At Your Service (14 page)

I open and close my mouth a few times, but I can't find the words I want to say. Like how I was just doing MY JOB. Or trying to anyway. I stare wide-eyed at her for another second, and then I get up and march to the opposite end of the subway car.

When I'm plopped in my new seat, I unclip my barrette and let my hair fall over my face. Pay makes a move to come after me, but then Alex grabs her arm and stops her. Instead he stands and works his way toward me as Paisley drops down next to Sophie. He has to use the handrails above him for balance while the train car sways back and forth, since he doesn't have “subway legs” like I do.

“Pardon me, miss. Is this seat taken?” Alex asks when he reaches me. So cheesy. But it works. I allow a tiny smile and gesture for him to sit down. He does, then leans back in his seat and sticks his long legs out into the aisle. They stretch toward the bench of seats across from us.

“Sorry about Sophie,” Alex says, not looking at me.

The words hang in the air for a minute, because I don't want to just let her off the hook so easily. Then again, it's not Alex I'm mad at, at least not at this exact moment. Not really. He might be really arrogant, and I haven't always understood his behavior today. But he hasn't been actively rude about my city, like his sister. And the way he's been comforting Sophie and standing back to let us pass through doors first and helping brainstorm our plans (even if he never agrees with me) and stuff has actually been sort of . . . princely. But in a good prince way, not a jerky “ooh, get a load of me, I'm a prince” way. So maybe he's more cocky than arrogant after all. Trust me, there's a difference.

But still. For a second I wish I could go back to the days when my biggest worry was making Marie LaFou crack a smile. I'd thought
that
was achieving the impossible, when really it was a walk in Central Park compared to these guys. I let myself indulge in a little fantasy where Sophie's face is lined up directly across from the Rockettes when they start their kickline.

When I don't answer, Alex puts his hand on my knee. Well, THAT sure snaps me back to reality. His palm feels warm even through the fabric of my pants, and now the kickline moves into my belly.

“Really she just didn't want to answer that question about Somerstein. Then she'd be forced to tell you what our number one claim to fame is.” Alex's voice is low and close and it makes me shiver, which is weird since it's also as warm as his hand.

I shouldn't give in so easily, but I'm curious. “Which is?”

“We're the world's largest producer of false teeth.”

I can't help it. I burst out laughing. “WHAT?!”

“Indeed. I'm serious. You can Google it. We're also the largest producers of sausage casings.”
^I

“Okay, I thought I knew a lot of weird New York facts, but I got nothin' to top that one.”

“What have you got?”

I think for a second.

“Um, well, we don't have a Main Street in Manhattan, but Broadway, which starts downtown and goes all the way to Albany, is one of the longest streets in the world.”

“Not bad. Not better than false teeth, but not terrible. Incidentally, that means Broadway is way longer than my entire country.”

“Is your country longer than a hundred and fifty miles? 'Cuz that's how long Broadway is.”

“Measured north to south we're twenty-four kilometers long.”

“Um, in miles please?”

“Do they not teach you anything in your schools here? Twenty-four kilometers is about fifteen miles, give or take.”

“Oh yeah. Then Broadway's definitely longer.”

“False teeth,” he reminds me. He does have a point. You can't out-weird that one.

“Oh, okay, how about this one?” I say. “We have Manhattanhenge twice a year.”

“What on earth is Manhattanhenge? Is that like Mardi Gras?”

I laugh. “No, it's like Stonehenge in England, where the rocks are in a circle and it's supposed to mean something astrological or astronomical or whatever. Two days a year the sunset lines up with the grid pattern of our streets. When the sun sets, it shines exactly in the center line of every east-west street in the city.”

“All right, that's quite impressive.”

“Cooler than false teeth?” I tease.

“Could be close.” Alex shifts in his seat and faces me just a little. “Seriously though, Sophie doesn't usually explode like that. She's very much in control of her emotions under ordinary circumstances. She's just not herself today. Understandably.”

I sigh. I know he's right (I've seen her manners on display), and I should cut her some slack. Her sister is running around all alone in a city that I might love, but that probably seems enormous and scary to someone who comes from somewhere so small.

I keep my voice quiet as I say, “It's not like me to talk to a guest like that either, so I get it. I think we're all pretty stressed. I can't stop thinking about my dad and wondering if we made the right decision not to let the adults handle things.”

Alex draws his legs in and hugs them to his chest. “Me too.”

I sneak a glance at him. “What's your dad like? Is he going to freak?”

Alex slides down a little in his seat. “Fantastically. At home he's really brilliant about Ingrid taking off. I think he finds it impressive the way she's so eager to get outside and explore. He says he was the same way when he was small and seeing the world has helped him immensely as a king. To be honest, I've always been a bit jealous of the way he is with her. I just wonder sometimes . . .”

I wait for him to finish, but he doesn't. I prod him with a gentle, “Wonder what?”

“If he thinks she'd make a better successor than me. I'm quite an ordinary lad with ordinary-lad interests. I don't
think he considers a passion for football—er, soccer—and video games to be a great mark of a leader or anything. He says I need more structure and responsibility to learn to take my future role seriously. Hence, all his talk about military school. I only want him to see that I do take it seriously and that I can lead when I need to. It's more that I don't get an awful lot of chances to show him.”

I swivel in my seat to face Alex. I should be freaking out at how close our legs are and how my shoulder bumps against his every time the subway car lurches, but everything he's saying is exactly how I feel and I just need to tell him.

“It's like that with me, too. I mean, it's not like I'm in line for a crown, but more than anything I want to follow in my dad's footsteps and be a concierge and help people. I guess making sure someone has an unforgettable trip isn't exactly as important as being a world leader or whatever, but I love how people light up when they get to do something extra special and that makes me feel really good. I like making people happy. Plus, I really want my dad to see that I can be just as good at it as he is. I
thought
I was doing that, but after today . . .”

Alex nods glumly. “After today, we could both be in the rubbish bin. And I could be shipping off to learn precision drills and boot-camp marches and, well, whatever else
happens at military school. Even if Ingrid is safe and sound at the hotel eating bonbons in the bathtub right now.”

Wow, I hadn't even considered that she might have just gone back to the hotel. But I don't have time to ponder that one because just then a couple things happen at the same time:

A. The announcement comes on that our stop is next.

B. Alex reaches over and holds my hand.

C. Is there even any thought of a C after I just said what I said for B?!

He looks at my shocked expression and smiles.

“You're quite different than I imagined, Chloe. We have a lot more in common than I expected.”

We . . . we . . . we do? I am? Wait, what's my name again? My brain is a jumble of thoughts that make no sense, like when the orchestra warms up before a Broadway show and it's all just a bunch of noises that tumble on top of one another.

Alex straightens in his seat. “Is this our stop? You said Herald Square?”

It hasn't even been a full minute of hand holding. Crud! Alex unlaces his fingers from mine and struggles to his feet
as the car jolts underneath him. I struggle too, even though I've long since perfected the art of standing on a moving subway train. More like my legs are wobblier than an overcooked piece of Little Italy fettuccini due to the fact that he just held my hand. On PURPOSE.

The train jerks to a stop and the doors slide open. I am in my own little floaty bubble high above the earth as I let go of the handrail and step off the train. So much in my own bubble universe that, for the first time in an entire lifetime of riding the subway, I forget to do the one thing the announcements are always telling people to do: “Watch your step as you exit the train.” I turn at the last second to make sure Pay and Sophie are getting off through the other set of doors farther down the car, and as I swish back, the doors slide closed.

On me. Or, more specifically, on my purse, which is slung diagonally across my back. The doors open back up, but it's too late. I've lost my balance and that's all it takes.

I go down hard.

I
. Wonder if this explains Sophie's distaste for her hot dog. It's all becoming clearer now.

S
omeone screams. No, wait, I think that's me.

I scream.

I'm sprawled on my knees on the bumpy yellow warning strip of the platform, which kills to kneel on. My ankle is throbbing beyond belief and I go dizzy from the pain.

Ahead of me, Alex stops and pivots in place. He spots me immediately and his eyes go wide.

He takes three steps to reach me, and they look like the giant steps we used to attempt when we played Mother, May I? in the recess yard at school. Probably because everything is moving so super slow.

He bends down and his arms go under my armpits, but I yelp in pain when my ankle bumps against the cement
subway platform. Sophie and Paisley rush over.

“Chlo, omigosh, are you okay?” Pay asks.

I sort of half answer/half whimper a tiny yes, but my ankle is growing ten sizes bigger with every passing second. Around us, people are sympathetic, but not so much that they aren't still trying to get past me to board the next train.

Alex has a little frown line between his eyes as he looks around, then down at me. “Okay, Chloe. I'm going to carry you over to the bench over there, but I don't want to jostle your ankle too much. Do you trust me?”

I think of his hand warm in mine a few minutes ago and give him a nod.

“Put your arms around my neck.”

He leans down next to me and I follow his instructions. He puts one of his arms around my back and the other underneath my legs and stands, cradling me against him.

Okay, my ankle might be screeching worse than the brakes of the PATH train pulling onto the tracks above us, but holy wow! Swept off my feet and carried away—literally—by the handsome prince. Granted, in the fairy tales the damsel in distress does not have a purplish-black bruise forming on her ankle that looks scarier than that Naked Cowboy guy who wanders Times Square in nothing but his underwear,
boots, and a ten-gallon hat. But still. Gotta grab the fairy tale where you can get it.

“Okay?” Alex asks, and I manage a squeaky yes. There's a knot in my throat equally as big as the one on my ankle.

I nod again and bury my face in his shoulder. He walks carefully to the far side of the station where there are benches, and I try to distract myself from the pulsing pain by trying to figure out what brand of laundry detergent his maids use to make his sweater smell so amazing.

Alex settles me gently on a bench. A twenty-something guy wearing a rumpled black T-shirt and grungy jeans jumps up so there's room to prop my leg.

“Whoa. Dudes, that was like a rad scene right there,” says the guy. He peers around the guitar slung over his shoulder. “Are you okay?”

Before I can answer, an NYPD officer is standing in front of us. “Are you all right, miss? I saw what happened and I'll have an ambulance here in just a few minutes.”

“No!” I scream. An ambulance means hospitals and paperwork and . . . Dad. All three things that will make finding Ingrid a statistical improbability. No can do. Not today.

“I think it's just twisted,” I say, reaching forward and
rubbing at my throbbing ankle. It pounds like it has its own heartbeat. Thud, thud, thud.

Pay and Alex lean over me. Sophie is just behind Paisley, biting her lip feverishly. I bet she regrets her last words to me now. Serves her right.

“Chloe, don't be an idiot. If you need the hospital, we'll get you there,” Pay says. Then she drops her voice to a whisper so the officer won't hear her. “Alex and Sophie can keep looking for Ingrid, and I'll stay with you.” Her eyes are filled with concern.

I glance at the policeman, but he's preoccupied with his radio. “It would take them twice as long. They don't know their way around the city. I'm okay. Mostly.”

“How is it not going to take twice as long with you in no condition to walk?” Pay has a pretty good argument there.

“We need to stay together.” I feel like a crusty old army sergeant in the middle of a bloody battle:
I'm not leaving my men!
But really, I'm not. We may be having the day from Hell-o Kitty, but I'm not ready to stop looking now. Even if my ankle is starting to swell so bad, it might need its own zip code soon.

The officer finishes talking into his radio and bends down to talk to me face-to-face. “What's your name, sweetheart?”

I can't seem to make his words compute, so Paisley answers for me. “It's Chloe.”

He smiles. “Okay, Chloe. I imagine that's a bit of a scare you just had, so you're probably going to feel a little strange for a bit. I'm Officer O'Brien and I can help. Do you want to give me the name and number of a parent or guardian? And then we'll get you some medical attention and fill out a bit of paperwork.”