The subway train is nearly empty. Middle of the day, I think, nobody wants to go to Brooklyn.
I do and I don’t.
“Sixteen voice messages. Twenty-two texts. My mom’s mad.” Ben shuts off his cell phone again. “Do you think Sabeen told?”
“Probably. But she would’ve tried not to.”
“Miss Garcia might’ve told the principal.”
“It wasn’t smart skipping school together. If it’d been just me, she would’ve figured I was sick.”
Ben’s shoulders sag.
“Still, I’m glad, Ben. Glad you were with me.”
“I know.” Both of us slump in our seats.
You can hear the engine pulling, the wheels rattling on the tracks.
I pull the brochure out of my hoodie. Ben reads with me.
Terrorists crashed two planes into the Twin Towers.
Two thousand seven hundred and fifty-three people from over ninety nations were killed.
Mainly Americans, I think, but just people. Humans.
Oldest victim: eighty-five years old; the youngest: two.
Four hundred and three were first responders.
“Who’re first responders, Ben?”
“Firefighters, New York and Port Authority police.”
Closing my eyes, I lean my head back. Ben does the same.
“Three more stops,” he says. “Then trouble.”
“Not as bad as it could be.” I think of the man who lost his daughter. How he remembered her whole life in his heart. I think of Pop.
Memories—that’s the difference. The footprints were horrible beautiful.
What if Pop only remembers horrible?