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It doesn’t look good, even to me, and after the creeper tonight, I’ll think twice before sneaking out at night again.
“It was either that or take the subway at night. Since I can’t fly,” I reply sarcastically, “how would you have preferred me to get there?”
“By texting me,” he roars in my face. Releasing me suddenly, he points and says, “Stay here or for the love of God, I will tan your hide.” He stalks over to the Uber driver, talks to him for a moment, and pulls out a money clip. He peels off a hundred-dollar bill, thrusts it through the driver’s window, and juts his thumb at the driver as if to sayscram.
The driver doesn’t miss a beat.
I watch morosely as he tears away from the street with a squeal of tires.
Marku swerves around, stomps back to me, and catches my arm as if afraid that I’m going to run. The game is up, even I know that. I wouldn’t blame him if he sat my parents down and told them everything. I mean, I got caught. It’s not even the punishment that bothers me so much. I gulp, thinking of my father and the look of utter disappointment, resignation, and fatigue on his face when he hears of what I’ve done.
“So where are we going?” Marku asks, looking at me with an expression that’s a notch below total exasperation.
I blink up at him. “Whaaa?”
He takes in a deep breath, as if pulling in his last reserve of patience. Picking up the bucket in one hand and the bag of brushes in the other, he asks, “Where to, Crina? Where are we going after we drop this off?”
Is he serious?
“Uummm…”
He gestures coaxingly with his hands. “Come on, I promise not to judge.”
I’m flummoxed, really I am. I’d expected him to drag me to my house and ring the doorbell, not let it go and accompany me to my destination. First, he broke through the impenetrable barrier protecting my heart when he told me his reason for pushing me away all those years ago. And now he’s letting go of my blatant disregard of our agreement. There’s a fluttery feeling in my belly like a kaleidoscope of butterflies are flitting around inside there. I lick my lips as my mind tries to catch up.
His eyes drop to my lips and he says, “Don’t do that. Not now.” He puts his index finger and thumb close together in front of my face. “I’m this close to dragging you up to my room and fucking you into oblivion, so if you have any sense of self-preservation, you’ll tell me where we’re going so we can get on with the night.”
That got my attention. My head snaps back into place. I already had one close call with him the other week. I’m not about to tempt fate again. “The Bowery Poetry Club. It’s Open Mic Night.”
“Of course. I should’ve guessed,” he replies as he hands me one of the bags and pulls car keys from the front pocket of his dark jeans. Dragging me to him, he continues, “Lucky for you, I also ride around when I have insomnia so we don’t have to go back into my house for these.”
We drop off my wheatpasting stuff near the side door of Gabby’s house. I intend to get back there tomorrow morning before anyone is the wiser. Especially Soren. He’s like a bloodhound, that one. If he finds this, he knows enough about theatre to know that something shifty is going on. Once that’s done, we walk to Marku’s silver Porche 911. He pops his cell phone into the holder and pokes at it until he’s pulled up the directions to the club and we peel out onto the street.
We don’t speak as we travel through the empty streets, and there’s tension in that silence. At the light just before hitting the Queensboro Bridge, Marku lowers the roof of his convertible. He guns the accelerator and we fly across the bridge. Hugging my jacket, I’m grateful for the rushing wind because it eliminates the chance that he’ll try to interrogate me any further.
The sky is dark and the river is inky black. In contrast, Manhattan sparkles like a magical fairy city rising out of the mist. I instantly recognize the Citicorp building, shining like a white beacon with its 45-degree angled top. That building has been around since before I was born. Only now, it’s dwarfed by One Vanderbilt, which rises high above every other skyscraper in Midtown. The Vanderbilt tower tapers off, ending in a pinnacle that seems to merge into the cloudy sky shrouding the top of the sparkling lights.
The bridge slopes downhill and we drive off onto Fifty-ninth Street. At this late hour, even the streets of busy Midtown are free of traffic, and soon we’re racing down FDR Drive along the East River. I love the FDR Drive. I have fond memories of being in the back seat, eyes riveted on the scenery of Randall Island in the middle of the river, followed by the big neon Pepsi sign in Long Island City, and then much farther down, the silhouettes of the Manhattan and Brooklyn Bridges.
Marku turns off at the Twenty-third Street exit and rolls to a stop at a red light. “So…Open Mic Night, huh?”
I give him a suspicious side glance. “Yup.”
I keep my response short, hoping to discourage any conversation. Now that I’m shackled with him, I just want to get there so I can lose myself in the performances.
“How many of these have you been to?”
I can hear Marku’s brain ticking away with his own agenda as he prods me for information.
“Only once…” I mischievously let that hang for a moment before continuing, “But I’ve been to their slam poetry a bunch of times.” I watch as his jaws clench and the little vein at his temple pop and start pulsing a mile a minute.
Crossing my arms over my chest, I sit back smugly into the dark gray leather seat. He’d turned the heat on the seats and it’s nice and toasty. I give my butt a little wiggle. His eyes dart to the side, catching me, but they return to the road when the light changes.
“What’s slam poetry?” he asks as he guns the car down an empty stretch of streets.
I’m startled by his question. I got into poetry after the breakup of our friendship and our mutual obsession with soccer. I didn’t expect him to be interested in poetry, of all things. And certainly not enough to ask me any questions.
At the next light, I reply, “It’s spoken word in a competitive setting.”
