Summer in the Invisible City (14 page)

I wonder what Sam's apartment looks like. And what did his house in New Hampshire look like? Every thought leads back to him.

I always thought there were two categories of liking people: being attracted to them, or liking them as a friend. But now, Sam has shaken that whole paradigm. I know I'm attracted to him, but it runs so deep it doesn't even seem like it has to do with his appearance. It's like the invisible part of me is attracted to the invisible part of him.

I remember his kiss and my legs grow weak. If just kissing Sam felt that intense, what would it feel like if we went further? I try to fuse my memories of the things I did with Noah with my image of Sam. I want to picture Sam lying on top of me, holding my shoulders, pressing his forehead against mine. The idea of touching Sam like that makes me ache in a good way. I bite my lip to fight the feeling.

I steady myself on the counter and squeeze my eyes shut. And then a thought hits me like a splash of cold water and I stand up straight: what if Sam doesn't want me in that way?

My mom opens her creaky bedroom door and the sound shakes me out of my daze. I hear her walk into the bathroom and turn on the faucet to fill the bath. It's crazy that a year from now, I'll be preparing to go to college. And five years from now, I'll be done with college altogether. Is it really possible that I'll ever be twenty? Thirty? Forty? That mom will
be sixty, seventy, eighty? Will there ever be a better day than today? This is perfect: I'm seventeen and my mom is down the hall taking a bath, and I just kissed a boy with green eyes. There are still so many things that I don't have and that I want, but I have the weirdest feeling that even if I got all the things I've ever wanted, I'd still choose this moment, right now, to be the one that lasts forever.

I'm meeting Allan on the steps of the Metropolitan Museum of Art at noon. I climb the wide, bright stairs, passing a group of tourists taking selfies, their maps waving wildly in the wind like flags. Overhead, the sky is a shining blue dome.

When I spot him, I wave, and a gust of wind whips my hair across my face and in my eyes. I push it off, and see him smiling at me. I feel like the girl on the bow of a ship coming home at the end of a movie. I'm the star of that movie, I can just feel it.

As Allan walks toward me, I wish I could tell all the people around us who he is.
That man, my father, is a famous artist
, I want to shout.
This very museum that you have traveled around the world to visit owns two artworks that he's made.

“Nice day,” Allan says, his hands shoved into the pockets of his khakis. Without even trying, he looks smarter than everyone else in the world. “I like your dress. Your mom also looks good in red.”

—

I've been to the Met a million times, so I know the rooms well. My teachers have been taking my classes here for
field trips since kindergarten. Art teachers and history teachers and even math teachers can find a reason to visit the Met.

Allan doesn't talk to me while he looks. The only way you could tell that he is a real artist, and that the other people in the exhibit are just tourists, is that he never shows any signs of approval. Some people elbow their friends and point to things they admire. Others wear the audio guide and keep stopping in front of certain paintings to listen. Not Allan.

When we reach the modern wing, I see a sign that reads H
ENRI
C
ARTIER-
B
RESS
ON:
R
OMANIA 1975
with an arrow pointing down the hall.

“Oh, can we go see that show?” I ask Allan. “That's one of the photographers my teacher had us study this summer. This girl in my class, Alexis, did a whole project on him.”

Allan shrugs. “Sure.”

—

In the photo gallery, I set the pace. I can feel him behind me, letting me decide how much time to spend in front of each picture. He gets it, I think. He knows I'm a real artist, too.

The pictures are all street scenes from a city I've never been to, from a time before I was born. But it feels as familiar as the world outside right now.

Some of these are photographs that I've seen in books, but they look different in person. The blacks are richer, but there's also some other harder to name quality that makes my heart flutter. I'm so used to seeing photographs on screens, unless they're mine or my classmates, and it's
always magic to see the actual thing and to know that the artist touched it himself.

The last photograph in the gallery is one I've never seen before. In it, a man and two teenagers are sleeping on a train, and their bodies are intertwined. Even in 1979, there were teenagers like me and Sam, sneaking out, finding places to be alone together.

—

Allan doesn't want to eat lunch at the museum café so we walk together to a French restaurant on Madison Avenue that his friend told him was good. It's dark inside. An old man at the table in the front is drinking red wine and eating a steak. This is different from anywhere my mom and I would ever eat, especially for lunch.

While we read the menu, which is spare and expensive, Allan asks me what I thought of the museum. I want to impress him, and I grope for the right words.

“I loved the photo show,” I say.

“Yeah.” Allan shrugs. “That work holds up I guess.”

“I love going to museums with you,” I gush. “I wish you lived here and we could do it more often.”

Allan scans the restaurant. He raises his arm in a kind of command as a busboy shuffles by.

Then he looks back at me.

“I could never live in New York again,” he says, only responding to half of my comment.

“Well, at least I have your camera,” I say, trying a different tactic. “
So it
's kind of like you're always here.”

“I'm so glad you're using that thing,” Allan says. “It cost
a fortune and I felt so guilty I never used it. Do you have it with you today?”

“No, because remember, we're going to go from here to my friend Phaedra's mom's party after this,” I say.

He looks at me blankly. “Who?”

“My friend Phaedra? You met her at your opening?” I say, trying to jog his memory. “And I e-mailed you that invitation from her mom, it's a fund-raiser for this art program. So I thought we could just go there from here.”

Allan is about to respond, but the waiter is walking by again and Allan's attention jumps away from me. He waves his arm over his head. “Waiter? Who is our waiter?”

“I'll be right with you,” the waiter says, shuffling by holding a tray of plates.

“The service here is terrible,” Allan says, looking back at me. “But the food looks great. Did you see that steak?”

“Right, yeah,” I say. “Anyway, the party starts at four—”

“Yes. What can I get you?” The waiter appears next to our table.

Allan orders a steak and I get the French Onion Soup.

When the waiter is gone, Allan lets out a long, contented sigh. He sinks down in his seat and rests his hands on his stomach, seeming pleased and relaxed.

“So,” he says. “Do you know where you want to go to college yet or is it too soon?”

I straighten up and smile. Here it goes.

“I want to go to art school,” I announce. “IACA is my first choice.”

“
Oh, don
't do that,” Allan says, waving his hand away like he's swatting away a fly. “Art school is such a waste of time.”

I'm too stunned to speak.

My silence must surprise him because he looks up at me and his eyes widen.

“Don't look at me like that,” he says with a laugh.

“Like what?” I ask.

“Like
that
,” he says, gesturing toward me.

“I-I-want to go to IACA,” I repeat. “I want to be an artist. A photographer. And . . . if I went there . . . we'd be together.”

Allan doesn't respond.

All of a sudden, I have a feeling I might cry so I focus on unfolding my napkin and laying it on my lap, smoothing out all the wrinkles over and over, trying to erase the creases entirely. The silence grows louder.

“Don't take it personally,” Allan finally says. “It's not about you. I don't think anyone should be an artist anymore. The professionalization of art has ruined the field.”

“But, you're an artist,” I say, my voice trembling.

“You're too smart for art school,” Allan says.

“You don't even know how smart I am or am not,” I counter.

Allan laughs. “Point taken.”

“This isn't funny,” I say. “You're treating this like it's nothing, and it's not nothing.”

“What do you want me to say? Go to art school? Fine, go to art school. Be an artist if you want. It's not up to me anyway,” he says. “This has nothing to do with me.”

Nothing to do with you?
The words sink down into my gut, one by one. How could he not understand? Now my eyes begin to ache. I can feel the tears piling up behind them, my bottom lip trembling.

I look at my plate, which is bright white porcelain. I try to make my mind blank. Soon, the waiter brings our food and Allan eats. I just stare at my soup and listen to the sounds of him chewing.

Allan stops when he notices that I'm not eating.

“Look, you want to know my honest opinion? I told you. I don't think anyone should be an artist anymore,” he says. “Be a business person. Be a computer programmer. Go to law school.”

“But I love art,” I say, when I can find my voice. “And I'm good at it. My teacher thinks I'm really good.”

“So you're good at black–and-white photography, great.” Allan sneers. “You're a sixteen-year-old girl. Go through a black-and-white street photography phase: fine. But you can't do that anymore. You can't be Cartier-Bresson anymore. The world already has that.”

“I'm seventeen,” I say. And now the tears burn my eyes. “I'm not sixteen.”

“I said that,” he says.

“No, you called me sixteen,” I hiss, wiping tears away with the back of my hands.

Allan looks at me and sees the tears. I think he's going to apologize, but instead I see something grow cold and hard in his face, like water turning to ice.

—

After, on the sidewalk outside of the restaurant, Allan says, “Listen. I see you're upset. You don't have to tell me why. But I wish you'd calm down. Everything is fine.”

I still can't speak because I'm so full of different feelings of anger and shame and I don't know what's going to come out of my mouth if I do.

“I need to get going,” Allan says impatiently. “I really want to end this visit on a lighter note, but Marla and I are leaving for the country in an hour and I have to pack.”

“But Phaedra's party . . .” I say.

“Sadie. Please,” is all he says.

I drop my head forward and cover my eyes with the heels of my hands. I'm so mad at myself for messing everything up. When I finally let go and look back up at Allan, he is doing something on his phone.

“What are you doing?” I ask.

“Checking my e-mail,” he says. “I'm waiting to hear from this museum curator. It's been such a headache.”

Nothing I do is making Allan pay any attention to me and suddenly, I can't help it, I'm crying again.

“I can't believe I told you I wanted to go to art school and you told me it was a bad idea,” I blurt.

“Well, if it takes one person to make you doubt yourself, you really shouldn't be an artist,” Allan says with a self-satisfied smile.

“Stop laughing at me,” I snap.

The amused expression on Allan's face vanishes.

“Okay. All right. Enough,” Allan says. “This tantrum is boring.”

“Boring?” I repeat. “That's really nice. That's really sweet of you,
Dad
.”

Allan straightens up.

“
Listen, Sadie,
” he says coldly. “This whole father-daughter melodrama you've concocted is ridiculous. It's a bunch of bullshit theatrics. You're not a little kid anymore, so stop acting like one.”

I wipe away tears.

“Stop crying,” he commands.

There are a lot of things I want to say. But mainly, I want to be away from him. So I smooth out the front of my dress and take a deep breath.

“I'm sorry. I made this lunch really awful. I should go.”

Allan doesn't disagree.

“Look. I know I'm distracted. My mind is in a million other places, with this MOCA show coming up and everything,” Allan says. “But your mom said you seemed disappointed when you came back from my opening the other night, so she thought I should try and make it up to you.”

I stop crying. I'm too shocked.

“My mom . . . what?” I whisper.

“Yeah, she said you were out of sorts,” he continues.

My mom knew I went to Allan's opening? I'm dizzy, out-of-body wobbly as Allan gives me a weak hug. He tells me to
take care
and to
stay in touch
, but none of his words reach my ears because I'm underwater.

And then I'm alone. I slump back against the brick exterior of the restaurant. The gorgeous summer day has turned sour.

Allan was an asshole, but I suddenly don't care. I guess, deep down, I expected to be disappointed by him. Maybe this was all theater, like he said. But my mom knew this whole time? I feel a chasm opening in my heart, between the half that is me and the half that is her.

I hide behind my sunglasses and walk toward the Park Avenue Armory. Around me, the world feels dirty. A yellow construction tractor tears up the ground, ripping up chunks of asphalt with its animal claws.

I step off Park onto a quiet, shady street. One of those Upper East Side brownstone blocks where the buildings are so old and the trees so dense, it's as if you fell through a crack in time to a hundred years ago. I pull out my phone to text Sam, but then I decide to just call him. It rings four times and then goes to voice mail. I don't leave a message, I just text him:
can u talk?
When I'm a block away from the armory, where the party is, Sam still hasn't called me back. I dial his number again. Again, it goes to voice mail. So I put my phone away and go inside.

—

There are security guards and photographers protecting the entrance to the gala. I make my way to the front of the line and the girl behind the table asks me my name.

“Bell . . . Bell . . . let me see here,” she says, in her perky robot voice. “It says here Allan Bell and Sadie Bell. Is he with you as well?”

“He's coming later,” I lie.

I stick my name tag to my dress and walk in. I peer into the reception, which is taking place in an elegant room filled with fancy-looking people. A team of photographers with cameras so gigantic that they could be weapons circulates through the crowd.

“You made it!” Izzy cries, tumbling into me. She's wearing a black dress and almost black lipstick. “Wait. Where'
s your dad?
”

“He couldn'
t come,
” I say.

Her face falls and she grabs my elbow, pulling me out of earshot of the other guests.

“What? Why?” she whispers.

“We just, we had this crazy fight at lunch
,
” I say. “It was so bad.”

“That is so bad.” Izzy's jaw falls open. “You have to call him and tell him to come. Phaedra's mom has told so many people he's coming. You guys are at our table.”

“I can't,” I say. “It's too weird.”

“How can it be weird? He'
s your dad,
” Izzy hisses. “Just call him.”

I look at Izzy. The mass of people behind her pulses with laughter and the clinking of champagne glasses. I say, “Okay. I'll call him. I'm just going to go somewhere quiet.”

“Good.” Izzy sighs. “Find me after.”

—

I exit the cocktail room and find myself in the huge, vaulted ceiling armory where the dinner will be held. A sea of circular tables with china plates and floral arrangements
stretches out for what feels like miles in every direction.

I check the number that's stamped on my name card and make my way to my seat. Wandering between the empty tables, I feel like I'm sinking into a maze. Finally, I find table 32. There are nine seats.
Isabelle Tobias. Lily Tobias. Terence Tobias
. Those must be Izzy's parents. And after that, other names I don't know. Until I come to
Sadie Bell
. And next to that
Allan Bell
.

Izzy thinks it's all so simple. She thinks I can just call Allan and tell him to come. The truth is, I have no power over him at all. Izzy doesn't know anything. But then I think about my mom and the fact that she knew about me and Allan all along, and I think
neither do I.
There are so many things I've been too blind to see.

I sink down into the chair that says my name and finger the embossed place card. I place it next to Allan's. They look so neat together: Allan Bell and Sadie Bell, father and daughter. But there will be no us. Maybe not ever.

I grab both place cards and wade back through the dining hall.

People are still arriving, wandering into the hall with their welcome packets and high heels. I'm climbing three small steps that lead into the cocktail room when someone taps me on the shoulder.

I turn and Noah is standing there. He's just come in with his parents and a girl who I recognize from the Internet as his older sister.

“Hi, Noah,” I say.

His family drifts past us into the cocktail room, but Noah stays put.

“How are you?” he asks. I've never seen Noah so dressed up. He's wearing a black suit with a crisp button-down shirt. Something about the sharp white corners of his collar against the soft skin of his neck sends a jolt up my spine.

“I'm okay,” I say. My voice feels far away from my body. “How are you?”

Noah steps toward me. He smells like soap.

“Fine. But, are you okay, really?” he asks, his eyes fastening on to mine.

I can't believe Noah Bearman is talking to me. He's looking at me closer than he's looked at me since that night. He's swallowing me with his bottomless eyes.

“
I don
't know,” I tell him. “I'm. . . . I'm actually in the middle of kind of a terrible day.”

“Do you want to talk about it?” he asks.

“It's a long story,” I tell him. “I just had a fight with my father.”

“Family.”
Noah sighs.
“Family is tough.”

“Yeah.” We are still standing in the doorway and newcomers continue to pass us by, but I can't seem to move. I'm too hypnotized by the strangeness of everything that's happening: talking to Noah at this fancy party. I feel so far away from who I am. My fight with Allan divided the day and now I'm living in an alternate reality.

A caterer with a tray of champagne flutes walks by, and Noah grabs two glasses off the tray. He hands one to me.

“For you,” Noah says. His eyes are doing their Noah thing, sparkling and smiling, but somehow not giving anything away. His perfect lips curl upward on one side, arcing into that perfect, apologetic smile.

“Thank you,” I say.

And then he says, “I know a girl who could use a drink when I see one.”

—

A big glass of champagne later and everything is starting to feel better. I'm in the cocktail room, surrounded by people who I don't know. Before I began drinking, the room seemed loud and the people looked anonymous and scary. Now everything feels bright and happy.

“Look who doesn't seem so sad anymore,” Noah teases, handing me another glass of champagne.

“You're good at getting champagne.” I giggle, accepting the drink.

“I have friends in high places,” he replies, amusing himself.

“This is a pretty amazing party,” I say. “Is that the mayor?”

Noah laughs. “You're funny.”

“I'm serious,” I say. “I honestly think that's the mayor.”

Just then, I spot Phaedra talking to her parents. She catches me looking at her and she locks eyes with me. I can see her excusing herself from her conversation, heading over to me. I know she's going to ask about Allan.

I turn to Noah, grabbing his forearm without thinking.

“Can we go outside? I need to get out for a second,” I tell him.

Noah doesn't ask any questions or seem surprised.
Instead, he slips his hand into mine and we weave quickly through the crowd out to the front entrance and straight out onto the street.

It happens so fast and I'm reminded of how assured Noah is. That confidence, that thing that let him take my hand and pull me along, that's the same thing that sucked me in so deep a year and a half ago.

Outside, the line has dissipated. The party is beginning and arrivals are slowing down.

“You seem stressed,” Noah says.

“I am,” I reply. “Izzy wanted me to bring my dad, and I told her I would but then everything got all bad and weird and now he's not coming. And I feel like Izzy is gonna be so pissed.”

“Wanna just get out of here?” Noah asks. “We could just leave right now. Fuck it.”

I laugh. Behind us, the girl who checked me in is beginning to clean up the table, putting away the name tags of people who didn't show up.

It's only five. The sun is still shining. Noah's red lips bloom in the golden afternoon light. Going with Noah is a bad idea. But right now, doing something bad seems like it might feel really good. Maybe the day is still full of possibilities. Maybe you can just walk away from one destiny and right into another.

—

Three blocks and five minutes later, the armory and the fund-raiser and Izzy's scornful look are all starting to feel like they were just part of a bad dream.

“Where are we going?” I ask as we walk away from the armory.

“Dan Jackson's,” Noah says. “It's a shithole but they'll serve us.”

Dan Jackson's is a bar on First Avenue that smells like beer and has TVs in all the corners, stools and tables, and gross bar food and loud music. Everyone goes there because they'll serve alcohol to anyone. It's the kind of place Danielle and her friends love.

“So, you're here for the summer? Like back from college?” I ask.

“Yup,” he says.

“Where do you go?” I ask. Like I don't know.

“Brown. It's all right,” he says.

“Do you live around here?” I ask as we wait for the light to change, even though I know everything about him that you can know about a person from Google. When will I get to stop pretending I haven't stalked him?

“No. We live in Brooklyn. But my half sister lives up here,” he says. “I can't stand this area. Oh, sorry, do you live here?”

“I live downtown. Kinda near school,” I tell him. “But we used to live uptown. I moved a lot.”

I can't believe I'm walking down the street with Noah. And it's occurring to me that this is the first time we've ever really spoken. He's not really how I thought he was. When he's talking, Noah is boring. But when he's not talking, when he's looking at me, or moving, or even watching other people cross the street, he'
s amazing. He
's full of silent intensity. Maybe the things you can find out about someone from
the Internet, or even from kissing them, don't really tell you what you need to know.

—

At the bar, Noah buys us each a shot of tequila and we swallow them, before sitting down at a sticky table in the back with big glasses of beer.

“How many drinks are you going to need before you start talking?” he asks.

“Not a lot, probably,” I say. I feel drunk already. And being drunk is making it easy to keep drinking, making everything seem lighter and more slippery.

He leans back in his chair, keeping his eyes glued to mine. “You're so small. You must be a lightweight.”

“I'm not small. Or a lightweight.”

Noah jumps up. “I'm getting another. And another for you, too. Since you're not a lightweight.”

Noah returns and sets two more beers down on the table.

I take a sip.

“Brown is awful,” he says, out of nowhere.

“Really?” I ask.

He pauses. “Okay, well not awful. That's an overstatement. All my friends there are from the city. I think if you grew up in the city, college just isn't that exciting.”

I've never felt especially bonded to other people who grew up in the city, but I like the way Noah talks about us like we are somehow on the same team.

“We've just done everything already, you know?” he says. “There are all these kids who have just never seen the world. They're so sheltered.”

I think about Sam. Sam is from a small town. But he knows so much stuff that I don't know.

“People from places other than the city know stuff, too,” I say sincerely.

Noah looks at me like I've spoken in gibberish and then he cracks up. He laughs so hard that I can't help but laugh along, too, although I'm not totally clear on what's funny.

“You're hilarious,” he says when he can speak again. He finishes his second beer in a big gulp. “Omigod. That was priceless.”

—

I couldn't finish my second beer so Noah had it, and now we're back outside and we're drunk. The alcohol is making time collapse. The air is lava hot. The city is a volcano of color and noise. A woman pushes past me on the sidewalk, and I laugh. Why is she in such a hurry? Why is everyone so serious?

“Being drunk during the day is really amazing,” I say.

Noah snorts. “Well, maybe you will like college, after all.”

“Why? Is that what college is like?” I ask.

“
No, I dunno,
” he says. He starts walking across Second Avenue and I follow him. The alcohol makes it easier to not stop doing things. We're hanging out. Stopping would be harder than not stopping. Talking is easier than not talking. Moving is easier than staying still.

“School's fine. Whatever. I've met some okay people, I guess. I took one class that was pretty good. But my best friends, and all my best memories, are still from here,” he says.

I'm staring at Noah. He doesn't seem drunk, just sad. When he talks about his
best memories
, I can't help but wonder if he's talking about me and him. Does he remember us? Maybe all this time I was just too stupid to realize he liked me back.

“Hey,” he says, looking at me and smiling. “Don't look so sad.”

“I'm not sad,” I say.

“You're feeling better? That's good,” he says. “You have one of those faces that always seems a little sad.”

“Do I?”

He's looking at me again, and it makes me feel beautiful.

Then, he resumes walking and I follow him, even though I don't know where we are headed. Our bodies knock into each other a little, sweaty forearms, and I step on his heels by accident a few times, but it's warm and easy, because we're drunk.

“I hate my father,” I say.

Noah nods.

“He made me feel so small,” I say. “And so stupid. Like I don't know anything. He doesn't know anything. He doesn't know who I am.”

Noah smiles approvingly. “Let it out.”

“I. Hate. Allan,” I say, with so much conviction I'm almost yelling.