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I burst out in laughter.
Pulling away from her, I look at her like she’s crazy. “You do realize he’s bullied me for years, not pined over me. The man has no heart, and he sure as hell doesn’t care about me. The cafeteria incident more than proved it.”
“He’s not set in stone, Star,” Crina chides me. “People can change. Peopledochange.”
I look at her incredulously. “We’ve known Lucian our entire lives. He’s worked hard to get the rep he has. He doesn’t want to change.”
“People shouldn’t get labeled for life for things they’ve done in high school,” she contends.
“First you say that he cares for me. When I blow holes in that argument, you say that I should forgive him because he’s somehow going to change. Following that line of thinking, then Marku should change, right? You should forgive him for what he’s done to you.”
“That’s different,” she snaps.
Crossing my arms over my chest, I look at her smugly. “Hmm, touched a nerve, I see.”
“I know that guy inside out,” she claims. “There’s no changing the direction he’s gone in. He’s bad to the core. He has no sense of remorse. No soul.”
“He, Lucian, and Anton are the same.”
“I see redemption in Lucian,” she says emphatically.
I freeze, shock reverberating through me. Dammit, she’s dropped a prophesy. It’s hard to explain, but Gabby and I know when it happens. Sometimes things pop out of her mouth and they turn out to be true. She does a special tonal thing with her voice. The air shifts and…her words ring true.
Neither Gabby nor I have spoken of this to anyone. They would think we’re downright crazy or worst-case scenario, they’d believe us. Oursefwould figure out a way to exploit her talent.Mafieclan bosses are ruthless and if anyone could figure it out, it’s Alex. That man is brilliant. Scary, but brilliant.
But I reject her prediction. Even if it turns out to be true, it’s no concern of mine. Redemption or no, Lucian hurt me. He’s proven that he cares nothing for me. That will never change, even if he does.
The subway pulls into Grand Central and we jump off. People stream out, rushing toward various exits. We make our way through a maze of underground stairs and halls that we know like the backs of our hands. It’s like the board game Chutes and Ladders, only dingy, dirty, and crowded. While some students get driven to school by chauffeurs, we like to keep it real. And nothing screams real like rats running along train tracks.
We make it to the 7 train that will take us to Queens, but just before stepping onto the subway car, I get an urge to go downtown. I want to wander around in Washington Park, near the main campus of New York University. Sit on a bench and watch students and hipsters walk by or check in on the old guys playing chess.
I tug the back of Crina’s shirt, preventing her from boarding the train. Once it leaves, I tell her my idea. She’s quick to agree to our new adventure and shoots a text to her mom with an excuse for returning home late.
Giddy with excitement, we retrace our steps back to the local train and we get out at Astor Place in the East Village. The station has an old-timey look about it, with faience plaques and art deco enamel work on the walls.
From underground, we take the stairs two at a time up to the street level, which is encased by a fancy, decorative cast-iron and glass subway kiosk. With its domed green metal roof and cast-iron shingles, it reminds me of my summers in the old country.
We find ourselves on a small island in the middle of a plaza. Cars zip past us on Lafayette Avenue and Fourth Avenue. We clasp each other’s hands, giggling with glee. Not only have we escaped our parents, but this is the first time Crina and I have ventured off together, taken the road less traveled, just like in that poem.
“I’ve been to Bowery Poetry Club for open mic night,” Crina reveals to me.
A slow grin spreads over my face. “Oh really? Let’s go there now,” I suggest, bouncing on my toes.
“Okay! It’s too early for any readings, but we can grab a cappuccino and hang out. Pretend we’re artists and poets.”
“Hell yeah,” I agree as we turn away from NYU and head east.
“They have the best knishes there. We can get different ones and share,” she suggests as we cross the street and pass Cooper Union, a prestigious art college in the center of the Village.
As we walk past the huge ornate brownstone building, Crina stops and looks up longingly at the façade.
“You’ll get into their writing program,” I encourage her gently.
Crina glances at me as we turn toward the Bowery, or what was once known as skid row, and shakes her head sadly. Her shoulders slope down. She looks so dejected it makes my heart ache. “I should’ve heard by now.”
“You don’t know yet,” I press on. “There are a few days left, and you could get wait-listed. Nothing’s certain yet.”
“Even if I get in, then what? My mom won’t hear of me going to college. She wants me to get married, have children, blah, blah, blah. If she even saw a letter from a college, she’d toss it in the trash.”
