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She opens a few drawers near the stove. Knives in a wooden block. Tea towels. Finally she finds a pen in a drawer full of duct tape and plastic garbage bags. She writes “Bob—Central Fine Jewelry” and the word “Paterson” on my arm.
“I’ll see what I can find out,” I say, giving her a quick hug.
Her arms wrap around me, bone-achingly tight. Then she lets me go, turns her back, and throws her cigarette into the sink.
“It’s going to be all right,” I say. Mom doesn’t reply.
I head into the other room. Lila is waiting for me, bag slung over her shoulder and coat on. Zacharov stands beside her. Both their expressions are remote.
“You understand what you have to do?” he asks me.
I nod.
He walks us to the elevator. It’s right where other people would have front doors to their apartments. The outside of it is golden, etched with a swirling pattern.
When the doors open, I look back at him. His blue eyes are as pale as ice.
“Touch my mother, and I’ll kill you,” I say.
Zacharov grins. “That’s the spirit, kid.”
The doors close, and Lila and I are alone. The light overhead flickers as the elevator begins its descent.
* * *
We pull out of the garage and start toward the tunnel out of the city. The bright lights of bars and restaurants and clubs streak by, patrons spilling out onto the sidewalk. Cabs honk. In Manhattan the night is just starting in all its smoky glory.
“Can we talk?” I ask Lila.
She shakes her head. “I don’t think so, Cassel. I think I’ve been humiliated enough.”
“Please,” I say. “I just want to tell you how sorry—”
“Don’t.” She flips on the radio, adjusting it past the news, where the host is discussing Governor Patton’s terminating the employment of all hyperbathygammic individuals in government positions, whether or not they’ve been convicted of a crime. She leaves it on a channel blasting pop music. A girl is singing about dancing inside someone else’s mind, coloring their dreams. Lila cranks it up.
“I never meant to hurt you,” I yell over the music.
“I’m going to hurt you if you don’t shut up,” she shouts back. “Look, I know. I know it was awful for you to have me crying and begging you to be my boyfriend and throwing myself at you. I remember the way you flinched. I remember all the lies. I’m sure it was embarrassing. It was embarrassing for both of us.”
I press the radio button, and the car goes abruptly silent. When I speak, my voice sounds rough. “No. That’s not how it was. You don’t understand. I wanted you. I love you—more than I have ever loved anyone. More than I ever will love anyone. And even if you hate me, it’s still a relief to be able to tell you. I wanted to protect you—from me and the way I felt—because I didn’t trust myself to keep remembering that it wasn’t really—that you didn’t feel like I— Anyway, I’m sorry. I’m sorry you’re embarrassed. I’m sorry I embarrassed you. I hope I didn’t— I’m sorry I let things go as far as they did.”
For a long moment we are both quiet. Then she jerks the wheel to the left, tires screeching as she veers off the road, making a turn that takes us back into the city.
“Okay, I’m done,” I say. “I’ll shut up now.”
She slams her hand down on the radio, turning it on and up so that it drowns the car in sound. Her head is turned away from me, but her eyes are shining, as if wet.
We careen around another block, and she pulls up to the curb abruptly. We’re in front of the bus station.
“Lila—,” I say.
“Get out,” she tells me. Her head is turned away from me and her voice shakes.
“Come on. I can’t take the bus. Seriously. I’ll miss curfew and I’ll get expelled. I already have two demerits.”
“That’s not my problem.” She fumbles around in her bag and lifts out a large pair of sunglasses. She pushes them on, hiding half her face. Her mouth is curved down at the corners, but it’s not nearly as expressive as her eyes.
I can still tell that she’s crying.
