Summer in the Invisible City (10 page)

I swore I'd never go back to the Warszawa Diner. That's where I was when I realized, I mean, really understood in my bones, that Noah was over me.

In the weeks after we had sex, Noah and I barely spoke. When I passed him in the hall at school, he'd given me low fives and smiles and a part of me thought he was flirting. He didn't ask me out, or add me on Facebook or anything, but he looked at me in a way that he never had before. And that gave me hope.

The Upper School Winter Concert was at the end of January. I normally wouldn't go to music department events, but I knew that Noah would be there because he played in three different bands and I wanted to see him outside of school.

I blow-dried my hair so it was shiny and neat and wore my favorite lace-up boots even though it hurt to walk for more than three blocks in them.

I sat in the back of the auditorium with a girl from my science class, Elizabeth, and watched Noah play.

Onstage, Noah never smiled. The spotlight did amazing things to his already amazing face, moving over his bones like liquid, so you could really see his cheekbones, his
deep-set eyes, the dark hole of his mouth. I know the clarinet isn't considered a super-sexy instrument, but I couldn't even look at his hands on it without thinking about his hands on me. Every time his fingers moved or pumped the buttons, I wondered how he knew what to do. Everything about Noah was silent and instinctual.

The girl in the chair next to Noah was named April. She was in my French class and she always wore one of those big puffy winter jackets with a hood, and knotted her hair in a bun. I always thought of her as kind of plain, but onstage April looked beautiful. Her hair was down and the spotlights made it so shiny. Even her frumpy, long-sleeved black orchestra dress seemed somehow elegant on her when she performed. At one point between songs, Noah leaned in and said something to her and she smiled. Envy torched my heart.

After the concert, we walked in a big group to Warszawa. Everyone always went there after plays and things because they serve alcohol without carding.

It was a wet, cold night. The snowstorm the week before had melted and then froze and then melted and then froze and the result was that mountains of old snow, brittle as Styrofoam and as brown as coffee, were stuffed into all the gutters and pressed up against the walls of buildings. My toes froze and grew numb inside the thin leather of my boots, and I had to remind myself that the pain was worth it.

At the restaurant, we filed in and took over five of the big red pleather booths. I sat with Elizabeth. I wasn't in Noah's booth. He hadn't seen me. He didn't even know I'd come.

At one point, he got up to go to the bathroom. I went, too, timing it so I could run into him in the hallway.

When he came out of the bathroom, I pretended to not know he was coming.

“Oh, hey,” I said, smiling.

“Oh, hey,” he repeated. But it sounded totally different the way he said it.

“You were really good tonight,” I said.

His eyes jumped to something over my head and then he looked back at me.

“Uh. Thanks,” he said.

“So . . .” I said. “Which is your favorite song?”

“Hmm? My favorite what?” he asked.

“
Your favorite song,
” I repeated. But the brightness was draining out of my voice as Noah's indifference landed harder and harder.

“
I don
't have one,” Noah said, glancing behind me again.

I looked at his hands. Those clarinet hands. He had a Band-Aid on one of his fingers that I hadn't noticed when he was onstage.

“What happened to your finger?” I asked.

“Aw, nothing,” Noah said, and then slid his hands into his pockets. “Hey, I gotta get back to my table.”

“Oh, right, yeah,”
I stammered
, trying to roll my eyes like
silly me
.

He patted me on the shoulder as he scooted past and said, “Be good, okay?”

Be good?
I watched him walk back to his table across the restaurant.
We had sex!
I wanted to scream at his back.
You
singled me out. You saw all of me. You reached inside me and held my heart; you felt it beat in your palm.

He slid into a booth with some other kids in his grade and took a slug of a drink from a big glass. Laughed at something someone at his table said. He didn't care about me. I could see it with my own eyes. And there was nothing I could do to change that. His words played over and over in my head.
Be good. Be good.

Twenty minutes later, I'm sliding into a booth at Warszawa next to Sam. He scoots down to make room for me, but the booth is tight and I can feel the side of his leg against the side of mine. I wonder if he can feel it, too.

“These are my friends, Allison and Greg,” he says, introducing me to the people at the table. They aren't kids I could pigeonhole as being from one part of the city.

“We ate already, I'm sorry,” says Allison. She has dyed blond hair and bad skin, and her eyes are the purest blue I've ever seen.

“It'
s fine
,” I say. There are swivels of grease and ketchup on the empty plates. “I'm not hungry; I ate earlier
.
”

“We were starving,” says Greg. “We just walked for two hours.”

“It was beyond annoying,” Allison adds. “We tried to get into this eighteen-and-up show and they carded, and they never card. So we ended up just walking around forever doing nothing. That's how we got so hungry.”

I look at Sam. His chameleon green eyes have shifted
again to matching the mint green walls of the diner. It's the first time I've let myself look right at him since I got here.

“You were with them?” I ask.

“Yup,” Sam says.

“Cool,” I say stupidly.

Sam looks at me and a smile cracks on his face. He bangs my knee with his knee under the table. I'm not sure if it was on purpose or if he was just shifting his weight, but it makes me blush.

The boy, Greg, scoots out of the booth with a wad of cash to pay at the front. Allison sinks into the booth, closing her eyes.

“How was New Hampshire?” I ask Sam quietly.

“Okay,” Sam says, his eyes doing that camera-lens thing where a real emotion flashes in them for a second. “I'll tell you about it later.”

“Paid. Let's go,” Greg announces.

Allison folds forward, resting her head on the table dramatically. The boy yanks her ponytail flirtatiously but she doesn't react.

—

Outside, on Avenue A, people are tumbling down the street in big groups. It's after midnight, but it's a warm, clear Friday night and people are out. Allison steps into the street and hails a taxi. Car headlights light up her white legs so she glows against the dark, dirty city. She and Greg climb in.

“Did you walk here?” Sam asks me.

“Yeah,” I say. “I live like ten minutes from here.”

“Which way?” Sam asks.

And then we're walking side by side.

—

Sam and I don't talk about the fact that he's walking me home. At each corner, I wait to see if he needs to start heading in another direction, but at each corner, he crosses with me.

I lead us the long way back because I want to stretch out our time together. In the low light, the street looks grainy and dim. Black water glistens in the gutters.

Sam tells me about his week in New Hampshire and I tell him about my week here, catching up like old friends. He tells me there were thunderstorms every day that he was home, and I tell him it only rained here once. Sam says he went swimming every afternoon, and I tell him that I spent every afternoon in the darkroom, besides the day I had lunch with Allan and Marla. We both can't believe the summer is already half over.

Before I'm ready, we're back on my block. My steps begin to slow down. There are still so many things I want to know about Sam and his trip. Did he see Amanda? Did he think about me?

I stop walking across the street from my apartment and stare up at my bedroom window. From this angle, even if the light were on, I could only see the ceiling. A strange, small unit of measure of me and my life.

“That's my apartment,” I say, pointing to my window.

“Are you tired?” he asks.

“Not really,” I say. “Are you?”

“No,” he says.

“Do you . . . do you want to come in?” I ask, my heart racing as I say the words.

Sam looks up at my window, not answering me.

I panic as I realize I said the wrong thing. I rack my brain for ways to make it better. I could say “Just kidding” or “That's a stupid idea.”

But then Sam says, “Sure.”

—

Sam and I tiptoe past my mom's room and into my bedroom. I close the door behind us and turn on my desk lamp. The large format camera rests on its spidery tripod legs in the middle of my room. My bed is unmade and even my wall of postcards is looking sloppy because three of them fell off this week and I forgot to re-pin them. Now I'm seeing my room through Sam's eyes, and I'm embarrassed that it's such a mess.

I linger awkwardly by my desk. Was it a mistake to invite Sam in? Does Sam think I'm throwing myself at him? Or is this what
just friends
do?

“This is the camera you were telling me about?” Sam asks.

“Yeah, it's pretty amazing,” I gush.

“How does it work?”

“Come here,” I say, stepping toward the camera. “I'll show you.”

I pick the lightproof blanket up off the floor and drape it over Sam's head and the camera, giggling at the site of him half covered in a blanket.

“Are you messing with me?” he asks, but his voice is muffled.

I laugh. “I promise, I'm not. Watch.”

I open the lens and he gasps. I know what he's seeing: the world flipped upside down.

I lift up the edge of the blanket and peer underneath to check if it's in focus. I'm so close to him, I can feel heat coming off his body.

“I have to focus it,” I say. “Look.”

Then, Sam lets me step all the way in so we are both underneath the blanket. I'm standing between him and the camera so that the whole front of Sam's body is pressed against my back. I can feel his breath in my hair, his chest expanding and contracting. I try to focus on the camera, but my body is dissolving.

The image on the viewfinder shows my desk. All boring stuff, just my laptop, a half-drunk cup of tea, and a stack of handouts. But everything looks magical through the camera'
s lens.

“Why is it upside down?” Sam whispers. When he speaks, I can feel the air of his words like a breeze.

“It has to do with the mechanics inside,” I explain. “The way that light is being reflected. Regular cameras have mirrors that make things look right side up. There's no mirror inside of this camera. So, that's it.”

“Hmm,” he says.

Sam reaches out and touches the viewfinder with his pointer finger. I can feel his arm over my shoulder. His face is practically in my hair. He places his left hand on the side of my hip, as if he's holding me steady, as if he can feel how much my body is melting. We are so close, if he wanted to,
he could turn my whole body toward him and we'd be kissing.

But then he steps back and pulls the blanket off, and we are back in my bright bedroom. My face is burning. I wonder if he can see how he transformed my body from the inside out. I stare at my feet, afraid to meet his gaze.

“That camera is sweet,” he says.

I look up at him. His cheeks are flushed, too.

“Yeah,” I say.

He sits down on the edge of my bed. There are holes in his jeans and I can see the skin of his sharp knees behind the ripping white threads of denim.

“What do you think your mom would do if she came in and saw me in here?” he asks.

“Omigod,” I say, laughing at the thought. I sink down onto the floor, leaning my back against the door. “I can't even imagine. Honestly, we've never even talked about whether or not I'm allowed to have a boy in my room or whatever. It just hasn'
t come up.
”

“My mom never let me be in my room with the door closed when Mandy used to come over,” Sam says. “It was so stupid. She can't control what goes on.”

I feel a pinch when he says her name but I try not to show it. What did they do, alone in a room together? I try to push the thought away but it rises up in my stomach.

“But you know, I guess my mom is extra paranoid since she got pregnant with me in high school, or whatever.” Sam shrugs, oblivious to my jealousy.

“Do you miss her?” I ask.

“Who? My mom?” Sam blinks innocently.

“No,” I say. “Mandy.”

Sam frowns. “No. I mean, yeah, but as a friend.”

“Did you see her when you were in New Hampshire?” I ask.

Sam cocks his head. He doesn't answer my question, just looks at me curiously, like he's assembling a puzzle. Then, he says, “Did you show your dad this camera? It kind of makes the one he gave you look small.”

I laugh. “No. He hasn't been over here or anything. And we just got these today. So . . .”

“He's gonna be impressed, though,” Sam says.

“I hope so,” I say. I pull my knees to my chest and wrap my arms around them, holding myself tight.

“You're lucky. You know that, right?”

“Lucky how?” I ask.

“To have parents who you respect,” he says simply.

It's late. It must be almost two a.m., but I don't want to ask Sam or check my phone because I'm worried if Sam realizes how late it is, he'll leave.

“Wanna see some pictures of Allan's work?” I ask.

Sam nods.

I crawl over to my desk and pull out the old
Artforum
magazine with Allan on the cover.

Sam slides off of the bed onto the floor and I scoot back over to him. We sit side by side, our backs against my bed, and I open the book so it's on both of our laps. Again, we are close enough to kiss. Again, the places where our bodies are touching, our elbows and our ankles, feel electric. All of our
fumbling keeps bringing us closer and closer together but never quite close enough. Is he as aware of it as I am? Is it possible that this feeling could be one sided?

The more I get to know Sam, the more the things that I don't know about him, like how he kisses and what he looks like without his clothes on, grow heavier and more distracting. The closer I get to him, the closer I want to get.

Sam thumbs through the pages slowly. He isn't reading every word, but I watch his eyes scan the images and read the pieces of text that have been pulled from the article. There's a photo of Allan with the caption, “When I work, I'm reaching for things that are always present.”

“This is impressive,” Sam says. “But it's all over my head.”

“It's not over your head,” I say. “It's just the kind of writing that is supposed to make you feel that way.”

I take the
Artforum
, and stretch across my floor to deposit it back in my drawer. Then, I turn and face Sam.

“I'
m embarrassed,
” I say.

“About what?” he asks.

“That I made you look at Allan'
s article,
” I say.

“Why?” he asks.

“'
Cause. I don
't want to seem like I'
m bragging,
” I say. “Or like I'm obsessed with my dad or something.”

Sam half smiles. “I know it's not like that.”

I scoot closer to Sam. He puts his arm around my shoulders and I tip my head onto his upper arm, letting him hold me. I shut my eyes, feeling his shoulders rise and fall as he breathes.

Then, I feel his fingers moving through my hair, so gently
at first I don't know if it's happening. Seconds, minutes, maybe hours pass, with my cheeks burning and my body beating like one giant heart. I don't know how long we sit there because the moment is elastic, expanding and contracting. A second isn't a second, it's an eternity. We're sinking lower onto the floor, until we're lying down, my head resting on Sam's hard chest, right at that bony place where his collarbone and shoulder meet. I close my eyes, feel him breathing beneath me, feeling his hands in my hair, the subtle smell of his skin, and the cotton of his shirt beneath my cheek.

—

I wake up when a garbage truck grunts loudly on the street outside my window. I open my eyes, disoriented. I'm lying on the floor on my side, and Sam is on the floor, too, also asleep, his knees a little bent. I rub my eyes. The light in my room is a dusky lavender. Outside my window, there is a rim of glowing orange light over the city. The sun is coming up. I panic as I reach for my phone. We might never have talked about it, but I know if my mom came in now and saw that a boy slept over that it would not be okay.

“Sam,” I whisper.

He doesn't move.

I gently touch his arm and he stirs. When he opens his eyes, there's a blank moment before he remembers where he is, and then his eyes pop open.

“What time is it?”

“Maybe five? It's getting light out,” I whisper.

He sits up. “Wow. Are we good? Did your mom come in?”

I shake my head
no
. His shoes are sitting on the floor next to him. When did he take them off?

“
I don
't remember falling asleep,” I say, blinking.

“You passed out,” he says. “I didn't want to wake you.”

Sam grabs his shoes and gets up before I do. His cropped hair is crooked from the way he slept and his shirt looks wrinkled.

I stand up, and we're face-to-face, not touching.

“I should go before we get caught,” he says.

Then he taps my calf with his sneaker, breaking the invisible wall between us.

“Yeah,” I say. “You're right.”

I open the door, check that the coast is clear, and give him a nod.

He walks past and then he stops and looks down at me. He's only a foot away from me now. If my mom opened her door, she would see us here.

“
Sadie,
” he whispers. His green eyes see straight through me.

“Good luck at your dad's thing tonight,” he says.

I swallow. Nod. “Thank you.”

And then he's gone, out the door. I'm not tired now, though. I lie on my bed and watch the sky turning from lavender to white to pale blue as the day arrives. And then, just when it's so bright out that it looks like a normal morning, I fall asleep.