Better Than Running at Night (2 page)

"Have you got the stuff?" asked a scratchy voice.

"What stuff?" I bolted upright. "Who is this?"

"It's me," he said, switching to his regular voice. "Who'd you think it was? Your other dad?" He laughed.

I didn't.

"Well anyway, how's life at Nekked?"

"It's NECAD, Dad. N-E-C-A-D. As in New England College of Art and Design. How many times do I have to tell you?"

"Might as well be Nekked, with all those
naked
people running around!" he said with a laugh.

"Oh yeah, there's just
swarms
of them running through the
streets, Dad. You'd think it was a nudist marathon." Sometimes I have trouble controlling my sarcasm.

"Maybe I should give you to your mother."

"Maybe." I tried to say it as straight as possible.

As he handed her the receiver, I heard a muffled "She'd rather speak to you." I rolled my eyes even though he wasn't there to see.

"Hey, El!"

"Hi Mom."

"Is everything okay?"

"Yeah, yeah, everything's fine," I said. "Dad's just getting on my nerves. You know, his usual jokes."

"You could ask him to stop."

"I try. It's no use."

"Well, we didn't call to get you down. Are you settling in all right?"

"Yeah."

"Did you go to the Artist's Ball?"

"Yeah. Last night."

"Any cool costumes?"

"Some. One guy wore a chain mail suit. He made it himself."

"Wow. Did you have a good time?"

"It was pretty fun."

"Make any friends?"

"Kind of."

"
Kind of?
"

Well, Mom, you wouldn't believe it, but I made out with the Devil.

"It's hard to meet people when the music's so loud you can hear it pounding in your head the next morning," I said.

"Right," she said. "Well, you'll meet people soon. This is a really exciting time for you. I bet there are lots of cute guys, too!"

"Why do you care so much about me making friends and meeting guys?"

"Oh, El," she sighed. "I just want you to be happier than you were in high school. It's nice to have friends. And to have boyfriends."

"I'll be okay."

In the background I heard Dad say, "Has she finished unpacking?"

"Tell him not completely," I said.

"I felt bad leaving without getting your place in order," she said.

"It's fine," I said. "You did more than you had to. I can take care of it."

"I know you can," she said. "But it's your first time on your own. If Dad didn't have to get back to prepare for trial, I would've stuck around till you were settled in."

"She'll be fine, Marsha!" Dad said. "Just tell her to make sure she unpacks soon!"

"Did you hear that?" Mom asked.

"Yes," I groaned. "Why does he care so much?"

"Your father is an obsessively tidy person," she said. "It drives him crazy to think that somewhere in another state, his daughter might have clothes strewn across the floor."

"No, I just want to know if she's unpacked. That's it," he said loud enough for me to hear.

"Okay, Len," she humored him.

"Why don't you let your mother talk?" I heard him say to her. "She's been waiting patiently."

"Grandma's over?" I asked.

"She's right beside me," she said. "I'll pass you over to her. Good luck in class on Monday. Call if you need anything. And don't forget to notify your father when you've unpacked!"

"Tell him not to worry," I said. "I'll hire a skywriter to write a message over the city: ELLIE'S UNPACKED."

"I'm sure he'll appreciate it," she said. "Love you."

"Love you, too."

She passed off the phone.

"Hello?" Grandma always answered the phone like she was making a guess to solve a riddle.

"Hi, Grandma," I said, lying back down. "How are you?"

"I'm well," she said. "But more important is how are you? The new place, the new peoples." Sometimes Grandma messed up her English. Mom said she did it on purpose because it sounded good with her German accent.

"I'm fine," I said. "I wore your skirts and beads last night."

"Your mother tells me you went to be a gypsy at the party."

"That's right," I said. A long sunny rectangle warmed my face through black bars over my window. All the first-floor apartments had them, to protect us from criminals.

"Is a good thing I gave you those old clothes," she said. "They were crowded in my closet, and I would have taken them to the Goodwill."

"Glad I could save you the trip."

She laughed. "And is there a young man in your life?"

"Oh, not really."

"No? An adorable girl like you?"

"I'm not in a big hurry."

What did she want from me? I hadn't even been here a week yet. Grandma must've been fast back in the day.

"I don't want to be keeping you long," she said.

"I like talking to you."

"Well, we're getting going for brunch."

"Okay," I said. "Thanks for the clothes."

"You're welcome," she said. "Good luck and good-bye." She made a kissing noise.

I kissed back. "Bye Grandma. Have fun at brunch."

I hung up the phone and fell back to sleep hugging my pillow.

The sun's elongated shadow lines crept across my bed.

A rapping on the window made my heart jump. Nate's face grinned through the bars. I leapt out of bed.

"Not up yet?" he yelled. His face was faint. Only the high points of his nose, cheeks, and chin were illuminated by a light on the side of my building.

"I didn't leave your place until three in the morning!" I yelled back. "
And
I had trouble sleeping!"

"Well rise and shine and let me in!"

He was right. I should've been up. It was four o'clock.

When I got to the door he was already there, leaning on the door frame as if he'd been waiting for hours. His face, no longer red and shiny, was gentler than I'd expected. His features were angular, but they looked like they'd be soft to touch. I had an urge to run my fingers through his staticky looking hair.

A huge scar began under his chin and ran along the base of his jaw.

"So this is where I live," I said as he entered.

I was hungry and didn't feel like making small talk.

He looked around, surveying the scene. "Just moved?"

"Yeah."

He walked over to the kitchen. "Hey, champagne!" he said, lifting the bottle from the counter. "We'll have to celebrate sometime!"

"Okay," I said. "I'm saving it for a special occasion."

"That's cool," he said, putting the bottle down. "What do you want to do tonight?"

"
Tonight?
"

"What, you're sick of me already?"

"No," I said. "I just didn't know we had plans. I've got to get ready if we're going out." I pointed at my pajamas.

"Who needs plans?" He grinned. "We can make it a night in."

"
Well,
okay," I said. "But I still have to shower. If you want to stay, you can."

"I think I will." He jumped backward and landed butt-first on my bed. The mattress springs squeaked.

In the shower I remembered how he'd said "You're not ready," and I didn't need a mirror to know the color was rushing to my cheeks like a shark to a flesh wound.

I turned the temperature to cold for a three-second jolt before shutting the water off and dressing in the bathroom. I heard my Soundgarden CD,
Superunknown,
blasting in the bedroom.

When I came out, Nate lowered the volume. My high school yearbook was in his lap.

"I hope you don't mind me looking at this," he said. "It was at the top of this box. I couldn't resist."

"It's all right," I said, turning down the music even more. "What've you found?"

I sat beside him on the bed. My hair cooled my head and dripped on my shoulders, leaving wet spots on my shirt.

"Well, I think I found you," he said. "Yelinsky, right?"

"Right."

"Except it looks nothing like you. What's with all the black? And the cropped hair? And the makeup? It looks like a clown painted your face at a funeral."

"
Thanks.
"

"No, I mean you look so much better now. Whoa! Is that a tear penciled in at the corner of your eye?"

"Yes," I said. "It took me a long time to perfect that look."

Nate nodded his head along with the repeating bass riff on the CD. "I would think so," he said, flipping the pages. He stopped to
look at the Superlatives page. "Hey, that's you!" He pointed at the picture labeled Most Individual. "You must've been popular."

"Not at all," I said. "I think they chose me because of my paintings and my style. I was always the first in my grade to discover the latest."

"Like what?" he asked, brushing a few strands of hair out of my face.

"Like dyeing my hair blue-black. And shaving the lower half of my scalp. Like thermal underwear beneath T-shirts. Safety-pinned patch pants."

"That doesn't sound
so
crazy," he said. "Aren't you from New York?"

"Yeah, I didn't stand out in the city, but my school was pretty preppie."

"So where are your piercings?"

"Don't have any," I said. "I guess I have a low threshold for pain. But mostly I can't stand talking to people with spikes and hoops sticking out of their face—it's so distracting. I always want to tell them to brush it away, like it's some leftover piece of food."

He laughed. "You really
are
Most Individual, aren't you?"

That night I'd been planning on cooking a real meal with a little of each food group, since my fridge was stocked with ingredients for
the quick and easy dishes my mom had taught me before I left. But sleeping all day had killed my motivation. My droopy muscles begged me to take them back to bed. So I only made it through the pasta group, which we ate directly out of the pot. And thanks to Nate and his fake ID, we also covered the alcohol group. Carlo Rossi Burgundy, one of those huge jugs.

Nate filled two water glasses practically to the top with wine. "Who needs wineglasses?"

We sat on my living room floor, leaned up against a couple of book boxes, pasta pot between us.

"Are you a freshman?" I asked.

"Nope, sophomore," he said. "I transferred from the Art Institute—you know, the one in San Francisco. Started here last semester. How 'bout you? I don't remember seeing you before last night."

"Freshman," I said. "I haven't even started yet. I was deferred."

"Oh, so you're new!" he said. "That's good. I wouldn't want to think I'd overlooked such a cutie."

He poured us both more wine. I hadn't finished my first glass yet.

I fidgeted with my fork.

"You need some wall decorations," Nate said. "Empty white walls make me nervous."

"Yeah, you have lots of pictures up, don't you."

"Gotta have stuff to look at."

I plucked at my fork prongs.

"So who was the guy in the picture on your night table?" I
asked, even though what I really wanted to ask was, Who were those girls on your wall?

"That's the last picture taken of my dad." All giddiness dropped from his face and I was afraid to ask my next question.

"You mean last picture because..." I began.

Nate closed his eyes. "Because he died," he said quietly.

"I'm sorry," I said. "You don't have to talk about it if you don't want."

"It's okay." He opened his eyes and turned to look at me. "It was a long time ago."

"How old were you?"

"Almost two. So I don't remember him. Sometimes I think I do, but really my memories are all from photographs."

"Maybe you don't want to answer this," I said, "but how did he die?"

"We were out sneaker shopping," he said. "Me, my dad, and my two sisters. He had taken us into McDonald's for lunch."

I dropped my fork and it clanged against the side of the pot.

"He had a heart attack. Collapsed dead right then and there, on the floor at McDonald's. He was holding me and when he fell his arms were still wrapped around my body."

"Wow," I said. "I'll never think of McDonald's the same way again."

"Neither did I," he said. "I won't set foot in any fast-food places."

"That's awful," I said. "To have something so traumatic happen when you were so young."

"I never knew who my dad was," he said. "And I never will."

He wrinkled his forehead as he talked about it. There were two deep creases between his eyebrows. I told him I wanted to get into his head, to smooth the grooves from the inside. He told me that was possibly the sweetest thing anyone had ever said to him.

I'm not somebody who's often described as "sweet."

He swigged the rest of his wine, then poured himself another glass and gave me what he called a "warm up."

I retrieved my fork from the pot. Sauce got all over my hand. I licked it off.

Nate was smiling at me.

"What?" I asked.

"Nothing." He shook his head.

"Come on, tell me."

"It's just ... you looked really cute cleaning the sauce off your hand."

"Thanks, I think," I said. "I don't really know what to say to that."