Tonight the Streets Are Ours

“Not a problem,” says Peter’s mother, though the chill in her tone belies her words. “We just got back from running a few errands. How nice that we caught you before you left. And who is this?” She stands and comes forward to shake Arden’s hand.

“I’m Arden,” she introduces herself, and she searches her brain for a normal explanation as to how and when she entered their house, who she is, why she is wearing this ridiculous dress. She could kill Peter for leaving her to handle this alone. If she had any idea where he was, she could kill him.

“Arden is a friend of mine,” Bianca says firmly, and miraculously this prevents any further questions about the weird stranger with permanent marker on her arms. The attention redirects to Bianca entirely.

“Is Peter still in his room?” the dad asks. Like his wife, Peter’s father has a foreign accent—Chinese, Arden thinks, though she hasn’t known enough people born in China to be certain.

Bianca shakes her head. “He must have gone out somewhere.”

Peter’s dad sighs impatiently and says to his wife, “Mei, can you call him? He is supposed to be here. Tell him that he can’t just run off to do whatever he wants whenever he wants.”

This is exactly the sort of thing Arden would expect Peter’s father to say: ordering people around, pooh-poohing Peter’s activities. She looks away so she won’t glare at him, glaring instead at the wall decoration hanging in the kitchen next to her: an ornately framed certificate heralding Peter K. Lau as the winner of a Scholastic Writing Award, three years ago.

“We have an appointment shortly,” Peter’s mother explains to the girls apologetically, picking up a phone. “We just want to be sure that Peter doesn’t miss it.”

She takes the phone into the other room to call him, and now the boy at the table speaks. He stares straight at Bianca and says, “Is it true that you two broke up?” His voice is higher than Arden would expect from someone with his build. It sounds funny coming out of him, but Arden does not feel like laughing, because there is something weird going on in Peter’s home.

Bianca’s cheeks turn pink, but she lifts her chin and says to the boy, “Yes.”

“Well.” He nods slowly. “I’m sorry, I guess. I hope you’re doing okay.”

“Thank you,” she says softly. “I didn’t know you were going to be here today. I thought you’d be up at Cornell.”

Arden knows exactly who is supposed to be at Cornell. But this can’t be him, because that doesn’t make any sense.

“I came home for the weekend,” he explains. “We have family therapy.”

“Son,” his dad says in a warning tone.

And everything feels shaky, like the floor is tilting right under her, and there’s a buzzing in Arden’s ears, because none of this makes sense, none of this makes any sense at all.

“It’s okay if Bianca knows that we’re in therapy, Dad,” he says. “It’s not a big, shameful secret. And I don’t think she’s judging us.”

“I’m not judging you,” Bianca confirms, her voice hoarse.

“Every family has its issues,” the dad explains to the girls, as if they really are judges and to them he must provide a defense. “They’re unavoidable. You just have to work together to get through them.”

Arden and Bianca nod silently, their heads bobbing like birds on a wire.

“Now, may I offer you anything for lunch? Some fruit, perhaps?”

Arden prays with all her heart that Bianca will refuse, and fortunately, she does. “Thanks, but we already have lunch plans,” Bianca says, staring at the boy. “It was good to see you, though.”

“It was good to see you, too, Bianca,” the boy says, and he returns to his food.

“If you hear from Peter,” the dad says, “please remind him that we need him home.”

“Of course,” Bianca says, and she leads the way to the elevator.

As soon as they get in and the doors close, Bianca slumps against the elevator wall and lets out a long breath.