New York, New York! (7 page)

This could still be a ruse. I hesitated.
Richie spoke again. "I am supposed to be off my feet," he reminded me. "I'm supposed to keep my foot propped up." "You're Richie Magnesi?" I replied.
"Yes." He sounded impatient. He reached . . . for a gun? . . . Oh. No, just into his pocket. He held a card up to the peephole. "That's my student I.D.," he shouted. "See? I am the one and only Richie Magnesi." I laughed. Finally, I unlocked the door. I opened it slowly.
Richie hobbled inside and headed for the couch. He sank onto it, then gently lifted his leg onto a footrest. "Ahhh," he said. "Thanks, Dawn." "You're welcome." I was hovering around, not sure what to do. "Would you like a soda?" I asked, when Richie had settled himself.
"Sure. That would be great." By that time, I felt a little silly. I poured a soda for Richie and a glass of juice for me. I carried both drinks into the living room.
"So you're a friend of Stacey's?" Richie asked.
I nodded. (I had finally decided it was safe to sit down.) "My name is Dawn Schafer. I live in Stoneybrook. Stacey and I go to the same school." "Oh. I've never met Stacey. But I visit Mr. McGill sometimes. He knows about my ankle. Anyway, he said his daughter would be visiting for two weeks and that I should introduce myself to her." "How did you break your ankle?" I couldn't help asking.
Richie looked sheepish. "Skating. It wasn't even my fault. I have these new roller blades and I was in Central Park and this guy ran into me with his bicycle. That was all. When I fell, I broke my ankle. I could feel it break. I knew it was broken before I even sat up." "Ew," I said.
"Yeah. I have to wear this cast for eight weeks." "How many more to go?" "Six. I'm not even halfway there. But soon I'm going to get a walking cast. I won't need the crutches anymore." "Well, that's good." By then I'd had time to study Richie. His hair was brown and long-ish. He'd let the back grow into a very chilly little tail. And when he smiled, his cheeks dimpled.
How could I have thought he looked like a creep?
"So how come you're sitting around here without Stacey?" Richie wanted to know. "Are you sick or something?" I was so embarrassed about the real reason I was barricaded in the apartment, that I almost said, "Yes, I am sick." But I didn't want to scare Richie by making him think I was contagious, so instead I replied, "New York makes me a little nervous." "Another antiurbanist?" said Richie.
"Huh?" "Never mind. Listen, don't you know what a fantastic place this city is?" "Two people were murdered last night." "Two out of eight million. That means your chances of being . . . urn . . . hurt are one in four million." "Oh." "Have you been to New York before?" "Yeah. A couple of times." "Did you really see the city? Did you walk through the museums — the smaller ones, like the Frick Collection or the Pierpont Morgan Library? Have you seen Gracie Mansion or taken a walking tour of Greenwich Village? Have you been to the Vietnam Veterans Memorial? Have you walked through Chelsea or the Village, or tasted cannoli or sushi or a cheese blintz?" "I've had a bagel," I said. "Does that count?" "Dawn, Dawn, Dawn." "Richie, Richie, Richie." We laughed. Then Richie went on, "New York is a great place. Except that so many people don't know it. Either they're afraid, so they don't come into the city. Or they're not afraid, and they come into the city, but all they do is go from one Gap to another. And maybe stroll through Central Park. But that is not discovering the city. I've lived here all my life — " "Have you ever been mugged?" I interrupted him.
"No! And I go out exploring every chance I get. That is, when my ankle's in one piece. Did you know there's a whole museum about firefighting? Do you know all the famous peo pie who've lived in New York — from Greenwich Village to Harlem?" Richie was more familiar with the city than anyone I'd ever met, including Mary Anne. He made it sound so exciting that I even considered leaving the apartment. Well, maybe the next day . . .
Claudia.
Chapter 12.
I don't know why I thought I would like Wednesday's art classes any better than I had liked Monday's or Tuesday's. But I kept hoping. I thought that if I worked really, really hard, I would finally do something to please Mr. Clarke. Mallory certainly pleased him — with her sloppy, childlike drawings — but so far, he had not said a single nice thing about my work. I was beginning to wonder if Mr. Clarke was such a great teacher. Maybe he couldn't recognize good work. Or maybe he could — and, after all this time, I was a flop.
We had spent two entire days (four classes) drawing those boxes. I don't ever want to see another pile of cartons. I am not kidding. Even if it means never moving out of my room at home. You can imagine how thankful I felt when, on Wednesday, we took our trip to Rockefeller Center.
Mal and I arrived at Falny slightly early on Wednesday. We didn't want to miss anything. And we wanted to look like dedicated art students in case Mr. Clarke arrived before his class did.
He didn't.
Mal and I sat alone in the room until the other students showed up. Then Mr. Clarke entered. "Are you ready to brave the subway?" he asked with a grin.
"Oh, goody. The subway," I said to Mal. "I just love the subway. Honestly." "I know you do." Mal smiled.
"... attention to perspective, dimension, and line," Mr. Qarke was saying.
I realized I wasn't listening to him, which probably was not a good move.
I resolved to pay attention.
Twenty minutes later, Mr. Clarke and our class were squeezing into a subway car. The car was crowded to begin with. Eighteen extra bodies only made things worse. But I didn't mind. Then I thought of something.
"Imagine if Dawn were h — " I started to say to Mal.
Mal didn't hear me. She was busy talking. To McKenzie Clarke.
Mr. Clarke had squeezed himself between Mallory and another student. Now he and Mal were discussing horses. Mr. Clarke liked to sketch them and Mal liked to read about them. But she had trouble drawing them.
"It's their hind legs," said Mr. Clarke. "The hind legs are difficult." "So are their heads. Hey, has your daughter read Mustang, Wild Spirit of the West?" His daughter? How did Mal know Mr. Clarke had a daughter? Well . . . the two of them had spent a lot of time talking. Mostly about books.
I turned away from them. I gazed at the ads in our car. Most of them were for roach spray or little roach hotels.
At last, we pulled into a station and Mr. Clarke announced, "This is it, people. Everyone off. Follow me!" I made sure I was standing right behind him. But by the time we had shoved our way into the station, about five people were between Mr. Clarke and me. Darn. 1 had even lost Mal, but I didn't want her company just then anyway. So I straggled along behind my class.
However, I felt a little different when we reached Rockefeller Center. It was absolutely gorgeous. Tall office buildings rose to the sky. Mr. Clarke pointed out two beautiful statues. He showed Mal and me the outdoor restaurant, which is an ice-skating rink during the winter. He showed us Radio City Music Hall.
And then he said that the NBC television studios were located in one of the buildings. In those studios are filmed game shows, Sat- Mg/i£ Ln?e, Late Night with David Letter-man, the Today show, and many others.
Oh, I was dying. I was positive I would see a star. Maybe several stars.
". . . anything that might interest you. Okay, Miss Kishi?" Yikes. Mr. Clarke had been talking again and I hadn't been paying attention (again).
"Urn. Yes — " I glanced at Mallory. She nodded. "Yes. That's fine," I finished up.
Mr. Clarke looked away from me. "We'll stay in this area for about half an hour. Then we'll move on." The students began to scatter. I looked around and realized we were standing near the restaurant/skating rink. I leaned over a rail and peered at the people eating below me. But I found myself imagining skaters there instead. The tables and chairs and plates of food disappeared. In their place I could see a sheet of silvery ice. Children bundled up in snow-suits worked their way awkwardly around the rink. Older kids flew by them, their jackets open. Adults skated along leisurely, arm in arm.
"Claud?" asked Mal.
"Yeah?" I turned and found her at my el- bow, sketch pad and pencil in hand.
"What are you going to draw? Do you know yet?" "Urn . . . no." (I knew perfectly well what I was going to draw, but I planned to surprise Mr. Clarke. I didn't want anyone to copy me.) "Well, I'm going to draw the outdoor restaurant. From up here. I think that's called a bird's-eye view. Anyway, it makes the angles and dimensions really different." I watched Mal begin to work. Her angles and dimensions certainly were different. I stepped away from her, and began my own drawing of what was below me. I called it "Winter Fantasy." It was a picture of the way I envisioned the ice-skating rink in wintertime.
"Miss Kishi?" Mr. Clarke was behind me! I turned slowly until I was facing him.
"What is that?" he asked, pointing to my drawing.
"The skating rink," I replied.
Mr. Clarke waved his hand around, indicating Rockefeller Plaza. "I don't see a skating rink here," he replied.
"But you said there's one in the winter. This is how I imagine it." "That's very creative, Miss Kishi. But the C»M> ^ MjvMfl-f assignment is to draw what you see." As soon as Mr. Clarke moved on to the next student, I tore the sheet of paper off the pad, crumpled it up, and hurled it into a nearby trash can. Before I started a new sketch, I glanced at Mal's drawing. More of the same. Her perspective was way off. But had Mr. Clarke said anything to her? No.
I began a new drawing. Ten minutes later, Mr. Clarke checked on me again. I had completed a quick sketch of the restaurant. The whole thing.
Mr. Clarke sighed. "You're working too quickly again," he said.
When he turned away, I stuck my tongue out at him.
All right. He wanted me to work slowly? Then I would work slowly.
I worked so slowly that my eyes began to wander. And they landed on . . . Donna Brink-man, the star of Which Way's Up?, one of my favorite TV shows. I couldn't believe it. Donna Brinkman ... It was Donna Brinkman, wasn't it? Did Donna Brinkman have two small children? Because this person was waiting impatiently for two little boys to catch -— "Okay, class. It's time to move on," Mac spoke up. "It'll be a bit crowded, but I'd like for you to move to Fifth Avenue, where you'll have a view of . . ." It was time to move? But I hadn't finished anything. I mean, I hadn't finished anything that pleased Mr. Clarke. Well, it was his fault for telling me to slow down. If I hadn't slowed down, I wouldn't have started daydreaming.
"Claud, I didn't finish," Mallory wailed then. "I worked so — " "Well, I didn't finish, either," I snapped.
Mal looked hurt. Then she stopped talking.
On the way to Fifth Avenue, I thought we passed Elvis Presley, but I don't think so. I mean, I know he's dead, but an awful lot of people have spotted him recently. I considered asking Mal if she knew whether Elvis would ever have worn a checked shirt with plaid pants, but I decided not to. I didn't feel like speaking to her for awhile.
Then, ignoring the throngs of people pushing past me, I began an intricate sketch of this long garden that led like a path to the skating rink and restaurant below. Across a small side street rose 30 Rockefeller Center, home of NBC television. I tried very hard not to think about that. I concentrated on the plants, the flagpoles, the lines and corners of the building. Soon I was so caught up in my work that I forgot about TV stars. I forgot about Mallory and Elvis and whether I had any real talent. I even forgot about Mr. Clarke until I became aware that he was looking over my shoulder.
For almost a minute he watched as I sketched (slowly).
Then he walked away without a word. At least he could have said, "Interesting." Or even smiled. I would have been grateful for a smile.
At lunchtime, Mal said to me, "I guess you wouldn't want to go to a bookstore, would you. I heard about a huge one nearby. It has — " "You're right. I don't want to go to a bookstore." Mal turned away. "Okay." She went to the bookstore with Mr. Clarke instead.
I sat by myself and ate a pretzel, which was very salty. Apart from that, it had no flavor. I did not care.
Jessi.
Chapter 13.
On Thursday morning I lay in my bed in Laine's guest room (with Kristy's dog beside me) and thought, I should have called Quint on Tuesday. By now he's probably forgotten who I am. I can't call him now. If I did and he came to the phone and I said, "Hi, it's me, Jessi Ramsey," and he said, "Who's Jessi Ramsey?" I would die, I know I would.
But by late that morning I had decided to risk death. I was alone in Laine's apartment (except for the dog, and for Laine, who was cleaning out her closet), and I was getting bored. Plus, I would be pretty rude if I didn't call Quint.
So, very quietly, I picked up the phone in the kitchen. My heart was pounding. My hands grew sweaty. What was I doing? I must be loony, I thought.
I dialed Quint's number. The phone rang three times. Then someone picked it up.
Oh, no ...
"Hello?" "Hello — hello, is Quint there?" I asked. My voice shook.
"Just a moment, please." A hand was cupped over the receiver. I heard the voice call, "Quint? Phone for you." A few seconds later, Quint was on the line. "Hello?" he said. And then, because I suddenly seemed unable to speak, he tried again. "Hello? . . . Hello?" "Quint, it's me," I blurted out. "I mean, hi, this is Jessi Ramsey." "Jessi! I was hoping you'd call." Quint sounded genuinely glad.
"You were?" "Sure. Why else would I have given you my number?" Oh, yeah. I tried to laugh. "Well, I'm sorry I took so long. I — I, um — " Quint interrupted me. "Hey, Jessi, if you're not doing anything today, do you want to come over? We can watch old movies. That is, if you can stand my brother and sister. They're sort of pains." "No problem," I replied. "I would love to watch old movies, and I'm good with kids. I baby-sit all the time." "Great. We'll have a Fred Astaire and Ginger Rogers festival." ."I'll be right there." When we got off the phone, I looked at the paper on which I'd written Quint's address. I didn't think Quint lived too far away. Still, I wasn't allowed to walk around the city by myself.
"Laine?" I said. I stood in the doorway to her room.
"Yeah?" Laine's reply was muffled. It came from deep within her closet. On the floor around the closet were mounds of clothes, papers, books, stuffed animals, boxes, and crumpled shopping bags. Her parents had told her to clean out her closet before it exploded.
"I need some help." Laine emerged from her closet, looking dusty and rumpled. "What's wrong?" I explained to her about Quint.