Page 24

A smattering of small explosions begins out on the street and builds into the deep boom and crackle of fireworks. Blue and purple lights wash across the ghostly velvet curtains, gilt stairways, marble floors. I turn to the windows, but all I can see is dark sky, devoid of stars; then someone launches a bottle rocket extremely nearby and as it passes like a comet the room flares with wild amber light.

Caralora pulls out her phone. It’s 11:57. She taps at it a few times and a young woman’s frowning face fills the screen. “Where are you?” Caralora sees me watching her and steps into the gloom under the mezzanine. “Sorry,” I hear her say. “I had to help out some friends. It’s kind of urgent . . .”

Other Alba looks at me significantly and inclines her head toward Zach. He’s standing in the middle of the vast room, his calm face tilted up to the window sliver of kaleidoscopic sky. I skim across the floor to him and he opens his arms, envelops me. Outside people shout “5-4-3-2-1 Happy New Year!” Fireworks boom in the street and church bells begin to ring. We kiss. I am shivering.

“What are you thinking about?” he says, flirtatiously, into my ear.

“My dad,” I reply, and wish I hadn’t. It’s not the answer he must have been expecting.

Zach hesitates, then says, “That’s right. New Year’s Eve. That’s hard.”

“Yeah, sorry, I didn’t mean to—”

“Hey. I appreciate the honesty, always,” he says. I scrutinize his face. He seems sincere. I kiss him. We hold each other tightly, my head on his shoulder. I wonder what Zach is thinking about, so I ask him.

“Surprises,” he says, softly. “Suddenly, everything is surprising. You, especially.”

“In a good way?” I whisper.

He turns his head and I pull back a little. We look into each other’s eyes. “I was feeling discouraged about my life, about the state of the world,” Zach says. “You make me want the future.”

“Amen.” We stand together, hands clasped, our breath mingling in the chill as fireworks arc across the sliver of sky above the plywood-covered windows. After a little while he whispers, “We should get back to the others,” and we walk back to Caralora and my other self, who are sitting together on the grand stairs, talking in low voices.

“I hope 2023 will be less horrible than 2022,” Caralora says.

Other Alba pointedly says nothing.

“Just lie to me, Cassandra, that’s all I’m ever asking,” C-lora says. “Come on.” We follow her under the staircase, through double doors and into a long, wide hallway. The only light comes from dim, broken exit signs over the doors to the auditorium.

“Let’s have a look,” I say. “We might not get another chance.”

“You obviously will,” C-lora says, and Other Alba says, “Yeah, but I won’t.”

Zach opens a door and we cautiously peer inside, but our phones are meager flashlights. I have an impression of cavernous space, rows of broken seats, riotous ornamentation, dust and damp in the chill air. Far above our heads, a bird wings across the ceiling. I want to explore, but heavy footsteps echo from the direction of the stage, so we turn off our phones and silently file back out.

Caralora leads us swiftly along the hall to an inconspicuous exit door. A faded sign says it’s alarmed. Other Alba pushes the bar and it swings open with a rush of cold air—no alarm, or at least not one we can hear.

Other Alba takes off Zach’s coat and hands it to him. “Go on without me,” she says. Zach is about to refuse when a man’s voice starts shouting from inside the building.

“Run!” my other self hisses. She steps back inside, but I see her vanish before the door closes.

“She’s gone, don’t worry, just go!” I say, turning toward Lawrence Avenue, where Zach’s car is parked, but Caralora says, “No, this way,” and we follow her. As we disappear around the corner of the building we hear the door open. We take off running down an alley, and we don’t stop till we’re at C-lora’s car, two blocks away.

All around us, Chicago is celebrating the New Year with explosives. “Was that gunfire?” Caralora asks as she maneuvers out of the tight parking spot.

“Probably,” I say just as Zach says, “Yes.”

Some teenage boys are lighting bottle rockets in the street. We wait for them to move, then drive east, toward Broadway. Caralora puts her left turn signal on and Zach says, “My car’s the other way.”

Caralora turns left anyway. “They might be hanging around your car, waiting for you. Come back tomorrow and pick it up.” Zach doesn’t like this, but he acquiesces. Caralora turns onto Argyle. We pass scenes of celebration and mayhem, and have to pull over twice to let sirens pass. Caralora and Zach are talking about electric cars (we are in her parents’ car, a Leaf). I watch them both from the back seat and marvel at how they seem so matter-of-fact and so familiar, as though they’ve been friends for years.

“I hope we haven’t ruined your New Year’s Eve, Caralora,” I say, as we pull up in front of my house. Our neighborhood is pretty quiet, but I can see and hear fireworks to the east, along the lakefront.

“Not at all,” she replies, catching my eyes in the rearview mirror. “I guess I kinda barged in on yours, too, so we’re even.”

“Do you want to come in and have a drink with us?” I ask.

“Nope,” she says, “my date has been patient; she’s waiting for me up in Evanston. So I’ll just say good-night. I’ll swing by tomorrow and help you pick up your car, Zach.” I feel a twinge of jealousy almost out of habit; something in Caralora’s tone makes me wonder if she feels the same, seeing me with Zach. I guess we’re even.