ALEX
The fountain is drained, empty. It was like that the first time I came here with Isa. When Bryan and Danny said those things about her, and she let me walk her to class anyway.
It’s late. The winter sky is so dark it could be seven o’clock or ten o’clock or one A.M. The opera house lights are on. There’s no one inside except for a man with a bucket and a mop. He stops in front of a window, takes up a rag, and starts to clean. His hand passes in front of white letters that spell OTELLO against a background of black.
The past few days, I played over what Chrissy said. About secrets and not being honest. I knew Isa was keeping stuff from me—her whole family for one. I hadn’t thought about what I was hiding from her. So here I am because, guess what? Isa still isn’t taking my calls. She’s not answering my messages either.
Students come out the glass doors of the building next door. The girls all wear buns. The guys have short hair, except for one with a ponytail. I don’t see Isa. I don’t see Chrissy. And I’ve been here since five. This time, I’ll stay as long as it takes.
I sit on the granite ledge. Cold seeps through my pants to the backs of my legs. My breath makes clouds as I wait.
The janitor moves to the next window. And the next. He’s on the last one in the row when the doors to the Academy open. More girls with buns exit. None of them are Isa. They walk arm in arm as if on wildflowers they don’t want to crush.
I pace a circle around the fountain, then sit back down. I don’t take out my notebook. I won’t risk missing her.
I get up and walk to the windows. I put my hands on the glass and peer through, to see if any students are still inside. I checked the website before I came. Mondays there are no holiday performances. The dancers should be leaving after their classes. I tug on the door handle, but it’s locked. A keypad flashes red at me. I go back to the fountain just as the dance school doors swing wide. A man who could be my father heads straight for me. The opera house lights glint over a brass nameplate that looks like a badge. I know it isn’t one. But still, my heart knocks against me. I don’t move.
“Hey.” The security guard stops about fifteen feet away. “You can’t be here.” His hands rise to his waist. A baton hangs from his belt.
“Um . . . I’m waiting for someone.”
“Who?” he asks.
“A student. A dancer.” I try to look him in the eye.
“What’s her or his name?”
“Isabelle Warren,” I reply.
His face doesn’t change. I don’t know if he recognizes Isa’s name.
“Is she expecting you?” he asks.
“No, I—”
The guard holds up his palm. “You need to go.”
“But—”
“You’re loitering. If you don’t go, I’ll have to call the police.”
I fist my hands in my pockets. My huff of breath is like dragon smoke. “Can I at least leave a message for her?”
His squinting eyes widen. “You don’t have her phone number? Now you really got to go.” He shows me his thumb.
I do have her number. She just won’t answer it.
I walk toward the Symphony building. I take the corner and lean up against the wall.
A couple walks by, bundled in scarves and hoods. Their laughter cuts off when they see me. I swear I see the guy draw the girl closer. They both look over their shoulders, back toward the fountain, once they’ve passed.
The security guard comes into view. He takes out his phone. He puts it to his ear. He watches me as he talks into it.
I’m finished here. I turn, heading for the subway.
“Alex?”