Summer in the Invisible City (21 page)

From: Sam M.

To: Sadie Bell

Subject: Re:

I'm okay. Better now that I've heard from you. How are you?

The postcard isn't all lies btw. The city
is
beautiful.

From: Sadie Bell

To: Sam M.

Subject: Re:

Dear Sam,

Here's a scan of the picture I took of you on the bridge to Randalls Island. That was such an amazing day. I felt like the world went upside down for a moment, in the right way, if that makes sense.

 

My father is coming over for dinner this weekend. It's going to be so weird to see him after everything. My mom is going to be there, too, which is going to make it doubly weird. Or maybe
it will be good. Either way, I'm trying not to care so much what he thinks.

I keep thinking about the time we spent together. I know we only knew each other for a short period of time but it felt longer. Am I wrong?

From: Sam M.

To: Sadie Bell

Subject: Re:

Dear Sadie,

Not wrong. It was crazy. Don't judge this like a * real * photo because I'm sure it's not good in that way. But this is me and my mom's old boyfriend. The one with the tattoos who I thought hated me. Guess what he doesn't. When I got back I just swallowed my pride and called him. He was really nice. He's helping me enroll in a NHCC class this fall that's open to high school students. Philosophy 101.

From: Sadie Bell

To: Sam M.

Subject: Re:

Dear Sam,

Your mom'
s old bf is cute. He has great tattoos. If he was my professor, I'd probably think he was the coolest. I actually like this photo even though it's just a webcam picture. You guys look happy!

From: Sam M.

To: Sadie Bell

Subject: Re:

Dear Sadie,

Send me a picture of you.

From: Sadie Bell

To: Sam M.

Subject: Re:

Dear Sam,

How's this?

From: Sam M.

To: Sadie Bell

Subject: Re:

Dear Sadie,

You were a cute ten-year-old. But I think you might be a better photographer than whoever was taking pictures for your elementary school yearbook. Send me one that you took.

From: Sadie Bell

To: Sam M.

Subject: Re:

Dear Sam,

Here's a self-portrait I took for my final project. I didn't hand it in when it was due because I was too busy being a subversive conceptual artist.

From: Sam M.

To: Sadie Bell

Subject: Re:

Dear Sadie,

I'm glad you didn't hand that picture in.

From: Sadie Bell

To: Sam M.

Subject: Re:

Dear Sam,

Why?

From: Sam M.

To: Sadie Bell

Subject: Re:

Dear Sadie,

I don'
t want anyone to see it besides me.

The next day, I go for a walk with a new roll of film in my camera and start taking pictures. It feels liberating to have no assignments and to know these pictures are just for myself.

I point the camera up to the sky and take a picture of a helicopter that's looping the city.

Just then, my phone rings. It's a blocked number.

“
Hello?
”

“
Sadie? It
's Izzy.”

I freeze.

“Don't hang up,” she blurts. “I called you from my landline because I was afraid you wouldn't answer if you saw it was me.”

“Okay,” I reply tightly.

“I'm sorry,” she says.

—

I tell Izzy I'll meet her at Tompkins Square Park and start walking there. I don't know what to expect or even what I want. I still don't know why Izzy told Benji about all that
mean stuff she said to me. I still don't know why she said it in the first place. But between Sam leaving, and struggling to finish my final, and cobbling my love of photography back together after Allan trashed it, I haven't thought about Izzy very much.

I did notice, though, that she isn't taking Advanced Photo next year. Benji e-mailed the new class earlier today and I checked all the names. She wasn't on it. I can't help feeling a little relieved.

When I get to the park, it's packed. There are couples holding hands and clusters of people slung across the benches with straw hats. A group of old men linger around the fence, smoking cigars, yelling at one another in a foreign language. I photograph everyone I can. A girl in stiletto heels with too much makeup on, clutching her purse to her chest walks past me, and I photograph her from behind.

I spot Izzy sitting on a bench and she waves.

I sit down next to her.

“Hi. Thanks for meeting me,” she says.

“Umm . . . you'
re welcome
,” I say.

Across from us, a gaggle of Goth kids are spread out on the grass. They're the real kind of Goth, the ones who sleep in subway stations and carry backpacks full of all their belongings. One of them is a pale-haired girl with an angelic face. Her black tank top is held together with a zillion safety pins. I snap her photo, wondering as I do it, if I'll be able to capture exactly what it is I'm seeing.

“I'm sorry,” Izzy says.

I put down my camera and stare at her.

“When you didn't come to the final critique, I felt like it was my fault,” she says. “I shouldn't have said that Benji only likes you because of who your dad is. It's not true. I told Benji what I said to you. I was so freaked out that you'd fail the class and that I ruined your life.”

Her hair is in a ponytail and she runs her hands over it nervously. I've never seen her so worried.

“I know,” I say. “He told me.”

“He did?” she asks. “What did he say?”

“Nothing really,” I say. “Why? What happened?”

“He just lectured me,” she says, rolling her eyes. “
But I don
't care. I already knew I wasn't gonna get into advanced photo so whatever. I had nothing to lose.”

I look at Izzy, and really contemplate her. Her blue eye shadow and her baggy sweater and her deliberately messed up hair. She puts so much energy into covering herself up, and it makes me wonder what she's afraid of underneath.

“I'm taking advanced photo next year,” I say. “Benji let me hand in the final late.”

“Omigod, phew,” she says, placing a hand on her chest. “I really have been freaking out.”

Izzy's remorse seems real, but I still feel guarded and uneasy.

“Why'd you say all that stuff to me anyway?” I ask.

She stares at her hands, looking super ashamed. She seems younger and more scared than usual. All of a sudden, I can picture little Izzy and it makes me feel a surprising wave of tenderness toward her.

Then she looks up. “
I don
't know. I guess I'm just pissed.
Because before this class, I was so sure I wanted to go to art school. And now I don't know where I want to go to college. I don't know what I want to be or what I want to study or, what part of the world I want to live in, even. I'm so confused. Benji's class really messed with my head. I struggled so hard.”

“That sucks,” I say. And I mean it. I've been so obsessed with my own worries that I never considered what Izzy was going through.

“You probably can't understand what that's like,” Izzy says, forcing a laugh. “You're so good at photo. And you'
re just
 . . . you're special. Without even trying to be.”

“What? No,” I say, smiling. “Now you're going too far.”

She laughs. “I'm serious. I try to be special, but I'
m not. I don
't know who I am right now. And Phaedra doesn't get it because her whole life is laid out for her. She can fuck up or not, it doesn't matter. The world basically revolves around her and she knows it.”

“No it doesn't,” I say.

“No what doesn't?” Izzy asks.

“The world doesn't revolve around anyone,” I say. “And Phaedra knows that, too.”

Izzy raises her eyebrows. “
I don
't know . . .”

“
And besides,
” I say. “
I don
't
not-try
to be special. I try really, really hard.”

Izzy looks at me and smiles. It's a real smile, the kind that smooths over the bumps between us. I smile back. And I realize: Izzy's not perfect. But neither am I.

Izzy's phone interrupts us with a text message.

“Hang on, it's Phaedra, I have to write back,” Izzy says. When she's done typing she says, “Phaedra's freaking out because we were supposed to hang out later but I totally forgot my cousin is in town and I have to do a family thing tonight. She keeps bringing it up and trying to get me to change my plans but I literally can't. And it's so annoying because when she flakes on me, I'm not allowed to say anything to her about it.”

I think about the way Phaedra twisted me around in our conversation about her party until I was apologizing for something that wasn't even my fault. I wonder how often she does that to Izzy. “Why do you put up with that?”

“What do you mean?” Izzy asks, looking at me like I'm crazy. “She's my best friend. I love her.”

It's funny, because even though Izzy sounds insane, I know exactly how she feels. We can't choose who we love. Sometimes, we love people who are wrong for us.

I glance at the screen and see that it's almost five.

“I have to go,” I say, standing up.

“Where are you going?” Izzy asks.

“Home,” I say. “My father is coming over for dinner. He goes back to LA next week but he called last night and he wanted to see me and my mom once more before he takes off.”

“That's great,” she says.

“Maybe,” I say. I'm sick of protecting Allan. “He's kind of a weirdo. I don't know if it'll be nice or just awkward.”

She laughs a little. “We're going to our country house
tomorrow for the last few weeks until school starts. So . . . I guess I'll see you at school?”

“Yeah,” I say. “See you there.”

“Thanks for talking,” she says. “I am really sorry.”

“It's okay,” I say. “I'm okay.” And I think,
you know what
?
I really am.

—

My mom and I get Indian takeout the night that Allan is coming over for dinner. We line the windowsills with tea candles, and my mom puts her African-Celtic record on the record player in the living room.

“You know what I've been thinking?” my mom asks. She's up on a ladder, pulling down a bottle of the wine she keeps up high.

“What?” I ask.

She hands me the bottle.

“It would be really nice if you started coming to the Yoga Center this year,” she says. “Just take one class a week. It doesn't have to be mine. You can go to Satya's or Eugene. Eugene is really gentle, you'll love him. But try it. For me.”

It's funny, I've spent so much time trying to do what Allan does, and it never occurred to me that my mom wants me to see what she does. How blind can I be?

“I'll totally do that,” I say.

My mom climbs down off the ladder and smiles. “Really?”

“Of course. Done,” I say.

We set the table and for a second, it's like we are back in our old apartment. The smell of Indian food and hearing
that record, watching my mom light candles, reminds me of our old life. Maybe the thing that makes where you live home isn't the place, but the person in it. My mom is the only home I've ever known.

When the table is set my mom repins her hair using the small aluminum curve of the tea kettle as a mirror.

Outside, the sky is darkening even though it's only seven thirty. The days are growing shorter. Fall, the best season in New York, is around the corner. And once school starts, the dominos of all the seasons will begin to tumble down and the next thing I know it will be summer again. In almost exactly a year, I'll be leaving for college.

The buzzer rings and my mom and I look at each other.

“There he is,” she says.

“The man of the hour,” I deadpan. And for some reason, that makes us both laugh.

—

Allan is wearing his green Windbreaker and trendy sneakers. He got a haircut, too; his almost entirely white hair is tighter to his skull than usual.

Allan stares at my mom intensely when she opens the door, taking all of her in. Then, they hug lightly and my mom smiles at him for a split second before she backs away and offers him a glass of the wine he brought.

“This is a great little place,” Allan says to her.

While my mom goes to the kitchen to open the bottle, Allan looks at me.

He looks like he's about to speak, he runs his hand over his face, and when he looks at me I see some shame or pity
or something in his eyes. “
Sadie, I
 . . . the other day didn't go like I hoped.”

“Oh?” I say.

“Yeah, you know, I was really hoping we'd have a good time, and it didn't go well,” he says.

“You didn't think it went well?” I repeat, dumbstruck. I stare at Allan. He has no idea what I've been through this past week. He doesn't know that I almost failed my photography class or that him not coming to the gala caused a fight between Phaedra and me. He has no idea that because of our fight, I went out and got blackout drunk, and my mom had to hold my hair back while I puked.

“I could have been more supportive of the art school thing,” he says. “I'm just a bitter old man. Don't listen to me.”

He says it in a light tone of voice, but his words land hard.

And then, I say the only thing I can think of that wouldn't feel like a total lie. I say, “You're a really important artist.”

I don
't even really know why I thought to say it right now. But all the other things I want to say to him, all the things I've come to believe about what kind of person he is and what kind of father he is, I'm not sure if he would understand. This, I knew he could understand.

But something weird happens. Allan's expression changes and he looks suddenly sad. Sad enough to cry.

“Nice wine!” my mom says cheerfully, handing a glass to Allan.

“Thank you.” Allan takes the glass, looking disoriented.

“Sadie told me your show was a big success,” my mom says.

“Who knows,” Allan says.

—

During dinner, my mom and I barely talk. We just let Allan tell us about his new exhibit until he's run out of things to say. Canyons of silence, long and shapeless, open up during the meal but I don't mind. Before, I kept pumping Allan with questions, desperate to prove that I was interested in him, that I cared.

After dinner, my mom sits down on the couch and I sit down next to her and curl up under her arm, resting my head on her shoulder the way I would if we were alone. Allan sits awkwardly on one of the wooden dining room chairs, his feet and hands ticking nervously.

“Why don't you show Allan some of your photographs from the summer?” my mom asks. She turns to Allan, “They are so beautiful. I'm so proud.”

Allan swallows and nods. “Right. Please. I'd love to see.”

I go to my room and come back with my portfolio. I take three pictures out and line them up on the bookshelf so that they are propped up and we can all look at them together.

Allan walks up to them, looks closely.

From behind, I see that the skin on the back of his neck is wrinkled and that the cowlick on the top of his head is actually thinning, turning into a kind of bald spot. For a moment, I see him differently—an old man, trying to stay relevant, losing his hair, his skin growing saggy. You can be famous or larger than life or the most successful person in
the world, but you're still just a human in a body. It makes me sad and also at the same time, less afraid.

“These are wonderful,” Allan finally says. “Congratulations.”

“Thank you,” I say.

“I'll write down the name of a few artists whose work you should really look at,” he says. “Your photos remind me of this German woman's work who shows at the same gallery as me in Switzerland. You'll like it.”

After he's gone, my mom and I clean up with the music on.

“That wasn't bad,” I say, drying a dish.

“You were so impressive,” my mom says. “I know I can't take credit for who you are, but I wish I could. You blew his mind.”

“You think?” I ask.

“I think he is intimidated by you,” she says.

“No way,” I say.

“Yes,” she says. “I can tell.”

And then I say, “You can take credit for me if you want.”

And she laughs.