Transcendent (17 page)

I forced myself to look away from the splintered glass and focus on Zane instead. “So should I just wait out on the steps, then?” I asked, determined not to let my fear show. Different didn't have to be bad. Different could be just that—different.

“Yeah,” he said, his hand already pressing down on a button marked 5B. “Zoey, you stay down here, too, okay? I want to talk to Uncle Anthony first, make sure it's cool that we're here.”

“What if he's not home?” I asked, just as a screeching buzzer went off and the lock thudded in the door.

“He's usually home this early still. Or more likely, his night just ended a little bit ago.” Without more explanation, Zane pushed through the door and disappeared into a dimly lit hallway, cracked yellow tiles leading to a narrow stairwell. A stale, sour odor hovered in the air, lingering even after the door shut and locked again.

I looked over at Zoey and forced a smile, grabbing her hand on instinct. She sat on the stoop, pulling me down next to her. I tried not to grimace as I settled against the cement, the ambiguous smears of dirt and caked chunks
of something that I hoped was old food, rather than vomit, if I had to choose. But it wasn't as if I was pristine at that point either, now that it had been over two full days without a shower or a change of clothes.

“So what's your uncle Anthony like?” I asked, trying to keep my voice casual, not too anxious or inquisitive.

She crinkled her nose, her lips puckering. “Eh. He's okay. I guess.”

“So he's a nice guy?”

“He's better than nothing. And nothing's what we usually got now.”

I was about to ask where exactly in Brooklyn we were, when a new question occurred to me.

“Zoey,” I started, hesitating, “when you're moving around like this, how do you go to school? It's Sunday, so tomorrow . . . tomorrow will you go to school?”

“Maybe,” she said quietly, not meeting my eyes. “I mostly do.”

“Mostly?”

“I go when I can,” she said, sounding frustrated now, more defensive. “Zane walks me there in the mornings as long as it's not too far from where we're staying. He misses school sometimes but that's just because he's too busy walking to drop me off and pick me up and figuring out how to make money and where we'll go next.”

I nodded. “I know,” I said. “I can tell how much he
loves you. I'm sure he knows how important it is that you go to school. He doesn't want either of you to get in any trouble.”

“Well, he gets in trouble all the time. But I don't. He said if I don't go enough, the school might find out he's taking care of me and he's only seventeen. So they'd take me away 'cause he's not old enough to do that alone. But no way is anyone stealing me from Z.” Her sharp eyes were staring right at me, daring me to challenge her somehow. But I wouldn't. Because she was right—she should stay with Zane. He would fight for his sister.

Fight to the death
, I thought, and immediately shuddered. Those rumors, the scissors and the time locked away. I didn't want to think about what could have caused it, if any part of it was true—what someone had done to Zoey to deserve such extreme retaliation.

“Do you go to school usually when you're at Uncle Anthony's?” I asked instead. “Or is it too far? I can always help walk you there.”

“Don't you have to go to school, too? With Z?”

Now it was my turn to look away. I'd barely thought about school. I'd go back, though. Soon. I had to, right? “Yes, but I'm . . . I'm taking a little break. Just for a little.”

“Why?” Her dark eyebrows pulled together, nearly a perfect V on her furrowed forehead. “You can't just ‘take a break.' It's
school
. You have to go.”

“It's a long story.” I sighed. “Just trust me. I can't go back there right now.” A series of terrible scenes flashed across my mind: the sneers and the rolling eyes, the conversations my classmates would no doubt be having about me first thing the next morning. They all would have heard the news, of course. They all would know. And they would laugh, I was sure of it. They'd be laughing so hard that anyone could think I was some kind of
savior
. I was the weird girl, the girl who made friends with the homeless, the girl who played her violin for strangers at the park.

“We got time,” Zoey said, jutting her pointy little elbow into my side. “What else we got to do right now but talk?”

“I just got in some weird, mixed-up trouble, that's all,” I said, staring up at the clear blue sky. Not at her. It was risk enough already that she might overhear kids talking at school about me, put the pieces together for herself. But maybe not—kids probably had far more interesting things to be discussing. “I'm still sorting it out. When I do . . . maybe we can talk about it then.”

“That's not fair,” she said, her voice so low I almost missed it in all the other sounds around us, the cars driving, honking, pulsing with music. She pulled her hand from mine and pushed herself a few inches down the stoop, putting more distance between us. “I told you all about me. About
Brinley
. About how Z and me got no
parents, no aunt and uncle now either. And you won't tell me anything. Why don't you have a home right now? Hm?”

“Zoey,” I said, desperate to have her understand that this wasn't personal, that I didn't want to tell
anybody
else about my secret. “You have to believe me that . . .”

But before I could try to explain, the door behind us yanked open. I looked up, hoping to see Zane, but instead there was a tall white-haired man, wearing a faded black tank top that stretched tight over his round belly. I felt cold just looking at his bare skin.

“You that girl Zane wants to have stay for a few days?”

Zane, thankfully, appeared behind the man then, putting one hand on his shoulder to make room on the stoop next to him.

“Yes, Uncle Anthony,” he said, his voice sounding purposely steady, calm. “This is Clemence.”

“Clem—?” Zoey asked, looking from her brother to me, but she closed her mouth, frowning as she bit down on the question.

“You got yourself into any trouble that's gonna get me in trouble to keep you here?” he asked, flecks of spit flying from his lips. A drop hit my cheek, but I kept my face straight.

“Not at all, sir,” I said, standing up to bring myself closer to his level, though he still towered over me by a good foot. “I just had a fight with my family and we all
need some time to cool off. I . . . I have a little money. Not much, but a little. If that helps.”

“Well, I won't be feeding you,” he said, squinting down at me.

“Of course not. I just . . . just need a floor to sleep on, if that's okay. I'm not any trouble, I promise. You won't even notice I'm here.”

“Hmph,” he huffed, his hands rubbing up and down his belly. I gritted my teeth, willing him to agree.
Please. Please say yes
.

I stared into his eyes, made myself smile in a way that I hoped looked reassuring, hopeful but not too expectant.

“Ah, okay,” he muttered, throwing his hands up. “Why the hell not? What's one more, right?” He slapped Zane on the back and headed inside, not saying another word as he started trudging up the steps.

“I wasn't sure it'd be a go,” Zane said, watching me. “I thought he was coming down just to say no to your face.”

“Well, he didn't, did he?” I smiled, ignoring any doubts, any questions about why Anthony had changed his mind. Instead, I let the relief unwind through my tense muscles. “Today at least is figured out.”

“Yeah, I'm so glad you're safe,
Clemence
,” Zoey hissed, jumping up off the stoop. “You know, don't you?” she asked, turning to glare at Zane, too. “You know whatever secret she won't tell me, right? Why else would you call her
Clemence if her name's Iris? Or, no . . . which is the lie?”

Zane shrugged, looked off toward the street.

“Fine. No one tell me anything. I'm just a kid, right?” She looked back at me, her eyes boiling with what looked like just as much hurt as anger. “I'll just have to figure it out on my own, then.”

Zoey turned away and started toward the stairwell. But then she halted, spinning back around.

“I might be a kid still, but you know what I already learned so far? Secrets don't stay secrets.
Ever
.”

U
NCLE ANTHONY
'S APARTMENT
was a strange mix of spare and cluttered; he didn't seem to own much, but what he did have was thrown into haphazard heaps across the sticky, stained wooden floors. Besides an oversized, scuffed leather couch in the living room—Zoey's and my “bed,” according to Zane—most of the furniture was a random assortment of recycled goods. Plastic crates stacked as shelves for books and DVDs and old records, a few pieces of wood balanced over cardboard boxes for a coffee table, a TV propped on cement blocks. It wasn't much, but it was functional, more or less.

Anthony disappeared back into his bedroom, and Zane left soon after we'd settled in—he had work to do, he said, but wouldn't look me in the eye when I pressed for more details. I couldn't help but think that, whatever his “job” was, it wasn't aboveboard. Drugs? Some kind of stolen goods?

I shook the thoughts off. It wasn't my business. He wasn't prying into my life, and I shouldn't pry into his. And besides, he did what he had to for Zoey—I didn't doubt he'd do whatever necessary, no matter how many laws he had to break.

With Zane gone, that left just me and Zoey, who refused to acknowledge my existence, and an entire day together. She plunked down on the sofa with a handful of Oreos and some cheese crackers from Anthony's shelves, flipping through the channels. I found the two granola bars from the shelter at the bottom of my purse, now only slightly smashed, and allowed myself to eat one. I'd have to look for a deli at some point to pick up more food, but I didn't want to leave Zoey all alone—even if she would have clearly preferred that I did.

She looked mesmerized by the TV. Even commercials had her transfixed, wide-eyed and motionless. I settled in at the opposite end of the sofa, leaving as much distance between us as I possibly could. I didn't know Zoey all that well, but I could already tell that trying to change her mind would have the opposite effect; she'd have to forgive me on her own terms.

A few episodes deep into some painfully sweet and unfunny kids' sitcom—unfunny to me, at least, but Zoey couldn't stop giggling—I started dozing. My eyes shuttered, the lids suddenly too heavy to force open, and I
burrowed more deeply against the soft, worn leather of the sofa. Zoey's happy laughter lulled me. I slipped away to the sound of it, eased into a deep sleep with the peace that Zoey was still capable of being a kid, at least sometimes.

The laughter seemed to twirl through my mind, shimmering, sparking in the darkness as it reached out and made contact with another laugh, another cheerful sound. But it was as if this one laugh multiplied, like a happy virus spiraling out of control—because it was a whole chorus of laughing now, breathy giggles and gigantic, ringing laughs, so lovely, so perfect. A light went on, but I still couldn't see clearly. There was some sort of veil pulled down in front of my face—white light and fuzzy shapes and the sense of movement and activity all around me. I clawed at the veil, laughing, too, laughing because the sound was so contagious. I wanted to see them, wanted to be a part of the group in front of me. But I couldn't seem to tear the veil away, couldn't remove that lingering wall between me and everybody else.

Who were these laughing people? Did I know them? Did they know me?

“
Hello
,” I called, “can anybody help me?” Nothing, just more laughter. “Hello?”

I reached again for the silky gauze, clenching my jaw as I slashed at it with my front teeth. A tiny hole! I bit down
and yanked, the gap stretching, light streaming in.
Yes!
I was closer now, so close to seeing . . .

But then—a bang, a horrific popping sound that seemed to shake the air around, above, under me. Because what was I standing on? Nothing? Clouds? Light? The sound gained momentum, rolling and tumbling, like a thunderstorm and fireworks and a car crash, all on top of the other, noise clashing with more noise.

The bright light flickered and went out; the air shook and I shook along with it, as if I were suspended by a string, my limbs flapping, snapping in all directions.

And then, just as suddenly as it had begun, it stopped. I waited a few moments before I allowed myself to breathe in, out. The noise, whatever it was, had passed, and I was still there.

But then I realized—there was no more laughter. I tore at the veil, and this time it fell away. I was surrounded by darkness, hollow, empty darkness, except—except for a pinprick of light, a flame in the distance. There was a hushed sound then, too. It was somebody . . . somebody crying?

“Hello?” I said, the question coming out as a whisper. I coughed, clearing my throat, and wiped my sweaty palms against my face to prove that I was real, that I existed. “Hello?” again, shaky still, but louder this time.

The sound stopped; the light wavered. My whole body
tensed, and I leaned forward, waiting, tilting my head so that I could better listen for a response.

“It's you,” a soft, far-off voice said. A little girl, I think.

“I'm Iris,” I said, clarifying.

“I know.” A pause, a moment with no breath. “You're here. You're finally here.”

•   •   •

“Stop! Stop screaming.”

Everything was still dark, all dark, but there were hands on me, warm hands pressing down against my cheeks.

“You're okay. You're
okay
. It was just a dream.”

My eyes snapped open to see Zoey hovering over me, kneeling on the couch with her arms out to steady me.

“I'm awake,” I told her.

She took her hands away from me, but she stayed just as close. “I thought you would never stop screaming. You were twitching, too, like you were fighting the air. It was scary.”

I blinked, remembering what had happened—the laughter, the light, the explosion, and then nothing, nothing except for that one quiet voice.
You're finally here
. I shuddered, terrified, somehow, by that little girl's voice, that proclamation. She had sounded so
certain
.

“You're still shaking,” Zoey said, frowning. She pulled
a faded Star Wars comforter down from the back of the sofa and shook it open over me, tucking the edges in around my legs.

“Thank you,” I said.
It was only a dream
, I reminded myself.
All of it
. I was here, on this sofa, with Zoey.

“You really can tell me, you know,” she said, the words quiet, tentative. “What I said earlier—about secrets. I was just mad. I didn't mean it. But after I told you about Brinley . . . I felt better. It made missing her hurt a little less. Not much. But a little.”

“I want to, but . . .” I just couldn't. I needed to know more about what people were saying, beyond that one tabloid Zane had shown me. I needed to read the articles for myself, be up-to-date on exactly what was being said. There didn't seem to be any newspapers, though, in the rubble piles scattered around the room, and there certainly wasn't a computer in there for me to prowl for online articles. I could scan through papers at a deli later, but otherwise the TV was my only hope. And I could only do that if Zoey was sleeping—still risky, since she'd be on the sofa.

But I wanted to know
now
, immediately, this very second.

Zoey's usually strong, brave little face was crumbling as she watched me. “What could you have done that is so bad you can't tell me?”

“It's not that it's so
bad
”—I sighed—“or at least nothing I did. It's just that people have made a big mistake about me, and my mom wants to send me away. I'm not ready to do that, so I just . . . I just need to clear my head a little. Figure out what next.”

“Can you tell me at least if you're Iris or if you're Clemence? I hate not even knowing what name is real. If either of them even
is
real.”

“Hey. It's Iris,” I said, placing my hand on her chin and tilting her face upward so I could look her in the eyes. “I never lied to you, Zoey. Clemence was . . . Clemence was for everyone else at the shelter. Not for you and Zane.”

She didn't smile, but she did nod before turning her attention back to the TV screen. I didn't fall asleep again, as numbing as the long string of shows became. I was too freaked out by the dream, too desperate for some other connection with the outside world. I almost suggested turning the TV off and going for a walk—doing anything other than just sitting around on Anthony's couch—but I didn't know this neighborhood at all. And I had no working phone if we got lost or found ourselves in any kind of trouble. Leaving with just Zoey felt too risky. So I sat, feet tapping, picking at my cuticles, staring blankly at the screen. My fingers twitched for the violin, so much so that they almost ached with the need. I couldn't remember the last time I'd gone this long without playing; maybe never,
not since my first lesson. I was six when I started, just out of kindergarten.

When the door finally opened and Zane stepped in, I flew off the sofa to greet him.

“Hey!” I said, waving and grinning as I nearly slid across the floor in my overenthusiasm.

Zane raised his eyebrows, squinted at me. “You okay?”

“Sure! Fine. We've had a good day here,” I said, my cheeks burning now at my total lack of cool. “I'm just happy to have you back here with us.” Even more burning.

Zane laughed, shaking his head as he started toward the kitchen. “Whatever, crazy girl. I brought dinner, too, so that might just push you over the edge of happy.”

I noticed now the plastic bags he was dropping onto the kitchen counter, my stomach seizing at the delicious, greasy smell of fried rice, egg rolls, and what I hoped was chicken and broccoli drenched in brown sauce. As I stood drooling, Zane picked Zoey up from the sofa like she was nothing but a feather, hoisting her above his head and spinning her around in the air. She reached her hands out like she was flying, a superhero, all smiles and giggles.

“You were already on my good side,” I said, practically running over to the kitchen counter. “But now you might just be my very favorite person on the planet.”

All thoughts of scavenging for papers, watching the news, getting out of this apartment for some fresh air—
none of that mattered, not with the way my stomach was somersaulting in anticipation of the feasting ahead.

Zane plopped Zoey down on top of the counter, giving her a quick peck on the forehead.

“How much was it?” I asked, remembering to have at least some manners as I savagely unwrapped and bit into a perfectly crisp, juicy egg roll.

“Nah,” Zane said, waving his hand at me as he scooped a big heap of fried rice onto a paper plate. “Don't worry about it. I got it tonight.”

I opened my mouth to insist, but Zane looked over at me, an exaggerated scowl on his face. “You're not paying. So just enjoy that goddamn egg roll.” He broke out in a full-on grin then, his white teeth igniting the rest of his face.

I had never seen him smile, not like that, not at me. He was so beautiful when he smiled—so beautiful that I almost told him that out loud, that he could light up a room, that he should do it more often. But then I stopped myself. Because there were reasons he didn't smile more. Couldn't smile more, probably, without it being entirely fake. This smile, though—this smile was definitely genuine.

I smiled back before popping the rest of the roll into my mouth in one gigantic bite. We stayed like that, smiling, our eyes locked, until Zoey squeezed in between us and started riffling through the pile of take-out containers.

We took our plates into the living room and sat in a little circle on the floor, silent for the first ten minutes while we devoured our food. Then, once we were all a little less ravenous, Zoey started telling us about the time Brinley spilled an entire plate of egg foo young on her pristine white choir uniform, and how she'd read somewhere that only holy wine would be able to clean the stain. The story was funny and sad and ridiculous all at once—I couldn't always tell if their eyes were misty from crying or from laughing so hard—and from there, Zoey kept telling us more memories of Brinley. Silly ones and sweet ones, every kind of Brinley story there was, with Zane chiming in with his own anecdotes that usually had me cracking up, almost as if I'd known her, too. I felt like I did, listening to them talk about her like this. I could feel her there, in the room, almost as clearly as I felt Zoey and Zane.

She was still real. She always would be, in that way. In memories.

For the first time since Disney, I didn't feel guilty that I hadn't lost someone that day.

Because now, hearing about Brinley, I had.

•   •   •

After Zoey dozed off on the sofa, deep inside a food coma, I tapped Zane on the shoulder. I tilted my head, motioning for him to follow me toward the kitchen.

“Is there somewhere we can talk?” I whispered. “Somewhere”—I shot a glance over at the sofa—“she won't hear?”