The Break(34)

FOURTEEN


June. Four months ago. July 6th.


All these bodies swirling and writhing beneath the earth . . .

Good God.

The hot chaos of the subway station is enough to take your breath away, but I’ll have to get used to it, because now that I officially work at WTA starting tomorrow, I’m pretty sure this is the subway train I’ll take to get there every day. I descend the final steps to the dank belly of the station where men, women, and children bump into me over and over. No one else seems to find it entirely disorienting, which I don’t understand, because it’s at least ninety degrees down here and we’re packed in like caged animals. I try to take a deep breath and focus on getting closer to the edge of the track, but I’m all over the place and still on such a high after leaving Louisa. I keep replaying it in my mind—it’s like a daydream that actually came true, the way she seemed almost proud walking me down WTA’s hallway to fill out some paperwork. This is June, my new assistant, she said to Kai, who sat behind the front desk and looked genuinely happy to hear the news. What if this turns out to be a great thing for me? What if these people are kind, the sort of people who want to see you do well? What if this is the place that starts everything for me?



A PSA comes bellowing through the subway station—something about keeping New York safe, and warning us: If you see something, say something. Violin music plays nearby, but there are too many people in the way for me to see the musician. I’m edged up against a skinny guy with a mohawk when a deep rumble vibrates through the station. A woman pushes up against me with an umbrella, even though I’ve checked the weather six times today and no one predicted rain. The rumble picks up strength and now I’m pretty sure it must be the train. I move a little faster, trying to politely elbow past people to see if it’s the F train, which Sean told me is the best train in the city. It seems like it’s maybe the only convenient train from anywhere remotely near our apartment, so he might just be saying that to pump himself up. He does that a lot; he has all these convenient theories that reinforce his choices. Last night he tried to tell me vegetarians don’t get enough B12, which makes their hair fall out, and which is why he eats hot dogs every day. I feel like there might be a middle ground there, but I didn’t say so because I’m trying to play nice with him. He’s helped me so much, and it’s not like I can offer much in return besides trying to be a good roommate. I know some people are just helpful like that, but he’s on a different level. He sat with me for nearly an hour last night going over the whole New York City MTA travel map, explaining all the different neighborhoods and their vibes.

God, it’s packed down here. I’m almost through the crowd. The rumbling has turned into screeching as I push through the final group of people, but then suddenly I’m standing too far over the painted yellow warning line at the edge of the track. The subway train careens toward me. “Crap,” I say beneath my breath, trying to back up, but it’s useless. There’s a mother behind me trying to shepherd her toddler closer to an enormous stroller covered with plastic, and I’m too scared I’ll knock them over. A newborn stares at me through the crinkled plastic with big brown eyes. “Excuse me,” I say to the mother, who’s speaking rapidly to the toddler. She turns and I say, “Help.” My hair is sticking to my sweaty skin and wrapped around my neck like a tentacle. The woman tries to back up, but there are too many people right behind her. I’m so foolish. Why did I try to cut in front? The woman is swearing beneath her breath now, and she makes a small amount of headway moving backward, but now her stroller won’t budge. I can’t move because I’m too scared I’ll push into her stroller and somehow hurtle her kids toward the train.

I take a breath.

The train’s headlights are bright now, shining directly into my eyes and straight through my brain. Seeing me. Can the conductor even stop this thing in time if I lose my balance?

Stop being dramatic, June. You’re not going to fall.

I straighten as tall as I can. There are still a few inches between me and the edge of the track. As long as someone doesn’t push up against me I’ll be okay.

Closer, closer.

The train is practically screaming at me—racing down the track at forty miles an hour or so—when I feel a sharp bone against my back. Someone’s elbow.

No.

My toes dig into my shoes like I’m trying to grip the cement beneath me, the yellow line too far gone now. Vooooom goes the train as it wooshes past. The silvery cars blur in front of me, only inches from my face. The bony elbow against my spine presses harder—please don’t push me—but then finally it falls away. Tears prick my eyes as the train slows and comes to a creaking, breathy stop. The doors let out a gasp as they crank open. The driver yells at everyone to let passengers exit before they try to board. My legs shake as I step over the gap and board the train.

I hold on to a smooth metal pole and think about how everything is sharper here, more dangerous. This city isn’t for ingenues; it’s for sharks. And I am not a shark. (At least, not yet.) I ride the train and let my mind wander, thinking about all the ways this city is going to change me. I think of how out of place my parents seemed when they were here, and I wonder if me living here will make me less and less like them. How much of where we are determines who we are?