Past
She came back again, and again, and a-mother-freaking-gain.
We spent most of that summer break in Mount Hebron Memorial, jumping between gravestones like they were puddles.
The day after our first encounter, she brought a book downstairs called The Secret Garden, and we read it, sweaty temples stuck together as we each held one side of the book. We each read a page on our turn, and I could tell we were trying to impress each other.
The next day, I brought Sherlock Holmes from the local library, and we read it in intervals, when I wasn’t yelling at her to stop with the doggy ears because I was paranoid about paying the library fee.
We sat on Harry Frasier’s grave and read. Sometimes we talked to her brother, Aaron, like he was there with us. We even gave him a personality and everything. He was the party pooper who trailed behind and never wanted to do anything. The cemetery became our own secret garden, with treasures and mysteries to unravel. Every nook and corner was explored, and we knew its residents’ names by heart.
One time, the groundskeeper found us playing hide-and-seek. We both ran like our asses were on fire. He gave us a good chase, spewing profanity and waving his fist in the air. When we got to the wrought iron gate, I gave Arya a leg up so she could escape before hopping over myself. The groundskeeper almost caught me, but Arya grabbed my hand and fled before he snatched my shirt through the rails of the gate. That was the last time we went there.
We spent the leftovers of summer break exploring hidden alcoves in Central Park and hiding in bushes, scaring runners. Arya brought down food and drinks and sometimes even board games. When she started coming downstairs with double everything—chocolate milk, granola bars, bottled water—I knew Mom was onto us and looked the other way.
Sure enough, one evening when Mom and I had made our way back to Hunts Point, she grabbed my ear and squeezed until white noise filled it. “Just remember Mr. Roth would kill you if you touched her.”
Touch her? I barely wanted to look at her. But what other choices did I have? Arya made the time move faster, and she brought me snacks and Gatorade.
By the time summer was over, Arya and I were inseparable. Once the school year started, that was when the friendship ended. Talking on the phone was lame—and also kind of stilted; we tried—and neither of our families was going to agree to a playdate, a concept Arya tried to explain to me several times.
I sometimes wrote to her, but I never sent the letters.
The last thing I needed was Arya thinking I liked her.
Plus, it wasn’t even true.
Another summer break rolled in. I was four inches taller. My mother, yet again, brought me over with her to work. This time, I was allowed inside the penthouse. Not because Mom worried for me, but because she was worried because of me. Earlier that year, I’d started hustling at school, selling counterfeit Jordans for a 500 percent profit margin after the commission Little Ritchie, who gave them to me, charged. The principal warned Mom I was headed straight to juvie if I didn’t cut it out.
The first time I set foot in the Roth penthouse, I was light headed. Everything was stealable. I’d knock down the walls and stuff them in my pockets if I could.
Onyx marble gleamed like a panther’s coat. The furniture appeared to be floating, hanging on invisible wires, and large, imposing paintings were everywhere. The wine fridge alone was bigger than our bathroom. There were dripping chandeliers, marble statues, and plush rugs everywhere. If this was how rich people lived, it was a wonder they ever left the house.
But the real gem was the view of Central Park. The silhouette of the skyscrapers gave the impression of a thorny crown. And the person wearing that crown was Arya, who sat at a winged, stark-white piano, her back ramrod straight, the view her backdrop, wearing a Sunday dress and a solemn expression.
My breath caught in my throat. It was then that I noticed she was pretty. I mean, I knew she wasn’t ugly. I had eyes, after all. But I’d never considered she was the opposite of ugly. Last summer, Arya had just been . . . Arya. My partner in crime. The kid who wasn’t afraid to jump over gates and ambush people in bushes. The girl who’d helped me find cigarette butts I could suck on.
Arya’s head snapped up, her eyes flaring as she took me in. For the first time in my life, I felt self-conscious. Up until then, I hadn’t cared about my big nose and Dumbo ears or that I had a good six or seven pounds to gain to fill into my frame.
Her parents were standing behind her, watching her play the piece. Her dad had one hand pressed against her shoulder, like he expected her to evaporate into air any moment now. I knew she couldn’t talk to me, so I ignored her, smearing the bubble gum I had stepped in across their floor. Mom and I stood like unattended grocery bags at the entrance, Mom kneading her blue apron nervously as she waited for Arya to finish the piece.
When Arya was done, Mom stepped forward. Her smile looked painful. I wanted to scrub it off her face with one of her bleach-fumed cleaning cloths.
“Mr. Roth, Mrs. Roth, this is my son, Nicholai.”
Beatrice and Conrad Roth stirred toward me like evil twins in a horror flick. Conrad had the dead, beady eyes of a shark, trimmed silver hair, and a suit that reeked of money. Beatrice was a model trophy wife, with a blown-out blonde mane, enough makeup to sculpt a three-tier wedding cake, and that vacant gaze of a woman who’d married herself into a corner. I saw the same look on mobsters’ wives in Hunts Point. The ones who realized money had a price.
“How darling you are,” Beatrice said crisply, but when I reached for a handshake, she patted my wrist down. “Lovely boy you have, Ruslana. Tall and blue eyed. Why, I would never.”
Conrad glanced at me for a fraction of a second before turning to face Mom. He looked ready to burst with anger. Like my existence was an inconvenience. “Remember what we discussed, Ruslana. Keep him away from Ari.”
A boulder the size of New Jersey settled in my stomach. I was right freaking there.
“Absolutely.” Mom nodded obediently, and I hated her in that moment. More than I hated Conrad, I think. “Nicholai will not leave my sight, sir.”
Behind them, Arya rolled her eyes and pantomimed aiming a gun at her temple. When she fake-shot herself, her head jerked violently. Any concern I had of her forgetting about our alliance evaporated immediately.
I bit down a grin.
Hope was a drug, I realized.
And Arya had just given me my first, free-sample hit.
Mom didn’t enforce the stay-the-heck-away-from-Arya rule. She had too much on her plate to give a crap. Instead, she warned me that if I ever touched Arya, I would be dead to her.
“If you think I’ll let you ruin this for me, you’re wrong. One strike and you’re out, Nicholai.”
Despite that, the summer Arya and I were thirteen was by far the best of my life.
Conrad was a hotshot Wall Street wolf who ran a hedge fund company. Arya tried to explain to me what a hedge fund was. It sounded dangerously close to gambling, so of course I made a mental note to check it out when I grew up. Conrad worked crazy hours. We rarely saw him. And between her weekend-long shopping sprees in Europe and country-club luncheons, Beatrice seemed more like a flighty older sister than her mother. Quickly, Arya and I settled into a routine. We went to the building’s indoor pool every morning and raced laps (I won), then lay on Arya’s balcony to dry off, faces tilted up to the sky, the chlorine and sun bleaching the tips of our hair, competing over who’d get more freckled (she won).
We also read. A lot.
Hours spent every day tucked under the big oak desk in her family’s library, sucking on boba slushies, toe fighting with our legs stretched across the Persian carpet.
That summer, we read The Wonderful Wizard of Oz, Treasure Island, The Outsiders, and all the Goosebumps books. We devoured thick spy novels, trudged through history volumes, and even blushed over a couple of kissing books that made us declare in unison that touching someone else that way was super gross.
Though to be honest, the more time passed, the more the idea of touching Arya like that didn’t seem gross at all. Maybe even the opposite of gross. But of course, I wasn’t dumb enough to let myself think about it.
Our friendship didn’t go completely unnoticed. Conrad did walk in on us a few times while we were reading or watching a movie. But I think what was obvious to me from the beginning trickled into his conscious too. That Arya was way out of my league. That her beauty, strength, and sophistication terrified me, and that I could barely look at her straight on. She was in no danger of being corrupted.
“He wouldn’t know what to do with an opportunity even if your daughter would present him with one,” I once heard Arya’s mother say, letting out an impatient huff, when she thought Mom and I had already left for the day. It was one of the rare times she was at home. I found it interesting Beatrice knew what Arya would and wouldn’t offer me, seeing as she hadn’t exchanged one word with her daughter all summer.
I was tucked in the shadows of their walk-in closet. My mother asked me to steal something small from there each week so she could sell it. This time, Arya’s parents had walked in before I could complete my mission. I squeezed the Gucci belt in my fist, sweating buckets as I retreated behind the layers of gowns hung on one side of the wall.
“People outgrow innocence. He is not one of us, Bea.”
A metallic laugh filled the air of their en suite bathroom. “Oh, Conrad. It’s a bit late for you to become a prude, don’t you think? Such hypocrisy. Is it a wonder I can barely look at your face?”
“Darling, you’re the prude between us, and you’re also too damn naive. All you care about is Aaron, shopping, and your plastic friends, half of which I fuck behind your back.”
“Who?” she demanded, turning toward him sharply. Her entire face changed. She looked . . . weird. Older. In a span of seconds.
It was Conrad’s turn to chuckle. “Oh, wouldn’t you like to know.”
“Stop playing games with me, Conrad.”
“Games are the only thing I have left with you, Bea.”
My fingers dug so deep into the belt that the buckle bit into my skin and popped it open, blood filling my fist.
Mr. Roth had no idea his paper tiger of a wife was right. That the only time Arya and I had touched in a way that wasn’t innocent that entire summer was when Arya herself had initiated it.
Two weeks ago, we’d broken into Mr. Roth’s study, where he kept his Cuban cigars. I wanted to steal one and share it with my Hunts Point friends, and Arya was always up for mischief. It was a lazy afternoon, and the penthouse was empty. We found the engraved leather box just when my mom got back from the supermarket. The surprise click of the door made Arya drop the cigar case with a loud thud. Footsteps reverberated across the hallway, the sound ricocheting in my stomach like a bullet as my mother approached to investigate.
Arya grabbed my wrist and dragged us both to the space between the filing cabinets and the floor, where we were smooshed together under the belly of the console, limbs tangled, hidden from view. We were chest to chest, our hot breaths mixing together, fruity bubble gum, slushies, and a kiss that could never happen permeating the air, and suddenly, all the times I’d been told not to touch Arya made sense.
Because the need to touch her shot from my spine to my fingertips, making the pit of my stomach feel empty and achy.
Mom walked into the room. We saw her worn-out sneakers from our spot on the floor as she turned 360 degrees, surveying the area.
“Miss Arya? Nicholai?” Her voice was shrill.
No answer. She cursed softly in Russian, stomping one foot over the marbled floor. Adrenaline made my veins tingle.
“Your father will be very mad if he finds out you’ve been in here.” Mom tried and failed to lace her tone with authority. My eyes held Arya’s gaze. Her whole body shook with a giggle. I pressed my palm against her mouth to stop her from laughing. She poked her tongue out and licked between my fingers. The shot of pleasure that bolted through my spine made me dizzy. I let go of her immediately, gasping a little.
After a few minutes, Mom finally gave up and walked away. We stayed completely still. Arya took my hand and flattened my palm over her chest, her smile so big it threatened to split her face in two.
“Whoa. Feel how fast my heart is beating?”
Actually, all I could feel was the need to put my lips on hers. The way my own heart flipped and twisted in my chest, trying to break free from its arteries and veins, and the way I didn’t feel so brave anymore next to her.
“Yeah.” I swallowed hard. “You okay?”
“Yeah. You?”
I jerked my head yes. “Thanks for saving my ass.”
“Yeah, well, I still owe you from that time we were being chased.” Her smile was big and genuine and told me I was definitely, definitely on the brink of catastrophe.
“Arya?”
“Hmm?” Her hand was still on mine.
Let go of me.
But I couldn’t say it.
I couldn’t deny her anything. Even what could have been my goddamn destruction.
Instead, I kept my hand on her chest until the coast was clear and she slipped away on her own.
That was my first mistake of many.
The day with the cigar box changed everything.
We were skidding on the brink of disaster, always dangerously close to the edge. Not because I wanted to kiss her that bad—I could probably go for eternity not touching her, even if I didn’t like that idea all that much. But because my ability to refuse her was nonexistent, which meant sooner or later, she was going to get me in trouble.
Funny how her parents were so worried I’d corrupt her, when she could probably convince me to kill a man with no more than a toss of her crazy Medusa hair.
A few days before summer vacation came to an end, I eavesdropped on the Roths again. This time, it was no accident. I was worried they wouldn’t let me spend next summer with Arya. I wanted to know where the wind was blowing. At this point, Arya was the closest thing to happiness I’d ever achieved, and I was willing to do some screwed-up things to keep our arrangement going.
I hid in Mrs. Roth’s closet while she was getting dressed for an event. Through the sliver of space beside the sliding door, I watched Mr. Roth tying his tie in front of the mirror.
“Did you know I caught him packing the leftovers Ruslana usually throws out and taking them home without asking?” He flipped the tie’s tail and tugged the knot upward. I followed his every movement, taking notes. I’d decided earlier that summer I was going to have a job that required you to wear more than sweatpants. “Course, I didn’t say anything. Can you imagine the headline if it ever got out? Hedge fund tycoon denies the poor help’s boy his scraps? Pfft.”
“Deary me.” Mrs. Roth was on the other side of the walk-in space, so I couldn’t see her. She didn’t sound interested. She was never interested in her husband. Conrad continued anyway.
“You know what Ruslana told me? She said over the weekends, he shines shoes on the corner outside of Nordstrom. Puts them out of business by charging half the price. And last year, well, he got his hands on a few Nike knockoffs and sold them around his school. That, she didn’t volunteer. I found out all by myself.”
“You looked into him?” Mrs. Roth said, snorting. She liked to show she hated her husband. “Darling, you have too much free time on your hands. Maybe find another lover to keep you occupied? Oh, and your obsession with your daughter is quite off putting. I’m here too, you know.”
This was not good. Not good at all. My next summer with Arya was in jeopardy. I was going to have to ignore Arya in the next few days, even if it hurt her. Even if it hurt me.
“That kid has the kind of ambition that will land him either on Forbes’s richest list or in prison.” The scowl on Conrad Roth’s face indicated exactly where he preferred future me—and it wasn’t brushing shoulders with Bill Gates and Michael Dell.
Mrs. Roth came into view through the crack of her walk-in closet. She caught the tip of his tie and tugged hard, choking him a little. His lips came smashing down toward hers, but she dodged him at the last minute, laughing cruelly. He groaned in frustration.
“Wherever he ends up, it will not be with your daughter.”
“Our daughter,” he corrected.
“Is she? Ours, I mean?” Beatrice wondered aloud. “You seem to be under the impression she is all yours.”
She kissed him hard on the lips. Closemouthed. He cupped her butt. I looked away.
I liked Arya a lot, but I hated her parents.
