The City Series (Book 1): Mordacious (36 page)

Grace practically dances out of the room. I turn to Sylvie. “I guess you lost that battle. Sorry I had a hand in it.”

“You’ve created a monster,” Sylvie says, though she’s smiling.

She takes a shirt from the closet, then opens a dresser drawer. I try not to stare, especially at her
culo
, but I’m bored. I hate sitting still. “Are there enough clothes here for you and Grace?”

“Yeah. That’s one thing we don’t need.” She raises the shirt. “Thanks. I’ll move some clothes out of here later so we don’t have to bug you all the time.”

“You’re not bugging me. You and Grace can have this room. I’ll stay upstairs.”

“No, this is your house.”

It’s not rudely said, but it’s clear the discussion is over on her end. “Not really,” I say. “It’s my sister’s now. We used to share this room. When we were older, my parents put up a wall and made it into two rooms. I had the window side. Cassie would sleep until noon on weekends, so she didn’t care.”

“And you were the morning person?”

“Still am. I know, we’re annoying. Which are you, morning or night?”

She looks at the ceiling. “I like to go to sleep late but then I wake up in the middle of the night and can’t fall back to sleep. I’m a grudging morning person, I guess.”

“My mother was a morning person. We’d have breakfast together and be done with half our day by the time Cassie and my dad rolled out of bed.”

“That sounds nice. I’m sorry about—Maria told me about your parents.”

“Thanks. I’m sorry about your mom. You said your mom was at the hospital.”

Sylvie blinks. The shirt is balled up in her hand. “Yeah, thanks. I have to change.”

Out of all the possible topics of conversation in the universe, I chose to bring up mothers after what Maria said about hers. I shouldn’t have brought up her mother, or any mother, for that matter. I call her name after she’s through the door. She stops, back to me. “I mean it. I want you to keep this room. I’ll be out of here in a couple of days.”

“No, but thanks.”

She disappears with fast footsteps. She might need friends, but I’m not sure she wants them.

***

Later in the day, my four housemates congregate in the bedroom to hear my story in more detail. I call Rachel a friend, which is true, and I leave out my breakdown. After I’m done—and I don’t rehash the part where I shit the bed—Jorge asks, “Did Wadsworth know who was broadcasting from the city? Or if Stuyvesant Town is still a Safe Zone?”

“Not as far as I know,” I say. Maybe it was a fluke they could broadcast at all—antennas were probably damaged from fire and, without electricity or a generator, nobody is broadcasting anything.

“So there aren’t any boats,” Maria says quietly.

“Boats aren’t the only way out. I got across the Verrazano. Maybe I can take the Triborough or Whitestone upstate.”

Maria pulls at a corner of my sheet, straightening what’s already straight. “We won’t talk about that until you’re better.”

I wouldn’t get more than a few blocks at the moment, so she’s right in that respect, though if we talk about it now we’ll have a plan in place. My brain is full of energy while my body lags behind. But I lucked out again.
Take that, universe
.

Grace leans forward eagerly. “I know you came from the other direction, but do you think we can get to Brooklyn Heights?”

“I wouldn’t go without a bike, but I think you could make it.” Maria’s hand rests lightly on the blanket over my foot, and now it tightens. I amend my statement. “That doesn’t mean it’ll be easy. You shouldn’t go until you know you can get there.”

Grace may be into healing energy, but the only energy coming off her at this moment is a solid wall of frustration. I think my earlier impression—that Grace’s delicate exterior masks a tough interior—was spot on. It’s good. She’ll need it to reach Brooklyn Heights.

“But there’s no way to know that, is there?” she asks.

“There isn’t,” I say. Maria will be pissed at what I plan to say next, but she can’t make everyone on Earth stay in bed. “Sooner is probably better than later.”

Sylvie glances at Grace. My impression is that Sylvie wants people to think she doesn’t give one iota of a shit about anything, but anyone paying attention would see that she does, especially when it comes to Grace. And I know she does, because I listened to her talk for hours on end. I know a lot more about her than she’d like.

Grace nods as if her thoughts have been confirmed and turns to Sylvie, who gives her a nod that says
whenever you’re ready, I’m game
. But, when Grace looks away, Sylvie’s hand trembles as she tucks her hair behind her ear.

Chapter 49

“So, it’s a wacky, mixed-up day,” Sylvie says when she enters the bedroom. “Soup for breakfast. We had it leftover in one of the jars from last night. Maria says you need the vitamins.”

“Thanks,” I say. Sylvie hands me my bowl and then moves the paper clip on the calendar. “Keeping track of the days?”

“Yes and no. It’s a dumb game I play. I try to use the word at some point in the day, even in my head. This one’s not easy.”

“What is it?”

“Tonsorial: of or relating to a barber or the work of a barber.”

She plays word games. I have a feeling she’s good at them. So am I. I have a feeling she hates to lose. Me, too. “Can I play?”

“Sure,” she says. “But I’ve never played with anyone before. I guess then we have to use it aloud, and it has to make sense.”

“I wish I were skilled in the tonsorial arts so I could cut my own hair.”

Her hands come to rest on her hips. “You can’t just up and use it like that. Anyone can do
that
. It has to flow naturally. In regular conversation. Not that tonsorial has much of a flow.”

“Fine, fine. Just seeing what I could get away with.”

“Nothing,” she says.

“I can see that. I’d better get out of bed if I’m going to be around for a conversation where I can slip in the word.”

“You shouldn’t get up yet.”

“Why?”

“Because Maria says so.”

I make a face. “Maria’s not the boss of me.”

Sylvie giggles and perches on the desk chair. I’d forgotten there was a chair under Cassie’s ever-present clothes. I’d forgotten that the world holds pretty girls whom I can make giggle, even when they don’t seem the type.

“I’m going to tell her you said that,” she says.

I raise a finger to my lips. “Please don’t. I talk a good game, but I’m no match for her.”

“No one is. The decision is yours, but I’m warning you that you get up at your own risk.” She moves for the door, then stops and tucks her hair behind her ear. “I’m really sorry I pointed a gun at you and told you to get out of your own house. I didn’t know who you wer—”

“You already apologized.”

“I did? Oh, you heard that?”

“Yep. You sure can talk, not that you’d know it now.”

I smile at the color in her cheeks. Rachel said I was the worst, and the best—although I might’ve inferred she meant the latter—when it came to bugging the shit out of someone until I put them at ease. It comes in handy when someone freezes on a climb or in a tight spot. I can’t help it; I don’t like tension.

“Is there a plan?” I ask, although I’m sure they would have told me if there was. Maybe it’s because I got used to the sound of her voice, or I like talking with her, or I’m enjoying having people around me after many days spent alone, but I don’t want her to leave.

“What kind of plan?”

“I don’t know. A what-to-do-next plan?”

“Like a mission? Of course. We’ve named it Operation
Zombie Storm
,” she says, deadpan. Soup spills off the spoon when I laugh. She hands me my napkin, dark eyes alight.

“Well, you have the most important part down. It’s all in the name. Does
Zombie Storm
involve leaving the city or anything like that?”

Sylvie’s gaze shifts toward the windows. “Leave for where? I don’t know where we would go. They’re everywhere.”

“There’s Fort Wadsworth.”

“That trip involves a very long tightrope walk over water. I’m not doing that to go to
Staten Island
, of all places.”

“But then you could get to Jersey. I’m sure you’re dying to go to Jersey.” She laughs and shakes her head. “It wasn’t that bad. I crawled across. Are you afraid of heights?”

“I’m definitely scared of giant broken bridges, so I’m stuck here for now. It’s better than plummeting to my death.”

“How about a garden? Do you guys have a watch set up?”

“We don’t have any seeds. Maria says there’s a seed store in Bay Ridge. We’ve heard people, but no one knows we’re here except for Guillermo, so we don’t keep watch or anything.” Her shoulders lift. “Grace and I will be gone soon, anyway.”

She runs her fingertips along the dresser top, then moves a jewelry box to a corner as if that’s where it belongs. She probably knows where things go better than Cassie does. I get the sense she’s comfortable in this room when I’m not here.

“How soon?” I ask.

“Whenever Grace says.”

I know she doesn’t have a mother, but she might have a father or siblings to find. A boyfriend. Friends. I would ask, but I don’t think she wants me to. “You can stay here as long as you want. I’ll be going upstate soon to see if they made it.”

“It looks like a nice place.”

“It is. Once I make sure it’s safe, I’ll be back for Maria and anyone else who wants to come. My friend Paul and his family, if I can find them. You’re welcome to join us.”

“I’m sure it’ll involve a bridge, so no thanks,” she says, joking, but her eyes are distant. “I have to go wash dishes. Maria’s heating water so you can wash up. We’ll let you know when it’s ready.”

I’ve lost her somewhere. Either she’s a tough nut to crack or I’ve lost my touch. “Thanks. Hey, I’m sorry that you had to—” I wave a hand at the bed because I’m not sure how to complete that sentence in a non-repulsive way. “Thank you for…”

My voice fails as I flash back to the loneliness that plagued me on my way here. The surety I would die. The hope someone would be with me at the end. I haven’t felt that lonely since my parents died, and never before that. Sylvie was funny but tender, and no amount of inscrutability can make me forget the kindness in her eyes when she took my hand and promised not to let go.

My eyes sting. Rachel’s death and Cassie’s absence and the whole fucking world being in the shitter have come to rest on my shoulders. I’m going to cry. First I crap myself and now I’m going to cry. Great.

Everything about Sylvie unstiffens, from her lips to her ramrod straight legs. Her fingers come within a few inches of my arm before she pulls them back, and I have to restrain myself from taking her hand; it worked to stop this feeling once before.

“I’m glad I was here,” she says softly. “I’ll check on the water. I’m sure you want to get cleaned up.” I nod—I don’t trust myself to open my mouth without bawling. She stops at the door with an earnest expression. “I’m no tonsorial artist or anything, but even I can see you could use a shampoo.”

It’s so unexpected that my laugh explodes from somewhere deep and scatters all that heaviness to the winds. Sylvie winks and heads into the hall, saying, “Sylvie, one. Eric, none.”

Chapter 50

I’m bursting with energy when I wake. My cold shower at Wadsworth wasn’t that long ago, but yesterday’s pot of hot water was sorely needed. I would like to never again reflect upon the last few days, a desire reinforced by what I rinsed off. It’s early yet, so I tiptoe down the hall and past the sofa bed to the kitchen. Sylvie leans back in a chair, one foot on the edge of the table. A book is on her knee and she taps a pen to her mouth while she reads.

“Morning,” I say.

Her leg drops. “Hi.”

“Carry on. Just wondering what the usual morning is like around here.”

“You’re looking at it. They wake up around eight, sometimes later.”

“Slackers.”

She smiles, glances at the table and then scrambles to shove her scattered papers into a pile. “Sorry, I made a mess.”

“No problem. Leave it.” I give her my friendliest smile. One minute she’s sociable and the next aloof, but I’ve made it my mission to get her talking. “I heard something about coffee yesterday. Please tell me it’s true.”

“It’s true. We heat the water on the stove and make it in the French press. We tried the solar oven, but it doesn’t make good coffee.” She chews her lip. “Or maybe it does, but we can’t wait that long. We have to put dinner in for the rest of the day or else we’d brew it the night before. So we keep using propane even though we shouldn’t. Sorry.”

“Why are you sorry?”

She brings the papers to her chest and lifts her shoulders. I drop into a chair and look around the kitchen. It’s tiny, but it holds a lot of memories: cramped but fun family dinners, where a friend was always welcome to squeeze in at the table and happy chaos reigned, good food, my mom and dad talking at the kitchen table late into the night in quiet voices.

They made each other laugh. You could see their connection in the way they looked at each other, as if they knew what the other person was about and loved them because of and, sometimes, in spite of it. They each had their faults, but they understood and complemented each other. Rachel and I were friends, but not in that way. I feel bad thinking it now that she’s gone, but it’s not an ill thought—just a fact. I hope she had it with Nathan, even if it was for a short time.

Sylvie edges toward the doorway. “Where are you off to?” I ask.

“I was going to go read in the…somewhere.”

“I don’t remember there being a somewhere in the apartment. Is it upstairs?”

She gives a little laugh. “I don’t want to be in the way.”

“In the way of my sitting in a chair? I’m going to think you’re avoiding me. Sit.”

She places her pile on the table and lowers herself into a chair, hands on her knees. “So, how do we make the coffee?” I ask. I could figure it out, since I have half a brain, but if I take over she’ll probably head for the hills.

“Outside, on the stove.”

“Let’s do it.”

Sylvie brings a pot of water outside and I fire up the stove. Now that we have a task, she seems less tense. While I was sick, she told me about Guillermo’s aspiring Safe Zone and I’ve seen what they’ve done to the yard, which is pretty impressive. I know Sylvie had a hand in it.