Page 24

Chapter 24

James

It wasn’t until I could see the Philadelphia skyline that the wheels came off the bus. Not literally or anything, just figuratively. I was belting an underrated eighties song on Spotify—judge me, if you must—then all of a sudden had to slam on my brakes.

Fear not, I hadn’t been speeding again. My newest adversary had revealed itself to be traffic. Bumper-to-bumper, it appeared, and stretching all the way into the city. I cannot catch a break, I thought, exhaling. Why can’t I ever catch a break?

For the next twenty minutes, the Subaru and the surrounding cars crawled forward two or three yards at a time. I readjusted my hands on the steering wheel for no reason whatsoever; I wasn’t going anywhere. It’s a Friday afternoon in May, I mused. People could be leaving work, but that’d mean the other side of the highway would be congested…

And rush hour traffic didn’t usually kick off until four thirty p.m., which was still a few hours from now.

Had Grace factored that into her itinerary?

I rolled my eyes.

Damn her, she probably had.

This didn’t make any sense. What was happening? Was something going on in the city today?

I groaned when I finally figured it out, and all it had taken was an inadvertent glance over at the car next to me. Its driver was in full red, white, and blue regalia for the Phillies game later. I remembered Ryan and Caleb talking about it back at school. Of course.

The driver noticed me looking at him, and in response, he rolled down his window, emphatically fist-pumped, and cheered so loudly that I heard people in other cars shout back. Then they performed an extremely off-key rendition of “Take Me Out to the Ball Game.”

I hoped the Mets won.

Spotify paused when my phone sounded with a text: Izzy. I smiled at the screen, my iPhone mounted on the dashboard. Mind you, I don’t condone phone use while driving, but I was at a standstill. Such a standstill that I could have cut the Subaru’s engine if I’d wanted to. So yeah, I reached to type in my passcode to see what Isa had sent.

It was a photo of a cheesesteak. The most luscious-looking cheesesteak I’d ever seen, its thick and crusty roll filled with chopped beef, melted cheese, more melted cheese, and even more melted cheese drizzled over the fried onions on top. My mouth watered.

And my stomach rumbled. All I’d eaten today was a bowl of Lucky Charms for breakfast, and lunch had consisted of pretty much shoving two spoonfuls of leftover chili and a hunk of cornbread into my mouth before rushing back to school. Isa didn’t know that, but this picture still felt like a tease.

I missed you at lunch , she’d written. Hope yours was better than mine!

I felt a zing in my veins. A third of me wanted to rip my hair out, wishing she would quit the lighthearted teasing to give me an answer, but the other two-thirds had never loved her more. I might not have received a formal invitation to Philadelphia, but Isa wanted me there.

I didn’t text her back; I hadn’t replied to any of her messages, no matter how much I wished I could. School was still in session, and as far as she, Grace, and Everett knew, I was still trapped there. When I found them, I wanted it to be a surprise. Isa would be so thrilled that she’d kiss me, Everett would be quietly impressed, and hopefully my sister would be stunned. Not going to lie, I was imagining her completely speechless with a nice jaw-drop. It was the least she could do after tricking the whole town without consulting me.

But then again, I thought, so far she’s proved that no consultation was necessary.

The Phillies fans and I were still in a gridlock, so I tapped over to Find My Friends and located the three of them in Passyunk. South Philly, I realized as I zoomed in to see their dots right between the dueling Pat’s and Geno’s. Mr.Adler, originally from right outside the city, swore by Pat’s King of Steaks. “But it’s for tourists now,” he’d always lament when we were younger, during our special Saturday adventures. The Franklin Institute, the Mummers Museum, the zoo (everybody goes at some point). “Our job is to try all the hidden gems…”

My stomach growled again. I locked my phone, barely moved forward in the traffic jam, and then took one hand off the wheel to scavenge around for some snacks. I ended up finding Smartfood popcorn in the center console, a family-sized box of Whoppers under the passenger seat, and, what do you know, a box of SweeTarts in the glove compartment.

Guess who loved SweeTarts?

Guess who probably also had Whoppers for Grace in hiscar?

I honestly didn’t know how this trio operated, how they could take this whirlwind trip together. Maybe the “whirlwind-ness” was why it had worked, but I didn’t know. Driving Everett to school with Grace at the wheel? It made Everett’s and my conversation this morning seem riveting. He and my sister exchanged pleasantries, but then ignored each other for the rest of the ride. It was pitiful—painful, even.

I don’t know who the hell they thought they were fooling, because it certainly wasn’t me. “And—he—said—there—was—someone—else,” I remembered Isa blubbering the day after Everett had broken up with her. She and Grace had been locked in my sister’s room, but the walls weren’t concrete. I could hear perfectly fine two doors down the hall. “Who—is—this—someone—else?”

You’re looking at her, Isa, I’d thought. Because wasn’t it obvious? I’m not saying I was great with girls freshman year, but Everett Adler was terrible with them. Who was the someone else ? There was only one realistic option.

Grace. Gracie. Whatever she bottled up around Isa, the cork popped off come summer.

She and Everett were inseparable during our Stone Harbor trip with the Adlers, so inseparable that I always joined the nearest Spikeball game on the beach and found a new group of friends for the next fourteen days. “Inseparable” was way better than the repressed rides to school, but still, they made third-wheeling brutal.

Someone behind me honked their horn, and I sighed with relief when I saw I could actually press down on the gas pedal…for all of ten seconds.

Then it was back to the idyllic view of the car in front of me. Its sunroof had slid open, and a small group of guys in their twenties had squeezed through and, Bud Lights in hand, were trying to get a Phillies chant going. It didn’t take verylong.

Please, let the Mets win.

I turned up Spotify and went back to Isa’s messages. She had sent me something earlier, before the juicy cheesesteak and that oil painting from the art museum. John Singer Sargent’s In the Luxembourg Gardens.

Yes, okay—here it was, a video. A video of Grace and Everett racing up the famous Rocky Steps. The climb wasn’t particularly interesting to me; it was the moment before their ascent. Grace and Everett were lunging, in position for takeoff, but the camera had caught his hand sneaking out to zap her side at the same time hers shot out to pinch his cheek.

Isa hadn’t commented, which made me wonder if she was fishing for an acknowledgment from me. Something more insightful than a HAHA double-tap on the video.

I see it, I was tempted to write back. Do you?

And really, how long would Grace and Everett be able to hold out on their feelings? Even if they were clueless the other person felt the same way? My sister would never betray Isa, and Everett would never risk losing their secret friendship. But honestly, I did think they were headed for disaster if nothing happened between them. A bottle rocket was going to explode and leave nothing behind but a clusterfuck of chaos. The fallout was going to be rough, especially if they kept flirting like that in front of Isa.

Now, you could say that she and I were keeping the same secret, and everyone’s entitled to their own opinion, but things were different between us. Grace and Everett had been hiding their…close friendship for three years, while Isa and I had only fallen for each other this past winter. Yes, the fact that I was Grace’s brother complicated matters, but I wanted to be with Isa more than anything and was ready to tell everyone.

Hence, the time bomb I had thrown at her.

When my phone sounded, I nearly sliced my neck with my seat belt. Dad! I jumped. Mom!

But it was only Ryan, sneaking a call from the gym locker rooms. “Dude, what are you doing?” he said after I answered.

“Creating character sketches and plotting complex but ultimately solvable relationship dynamics for the next big Netflix teen drama,” I deadpanned. “The miscommunication trope is next-level.”

A beat of silence, and then, “Huh?”

I rubbed my temples.

“Did you ditch school?”

“Yeah.”

“Unger’s gonna slit your throat.”

“Unger ditched for the day, too,” I told him. “She said it was her ‘own personal, private business’ when I asked.”

Ryan laughed. “I don’t know how you do it, Barbour,” he said. “That woman haunts my dreams.”

“Total nightmare,” I agreed, putting the Subaru in park. My foot had fallen asleep and my leg was cramping from holding down the brake. Fan-freaking-tastic.

“Where are you now?” Ryan asked.

“Home,” I lied. “Just keeping our designated survivor company. Tell Caleb and Alayna that she loves the Edible Arrangement they sent….”

It had been delivered just as I was heading out after lunch.

We shot the shit until Ryan’s free period ended, and afterward I shifted the car back into drive. It finally looked like the traffic was thinning, and to celebrate, everyone broke into a resounding encore of “Take Me Out to the Ballgame.”

Naturally.

Your Mets, Adlers, I thought. Your Mets better win!

When I finally inched into Philadelphia proper, I drove straight to the parking garage my family used whenever we took day trips into Center City together. There hadn’t been one in a while. Mom’s birthday back in December? We’d had dinner and hot cocoa at Parc before going to the ballet and watching The Nutcracker. The dancing had been great and all, but I remembered the orchestra being in -fucking- credible.

More, I’d thought. I need to branch out and learn more instruments.

I had piano well under my belt, was getting pretty good at the guitar and violin thanks to YouTube, and Margot Adler was always happy to teach me some stuff on her clarinet.

It was a work in progress.

I stopped at the garage’s entrance, rolled down my window, and reached through to press the magic button to request a parking slip. The machine spit out a timestamped ticket, and voila, the red-and-white barrier lifted so I could continue on my way.

You should know that I prefer garages over anything else. It’s not a “status” thing; I just feel like there are too many risks parking street-side. Your car could get stolen, scratched, breathed on wrong—a pigeon could crap on it, who knows. Grace’s and my car was only a humble Subaru Crosstrek, but it was our Subaru Crosstrek.

Plus, I hadn’t seen many open meters on the way here, and Philly was now doing this thing where they towed curbside cars without warning. Ryan, Caleb, and I’d gone to a concert last month and found Ryan’s truck missing after the encore. Long story short: There’d been a big event happening the next day, so all the cars parked in our area had been towed to a dark and scary lot under the highway. We’d needed to call the cops to track it down. Fun, right?

So, a garage. The first floor was full, as was the second, but I found a Mazda that had just vacated a choice spot on the third. Don’t mind if I do, I thought, and carefully backed in the Subaru once the car was gone. Not that I really expected anyone I knew to be here, but if they somehow were, I didn’t want them getting a glimpse of my rear end. Grace and I had amassed a few bumper stickers, and even if you weren’t that clever, you could put those puzzle pieces together. There was the navy-and-white block-lettered NORTH for our high school, similar stickers for our future colleges, the silhouette of a tennis player serving up a ball, and a logo for my favorite band. The Subaru had “Barbour” written all over it.

“Well done, James,” I said after walking around the front to admire my parking job. This morning I’d felt like a permit-ink-barely-dry driver, but now I was back to being a pro. “Well done, indeed.”

Excellent, I was talking to myself. That was a great sign. “You talk to yourself when you’re tired,” Isa once observed. We’d been up late choosing the final song for the family talent show. Frankie Valli’s 1960s classic “Can’t Take My Eyes Off You” (me) or our contemporary version of “Bewitched, Bothered, and Bewildered” (Isa). “It’s adorable,” Isa said. “Referring to yourself in the third person?” She saw me scrunch up my nose. “Come on, J! It’s cute!”

Then she fell back against the living room couch cushions and giggled, and I watched her the whole time. She’s just too good to be true, I’d thought.

I needed an energy jolt, and soon. Because once I realized I was tired, I faded fast. Find My Friends told me that Grace and her two collaborators had left Pat’s in South Philly. It looked like they were now en route to Center City. How convenient! I’d had a hunch that today’s festivities in Rittenhouse Square would be impossible to ignore.

But first, Starbucks, I decided, locking the Subaru and proceeding to the garage’s stairwell. I didn’t like coffee, but from time to time I tolerated it, and you didn’t even need to look at Waze to know there’d be one on my route. It was like an unspoken city regulation that there needed to be a Starbucks on every other street corner.

But halfway to the elevator, something caught my eye—something that made me do a double-take. I took a few steps backward to stare at a hulking black Escalade. “Okay, chill,” I muttered. “It’s not hers, it can’t be hers….”

For a moment, I thought I might be sick. Not Grace-sick, but truly sick.

Isa’s custom license plate might’ve made her Mini Cooper the flashiest car at school, but this one was the most infamous. Principal Unger’s titanic of an SUV with its tinted windows. I saw it every day, the villainous vehicle parked in the school lot’s front row. Only a couple hours ago had she climbed into it and driven away for her private and personal business.

Which, to be real with you, I just assumed was an appointment with her gynecologist. Yeah, I get that thinking about my principal’s gynecologist was pretty messed up, but don’t the words “private” and “personal” kind of insinuate something like that? Her phrasing did not allude to “an afternoon adventure in the city.”

Instead of taking the elevator, I played it safe and spiraled down the concrete staircase before bursting through the door onto the sidewalk. Starbucks, I remembered. Start walking and find a Starbucks.

Maybe that car actually hadn’t been Unger’s secret service vehicle. Maybe it was just a mirage. I was tired, after all. Hallucinations could happen.

Two blocks later, Starbucks welcomed me with wide-open doors and a long-ass line. I admit, though, that I was totally and completely confused when it was my turn to order. Starbucks’ menu had a lot more going on than Dunkin’ Donuts’ did, which was precisely why I preferred our local Dunkin’. “What can I get you?” my barista asked. Chlo?, according to her name tag.

“Uh…,” I said. “Vanilla latte, please.”

Mrs.Flamporis’s drink of choice. I owed it to her to at least try one, right?

Chlo? gave me a blank look, like she was waiting for more information.

“Size large,” I added.

“A Venti?” she said.

I nodded. “Sure.”

“Hot or iced?”

My brows furrowed. The place was so packed that it was hard to hear. “Repeat that?”

Chlo? sighed. I was clearly ruining her rhythm. “Hot or iced?” she said. “Do you want your latte hot ? Or would you like it poured over ice ?”

“Hmm, that’s a tough question.” I pretended to ponder. I knew what iced coffee was! Who didn’t? “Iced sounds interesting.”

She made a note on my cup, then asked for my name.

Do you also want my number? I considered saying.

“Okay, James.” Chlo? scribbled it on my cup before ringing me up and pointing me toward the pickup area. “It’ll be a few minutes.”

“Thank you,” I said, giving her a cheeky smirk. “It’s been a pleasure, Chlo?.”

She rolled her eyes, but then looked away and smiled.

I tended to have that effect on girls. It meant nothing, though. The only one who made me smile back was Isa.

While waiting, I monitored Find My Friends. The three overlapping dots were getting closer to Center City’s Rittenhouse Square. Well, well, well, I thought, rolling my shoulders back with satisfaction. How well I still know you, Grace…

This pit stop wasn’t going to make or break things. Technically I was a step ahead—

“Yes, I’ll have a triple, Trenta, half-sweet, nonfat caramel macchiato!” someone shouted obnoxiously over the coffeeshop chatter, and if I hadn’t recognized the voice, I would’ve thought, That drink is a crime against humanity in a cup.

But no, I felt melting ice slowly seep into my veins.

Principal Unger, the sirens in my head sounded as I closed my eyes. Principal Unger is here, in Philly, breathing the same espresso-engulfed air as you.

And, okay, sidenote: That was her go-to coffee order?

I carefully glanced over my shoulder and spotted her at the register, pink pantsuit and all. My stomach spun, knowing I had to act fast so she wouldn’t catch me. The obvious route was to just split, to leave my coffee behind and make a run for it. Was there a back door? I would happily brave a dumpster-diving alley. Just say the word.

But truthfully, I also wanted my latte.

Decisions, decisions.

Once Unger had disappeared into the masses, I made my move—slipping between people until I’d reached the coffee bar. “Hey, hi,” I said to a male barista working the assembly line. “Can you do me a favor?”

He didn’t even look at me. “Drinks are made in the order they were purchased,” he said flatly, sprinkling white chocolate shavings over some green milkshake-looking concoction topped with whipped cream. “There’s no cutting.”

“I wasn’t going to ask to cut,” I said, then lowered my voice a little. “I need…an identity change.”

That got his attention. “An identity change?” he asked.

“Yeah, I need my name switched.”

Granted, “James” wasn’t a unique name, but I knew for a fact Unger’s ears would prick up when it was called. Thanks to me, she probably had trust issues with every James she met.

The barista gestured to the line of empty to-go cups, all waiting to be filled. “Which one’s yours?”

A little while later, I gasped in relief when a third barista called out, “Venti iced vanilla latte for Barnaby!”

Now I just had to get out without Unger noticing me…because I had no disguise options whatsoever. I’d left my sweatshirt in the car, so there was no hood to pull up to hide my face, and Everett was the one with all the baseball caps.

Jeez, I thought, holding back a laugh. If he’s wearing his Mets hat right now, people are probably eating him alive.

I wouldn’t put it past someone to challenge him to a fight, because this was Philadelphia. Go Birds! Flyers! Phillies! And whatever the basketball team was called! Our sports were our religion!

I mean, I couldn’t care less, but…

Cautiously, I collected my drink with stooped shoulders (hey, I could at least alter my posture). Was Unger looking at me? I knew I couldn’t chance leaving through the front entrance, so I headed to the restrooms and hoped for the best. Sure enough, there was a back exit.

“Not bad,” I said after taking a sip of my latte among a foul-smelling dumpster and the spotted street-cat guarding it. It hissed at me. “Not bad at all, Mrs.Flamporis.”

Then I walked up the alley and turned right toward Rittenhouse Square. My sister was due to arrive soon.