Transcendent (3 page)

“The second one,” I said. “The itty-bitty smile. Though why not take another one where you actually look happy? In color maybe, too?”

“Oh no,” she said, grinning up at me. “Why would I do that? Authors are supposed to be brooding and mysterious. Noel smiles, yes, but Clemence is too serious for that kind of fluff.”

“Ha,” I said, letting go of her as I stepped back toward the door. “Anyway, I think I'm going to head to the park for a little while. I'll be back for dinner, okay?”

She nodded, her eyes already hurrying back to the screen. She clicked the photos away, leaving just a document, half filled with letters, some in red, some highlighted in bright yellow. “Okay, love you, sweetie. I'm just going to write for a little bit more. Then I'll start in the kitchen . . .” Her voice faded out as she crinkled her brow, focused on some word or thought that wasn't quite pleasing her.

I smiled. “I love you, too,” I said, closing the door behind me. I walked the last flight up, to the third floor, where Caleb and I both had our bedrooms. My violin was propped against the old claw-foot blue wing chair by my
window, sheets of music spilled on the floor around it. My mother had her words, and I had my notes. That had been hard for her when I was younger; hard to accept that I didn't love books the way she did, that I didn't study more, didn't need to get an A+ on the top of every paper. But the more she watched me play, the more she had understood. We weren't so different after all.

I plucked the violin from the chair so that I could pack it in its case to take it with me to the park. I paused, admiring the way the sun sparkled against the engraving on the tailpiece—
Dum Spiro Spero
. While I breathe, I hope.
Spero
, “I hope,” in Italian and Latin. It was an important saying in our family; my dad was born a Spero, and I was a Spero, too.

Iris Spero.

While I breathe, I hope
.

Looking at the words now, I was more appreciative than ever that my dad had surprised me with this engraved violin four years ago, a gift for my thirteenth birthday. I needed hope. We all did.

I threw on his old, perfectly holey New York University sweatshirt over my yoga clothes, grabbed my case and my purse, and started for the stairs. I walked quietly past my mom's door on my way down to the foyer.

It was a short walk to the park from our brownstone in Prospect Heights, a walk I'd made hundreds, probably
thousands, of times in my life. I'd always liked to think of the park as if it were my own special backyard. A magical spot of green right in the middle of a huge, bustling city. You could get lost in it, just as easily as you could get lost navigating the gridlock of streets running up and down the boroughs of New York City. It was wild but orderly, sprawling but contained. It was my oasis.

I stepped through the entrance and breathed in the crisp air, so much earthier and more alive than the air along the sidewalks. I meandered along the runners' loop that circled the park until I reached my favorite spot, a bench overlooking the whole of Long Meadow—nearly a mile long, it was the longest stretch of unbroken meadow in any U.S. urban park. This much green had seemed impossible when I was a little kid.

The meadow was crowded with people this afternoon. Blankets stretched wide for picnics, fruit and cheese and barely concealed bottles of wine and beer; couples, legs intertwined as they read from their tattered-looking novels; kids throwing footballs and flying kites. This bench was my favorite because I could see the whole scene playing out, soak in all the different kinds of people, the movements, the conversations.

I sat down, watching the picnic closest to me—two families, the adults openly drinking Brooklyn Brewery beers and cooking skewers over a little charcoal grill,
watching their adorable, waddling toddlers chase around a tired-looking dachshund. The littlest child, a girl with bright white-blonde pigtails and a sparkly pink jacket, plunked down on her bottom and tilted her head as she smiled up at me, giggling.

I waved at her, and then I popped open the case and pulled out my violin. I wrapped my hand around the bow, moving the violin into position. Holding it in my arms felt as natural to me as walking, as breathing. I paused for a few beats, closing my eyes as I let my fingers decide the next move on their own.

Before I'd made any kind of conscious decision, the first notes hit my ears. “Amazing Grace.” I felt the music, slower and more somber than usual, the weight of the day pouring through me as I drew out each note. It wasn't until the last, lingering vibration fell away that I opened my eyes again. The girl was still sitting there, eyes wide as she watched me. She'd been joined by the rest of her playmates, too, another girl and two boys, all of them rapt in front of me.

“More, more!” one of the boys called out.

“More, more!” the other kids joined in, their little palms clapping, banging against their knees with determination.

I smiled and started up again, this time playing a Vivaldi piece that I'd used for a recital during my junior
year. I couldn't remember Latin vocabulary or geometric equations or physics theorems from the month before—the week before, even—but I could remember every note of every song I'd ever learned to play. One song melded into the next, and I forgot my audience, forgot everything but the music, the breeze against my face, the smell of barbecue and grass and dirt. By the time I came back to myself, the kids had returned to the picnic blanket, their parents glancing at me appreciatively here and there between their conversations.

Evening was settling in, the daylight more golden, subtle shadows creeping in along the edges of the meadow. The picnics were dwindling, people folding their blankets, packing up their spreads of food. I wasn't ready yet, though, and I was certain my mother would still be too preoccupied with her writing for any thoughts of dinner. I started another song, “Ashokan Farewell,” upbeat but still mournful in its way, hopeful but bittersweet.

On the final note, my eyes closed as I floated in the sensation of longing, of love and loss, that vibrated through me every single time I played it.

“That was nice,” hissed a quiet, scratchy voice close to me—too close. My eyes snapped open as I startled, turning my head to see a stranger on the bench next to me. “You play here a lot, yes? I think I've seen you before.”

I nodded, my heartbeat slowing as the initial alarm
subsided. I studied her as she studied me back, with her catlike eyes, gold flecked and so green—greener and more vibrant than all the grass and all the leaves surrounding us. She had on a ratty red flannel shirt that was a few sizes too big for her gaunt frame, and old corduroys that were smudged and torn around her knees. In contrast, her hair was perfection, pulled up in tight braids, the intricate patterns weaving flawlessly from front to back. She looked old to me, but I didn't know how much of that was the quantity of her years, or the quality of them.

The woman was still striking, despite the shabby clothes and the tired face, like the rare pigeon that made you stop and stare on the sidewalk, its midnight-drenched feathers speckled with deep purples and greens that shimmered like gems under the sun. Warm brown skin, arching cheekbones that made her big eyes seem even wider and more pronounced, regal.

“I'm Iris,” I said.

She smiled, a tiny smile that showed just a peek of her surprisingly white teeth.

“Mikki.” The word was whispery, almost lost in the breeze.

“Nice to meet you, Mikki. I'm glad you liked my playing. I always worry that I annoy people when I play here on the bench, but there's just something about playing
outside . . . I get money thrown at me once in a while, too. If I forget to close my case, anyway. That's not why I do it. I just like to play, and I like when anyone wants to listen.”

I stopped myself. I was rambling. It was those eyes, the way she watched me. Friendly, but intense. Unhappy, maybe. But of course she was unhappy. I looked down at the bags she'd dropped at her feet: a backpack nearly exploding at the zipper, a second canvas sack filled with bottles and cans and a woolly old blanket—it was probably everything she owned, her entire world in two bags.

“Anytime you want to play for me, I'm gonna come and listen.” She reached out, her hand hovering above my knee, as if she were about to touch me—but then she stopped, reconsidered. Her small, bony fingers fell back toward her own lap, and she looked away.

“Definitely,” I said, extending my hand, squeezing her shoulder.
It's fine
, I wanted to say.
I'm not scared of you.

“I'll play for you again soon, I promise. But I should be heading back now. I told my mom I'd be home for dinner.”
Dinner
. I flinched. What would Mikki be eating tonight? Would she be eating at all? I slowly pulled my hand away, reaching for the violin on my lap and putting it back in its case.

“How will I find you again?” I asked.

“You come here and play, girl. You come and play if
you want me. I'll keep a-listenin' for you wherever I go.”

“I'll be like the Pied Piper, then.” I smiled.

She looked at me, confused, a slight tilt to her head.

“Oh, nothing, just a joke.” I stood up, cradling the case in my arms like a baby. “But I will be back, okay? With my violin. Bye for now, Mikki.”

She nodded, and I started off toward the gate.

Her eyes, her beautiful green eyes, they stayed with me, though. Beautiful but tired.

Beautiful but sad.

M
IKKI WAS STILL
on my mind the next afternoon as I scanned the long line of people filtering into the basement-level dining hall of Blessed Mercy Church. I'd started volunteering at their soup kitchen for an eighth grade community service project, and then I'd kept coming in, nearly every Sunday for the past four years. But I'd never seen Mikki here before. Or maybe I had, but she'd blended in—just one of many in the crowd of two hundred or so people being served each week.

No. Those eyes. I would have remembered her, I was sure of it.

“That's a lot of people,” Caleb said, gripping my hand as we stood behind the kitchen counter, waiting for our serving jobs to start up. I squeezed back as I smiled and waved at a few of the regulars.

“You're right, buddy,” my dad said from behind, leaning in to wrap both of us in a hug. “There are a lot of folks
who need a little extra help. Especially now. That's why we're here.”

It was Caleb's first time at the soup kitchen—he'd asked me after dinner the previous night if he could come and help out, too. We'd been watching a live Disney tribute on TV, a candlelit service being held in an area of the park that had been leveled and cleared. I said yes, of course, and my dad had insisted on coming with us. Dad had volunteered with me a few times before, though not recently. He'd been so busy with work that Sundays were usually his one and only day to sleep in. But Mom had needed the morning for writing, and they'd both wanted Caleb to have a solid enough support system this first time. Growing up in Brooklyn, he'd seen a lot of hard things at an early age—it was unavoidable. Still, though, it didn't get easier.

“Hey, Cal, can you help me with the rolls?” I asked, hoping to keep him too busy to just stand there and stare. Most people who came here were quietly appreciative, though there'd been more than a few outbursts over the years. Staring was enough to set it off—enough to make them feel like they were different, outsider, other. Like they were on display.

We started stacking baskets of potato rolls alongside the two big vats of hot, steaming soup. Caleb was silent as he lined up the rolls in perfect, orderly rows, squinting
in concentration. I looked back at my dad, occupied with setting up little bowls of creamers and sugar packets by the coffeepots, feeling glad all over again that they were both here with me. It was a big volunteer staff today, nearly double the people we had most Sundays. But it had been that way every week since Disney. People wanted to feel useful. Even if there was no direct line connecting these people here to the families of victims and survivors, it was still something. It was community.

The first visitors stepped up to the counter, and I moved to ladle from one of the soup pots. Caleb stood close to my side, holding the basket of rolls out with stiff arms.

I smiled at the faces, many familiar, some strangers.

“Is that chicken noodle?” asked a young girl, maybe about nine or ten, somewhere right around Caleb's age.

“It is,” I said, filling up the ladle, smiling down at her. “I hope that's okay.”

She nodded, tight-lipped, but her bright eyes gave away her excitement.

I had started spooning the soup into her bowl, two heaping pours, when my eyes landed on a strange mark dotting the side of her face—tiny dark music notes, I realized, trailing from just behind her ear to the spot where her jaw met her neck. My hand faltered, a few splashes of soup landing on her tray. She seemed far too young for a
tattoo, too immature to be marked by something so permanent. I caught myself staring and looked away.

“I'm sorry,” I said, blushing. “I spilled a little. I'm too klutzy for this job.”

“It's fine,” she mumbled, already moving on to grab a roll from Caleb, and I shifted my eyes to the next person in line.

“Zane,” I said, the name out of my mouth before I could stop myself.

It wasn't as if he knew me, after all, or as if I really knew him.

His slumped shoulders jerked upright as he shook back the hood of his ratty red sweatshirt. Deep honey-brown eyes stared out at me, sharp as blades against the smooth darkness of his skin.

Zane Davis. We'd never spoken, but I'd seen him in the school hallways often enough, and I knew what everyone said. I knew the rumors that had swirled around him like shadows since he'd first appeared at the beginning of our junior year. I didn't believe most of them—the biggest being that he'd used a pair of school-issued scissors to kill a kid who'd somehow disrespected his younger sister a few years back. That he'd gone to juvie and been released early, though he'd been part of a gang ever since and it was only a matter of time before he'd be locked up again. For real this time, now that he wasn't a baby anymore. Now
that he was perfectly capable of making more rational decisions and following rules, but still chose not to.

Even I had always tried to avoid him—I walked a little faster when I passed him in the hallway, stepped a little farther to get out of his path. There was something unpredictable in the way he stomped around, in his rough, jagged movements.

“Hey, Zane,” I started again, the words coming out a few octaves too high. “I'm Iris. I don't think we've ever . . .”

His hand jerked up in front of my face, halting me midsentence. “Stop. Seriously. You don't know me. And I don't want to know you.” His anger was almost a physical thing, as present in that kitchen with us as his old sweatshirt, his scuffed brown boots, his dark jeans with rips and frays and covered in what looked like scrawled words and outlines in black marker.

This was the first time I'd studied him up close. I saw now the deep scar that ran against his jaw—and, just below that, a vinelike tattoo along his neck, ending just under his right ear. Scar and tattoo, so close they were nearly part of the same solid line.

The tattoo . . . My eyes shot back to the little girl, who was hesitating by the end of the counter, unsure if she should stay or find a seat.

Zane's sister, I realized, though at first glance they looked nothing alike. Her pale brown skin was much
lighter than his, and she was slight and bony, her scrawny arms and scrawny legs poking out from a massive black T-shirt that hung down over her knees. Zane's shirt, maybe. But then I saw her cool gaze, barbed and birdlike, sizing me up. She had his eyes. A dark, molten gold.

“I'm hungry,” the man behind Zane snapped, bumping his tray up against Zane's with an angry thump. “Keep it moving, man.”

Zane shot him a withering glare, stalking off without soup or rolls. His sister trailed after him, nearly running to keep up, as they headed for the table farthest from the counter.

Rattled from the confrontation, my hand shook as I ladled soup into the next man's outstretched bowl, ignoring his eyes. He grunted when his bowl was full enough, moving on toward the coffee stand.

“Are you okay?” my dad asked, stepping up beside me. His eyes were fixed on Zane, across the dining hall.

“I'm fine,” I said. “It was just a guy from school. I was trying to be friendly, but it didn't go over so well.”

“Don't take it personally,” my dad said, lowering his voice. “He's probably just not happy that you recognized him. People . . . like to be anonymous sometimes. It's easier that way.”

I nodded. It was true—Zane didn't seem like the type to want anyone knowing his business, especially if his
business involved relying on a soup kitchen to keep himself and his little sister fed.

The rest of the line was a blur, polite nods and tight smiles and strangers shuffling to get their soup and roll and dessert and coffee before there was no more left to be had.

“I'll be right back,” I said to my dad and Caleb, handing my dad the ladle in case any last stragglers came up for more. “Just need a quick bathroom break.” Zane had thrown me off balance, and it took all the strength I had to stay positive here. To stay useful.

I took a turn through a side hallway from the dining room, but stopped midstep at the sound of anxious voices just beyond the next corner.

“But where? Where are we going to stay tonight?” A girl, trying her best not to cry, judging from the sound of it.

“I'm not sure yet, Zoey, but we'll figure it out, okay? Trust me.”

It was Zane and his little sister.
Zoey
. The little girl with music note tattoos.

“Can't we go back to that place where the people were all so nice? United City Mission? I liked it there.”

“No,” Zane said, sighing. “We can't. They only open it up for emergencies, bad weather, things like that. I just need a few hours to figure it out, okay? We'll be fine. I promise.”

“I'm scared, Z,” she said, her voice much quieter now.

I pressed my back against the wall behind me, squeezing my eyes shut to fight off the tears. I thought I was helping, but all I could do was spoon out soup once a week. And then I left and went on with my happy, normal life, and they left and . . . ? Went where? Did what? My family would probably get takeout tonight, like we did most Sundays. Curl up together on the sofa and watch an old black-and-white movie.

“What's wrong, Iris?”

My eyes flipped open to see Caleb in front of me, biting his lip as he watched me closely.

At the sound of his voice, I heard loud footsteps moving closer, saw Zane storming up next to us. Our eyes met, his stare accusing, hostile—defensive.

“Come on, Zo,” he barked, clapping his hands as he started back for the dining room. “We're leaving. Too many snoops around here.”

She followed behind him, her eyes averted to the chipped tile floor beneath us. Caleb and I turned, watching them go, before we looked back at each other.

“I'm okay,” I said finally. “I just feel sad sometimes when I'm here. It makes me realize how lucky we are, though.”

He nodded, his face looking very solemn. “I'm glad I came with you. But . . . but can we go home now?”

I put my arm around his shoulder, his shoulder that—I realized now, with a start—was only a few inches below mine. He was growing up, literally. He wasn't a little kid anymore, even if he'd always be my little brother.

“Yeah, buddy. Time to go home.” I squeezed his arm as we started walking out, tracing Zane and Zoey's footsteps.

We
were going home, me and Caleb and Dad. But where would they be going?

Where would be
their
home?

•   •   •

“You're lucky you came with me today,” I said to Caleb, ruffling his dark curls as we made our way down our block. “It's the only reason I agreed to get Chinese instead of sushi. I was thinking about sushi ever since I woke up this morning.”

“Sushi wouldn't smell nearly this awesome right now,” Caleb said, grinning as he waved the big plastic bag of dumplings and fried noodles in front of my face.

My dad was trailing behind us, deep in a work call that had engaged him for the entire half-hour wait for our dinner. “But we can't possibly finish it all before Tuesday. Let's get Brian on the line and . . .”

I tuned him out, the film jargon, the deadlines, the names of seemingly very important people. “Whoever gets
inside first wins all the fortune cookies,” I yelled, breaking out into a run. Caleb screamed and bolted after me, his long, skinny legs pumping hard as his sneakers pounded the sidewalk. We pushed through the wrought-iron gate side by side, our hands reaching the knob at the exact same moment.

“Fine,” I said, gasping for breath. “We both win. But Dad doesn't get any.”

“I heard that,” Dad said, shoving his phone into his back pocket as he started up the front stoop. “It doesn't count if you get more than one fortune at a time, anyway. It renders them all inaccurate.” He grinned at me, his bright, gap-toothed smile instantly making me forgive him for being so distracted.

“Mom!” I shouted as we stepped into the foyer. “Food's here! Come down from your lair!”

“I'm in here,” she said, her voice too close, startling me. I followed the sound into the living room, where my mom sat perched on the edge of the couch.

I instantly felt the wrongness in the way she was frozen, staring at the TV screen, a sense of déjà vu that made my arms prickle with goose bumps. It was like that afternoon in August, I realized. As if Disney was being bombed all over again.

“What's happening?” my dad asked, brushing past
Caleb and me as he went to sit next to my mom, folding her in his arms.

She turned to us with dazed eyes. “They found the people who are responsible. They found the people who bombed Disney World.”

I froze, my heartbeat slowing, pausing. There was something about the way she was staring back at us, her lips open but not moving, that terrified me. It was something worse than what any of us had expected. But what could be worse? What was
worst
? No matter who had done it, the result was the same.