Fury (21 page)

He began driving again. The car’s defroster was pumping like a workhorse and still the window was gray and spotty. He looked up and realized that he hadn’t been paying much attention to where he was going; he was nearing the Piss Pass, about to head onto the bridge that straddled the highway below. He’d made an effort not to drive this way since Sasha’s suicide attempt. It was too creepy. But here he was. He heard his phone chime with a new text.

He reached over to grab it, taking his eyes off the road for a split second. And just then he felt his tires hit the ice. They seized and slid, and his car careened wildly to the right. Chase was certain, in the panicked way that people become certain, that he and his car were about to sail through the guardrail.

He weaved in a fishtail motion, with the front of his car pushing forward and the back of it trailing from side to side. The wheel jerked under his fingers, unresponsive. He would go
flying to the highway below, just as Sasha must have.

But then his motion was no longer out of control, he was back in the right lane, and the ground below him was solid.

“Holy shit.” Chase pulled over as soon as he crossed the Piss Pass. He said it again: “Holy shit.” His pulse was throbbing, his head felt disconnected from his body. His knuckles, gripping the steering wheel as though it were the only thing keeping him in the car, were white, and he was having trouble breathing.

He almost died. He definitely just missed death.

He was
way
too drunk to be driving. What the hell was he thinking? He drew in a few long, gasping breaths, felt his pulse start to slow a little. He massaged his chest hard with his knuckles; the seizing tension there made him feel like he was having some kind of heart attack.

He looked down to see that his phone was still blinking on his lap, showing one message from Ty.

Careful. The roads are icy tonight
.

The snowy trees rushed by the train window, a blurred palette of grays and whites and browns. Gazing at the blue sky behind the trees, and the ocean hidden beyond them, Em was mesmerized, silent. She willed away thoughts of Zach and Gabby and love and jealousy and focused only on the landscape. Her journal was sitting open on her lap, resting against her thighs and her new dark jeans—a Christmas present from her mom. The pen had slipped from her fingers into the crevice of the binding. She’d tried to write, but no words came.

It was Saturday morning, New Year’s Eve. Tonight Em’s and JD’s parents were going to some kind of lefty political party in York—mostly doctors and lawyers—and Em and JD had decided to go to Boston and celebrate First Night. She’d ignored calls from some other friends, just like she’d been
ignoring them all break—they
had
to know something was up by now—and had pointedly deleted the one text she’d received from Zach: a plaintive, pathetic
Hi?

JD pawned Melissa off on a freshman babysitter, told his filmmaking friends he was headed for Beantown, and had taken the morning train down to have brunch with his aunt Sophie. Em had met her a few times. Sophie Downs had never married, was as smart as a whip, and had an antique writing desk that looked out over the sardine-packed brownstones of Beacon Hill. Sometimes Em thought she had more in common with Aunt Sophie than with her own relatives.

She and JD had agreed to meet at five o’clock in Harvard Square; the train ride was about two hours long and scheduled to get into North Station around two thirty. That would give her just enough time to stop at Maintenance and pick out a really nice gift for Gabs.

Em shifted in her seat, closing the journal and depositing it in her bag. She’d write later, once she had a chance to gather her thoughts. Out of the corner of her eye, she thought she saw someone staring at her, and when she turned to look, she sharply drew in her breath.

Sitting diagonally across the aisle was a blond-haired girl that looked remarkably—freakishly—similar to the one she’d been dreaming about or hallucinating or whatever. The one she’d seen in JD’s window last night. Em realized she was
gaping, smiled perfunctorily at the girl, and whipped back around. It had to be a coincidence.

“I like your bag.” All of a sudden the girl was standing over her. “And the flower.”

Em had pinned the red orchid to her bag a few days ago—after the sleepy afternoon in Zach’s bed. And even after their blowout, Em had not been able to bring herself to get rid of it. Even though she knew Zach had played her, she almost
had
to keep it. It was a gift from him, and one of the only symbols that he had liked her, at least. It was the one small token reminding her that she hadn’t imagined the whole thing.

“Um, thanks,” Em said, wishing she were holding a book that she could pretend to be reading. The girl was model pretty, but Em couldn’t shake the feeling that there was something off about her.

“I’m Ali.” The girl was holding out her hand for Em to shake. Em hesitated before reaching out and quickly clasping the girl’s hand, which was freezing.

“Hi. I’m Em.” Em noted with relief that the train was pulling into North Station. She made a show of gathering her things, looking down to rearrange the items in her purse.

“Have a great evening, Em,” the girl said with a laugh, as though she’d just told a joke. She floated toward the doors. Em didn’t even leave her seat until she saw the girl step off the train and get swallowed by the crowd.

It was nothing, she told herself, over and over. Just a strange interaction.

But she couldn’t get rid of the coldness that snaked into her from Ali’s icy grip.

As soon as Em was out in the street, she felt better. In fact, she’d changed her mind completely about the orchid now. The fresh air made her realize that it really didn’t matter anymore what had happened versus what had simply been in her head. The point was that, either way, it was
over.

She ripped the flower off her bag and threw it on the train tracks.

Purse under one arm, hot Dunkin’ Donuts coffee in the other (procured the moment she got off the Amtrak), Em proudly navigated the T from North Station to Newbury Street without once consulting the subway map. She made a mental note to tell JD, who constantly teased her for having no sense of direction. Aboveground, the sidewalks were flecked with slush and salt, and holiday lights twinkled in the trees. There was an electricity in the air: Girls wrapped in thick scarves ran by with their cell phones pressed to their ears; parents tugged at bundled-up children who were hypnotized by lights and sounds and window displays. Em smiled, looked up at the big buildings, the library, the sun setting over the brownstones. She couldn’t wait for the fireworks.

By the time Em arrived, the salesgirls in Maintenance were dying to get out for the night, Em could tell. And who wouldn’t be? But she took her time going through the store, touching scarves and holding sweaters up to her chest. She needed to find the perfect present, one that would make up for everything she’d done over the past week. One that proved that she knew Gabby, that she cared about her, that she wanted things to go back to normal.

She saw it on a mannequin before she saw it on a rack—a cornflower-blue silk scarf with silvery lace woven into the fabric. The scarf Gabby wanted. In the display, the scarf was paired with a soft, thin sweater of the dustiest pink—like something from a Civil War–era attic. It was a beautiful combination, and it was one Em knew Gabby would love.

The scarf was fifty dollars; the sweater was missing a price tag.

“How much is this sweater?” Em asked, holding out a sleeve.

“It’s one twenty-five,” a sullen clerk told her.

So almost two hundred dollars, all together. That was exactly how much money Em had in her purse, and her parents would slaughter her if she used her credit card for something other than an emergency. She hesitated, but only for a moment.

“I’ll take them both,” she said. “Extra small.” She watched as they wrapped Gabby’s gifts in lacy tissue paper and gold ribbon.

The clock on her phone told Em that she was going to be late to meet JD. She had to take the Red Line from Park Street outbound through Cambridge. She repeated the directions like a mantra; the last thing she needed was to get lost. Juggling her bags and the T pass, she hurried down to the Park Street platform. She pulled out her phone to text JD and tell him she was running a little late, but stopped short when she saw the girl again—the blond one, Ali. She was standing on the opposite platform and staring at Em. The girl had the strangest smile on her face, like she knew a really good secret. As a train rushed by on Em’s side of the tracks, the girl’s hair blew all around her face like a lion’s mane.

Em’s stomach did a little flip. Was this girl stalking her?

She entered the train and sat down with a sigh of relief as it started moving. The car was full but not cramped, and the air smelled like wet wool. The train went past one stop, then another, and Em sat quietly, watching everyone around her, wondering what it would be like to live in a big city, where everyone had their own lives and not the ones prescribed by parents or best friends.

She was in the middle of transferring Gabby’s present to her shoulder bag when she heard someone cough.

“Excuse me. Does this train stop at Kendall Square?”

Em looked up, about to point to the T map above their heads, when her heart stopped beating for at least five seconds.
Standing there, in front of her, on this train—despite the fact that just moments earlier, Em had seen her on the other platform, headed in the
opposite
direction—was the girl. Ali. It was impossible.

“You—you’re following me,” Em gasped out.

The girl shrugged, not offering any explanation, just cocking her head with that same psycho smile.

Em felt her throat go dry. She tried to swallow, or cough, and her saliva seemed to choke her right below her tonsils. She jumped up just as the train started to slow down for the next station. Then she bolted toward the train’s sliding doors.

“Excuse me, I need to get by,” Em croaked at the passengers, aware of how frantic she sounded. “Excuse me!”

By the time she reached the doors, the announcer was ringing the bell.
Please stand clear of the closing doors.
She slipped through just as the doors started to clamp shut.

But she wasn’t all the way out. Her huge shoulder bag got cinched in the closing doors—and her arm was still entangled in its strap.

As the train chugged to a start, Em had to walk faster and faster, panic building inside of her, struggling to extricate her arm.

“
Stop! Stop!
” she shouted, and the people inside motioned to her as though trying to convey some crucial information, but the train did not slow down. She tripped as the train started
moving faster than she could run. She fell to her knees, and in doing so, wrenched her arm free of the bag’s strap. She watched as her bag, and the train, and the girl, disappeared into the blackened tunnel.

Em climbed to her feet, trembling. She began to whimper. She was stuck now, with no bag, no phone, no wallet . . . and no idea what to do. At least she was at Central Square—only one stop away from Harvard Square, where she was supposed to be meeting JD. She didn’t want to risk getting back on the T, so she made her way up to the street. She’d walk westward along Massachusetts Avenue. Luckily it was a straight shot between Central and Harvard. But judging from how many people were belowground, it would be mayhem once she emerged on the street.

It did seem that everyone in Boston was taking advantage of the weather. Mass Ave was a madhouse, and once she got closer, she could see that Harvard Square was clotted with students, jugglers, tourists, shoppers, singing drunkards, and couples making out in public. Street vendors lined the Pit, where performers danced with fire. She nervously looked around. JD hadn’t given her an exact meet-up spot. They’d agreed to text when she arrived at the square.

Em had to find a pay phone—did pay phones even exist anymore? She made several full circles before heading down a street lined with bars. If worse came to worst, she would just
ask a stranger to borrow their phone. Em couldn’t help but think of her parents and how worried she knew they would be if they knew what was going on.

And then her eyes fell on one of the craft tables, where a woman was selling chunky cable-knit sweaters—Irish and thick—like the one Zach held up the other day. Em felt like her heart would break.

“You forgot something,” she heard from behind her. Em whirled around, and there she was. The girl. Still smiling that grotesque smile. Holding her bag, with a red orchid pinned to it. It made no sense—Em specifically remembered taking off the flower, throwing it onto the tracks. Her whole body went to ice.

“What do you want from me?” Em choked out.

The girl’s smile grew even wider, until it seemed to stretch across her whole face. “Just doing my job as a Good Samaritan,” she said, still holding out the bag.

“Leave me alone.” Em wrenched her bag from the girl’s hands. Her voice was high-pitched, hysterical. “Okay? Are you listening? Leave. Me. Alone.” Then she turned and sprinted through the crowd.

It was like a maze, or a sick fun house. Loud, colorful, distorted, scary. Em darted this way and that, rummaging around in her bag as she ran, digging for her cell phone. When she found it, she read the text from JD:
Meet me in front of Au Bon Pain.
Okay. She knew how to get there. With a deep breath,
Em consciously tried to slow her steps, but she was still walking like her heels were on fire. Crossing the street between the Pit and Au Bon Pain, she felt a swish of air around her calves as a cab screeched to a halt just inches from her body.

“Watch it, girlie!” the cabbie yelled.

Em couldn’t even scream back. She just ducked her head and scurried forward, furiously fighting back tears.

Hands clamped down on her shoulders, and then Em did scream.

“Hey, hey, Em! It’s okay. It’s just me!”

Em turned to see JD, forehead crinkled, concerned. He smoothed her hair back from her eyes. His long, navy-blue sailor’s coat and chartreuse scarf made her want to sob; she wanted to wrap herself up in the familiar garments.