THE SOLOIST SWITCHES TO SOMETHING with a bit more bop, a rendition of some K-pop song I can’t remember the title of. I pull my head back from Fayard’s shoulder and smooth my thumb across his eyebrows.
“Remember the first day we met?” I ask.
“Vacation Bible School. Y’all had just moved from across town and I was like, I don’t know, thunderstruck might be the word. I was smacked by that thunder when you walked into the church basement with those little purple overalls you liked so much.”
“Wow, I don’t remember what I was wearing.”
“I do. You wore them at least once a week, but that first day you had on this white crop top. You still got it somewhere?” he asks, lost in the memory.
“Uh, that was two cup sizes ago, and don’t act like you weren’t scoping out all the girls’ “crop tops.”
“I love fashion,” he jokes.
“I did not want to go, but Mama was determined to get us back to the church with everything that was going on after quarantine. What was that girl’s name? The one who liked to break out into a praise dance every time Reverend Trish gave a sermon?”
“I don’t know who you’re talking about.”
“You know! The one with the super-hairy legs.”
He’s thinking, the little lines etching into his forehead, and for a few moments I get to stare and soak in all the details. How he smells—soap and Murray’s pomade, ironing starch and the tiniest hint of pine from the air freshener in his car. I need to memorize his face and hope I’ll be able to see him just like this in my dreams when they put me under at the cryogenics center. There are these freckles under his eyes, pinpricks of cocoa against a pristine canvas. Boys always have better skin than girls, but his glows. It’s not just good skin care or genetics; it’s something from the inside that lights up every cell. He’s good, a genuinely pure soul, and I want to keep him preserved in my mind just like this. Solid, clean-smelling, kind, and unworried. Hopeful.
A shadow passes over us and breaks the moment.
“Awww, look at you two!”
“Barbie?”
Barbara Engelman is the best Mock Trial lawyer in the state and beat me several times in regionals. Then she beat our entire team junior year, the last year I was able to compete. Someone else got the title this year. Not because Barbie lost a step, but because she didn’t compete at all.
“I thought you were in Israel,” Fay says as he stands to give her a side hug.
“I was. Spent a year with my aunt and uncle to see if I liked it. Now I’m back. Are you guys running off to elope?” she asks, tossing her hair over her shoulder. Barbie has the best hair: super thick, super curly. It makes her look like she should be playing a harp in a castle somewhere. Of course, she hates it, but we always hate what makes us stand out.
“T’s running away from me. She’s going to some summer program in the Dominican Republic,” Fay replies.
“The DR? Really? I spent two weeks there the summer of freshman year. It was this language-immersion camp thing. My Spanish is still shite but I did learn to French kiss,” she says, and winks. “Did you decide what school you’ll be at in the fall?” she asks as she takes a seat next to Fay and plops her bookbag between her legs. It’s covered in buttons and patches from all over the world. Even though we’re the same age, she’s got this confidence that makes her sit up straighter, a shine to her eyes that lets me know she’s seen things, talked to people twice her age about everything from politics to sex, and they listened. I’ve never been jealous of anyone, I’ve always felt it was a waste of time, but looking at that beat-up Jansport gives me a twinge of longing like nothing ever has. Barbie is what freedom looks like.
“I was looking hard at Clemson but finally went with Brandeis. My father’s a rabbi. Why rock the boat? So, spill. Where are you landing?”
She’s so expectant in her signature red half-moon glasses, waiting for my answer, for Fay’s, like she doesn’t even see my oxygen tank. I wonder if she knows about me, but she has to—everyone knows.
“I’m looking into a gap year,” Fay mumbles, his long arm arcing over his head so he can scratch the back of his neck. It’s one of his tics. He gets itchy when he lies or when he’s nervous. The other arm slides into his pocket. I don’t see, but I know he’s rubbing his rosary beads raw with this thumb.
“T? What about you? When you come back from the DR?”
“Me too,” I say quietly.
“Are you guys sure you’re not eloping?” she says, not catching the slightest change in the mood. “The way you gunned for me at state the last two years I just knew you were gonna go for political science and go right to Princeton. I heard Randy Shivers from Spring Valley, got accepted there. He won Best Witness last year, remember?”
I shrug as if this is all a big joke, but I can’t muster a smile.
“Don’t answer. None of my business, but, Fay, if you don’t have plans for the summer, there might be an opening for a four-week thing at NASA I heard about. It’s a joint partnership between Brandeis and Howard University. They’re, like, trying to get more religious people and more Black people to pursue space exploration as a goal. Totally free. I know it’s late, but one of the guys got into this freak safari accident and there’s a space open.”
“What the hell kinda accident is that?” Fay asks.
Her eyes get wide and then she leans in close. “I dunno, but I heard it was some kind of sex thing. The US consulate got involved. Scandal. I don’t know. I do not know! I can’t say for sure, but he’s gone,” she rattles on. Barbie’s a fast talker.
“I’ll link up with you,” Fay says breezily without any real hint of conviction, and it’s then I make it my business to get him to email her in the next half hour to secure that spot. I know Fay—he can get obsessive. If he doesn’t have something to do, he’ll make grief his whole life. I don’t want that for him. I want a bag full of buttons for him just like I would want it for me.
“Cool. I’ve got your email. I’ll shoot you the details. My sister’s dating a guy on the selection committee, so I can get you in no problem.”
“This isn’t like your cousin with the fifty-dollar iPads, is it?” I joke, trying to lighten the mood for myself.
She rolls her eyes. “That moron is dead to me. It’s nothing like that. Promise. Hey, I gotta go before they lock this place down.”
“What do you mean?” I ask, and she points to the marquees, which have all changed from a basic black background to orange.
“There’s some demonstration outside. You guys don’t travel as much as I do, so you don’t know, but I can smell when something is about to go down. I’d rather be home when it does. I hope your flight doesn’t get canceled. It was great seeing you two. Make sure you post pictures from your DR trip!”
As soon as Barbie leaves, Aabidah walks over with a bag full of French macarons. I do a little happy dance and immediately feed one to Fay. He takes a bite, exaggerating how good it is, and licks the tip of my finger.
“Stop!” I playfully push his face away.
Aabidah rolls her eyes. “Our flight’s been delayed two hours. They’re doing extra security checks.”
“Are they going to can—”
She cuts me off mid-breath—“No!”—and then takes a deep breath of her own. “No. They won’t. It’s just a delay,” she says firmly, but I can tell she’s not sure. “I’m going to find one of those massage chairs. I’ll meet you back here in ninety minutes.” She doesn’t even look back at me for a confirmation, just walks away, leaving a cloud of anxiety trailing behind her.
A cancellation would be a death sentence. I don’t want to think about it, though. I look over at Fay, who’s still pretending that salted caramel macarons are the best thing he’s ever eaten.
“So. A delay means I get you for another hour and a half. Can you stand? Walk?” he asks, and I wonder where he’s going with this. He gets up, brushes the crumbs from the side of his mouth, and holds out his hand like the chivalrous prince in a fairy tale.
“I can walk. Where are we going?” I ask again. I push myself to my feet and place my hand in his. He’s got that Cheshire-cat grin on, and I’m wondering what he’s got cooked up in his brain. An hour and a half isn’t that much time for an adventure, but this is Fay. Anything is possible.
“We’re running away,” he says.
“Oh!” I reply, and place my hand on my cheek in mock surprise. “Can I ask where to, dark prince?”
“To the moon. To the stars.”