“Jo—oh, whatever, just call me Elizabeth.” I’m tired of reminding everyone that I wanted to change my name the minute we changed places: both signifiers of a shift vital to our survival. I can be Elizabeth for the sake of ease, but I swear to myself that I will always be Jo on paper.
Laurie’s crooked smile widens. “Classy. Sean, meet Elizabeth. Or at least Elizabeth for now.”
“Brat,” I say, and flop into a chair. The chair is next to Sean, and the moment my butt hits the cushion, he pulls back, as if he’s a turtle and the sofa is a shell he’s trying to withdraw into. He mumbles something. I assume it’s “hello.”
“Nice to meet you too.” My tone is sharper than it should be, but I’m annoyed that Sean is acting like I’ve invaded his space when he’s sitting on my couch. Laurie tosses darts at me with his glare.
“Sean lives in Five-C,” Laurie says. “Two floors up, one door over. We keep running into each other getting the mail, so I thought I’d get to know one of the neighbors.”
He smiles one of those only-Laurie-can-pull-off smiles and Sean uncurls a little.
“You two would be good buddies.” Laurie has taken over the scene and is now directing it with the skill of a professional. “We started talking because he was carrying this around.” I only notice now that Laurie has a comic in his hands, which he waves at me. The flapping pages make Sean flinch, and I like him a little more. He snatches the book out of Laurie’s careless grasp.
“Fables.” I attempt another smile for Sean. “That’s a good one. Vertigo does a lot of interesting stuff.”
He kind of smiles back, mumbles something at the same time he scuttles off the couch and heads for the door. Laurie follows him, and I hear my brother say goodbye as the door opens and closes.
“What was that about?” I ask as Laurie strolls back into the room and rolls himself out full length on the sofa.
“What was what about?” Laurie says.
“Why did he leave all of a sudden?” I wonder if I make that bad a first impression.
“He apologized and said he had to go to dinner,” Laurie says. “Didn’t you hear him?”
I absolutely did not hear anything Sean said and wonder how Laurie has already tuned in to our upstairs neighbor’s secret language of undertones. But that’s Laurie’s gift: He wins people. Not every time, though.
“Cute, yeah?” Laurie gazes at the ceiling, but I catch the twinkle in his eyes and my stomach clenches.
I don’t remember cute. It’s hard to remember much of anything about Sean. I think he has black hair and is skinny but not scrawny. He was too busy trying to become one with our sofa for me to get a good sense of his looks.
“And he’s a reader,” Laurie says. “So bonus points there. Guess I’ll be waiting for the postman a little more often . . .”
“Come on, Laurie,” I say. “Do you even know if he’s—”
I try to stop myself, but it’s too late. The giddy flush of Laurie’s cheeks washes out. He sits up, swinging his legs over the side of the sofa and looking right at me.
My throat is closing up, but I force words out. “I didn’t mean . . . I’m sorry.” I don’t want to have this type of sucker-punch reflex. When I let fear get the best of me, I hate myself. I react like a dog who’s been beaten; anytime I see a broom, I flinch and snarl.
He lets me sit in a pool of guilt for another quiet minute.
“I’m sorry,” I say again.
“Forget it.”
The apartment door bangs open. Laurie and I both jump up. Mom stumbles into the living room.
“I’m home! And I made dinner!” She lifts up bags of carryout Chinese. From the looks of it, she bought the entire restaurant.
Laurie hoots and bounces over to her. We spread a picnic of cartons on the living room floor. Mom apologizes for never being around, but she’s glowing in a way that makes me know she loves her new job. Laurie chatters about school, and when he mentions Sean, I give him a teasing wink. He beams at me and I know I’m forgiven. When they ask about my day, I make excuses about not unpacking and mention exploring the park. I don’t bring up Stephen. Something he said in the park is still racing through my veins, moving in perfect time with my heartbeat. “I’m keeping to you.” I want that. I’m not ready to let anyone else near it. So I stay quiet while Laurie and Mom sketch out the shape of their lives. We don’t talk about Minnesota. We don’t talk about Dad. And somewhere between pot stickers and moo shu pork, we become a family for a couple of hours.
* * *
It’s after midnight, but I can’t fall asleep, having learned that New York mapo tofu is much spicier than the Minnesota rendition. Despite my gurgling tummy I don’t mind being awake and alone in my room. Our apartment is quiet, but I can still hear the city—alive and at work—on the street below. I thought it would be one of the things that bothered me about Manhattan, the absence of silence, but I like the perpetual buzz of humanity. It reminds me of a clock that never needs to be wound; its gears are always turning, always at work keeping the pace of life moving just as it should.
I’m also not bothered by sleeplessness because I’m thinking about Stephen. I’m lying on my back, staring up at the ceiling above my bed where I’ve tacked up a star chart I got at the Chicago planetarium during our family vacation when I was ten. But I’m not looking at the stars like I usually do when I’m trying to find my way to sleep. I’m rewinding my day, reliving the park, Stephen’s cool touch that leaves me warm all over, the timbre of his voice easing my anxiety at how unfamiliar my new home is. It is the best day I have ever had. I want to be there again and again and again.
I roll onto my side and reach under my bed, pulling out my case of art supplies. They were the first thing I unpacked. Before clothes, before pillows. I rifle through brushes, paint tubes, and cases of pastels. If I can’t sleep, at least I can save the day in the best way I know. My first thought is that watercolors would be the perfect medium. The blurred colors washing into one another would fit the unsteadiness between us. But I want to feel the weight of the charcoal in my hand when I strike the page, making lines that will become a face I’ve already memorized. Memorized without even thinking about it.
I go to my desk and get a sketch pad. Settling on my bed, I rub my finger over the suede feel of the charcoal stick, pull it out, and begin to sketch. I draw for hours and don’t remember falling asleep. I wake up when light hits my room. I’m sprawled across the bed, sheets of heavy drawing paper strewn around me. My fingers are smudged with charcoal, but I must have been dreaming before I had a chance to sketch any image of Stephen or the park. All the pages around me are blank.