grade,” she says. “Do you guys want to come?”

  I’m shocked and excited that Danielle invited us to something. Danielle has never once included us in anything before, in all of history. College must have made her nicer.

  “Our grade?” Willa scoffs. “Wow. That must make you feel like a real loser.”

  “I know, it’s embarrassing,” Danielle says. “But Katie wants to go.”

  “Whose party is it?” I jump in.

  “This guy Justin Chang,” Danielle says.

  My heart leaps into my chest.

  “Justin?” I repeat. “I know who that is. He’s friends with Phaedra and Izzy and everyone.”

  What I don’t say is that means Noah might be there, too.

  Willa looks at me, not smiling. I try to act normal, slump down onto the couch, and look at the TV like I don’t care.