Makai turns left onto Amsterdam, and I jog to catch up. I reach the intersection and follow his course. He went left, right? I squint. Nothing. I turn around and go the other way. He’s not there. He couldn’t have made it to the end of another block already. Not possible.
My shoulders slump. I guess I won’t be getting any answers tonight. My phone vibrates against my middle. I pull it free and open a text from Quinn.
hi! sorry i couldn’t b there 2day. just got back. hang 2nite?
I tap out a quick reply.
too tired. rain check?
Quinn’s response flashes back almost instantly.
k.
I end the conversation with a smiling emoji and pocket my phone. When I look up, a chill wraps my body and I shudder. A sense of panic sends a jolt of electricity through my veins. I take a step and then I stop. Then I walk in the opposite direction of my house.
I’m only wearing my “Beauty School Dropout” pajama tank beneath an aqua New York City hoodie. My thin jeans aren’t exactly helping ward off the cold either. Cars pass by, their headlights blinding me as darkness burrows in for the night. But the temporary sight paralysis isn’t my worst problem.
The bigger issue is the hooded guy four sidewalk squares behind me—the one who stands in the middle of the sidewalk, impeding my path home. The one who’s been following me for nearly a block.
THREE
Be Happy
Don’t panic. Panicking will only make things worse.
Think. I need people. Starbucks, just another block away.
I focus on my destination and walk at an even pace. I scan the sidewalk—nothing but a plastic grocery sack, a discarded Kit Kat wrapper, and a little doggy surprise someone left by a tree. Stupid tourists. No native would ever be so inconsiderate.
Not a single warm body in sight. Nobody is dumb enough to go for a late-night stroll alone in this city—except me. They say the Upper West Side is family friendly, but creepers are everywhere.
And I’ve attracted one.
Should I run? No. Don’t alert the guy and speed up the mugging. Just drop the wallet and let him have it. I reach into my pocket. Snap! I was so fixated on following Makai, grabbing it didn’t cross my mind.
What if my stalker’s not after money? What if his intention is something else? I’ve never even kissed a guy. The thought of some stranger taking what he wants raises bile into my throat.
“Do not let fear control you. You’re my brave girl.”
Thanks for the vote of confidence, Mom, but it doesn’t do a thing for me right now.
I chance it and glimpse over my shoulder.
Hoodie keeps his head bowed, his features invisible, his hands buried in his sweatshirt pockets. He doesn’t look at me. Doesn’t he notice our too-close proximity?
“Don’t be afraid. I’m here.”
You’re not here though, Mom. Not even close.
I tuck the sketchbook under my arm, slide my phone from my pocket, and tap out 911 on the dial screen. My thumb hovers over the green Call button. My chest thuds. I might as well have a troupe of stomp dancers living inside it. I practically hear booming drums as the steps grow more complicated.
Hoodie walks right past me.
A much-needed sigh hushes my heart. I wait a full minute, then click off my phone and tuck it away.
Hoodie enters an apartment building.
Why was I so paranoid? One look at my face and the guy probably would’ve bolted. I should’ve just turned and said “boo.”
A car alarm shrieks blocks away. Cabs pass at regular intervals, and the occasional beep of a locking vehicle diminishes my feelings of isolation. My breaths form clouds in the night air.
I pull my sweatshirt hood over my ears, wishing I’d brought earbuds for my phone. Music would be nice right now. Something to take my mind off Mom. And Joshua. Does he really think I’m just a “job”? Do our three years of friendship mean nothing?
Stop feeling. Stop caring. Stop loving. At least then it wouldn’t hurt so much when someone leaves—or wants to leave.
When Broadway’s lights come into view, approaching footsteps interrupt my thoughts. My peripheral vision reveals nothing, so I look back.
Return of Hoodie—Episode Two.
What am I doing? Why didn’t I go home after he passed me? I was too focused on my own heartache to use common sense. Stupid.
I’m not athletic, so running won’t save me. I nearly collapsed during the tap-dance number in Anything Goes at school last year. My talents are much better served singing from behind a curtain while some pretty face lip-synchs the words. Our drama teacher stole the brilliant idea from Singin’ in the Rain.
A hand grabs my arm.
I whirl. The sketchbook goes flying. My hands grasp Hoodie’s shoulders and my knee meets groin in a move I didn’t know I was capable of.
Hoodie lets out a guttural noise and a string of curses.
Adrenaline takes over. I turn and book it. My sneakers slap pavement, and a rush of cold floods my ears. Scaffolding drapes historical buildings in the midst of facelifts. I weave in and out of lanky metal poles, orange cones, and painter’s plastic. By the last few feet my throat burns and my breaths come in gasps. When I’m finally basking in Starbucks’ glow on the corner of Broadway, I allow myself to pause and glance down the street. I’ve lost Hoodie—for now.
I open the glass door, and Michael Bublé’s charming romanticism welcomes me. Go on. Rub it in, why don’t you? “Everything” plays low over the coffee shop’s speakers, perfect ambience for lovebirds and local authors pulling swing shifts. Torture for me. The barista glances up, then looks away. Nothing I’m not used to. I prefer it, actually. Better to be ignored than taunted or teased.
The whir of bean grinders and the whoosh of steam wands create a much more soothing melody. Caffeine is the last thing I need. My blood brews through my veins like it’s bursting from an espresso machine gone haywire. I can’t resist the intoxicating scent of fresh Colombian though. Now I really do wish I had my wallet.
A hand touches my shoulder. I jump three feet.
“What the bleep, El?”
I pivot on my heel.
Quinn Kelley stares back at me. Her ice-blue eyes bulge out of their black-lined frames. “What’s the matter with you?”
I shake my head. “I thought you were someone else. This guy . . . he tried to attack me on my walk here.”
Quinn’s raised eyebrows turn down. “What do you mean ‘on your walk here’? I thought you were too tired to go out.”
Of course that’s the part she focuses on. How do I explain? I’ve only known her a few months. We may have been fast friends, but I can’t tell her I was following some strange man who might be my father. I’d sound crazy. “I . . . changed my mind. I decided to take a stroll to clear my head.”
“You should’ve texted.” Her tone patronizing, she passes me. “I would’ve come to get you. Creepers are everywhere, you know.”
I know. “I didn’t think of it, I guess.” I make a face behind her back. I’d like to see her execute such an escape.
Quinn isn’t listening. She’s already at the counter, prattling off her convoluted modifiers to the barista. Sometimes I think she drinks her coffee that way so she sounds cool when she orders it.
Man, she pulls off the Goth look. Real Goth. Turn-of-the-century, vintage Goth, not The Rocky Horror Picture Show kind. She’s really not who I’d expect to see dressed this way. Lacy black stockings cover her never-ending legs and disappear into matching lace peep-toe heels. Black lace overlays her maroon party dress. Of course she adds her own touch to the look. Cherry-red lipstick instead of black, a silk rose pinned at her hip to match.