ONCE, WHEN WE were living in New York, my school took a field trip to Mystic Seaport, three hours away in Connecticut. The bus left at six a.m., so I woke at five, let myself out, and headed for the subway. As I walked, the sun barely rising above the city streets, I thought to myself how lovely it was. The whole city was dreaming. All was quiet on the street, but up there in people’s beds, the possibilities were endless. Maybe there was even someone else out there like me, lucky enough to dream of their soul mate.
“It’s over,” Margaret Yang says gently when we open our eyes, the room as quiet as the city streets that morning in New York, and the memory of it makes me want to burst into tears. “But you put up a good fight.” She looks from me to Max, who has dropped my hand and is just staring at the ceiling, motionless. “You both did.”
One of the nice things about having people like Sophie and Oliver as friends is that when you don’t feel like talking, they do it for you. It turns out that Max and I had missed quite a lot of action at Bartholomew Burns’s dorm party the night before. Apparently some guy got so amped about his Monopoly win that he chugged a wine cooler, ripped off all his clothing, and went running through the campus naked . . . to be followed enthusiastically by everyone else. And upon returning to the house, one of those naked people walked back in and chose to profess his adoration for a girl, and got punched in the face by some drunk art major who was trying to impress her. That naked guy was also the guy who won Monopoly and started the whole naked run, and, yup, that guy who won Monopoly was Oliver, the drunk art major was Wallace, and the damsel in distress was, of all people, Sophie.
“I saved you,” Oliver says with a big stupid smile as he wraps an arm around Sophie’s shoulders in the back of the car. Campus security was kind enough to jump-start us, free of charge, and it turns out that was all Max’s station wagon needed, because she’s a tough old lady. We’re headed back to Boston, cows and sheep speeding by in a blur outside the windows. Then Oliver pulls Sophie’s head to his chest. “Shh, my child,” he says. “Everything is all right. I’m here now.”
“My hero,” Sophie mutters, rolling her eyes. But since we’ve been friends as long as we have, I know something Sophie doesn’t know yet. I know that she likes it, and she likes Oliver, too.
They try to ask us about Margaret and about what happened. I think they can tell something is off. We answer their questions to the best of our ability, but I mostly tune out. The whole world just seems so flat. So gray. The coffee we drink is less delicious, the leaves less electric, even though I know nothing should have changed. I sleep a lot, letting my eyes flutter closed, my consciousness drifting in and out, but I don’t dream, and have trouble figuring out if I’ve slept at all. The only thing that helps me tell I did is waking up to see how many more miles we’ve traveled, and all the while Max is just sitting there silently staring at the road, turning the Motown up full blast.
I can’t put my finger on it, but as we pull into town, despite there not being a cloud in the sky, it feels like there’s no sun either. Over the past couple weeks the air has smelled like flowers, like every tree was sprinkling me with fragrance as I walked beneath it, but it doesn’t smell that way anymore. Even the bricks of the houses seem less red. At a stoplight I stare hopelessly at an outdoor café, waiting for something strange to happen—for the waiter to start singing or the little dog in the sweater to start reading a book, or for someone to begin an incredible food fight. But nobody does. It’s not that such a thing definitely would’ve happened before; it’s just that now there is no possibility it ever will again. I feel as if I’ve lost one of my senses altogether.
We drop Sophie and Oliver off at the Taj, because Sophie has a few hours to kill before her train and Oliver wants to give her a tour of the city. I know this is something I should be doing with her. She’s my best friend. But I can’t muster the energy, and she seems to understand.
“I’m still not sure I get what happened,” she says, standing on the sidewalk as I pull her scarf out of the backseat of the car and wrap it carefully around her neck. “But I know it’s going to be okay. Whatever you are going through right now, I’m happy you have friends here. And you have Max. He’d never let anything bad happen to you.”
“I know,” I say, nodding. I want to give her a smile of reassurance. Sometimes you do that for the people you love. But I can’t seem to find any smiles inside my mouth at the moment. “Hey, Soph?” I ask.
“Yes, Al?” she says, zipping my coat up a bit tighter.