her potato nose glowing red. “Good riddance to bad rubbish!”
It was easy enough to keep going, right out the door and down the stairs. It was when I hit the sidewalk that I lost my nerve. I looked down at my cheap suitcase with its broken latch. Everything I owned was in it, and it wasn’t much. The chill wind twined around my ankles, and my legs already felt cold in my nylon stockings.
I only had one place to go. But maybe that made it harder to take the first step toward it.
I woke up alone the next day in fresh, flowered sheets. I sat down at the kitchen table with the yellow legs. The sun pooled on the tabletop, just the way I’d known it would. In one of those dramatic changes of weather that seemed to happen all the time in Manhattan, the October day felt like spring. The wind had blown the gray clouds out to sea, and when I threw open a window I was sure I could smell the river. It reminded me of home, but that was all right today. I was the product of rivers —you couldn’t walk a half mile in Providence without bumping into one.
Steam rising from my teacup. Buttered toast on a plate. The sweetness of being alone. The radio on, softly. Everything would be perfect if I could just stop thinking. Nate had given me Billy’s address when he’d given me the key. I’d tried three letters, one after the other, and they were sitting in front of me.
Dear Billy,
I guess you’ll be surprised to get this. I never thought
I’d be
Dear Billy,
How is everyth
Dear Billy,
You’ll never guess where I am!
I put down the pen. I’d never lied to Billy — even when I’d told him I never wanted to see him again, I had genuinely never wanted to see him again.
And now … I’d made a promise to his father. But I hadn’t promised when I’d write to him, had I? I didn’t have to write the day I moved in. I could wait a few days to find the right words. I’d find a way to fill the letter with so much truth that one little lie wouldn’t matter.
A pair of sneakers appeared on the fire escape stairs outside the window. The ladder came shuddering down with a clang. I flinched, spilling the tea across the letters I’d tried to write.
A boy, tall and lanky, jumped down the last two steps. A thick book was tucked underneath his arm and he held an apple in his teeth. His gaze slid past the kitchen and then stopped. His mouth dropped open, the apple fell out, and I burst out laughing.
I walked over, tying my robe tighter, and leaned out. I looked down at the ground, where the apple had fallen into the dirt of the scraggly yard.
“I think I owe you lunch,” I told the boy.
“I didn’t know the apartment was rented — it’s been empty for years.” He stammered out the words, blushing up to the tips of his ears.
I recognized the blush. I saw it on teenage boys all the time.
“I’m Hank,” he said.
“I’m Kit. I just moved in yesterday,” I told him.
The book was a textbook, American Prose. I’d left textbooks behind when I’d left home, and even though I’d hated every day of school, the book made me feel hollow, like I was missing out.
“I study outside sometimes,” Hank said. “For the privacy.” His hair was light brown and matched his eyes perfectly.
“Lots of brothers and sisters?” I asked. “No. Just parents.” He shrugged. “That’s enough, sometimes.”
“So who’s the piano player?” I’d heard the music that morning, through the ceiling over my head.
He blushed again. “Me, I guess. Is it too loud? I can —”
“No, it’s nice.”
There was a pause. I began to feel stupid, standing there in my nightgown and robe. “I go to Stuy. You?”
It sounded like another language at first — igotastyu?
“Stuyvesant High?” he said. “I’m a senior.”
I was used to people thinking I was older than I was. But my face was scrubbed clean, and I must’ve looked my age. A girl in high school. I was suddenly annoyed at him, at his earnestness, his sneakers, his book.
“I just moved,” I said. “From Rhode Island. I’m not in high school; I work. And I’ve got things to do, so …”
“Sure.” Embarrassed, he started back up the ladder, then paused. “With the move and all … do you and your parents …