Loud Awake and Lost

“Har-har.” Claude rolled his eyes, truly unbothered. He seemed to have no nerve endings; he never cared if he got snapped at or chewed out.

As Rachel came rolling into homeroom, he shifted focus to her. “Hey, remember those jokes you made, Rachel? About Ember’s makeover, last year? Looks like it’s time for an encore.”

“What jokes?” I asked.

“Claude, do you ever shut up? They were just dumb jokes.” Rachel was eyeing me to see if I cared. “Exceptionally dumb. Plus I’ve gotten to appreciate the new-old-new Ember.” But I could tell Rachel was embarrassed; she was visibly squirmy.

“Emb’s better as a ballerina,” Tom called over from the back of the room, where he was in the middle of a cram session but obviously had been dual processing with an eavesdrop.

“Except that I’m not even taking dance this semester.”

“You’re also better with Holden,” said Claude. “Is it true you two are going for it again? That’s got to count for double as physical therapy.”

I laughed, sort of. I didn’t want to get defensive. I had no comment, officially, on Holden. But Rachel was at him in an instant. “You know what, Claude? Why don’t you take a time-out from this conversation? You’ve already hit the ninety percent marker for talking about things that aren’t your business.”

“Claude, caro mio, I agree. And I also like your jacket, Ember,” piped up Lucia. “It’s how all the students look, you know. Back in Firenze.” Her liquidy dark eyes were full of approval, and I felt a surge of gratitude toward her.

“Hey, Lucia, I keep meaning to ask you—who was that girl at your Halloween party, in the yellow mask? Maisie, I think her name was.”

Lucia shrugged. “I don’t know any girl named Maisie. Maybe she was an artist. They come and they go; it’s hard to keep track. My uncle likes the company of young artists and aspiring artists. He threw open his doors to them when he was here, and he would have these exhibits, these salons showing their work. And some of the students still come to the parties and stomp around and think they own the place.”

“Kind of like you in those bossy boots, Emb.”

“Enough already, Claude,” I snapped. “They’re just boots and a jacket. Not my personal manifesto.”

But I was lying. They were important. In the hush of this morning’s walk to school, I’d enjoyed how they anchored me inside my body, making me feel protected and mysterious and, for once, an older version of myself instead of the girl I was always trying to catch a backward glance at.

And yet in what should have been the comfort of homeroom, surrounded by kids who’d known me since grade school, I was feeling like an imposter. Was it really so impossible to change anyone’s mind (including my own) about who I was? Then again, was I being too hard on my friends? I didn’t want them to lie to me—I valued their opinions. But I wanted them to embrace that I’d changed—not to keep harking back to someone who didn’t exist anymore.

And I wasn’t prepared for Tom’s confession when he fell in step with me on the way to first period.

“Hey, Ember. I was hoping I could catch up with you about something.”

“Is this about getting a Saturday court time from Holden? Because I asked him already—he said no problem.” Tom was a tennis player, but it was Holden’s family that belonged to the local tennis and squash club. Tom and my dad always used my connection to Holden to reserve courts under the Wildes’ account. It was technically against club rules, but Holden never minded; actually, he seemed glad whenever he could pull a fast one on the snobs who ran the club.

“Ah, that’s great. Thanks. But this is about something else.”

We’d been heading up the stairs, but as we swung through the door to the upper library hall, I sensed that what Tom had to say was more important than scheduling court times. We moved to the side, dropping pace for privacy and to let the other kids pass. But still Tom seemed to hesitate.

“What is it?” I prompted. “What’s wrong?”

“Ember, I haven’t been sure how to approach you about this. I don’t even have a real handle on if you want to hear it. Then I decided it was worse to keep it in. I can’t keep it from you anymore. You need to know.”

“Know what?”

“Here’s the deal. I met that kid. Anthony.”

“Oh.” Beneath my ribs, my heart began to beat in that same, horribly pained way whenever I heard Anthony’s name.

“Nobody else out of our friends did, so I never mentioned it to anyone. And I met him just by chance. He came to pick you up from school one afternoon. It was late—I’d been getting tutoring, and I think you’d been at a dance practice.”

“Anthony Travolo came to pick me up?” I’d stopped walking altogether. My shoulder met the wall for support.

“Yeah, I think so. He was just outside the back entrance. He was waiting for you, and you and I came out together, and you introduced him as Anthony. We spent a few minutes talking ice hockey. But then…” Tom was facing me, his arms crossed at his chest, his head bowed a bit, like a professor lost in thought.

“What? What?”

He looked up. “Well, here’s where it gets a little funky. A cop car turned in from Court Street. Not in an urgent way, not like it was on anyone’s tail. But your guy, Anthony—he kind of flipped.”

My guy. “You think the cops were there for him?”

“No, but I think he thought so. He got tense. And then he bolted. And you took off after him—you followed him down the street and disappeared. I just kind of stood there and watched the whole thing. But then the next day, you never said anything about it. So I didn’t, either. I didn’t want to blow it up into some gossip item. Get Claude all pumped up. So I left it alone.” Tom gazed at me perplexedly. “Do you remember anything about that?”

“No,” I admitted. What a strange story. I tried to picture it, and I couldn’t, though my body was prickly as if I were once again about to give chase, again tailing the long fleeting shadow of Anthony Travolo. “I know he wasn’t a stranger,” I said. “But what was he, to me? What was our situation? Could you tell?”

Tom shifted his backpack. “I suck at these things, but, okay—my instinct was that you seemed with him. Like, with him with him. It wasn’t any one specific thing you were saying or doing, but he hadn’t surprised you by meeting you. You were happy to see him. Look, I don’t know if I should have thrown any of this at you, Ember. But I feel bad that I can remember Anthony and you can’t.”