The Space Between (9 page)

“It’s broke,” he tells me. “You don’t got to buzz in—just open it.”

When I pull the handle, the door swings wide, squealing against my weight. It opens into a stairwell with a large number 1 painted on the wall. According to Obie’s file, Truman lives in apartment 403, and so I begin to climb. The stairwell smells damp and is nearly as cold as the air outside. The sound of my boots is almost deafening.

When I step out onto the fourth-floor landing, three girls are sitting on the floor. All of them are wearing tennis sneakers and extremely short skirts. They look away when I approach and pull their feet up to let me pass.

Apartment 403 is at the far end of the hall. I knock crisply and when no one comes, I knock louder. When I press my ear to the door, I can hear muffled noises inside, but it takes several minutes of bumping and rustling before a short, stocky man answers, blinking hard in the light from the hall.

“Is Truman Flynn available, please?”

The man’s eyes are squinted to slits and his hair seems slightly on end. “He’s not here.”

With my hands clasped in front of me, I smile without showing my teeth. “Can you tell me when you expect him back?”

“Sweetheart,” he says, closing his eyes and sighing deeply before he answers, “I’ve got
no
idea.”

I thank him for his time and leave the building, trying to conceal my disappointment, trying to think what do to next. I’m outside, almost to the sidewalk, when one of the skinny girls in bare legs and tennis sneakers comes running out after me.

“Hey,” she calls. “Hey!”

Her hair is limp and stringy, flopping against her shoulders as she jumps down the front steps. I stop and wait until she catches up. She has on a jersey athletic shirt with a zip-front and is pulling it tightly around her shoulders. She comes to a stop in front of me, looking skittish and out of breath.

“Who are you?” she says, staring hard. “Did one of the Macklin brothers tell you to come here? I mean, you don’t know Victor or any of those guys, do you?”

“No,” I say. “Should I?”

The girl only steps closer, staring up into my face. “What’s your name?”

“Daphne. What’s yours?”

“Alexa.” She waves a hand dismissively at herself, still pinning me with her muddy eyes. “How do you know Tru? You a friend of his or something?”

“I don’t even know him.”

This makes Alexa raise her eyebrows and she stares up at me with deep distrust. “What do you want him for, then?”

“I’m looking for my brother. I think Truman may have seen him.”

“Oh.” She bends forward, picking at a scab on her knee. Then she sighs and straightens. “Okay, look—I bet you I know where he went, but you can’t tell Charlie.”

“Charlie?”

“Yeah, his dad. Stepdad. It’s not a big deal, but Charlie doesn’t like him going so far.”

“How far did he go?”

Alexa shrugs, looking apologetic. “When I saw him this morning, he was saying he might go to Dio’s later.”

Her face is so clean that it seems reflective. I can see a soft, whirling affection in her eyes when she talks about him. It’s sweet and steady, a world away from the feverish desires of Myra and Deirdre. This must be what they mean in movies when they say “crush.”

“Might?” I say, trying to discern how this is useful.
Might
is uncertain.
Might
is no good to me.

Alexa sighs again, raising her hands and letting them flop back down. “He meant
would
, would go to Dio’s.
Desmond
, I mean.”

“What’s Desmond?”

“A person, a guy. Desmond Wan. He lived here a long time. Him and Tru are sort of best friends.” She’s talking faster now, like the words are in danger of bursting inside her chest. She has to get them out before they detonate. “Then Dio got into college though—Northwestern—I mean, it’s
crazy
. They gave him this huge scholarship and everything. So now we don’t really see him except when he comes home to visit his grandma. Tru just goes there a lot. They still, like, party together and—”

I can only decipher half of what she’s telling me and I hold up a hand to make her stop. “Thank you. Could you tell me where to go?”

“Can’t you just come back later?”

“I have to talk to him now, as soon as possible.”

Alexa is watching me shrewdly, her gaze traveling over my black bag and my boots, studying my face. “Is your brother in a lot of trouble?”

“I think so.”

She nods, and now her eyes are shining in the sunlight, clear and glittering. “Boys,” she whispers, looking at the ground. “They’re just so dumb sometimes.” Then she reaches into the pocket of her sweatshirt and pulls out a battered cell phone, clattering with plastic charms. “Do you have anything to write with?”

When I offer her a subway map and a ballpoint pen, she takes them. Pen in hand, she leans forward, copying something out of the cell phone, scribbling against the top of her thigh.

“Dio’s,” she says, handing the map back to me. A street address is printed in the margin and she’s drawn a sloppy circle around a pair of cross streets. “It’s pretty far. But I guess that’s kind of the point. To be far, I mean, to just . . . get
out
.”

She trails off, waving the phone halfheartedly, watching as I study the map. Her expression is complicated and something about the sweetness and the sadness of it makes me think of Petra.

And I hold out my hand because she shouldn’t be here. She’s so much cleaner than this place. “You could come with me.”

She looks up at me like she might be considering it, eyes fixed on my face. Then she reaches out and carefully takes my hand.

“I can’t,” she says. Her touch is light and warm and she digs her fingers into my palm. “It doesn’t work like that.”

I understand what she means. I might be a long way from Pandemonium, but home is still with me, a pair of eyes that follows along, measuring my progress, waiting to see if I’ll fail. I nod and let Alexa go, even though it feels like the wrong thing to do.

I turn back in the direction of the train, studying the address on the map, but as I start to walk away, she catches me by the sleeve. “Hey, if you see Tru, tell him—just tell him to be careful.”

“I will,” I say.

I’m almost across the street when she calls after me again.

“Hey,” she yells, standing forlornly on the front steps of the Avalon Apartments. “Hey, I hope you find your brother.”

I raise a hand to show I’ve heard and that I thank her for her concern.

That I hope I find him too.

3 DAYS 7 HOURS 53 MINUTES

D
io’s kitchen was small but bright, with green formica countertops and brand new linoleum. It was refreshingly far from Cicero and the Avalon apartment complex.

Truman was at the table. He was drinking Dio’s bad, cheap bourbon, and had been for awhile. His head felt numb and heavy. Most of the party was out in the living room.

Across from him, Johnny Atwell sang along with the stereo, drumming his hands on the tabletop. “On course to get wrecked, or what?”

Truman nodded, but he was thinking of the voice from the closet, thinking that he’d settle for feeling like he wasn’t losing his mind. Somewhere behind him, a girl was laughing, a high, taut sound. It made his skin hurt.

Johnny poured him another shot and Truman drank it, closing his eyes as the familiar heat bloomed in his throat. Everything seemed to be rushing toward him, the whole world converging on the point where he sat, leaning his elbows on Dio’s table. He blinked slowly and stopped holding his breath.

The shot was just starting to kick in when Dio burst into the kitchen, small and kinetic. He banged Johnny hard between his shoulder blades, smiling a little too widely. “Hey, it’s big John! What’s happening, my man?”

To Truman, he said in a savage whisper, “Dude, I thought I asked you to stop bringing your friends around.”

He meant Johnny, of course, but also Claire Weaver, who was Truman’s sometimes-girlfriend. Or maybe Victor Macklin, although Victor was scary-unpredictable and had recently promised to kick Truman’s ass over a misunderstanding involving a bottle of shoplifted vodka and twenty-five dollars. Dio meant all of them, any of the tragic losers who drank with Truman or skipped class with him or scored him alcohol.

And Truman got that—he did. He could see his life as Dio saw it, watch the train wreck from the outside. He knew what itit looked like, but Dio was wrong about Claire and Johnny. They weren’t his friends. They were just messed up enough to hang out with him, and Dio was the only real friend he’d ever had.

The two of them looked at each other, not speaking. Dio’s hair was long, past his shoulders, and his eyes were the narrow almond shape of a stone god’s in a history book. His expression was angry and helpless.

Truman missed him suddenly, even though they were in the same room. Loud, fast-moving Dio, two floors down. They’d spent years, maybe their entire lives, smoking on the sidewalk and now Dio was gone. Going somewhere. Everything was wrong. He felt his jaw tighten and made himself stop clenching his teeth.

“Forget it,” Dio said, shaking his head and reaching for Truman’s shoulder. “Just go easy, okay? Don’t do that
thing
.”

Truman pushed Dio’s hand away and stood up, fighting a surge of anger, and under that, shame. “Don’t do what thing?”

“That thing where you drink like a madman, then pass out. Not tonight, okay?”

Intellectually, Truman knew that Dio was only talking to him this way because he was worried. But something about Dio’s concern just made him feel worse.

Even in a house packed with college kids and alcohol and noise, he was completely alone. There was no place in Dio’s world for anyone from the old neighborhood. Especially not a kid who was still in high school and who was never going to aspire to anything as ambitious as college, let alone pre-law.

At the table, Johnny was offering him another shot. Truman didn’t really want it, but he reached for it anyway.

He smiled, holding Dio’s gaze. “Hey, don’t get worked up. I’m fine.” He felt the familiar mixture of loneliness and overwhelming relief as Dio’s face relaxed. “I’ll be fine.”

His own voice sounded warm and easy, and that made everything worse.
Fine
was the biggest lie of all.

He turned away from Dio, then froze, before letting his breath out in a strangled sigh. “Shit.”

Claire had come into the kitchen and was standing against the counter, wearing a bright pink shirt. Her fingers were laced together in a way that made it look like she was about to start begging.

He watched her from across the kitchen and she stared back. He knew that she expected him to kiss her, but his head was spinning now and the times they’d had together had not been good. Suddenly, Truman wanted to tell her he was sorry, but it wouldn’t make a difference. It was the one thing that she would never believe.

She moved away from the counter and started toward him, her footsteps sharp on the linoleum. In his altered vision, she moved like stop-motion, flashing closer. Then she was right in front of him, her hands plucking at his sweater, slipping under. When her fingers skittered over his stomach, he flinched.

It was painful, being so close to someone. He could see her too clearly, eyes caked with makeup, lips slightly parted. She was thin and hungry-looking, with Clorox-colored hair and too much perfume. She pushed herself up on tiptoe, and her kiss tasted sugary and like wax. When he pulled away, she didn’t hold on.

Dio was watching from the doorway. He wore a tense, pitying expression that Truman couldn’t stand. It was a look that said,
Truman Flynn, you are so fucking tragic.

Truman grabbed the bottle and slopped liquor into his glass. Everything had stopped moving except him. Claire still stood exactly where he’d left her, arms at her sides. Her mouth was working and he hoped she wasn’t going to cry. He could picture it already, smeared eye makeup and snot and pitiful hitching sobs. But she didn’t cry. She just looked at him, her lower lip glossy and trembling. He drank off the shot and poured another.

“Tru,” Dio said in a low, anxious voice, “Go
easy.
You’re crazy, man.”

And Truman laughed because it was the truth and because Dio had said it out loud. For a second, it made him feel lonely, and then he pounded the shot and didn’t feel anything at all. The refrigerator kicked on, humming to the ebb and flow of his pulse.

The night was long, stretching out, washing over Truman like dirty water. He smoked one cigarette after another and the filter in his mouth kept his teeth from grinding.

When Johnny slid him another shot, he tipped it back, coughed, but couldn’t actually feel the drink in his throat. Johnny was laughing, muttering something out of the corner of his mouth. Then he leaned forward expectantly. Truman couldn’t decipher the question, so he shrugged. He realized his hands were shaking and dropped his cigarette into the bottom of his shot glass.

Johnny studied him, leaning closer. “Hey Tru, you look like you’re about to puke.”

Truman took a deep breath and tried to answer, to say he’d be all right, but his voice got caught in his throat. He closed his mouth.

“Christ,” said Johnny, shaking his head. “Go in the fucking
bath
room.”

And that sounded fine, that sounded good. He couldn’t stop shaking.

Then Claire was right next to him, tugging at his elbow. “Tru,” she said. “Tru, are you okay? You want me to come with you?” Her voice was too shrill to be kind and she was plucking at his sleeve in a frantic, needy way. It revolted him.

He pushed himself away from the counter, out of Claire’s grasp. Away from the kitchen, the linoleum, the bright light.

He made it through one doorway and then another. In the living room, the music was a jarring mess of bass and screaming. Bodies thumped, jostling each other, knocking into him. He had to shove his way through, but no one seemed to care. He stumbled into the back hall and pressed his face against the wall, breathing hard. Johnny was right. The bathroom. He felt sick now and too hot. Under his sweater, his T-shirt was sticking to his back.