Summer in the Invisible City (18 page)

The next morning, Willa arrives at eight a.m. to take me to breakfast before class. I called her crying last night and she said she'd come over first thing, even if it makes her late for bio.

We share a stack of pancakes at the diner on First Avenue, and I tell Willa everything that happened with Sam, from beginning to end. As if I go over it enough, the outcome will change. But it always ends the same way: he leaves.

“Why can't you guys be together anyway?” Willa suggests. “I mean, during the school year everyone is busy. It's not like if he lived here you'd see him that much.”

“But I'd see him
sometimes
,” I protest. “Now, I'm gonna see him
never
.”

“I think you're being a little fatalistic,” Willa says. She's looking prettier, but not in any way that I can pin down, as if it's coming from the inside out.

“
I don
't know,” I say, stabbing a piece of pancake and dragging it through a river of syrup. “How's Miles? Have you beat him in Dungeons and Dragons yet?”

“Shut up.” Willa laughs. But then she looks down at her
plate and smiles to herself like she has a good kind of secret.

Willa takes a big bite of pancake, blushing and giggling to herself at the thought of Miles. I look down at my pancakes, not hungry. The cold vacuum that Sam left in my heart sucks everything good down into it, even my appetite.

—

The rest of the day unfolds the same as any other day this summer. I walk to class and listen to Benji lecture. I drink an orange soda from the vending machine by the janitor's closet. I laugh at Izzy's not-funny jokes. I get overheated on the walk home from school and buy an iced coffee. Then, I watch the ice cubes melt faster than I can drink it, and I throw it away when it becomes a watery mess. At home, I crank up the old air conditioner and listen to it wheeze and whine as it starts to thin the air in my room.

But all day, as my body goes through my regular routine, my thoughts are a million miles away. Or not a million miles away. It's more like my thoughts are buried so deep inside myself, in the darkest, quietest, most hopeless space in my heart, that I can barely taste or smell or even see the world around me.

I'm lying on my bed with my sneakers on because I'm too lazy to take them off when my phone rings. I peer at the screen where it's resting next to me on the pillow.

Sam is calling. I push ignore. I don't want to talk to him. What's the point? He'
s gone.

A minute later, it rings again. Again, it's Sam. Again, I push ignore.

Some people leave because they're selfish and only care
about themselves, like Allan. Some people leave because their lives are bigger and better somewhere else, like Noah. Some people leave because their families move to small towns, like Sam. The reason doesn't matter. Gone is gone. Left behind is left behind. And left behind is something I'm sick of being.

My phone rings a third time. I will myself to be strong.
Don't pick it up. Let him go. Gone is gone. Gone is gone.

But then images of Sam flood my mind. I can hear him saying my name, see him sleeping on my bedroom floor in his dirty jeans. I lose my will. I squeeze my eyes shut and answer the phone.

“
Hello?
” I say.

“There she is,” says the voice on the other end of the line.

My eyes snap open.

“Who is this?” I ask. Even though I think I might already know.

“It's Noah,” he says. “I called you the other day. Not sure if you got my message.”

I close my eyes. I try to picture Noah the way I used to see him when I liked him. But all I can see is Sam.

“You still there?” Noah asks.

“I'm here.”

“I'm glad you answered. You're a hard girl to reach. You know that?” he says.

“No, I'm not.”

He laughs. And then, when he speaks his voice is gentler, coaxing. “I want to see you.”

I don
't say anything and then he says, “Sadie, can I see you?”

It's so sad it's almost funny that it's this easy to make Noah pay attention to me. It's like he can sense that for the first time I honestly don't care about him.

I gaze at the constellation of cracks in my ceiling. Outside, sounds of the late afternoon traffic seep into my room. Things fall apart in exactly the way they're meant to. What's the point of trying to make anything different than how it wants to be? Sam is gone but Noah is here. And maybe, right now, just being the one who came back is enough.

It's weird to be getting ready for a first date with someone I've already done everything with. Maybe my order and Noah's is just moving backward, a movie playing in reverse.

When I'm dressed and my hair is done and my makeup is on how I like it, I stare at my reflection in the mirror. My lipstick is the right amount of dark. I imagine Noah looking at me. Leaning in to kiss me. I try not to think about Sam.

All week, I've tried not to wonder if he's back in New Hampshire yet. Or if he and Amanda will get back together. I've tried to press the image of his sad eyes out of my mind. Tried not to dream about the bright shimmering kisses we shared that felt like stepping into the sun.

Noah meets me on the corner of Sixth Street and Avenue A.

“Good evening,” he says, smiling.

“Good evening . . . to you,” I repeat awkwardly.

“You look really nice,” he says.

“Thanks,” I say. He looks nice, too.

We hug. We look like we belong together, in the stylish East Village on a warm summer night. So why do I feel so lonely?

Noah takes me to dinner at a sushi place near my street.

“I like this place,” he tells me. “It's been here forever. I can't stand all these places that keep opening up. I feel like every time I come home from school there's a new cupcake shop on my block.”

I try to smile. “Yeah. What's the food like at school?”

“Bad. Fine. Whatever. I end up going out to dinner a lot,” he says. “Do you know Mikey? He went to NYSA for tenth grade but then he dropped out and went to boarding school in Switzerland. He's awesome. He's a fool. I mean, he's nuts. But he's kind of a genius.”

“
I don
't know him,” I say.

“Oh, he's a character. For real,” he says, laughing to himself about something he's reminded of. “His dad is like this high up diplomat. Mikey's like the opposite of a diplomat. People hate him, but also kind of love him.”

Noah talks about Mikey the entire time we drink our green teas and wait for the server to take our orders. I try to stay focused on what he's saying, but I don't know who Mikey is and I don't care.

Finally, the waiter comes and I'm grateful that the Mikey monologue is over. But then, Noah launches in about another one of his friends named James who is also “
a character.
”

When Noah segues from James into yet another friend, I stifle a yawn.

“What about you?” Noah says, as if realizing he's been going on and on. “Who are your best friends?”

“My best friend is Willa,” I say, feeling proud
.

“Don't know her,” he says.

“You might recognize her if you saw her,” I say. “She's in my grade and she has brown hair and glasses?”

“Nope,” he says.

“You might know her sister, though,” I say. “Danielle Davis-Spencer? She went to Eastside Prep but now she goes to Yale.”

“Oh yeah, I know
Danielle,
” Noah says. And he says “know” in that way that boys do when they're trying to imply they've hooked up with someone. “She's a crazy one.”

“Yeah, she's kind of a party girl,” I say uncomfortably.

“I have a buddy who goes to Yale and he and Danielle party together a lot. Trust me. There are stories.”

And then, just like that, Noah is talking again. Telling me tales of all-night parties and middle of the night road trips to New Haven and I'm bored.

“What are you majoring in?” I ask, trying to get us on to something I can relate to.

“Probably semiotics,” he says. “Like the philosophy of language or whatever. It's the best major at Brown.”

“Sounds interesting,” I say. “What's that like?”

“Hard to explain,” he says conclusively.

It's funny. With Sam, it felt like every small topic opened up on to something bigger. Talking with Noah is the opposite, every conversation shrinking back to smaller things.

After dinner, Noah pulls out his phone and starts texting.

“There's a party at my friend Jack's apartment tonight,” he says. “Wanna go? Come. I've been talking about myself all night. Let's keep hanging out. I want to know more about Sadie.”

And then, he reaches under the table and grabs my knees. And I'm reminded of that other side of Noah. The side that knows exactly how to touch me to make the world disappear.

—

Noah's friend's apartment is enormous and fancy in a way that makes me afraid to touch anything. As soon as we get there, Noah goes to get us drinks and I stare out the movie-screen-sized windows that look down at the city by myself. We're up so high, I feel seasick looking down.

“Hey,” Noah says.

I turn and he's holding out a beer to me, not smiling. His eyes are sparkling like I remember them.

I take a sip of beer and watch him. He steps toward the window and stares out at the view. This is the Noah who I liked: the one who was aloof and quiet and handsome. Someone I could project onto. Not the spoiled rich kid I just had dinner with. Would it be possible to date one Noah without dating the other?

Then, Izzy and Phaedra are there.

I haven't seen Phaedra since our fight. She gives me a hug. And then grabs onto both my shoulders and looks right into my eyes.

“We're fine, right?” she asks.

I nod limply.

“Good. 'Cause I love you,” she says.

And then she turns to Noah and looks up at him with her heavy-lidded, blue-green eyes.

“Hi, Noah,” she says, not smiling. “How are you?”

“Phaedra Bishop,” he says, as if that's an answer.

“Do you guys want to smoke weed?” Izzy asks. “We were just going to do that in the bedroom.”

“Sure.” Noah shrugs. And then he looks at me. “Sadie? Do you smoke?”

“No,” I say. “But I'
ll come.
”

“Atta girl,” he says. And then he wraps his arm around my shoulders and walks with me like that down the hall, Izzy and Phaedra following behind.

—

The bedroom is lamp lit and cloudy, and thumping rap music is turned up so loud the whole room seems to pulse.

I sit in the desk chair and watch the others. Someone lights a joint and passes it around. Noah keeps changing the music on the speakers, and Izzy keeps taking group selfies. I feel as if I'm not even here. It's like I'm watching a play about a group of kids. I can see all of them, all of their fears and insecurities motivating each of their actions. There's Izzy: vying for Phaedra's approval; and Phaedra: the girl who is intent on making everything look so easy. But she's actually working really hard at it. I notice how she times her reactions to other people's jokes and never laughs too much, holding her approval close to her chest so that when she gives it out it means more. She tosses her hair at all the right times. Noah sits on the windowsill, trying to hang back but also aware that the girls keep twisting around to smile at him. He looks at me from across the room and half smiles. This is the dream I had for two years. Being accepted with these kids. Having Noah want me more than anyone else and having it not be a secret. I know I'm supposed to feel happy.

I wonder how long Noah's interest in me will last this time. Even though he's choosing me tonight, it's suddenly crystal clear to me that it's temporary. I can already see the other girls lining up to go next. Maybe Phaedra. Maybe Izzy. It doesn't matter. I don't care. That's how it works in these groups. People pass one another around. For whatever reason, I've popped up on Noah's rotation again. But it's not real.

I wonder if he knows that, too.

The day after I lost my virginity to Noah was New Year's Day. It was a gorgeous, clear winter morning. The sky was an endless, unbroken blue that glowed over the city. The snow on the ground was the new kind, perfect blankets of unbroken white stretched across sidewalks like frosting.

I remember thinking: the only thing more beautiful than a beautiful winter day is a beautiful winter day when you just had sex with the hottest guy in your school.

My mom wasn't working that day, so we spent the morning walking around together. We walked through Washington Square Park, ducking under the bare black branches of trees that sagged under layers of sugary snow. Sharp icicles dripped from the old buildings circling the park like crystals. The air in my lungs was strong and bright and even my skin felt awake as we walked farther west and up toward Chelsea.

Even though it was freezing, we went up to the High Line and let the wind skirting across the Hudson slam against us. I remember looking at my mother when we
were up there. The bright winter sun made her skin glow an almost blue white. Behind her, one of the brand-new glass luxury apartment buildings bounced sunlight back into my eyes, and I felt a jolt of happiness so strong it almost burned. My life was finally happening exactly the way it was meant to.

—

Later, I went over to Willa's. It was only three when I got there but at that time of year, the sun is already sinking. I told Willa everything that had happened with Noah the night before. When I was done, she looked at me hard. And then she said, “Are you okay? How do you feel today?”

That was the first crack in my happiness. That Willa seemed more worried for me than excited.

Later, I ate dinner with Willa's family as the world outside grew dim. The sun went down too quickly, and soon, it was night. And right about then, as we were clearing the table, something bad and aching and dark started to creep into the edges of my mind. I tried to push it away but I could feel its invisible pull, like gravity.

I hadn't expected Noah to call me. He didn't ask for my number or anything. But I guess I wasn't prepared for him to
not
reach out to me either. I started checking my e-mail and my phone compulsively. While Willa was brushing her teeth, I even logged into Snapchat and Yo and all these stupid apps just to see if Noah was online somewhere. But he was nowhere. The silence was deafening.

Then, just when we were getting into bed, my phone beeped.

I lurched for it, blood pumping hot in my ears.

I slid my fingers across the screen to see who it was. It was a text from a random girl in my English class reminding me about some school thing. My heart sank so fast that tears were coming by the time I was done reading her message. And by the time I went to put the phone down, I was crying too hard to breathe.

Willa was behind me on the other side of the bed. I think she thought I was laughing at first, because she giggled and said, “What's so funny?”

I wanted to say “Nothing.” I tried to inhale but it sounded like an animal groan; it was this horrible wheezing sound.

Willa sprung across the bed and wrapped her arms around me.

“What's wrong?” she asked. “Are you okay?”

I couldn't speak. All I could feel was loss. Noah hadn't called me. He hadn't figured out a way to contact me. He wasn't thinking about me. It meant nothing. He had used me. He didn't like me. I had been easy. All these clichés, things I had always ignored because they had nothing to do with me, came back to me in a rush. There was a black hole in my chest and it was sucking hard at everything good.

I couldn't bring myself to look at Willa. Her world was still intact. Mine was shattered.

—

The next morning, though, I felt better. I was embarrassed that I had cried so much. I was just tired.

Over breakfast, I remember saying to Willa, “I'm fine now.
Noah probably just didn't call because it's a holiday and he was with his family or whatever. I'm sure we'll hang out again once school starts.”

It's impossible to say now, looking back, if I really believed that.