The Standout (22 page)

Would it change anything?

Several hours later I’m done at
The Standout
, I meet Yuri, and we board a train to Queens. Yuri says he knows of a construction site where we can climb. It’s not super-busy, so we don’t have to wait until dark.

“How did it go today?” he asks. We are seated on the train. It’s not crowded but there are a handful of people. A mom is reading her novel while her son plays on a Nintendo DS, with little grunts and pops emanating out. There’s an oldish lady who has taken off one shoe. Her socked foot is in her lap and she absently rubs it as she stares out the window, which shows nothing but dark. There are a couple of business people and a guy in a hotdog-stand T-shirt.

And, of course, Yuri and me.

He’s sitting close to me even though we have room to stretch out. I’m worried that I smell. Nervous sweat is much stinkier than exertion sweat, and today was full of nervous sweat. “Today was interesting,” I tell him. “The dress my designer made was amazing, and she almost won, but they told her she needs more of a vision.”

Yuri scrunches up his forehead. “What do you mean?”

“Umm. . .” I search for words as the train suddenly lurches. My arms shoots out, trying to grab onto a pole, but the nearest one is still too far away. So I sort of tip over into Yuri. My shoulder meets his arm, my hair brushes his chest, and I can feel his breath against my cheek.

It is the opposite of unpleasant. It is the opposite of smart.

I sit up straight and ignore the tingly rush.

“You were talking about vision?” Yuri asks. I nod and he continues. “Yes,” he says, “I understand. Is what I look for, you know? In Moscow, we are called ‘krovel'shchiki’.” I shake my head, not understanding, and Yuri furrows his brow. “Roofers,” he says, “that is our term, and there is many of us, because city does not know how to keep us away.” He runs one hand through his hair, pushing it back so it sort of stands up, like it hasn’t been washed in a while. But his smile is so charming that I forgive him for dirty hair. “We climb one time and we must go back. The rush, the feeling of grabbing all from life? I cannot stop.”

“I understand.” I shrug, suddenly self-conscious. “It’s why I’m here.” I shouldn’t be here, after all. But I couldn’t get it out of my mind, climbing up so high, balancing on thin pieces of metal with no net, no rope to grab; it was just me, the city below, and the sky above.

And I had never seen the world so clearly. “Up there,” I say, “I was no longer looking for something.”

Yuri pinches his chin while he thinks this over. Is he trying to interpret, to get past the language barrier, or is he just a really deep thinker? “I see,” he says, slowly. “Yes, you are looking for something. The first moment I see you, I think, ‘she needs more.’”

I laugh, unsure of what to say. “I’m not exactly malnourished, Yuri.”

I expect him to smile and be dismissive, but he turns all serious. “Zelda, you must take your share.”

“My share of what?”

“Life.”

The train hurls itself blindly down its path, grunting and groaning like a caged animal. I blink, tempted to look away from Yuri or to move away a fraction of an inch. That will show him I’m not interested, that even though he’s parting those soft, warm-looking lips as if he’s about to press his mouth to mine, I will flinch and tell him no. But I’m paralyzed because my body is on fire. Yuri is leaning in and this train, the people in it, and the world outside are a blur, just like the dark streaks that appear through the windows.

Then the train squeals to a stop and the spell is broken.

“Ah,” says Yuri. He stands with his usual composure. Does that little tick in his left hand mean that he’s shaken, like me? “We are here. Come. Let’s go.”

I follow him to the construction site and we climb, and I know these are the moments I’ll remember, even before they’re over.

The next time Yuri and I go roofing we are in Brooklyn and we’re not even up that high. We’re at another construction site and it’s just after 9:00 PM, but it’s not super busy so Yuri says it will be fine. We climb along heavy, steel planks and round patches of concrete, which will eventually be covered with wood, or more metal, or both. But right now they make a random, fun-house kind of staircase and getting to the top is a challenge.

When we reach the highest point there are three-foot wide spaces to stand. There are also wide gaps where I could fall into a mess of timber and cement.

Yuri is balancing on the same board as me. “I have surprise,” he says, grinning like the Cheshire cat. In the haze of darkness, light, and oxygen, his grin is the only highly visible thing.

He takes out his phone, swipes a few times, and trumpet music plays. “You like?” Yuri asks. “I downloaded, just for you.” He moves closer, making it easier to hear. “Now we dance.”

I realize why we’re at this location; he chose it because we’d be able to hear the music.

You would think I’d be harder to impress. But the idea of Yuri, thinking about me, planning something to make me happy: it is the best gift I’ve had in a really long time. “Thanks,” I say, softly.

Yuri places his phone down, so it’s balanced against a steel beam, then he holds out his hands to me, a
let’s dance
gesture. I let my arms and legs move in tandem to the trumpets, to Yuri’s dancing, to the rhythm of everything I never knew I needed.

The no-touching rule has died. His warm, flat palm is against the small of my back and our stomachs press together. I put my arms around his shoulders and he places both of his hands against my hips. Yuri bends his knees and lifts me and I am propelled into nothingness, into infinity. We’re defying the laws of nature and gravity, merged together in this beautiful, precarious way. Never has anything felt so right.

I’m not sure who leans towards whom first, maybe it’s just a mutual decision for our mouths to meet. But before I can process anything we are kissing, and it’s apples and honey and flying in a dream.

Then we wake up.

“You there! Stop where you are!” A voice broadcasts itself over the tinny trumpet music that’s still playing on Yuri’s phone. “This is the police and you are trespassing on private property. Come down, now!”

Yuri’s face is a mask of horror and panic. His eyes turn into wide, dark, infinite circles and his jaw drops about a foot. He stares into me for a moment, as we are both paralyzed.

He shakes his head and says, “I am sorry, Zelda. But I cannot get caught.”

Then he flies away.

Okay, he doesn’t actually fly, but he makes a comic-book villain exit, bounding off with super-human force before I can even register that he is abandoning me. I don’t know how he gets down but he doesn’t take the route we used to get up, which is the only route I know. It leads me directly to the policeman, who is waiting at the bottom like an angry parent, pleased with the prospect of punishment.

My first phone call is to my mother, but there’s no answer.

“Can I try another number?” I ask the clerk at the police station.

She sips from a mug that reads “
Life is short. Do stuff that matters
.” “Make it quick,” she tells me.

I call Julie.

“Hello?” She sounds confused, probably by the unknown number that popped up on her cell.

I speak in a relieved rush. “Julie, thank God you answered. Can you come get me? I’m in Brooklyn and I’ve been arrested.”

There’s a pause. “You’re joking, right?”

“No, I’m serious! Please?” I inhale the smell of stale coffee and sweat. “And bring some money so you can post bail, okay? It will probably be around $300.”

“Come on, Zelda. I’m not in the mood for this. I don’t know why you even think it’s funny.”

“I’m not joking. Please, Julie!” I lower my voice so I don’t sound so frantic. “I’m at station #65, in Brooklyn, on Mitchell Avenue.”

I can hear her silent struggle over whether or not to believe me. Meanwhile the clerk uses her pudgy hand to motion that my time is up. “Julie,” I cry, one more time, “I’m totally serious. Don’t make me spend the night in a holding cell with prostitutes.”

I’m forced to hang up and then I really am put in a holding cell with prostitutes, plus a few drug dealers and an old woman named Marlene, who I share a bench with. She tells me she’s been arrested for indecent exposure.

Marlene looks sort of like my great-aunt Trisha, who lives in the mountains with her dogs and has grown plump from eating a lot of cherry pie. I’m trying not to picture how Trisha would indecently expose herself, and I’m also trying to stay clear of an argument between a woman named Coco and another lady, whose name I didn’t catch, but Coco is using some very colorful terms to describe her. Then, mercifully, I am released from the cell and led down a hall, where Julie is waiting for me, hands on her hips, looking like she might vomit.

“You totally have to pay me the bail money back,” Julie says.

I don’t answer. I’m too blinded by tears of relief to do anything but hug her, which is awkward, because she only sort of hugs me back.

“Careful!” she cries. “Don’t make me injure my other ankle. That’s the last thing I need.”

“Sorry.” I balance her and myself so we’re steady. “Let’s get out of here. I’m starving.”

We go to a diner with shiny plastic booths, a 50s style jukebox, and an unapologetic pride in its predictability. I stare at my water glass as beads of condensation dribble down, forming a soggy mess that eats away at the paper placemat beneath. Julie just has coffee and I have a slice of cherry pie; thinking about Aunt Trisha made me crave it. I’m wolfing it all down: the bright red cherries, the buttery crust, and the vanilla ice cream that’s saturating and turning it all pink. I’m not even concerned that Robin might have to let out the seams of tomorrow’s dress. I also don’t care that Julie is watching me, almost as if she’s the anthropologist and I’m the rare, exotic survivor from the stress-eating tribe.

“I should never have gotten involved with Yuri,” Julie says, unprompted. She waits for me to respond.

My brain stammers for a second as I swallow down some pie. “You blame him for your ankle?” I ask.

Julie bites her lip in contemplation. “Yeah, but it’s not just that. There’s something weird about him, Zelda. I wish I’d stayed away.”

“What do you mean? How is he weird?” I reach for a joke, some quip to lighten the mood and detract from my panic. “Does he have three nipples, or something?”

Julie doesn’t even crack a smile. “I can’t explain it, so just trust me, okay? There’s something weird about Yuri.”

“All right.”

She takes a sip of coffee, I wipe my mouth with my napkin, and tension hovers above us. “Aren’t you even going to ask me what happened?” I ask. “It’s not every day that I get arrested for trespassing.”

“Okay. What happened?”

I summon all my courage to tell her the story, feeling safer in a public place than I would somewhere private. Sure, she’ll get mad, furious even, but the lashing will be controlled. Nonetheless, my words feel heavy and sluggish as they exit my mouth and my body temperature rises from the strain. “. . .and,” I struggle, “then he kissed me. It was the first time, I swear, and we were interrupted by the police. Then he ran. And, well, that’s it.”

I expect her to be blinded by rage, so I’m caught off guard when her eyes stay wide, barely blinking and deadly calm.

"He's gone too far," says Julie.

For the first time I notice a wide scratch starting at her left temple and extending all the way down to her chin. It’s covered by makeup and I can imagine Julie’s nails drawn; perhaps she wounded herself. Now her eyes dance and her dark pupils seem unnaturally large, like she's in shock, like she’s soulless.

“What happened to your face, Julie?”

She doesn’t answer, doesn’t even register the question. “I’m not going to let him hurt you again.”

The gravity of her voice makes the hairs on my neck stand up. “It’s okay, Julie. He hasn’t really hurt me that much.”

She pounds a fist on the table, causing a mini-earthquake, upsetting the salt and pepper shakers and rattling the silverware.

“Everything that’s wrong with your life is his fault. And it’s time to stand up, Zelda. Stop being such a pushover.”

I feel my nostrils flare. "I’m not! I just don’t think we need to make some big statement against Yuri.”

"I’m not saying we should kill him.” Julie’s shoulders slacken with strength. “We’ll just rough him up. Problem solved and nobody is a murderer."

Out of me escapes a distorted little laugh. She has to be joking. This is her twisted payback for me kissing Yuri.

Julie’s mouth turns down. "Something funny?"

“I know you’re only kidding.” I engage her in a stare-off, like when we were ten. Back then she never blinked first and now she’s stoic, plastic, like an ancient Dutch painting where the subject seems dead.

A waitress sets down a thermal carafe of coffee at the table next to us. Her behind bumps into the back of my chair and I’m propelled forward, enough to make me look away for a split second. Julie’s probably glowing with victory but my phone lights up with a text from Yuri.
I am very, very sorry, Zelda. Are you okay? When can I see you?
My chest feels hollow and like it might explode.

Somehow Julie knows. "Say that you’ll meet him,” she demands. “I’ll come, and when he’s distracted, I’ll whack him in the knees with a crowbar."

I study her face and she studies mine, and we’re simply two best friends making a major decision. For a moment we could be contemplating where to go after prom or do we want to go to the same college? If only life were that simple. . .

Julie fractures the tension with a frenzied laugh, loud enough to startle the coffee drinkers nearby. “Of course I’m not serious, Zelda. You didn’t really think I was?”

Airways that I didn’t know were closed, open up. “No. . .But you’re not coming with me to meet Yuri. I’m not even going to text him back.”

Julie flinches like I just ran my nails down that scratch on her cheek, like I caused tiny spheres of blood to resurface. Long ago she established that “no” was a word I was not allowed to say and I never rebelled, not until now.