You in Five Acts(80)

“Her parents say she didn’t come home last night,” Dave said.

“Oh no,” you whispered, your hands flying to your face. Real guilt hit me then, like a baseball bat to the stomach. I’d been the last one to see her, and all I’d managed to do was make her run.

“Could we have all non-dance department guests wait in the lobby?” Ms. Adair called out over the din. “We’re getting ready for a group photo.”

“I’ll wait, I guess,” Dave said, looking miserable. “I’ll keep trying her.”

Every weekend when the new stuff comes in she just shows up. It was Saturday. That meant if she was anywhere, she’d be looking for Dante.

It took forever to get all of the families to file out the narrow opening, but when they were finally gone I pulled you aside.

“I might know where she is,” I said, keeping my voice low. Mr. D was starting to pull people into lines. Excited chatter was still bubbling all around us. Everyone was comparing notes about who talked to them after the show.

“What?” You drew back, confused; anger flashed in your eyes. “But, how—”

“Dante,” I said quickly. “There’s a party tonight.”

“Diego! Joy!” Mr. D boomed. “I want you two front and center.” We reluctantly took our places, standing stiffly as the photographer fiddled with his equipment.

“If you keep the parents busy,” I whispered, “I’ll make some excuse that I have to leave to run an errand, and I’ll go check it out.” You stared at me, incredulous, and I couldn’t blame you. Even I didn’t really believe me.

“No,” you said. “I’m not letting you go alone.”

“Well, I’m not letting you go,” I said.

“Offstage drama?” Lolly muttered from the row behind us. There were muffled giggles.

“SMILE!” the photographer yelled. We looked out and did our best imitations.

“I didn’t ask permission,” you said once we unfroze, ignoring the others. “Look, you really think she’ll go with you? I know her, I’ve known her since I was six years old. It should be me.”

“I don’t like the idea of you being there,” I said, as we made our way toward the dressing rooms. “It’s not exactly the crowd you’re used to.”

You stopped cold. “I don’t care.”

“OK,” I sighed. “But you have to change.”

“No shit, so do you. You look like Bruno Mars at a bullfight right now.” Your tone was still pissed but your eyes were softer. “What about Dave?” you asked.

I felt shitty for ditching him, but Dante and his friends would not be kind to Dave’s brand of privileged pretty boy. “No,” I said. “We definitely cannot take him.”

“What do we tell him?” you asked, pausing by the entrance to the girls’ locker room.

“Nothing,” I said. “It’s better if he doesn’t know.”

I was trying to act so brave, like some big man getting ready to take care of business. It felt like my mess, and I wanted to show you I could fix it, make you feel safe. I pictured us ending the night in some sweaty embrace, all dirty and hyped-up like the end of an action movie.

“I love you,” you would say, flashing a low sunrise of a smile.

“I love you back,” I’d respond, before kissing you passionately.

Yup, I was a regular Ethan, with my dialogue and action sequences all ready to go.

I just didn’t know the ending yet.





Chapter Thirty-One


    May 13

One hour left


THERE WAS A MAN playing djembe drums in the 66th Street station, his hands flying so fast you couldn’t even see them. The beats ricocheted off the tile walls as we booked it for the approaching uptown train, a supercharged heartbeat layered under the metallic scream. We’d told our families we had to talk to Dave about something, and that they should go ahead without us. Then we went and told Dave we had to go to dinner with our families. We promised each other that we’d run, literally run, to the party, go in, grab Liv, if she was even there, and leave.

It was supposed to be easy.

The train was packed with the Saturday night crowd, a mix of families with young kids heading home and singles with no kids heading out. You and I squeezed in silently between the high-heeled girls with heavy makeup and tiny bags and the tired-looking moms clutching sleeping kids. We white-knuckled the pole on opposite sides, catching each other’s eyes every so often, nodding along with the lurch of the train, trying to pretend it was all okay.

The party wasn’t at Smoke Dog’s that time but at a building across the street, the apartment of someone Dante would only identify as “T.” It was a narrow, peeling walk-up on 104th, sandwiched between a Baptist church and an empty lot. There was a deli downstairs, and one of Dante’s “associates” was leaning against a dented ice machine outside, one leg up on the building, his eyes half-lidded but watchful. I could feel them on us from a block away.

“I think you got the wrong address,” he said as we stepped up to the door and peered at the row of unmarked bells. His face was fleshy, like an overgrown baby with a patchy mustache. A scar cut through his left eyebrow like a lightning bolt. From somewhere up above, a heavy bass thumped against the crumbling concrete.