The Becoming of Noah Shaw

  “Do you like them?” she asks, her voice soft, her eyes closed now.

  “Not enough to keep them on you,” I say, reaching to unfasten and tug, but she doesn’t move.

  “Mara?”

  No answer. Her breath is deep and even. I bounce lightly on the bed just to confirm it, and, yes, she is in fact asleep.

  With a heavy, pathetic sigh, I get up to close the curtains so the sunlight doesn’t wake her, and pull the comforter up over her body. I bend down to kiss her cheek and whisper, “You’re a mean girl, Mara Dyer.”

  She smiles in her sleep.

  10

  THE AMUSEMENT OF MANKIND

  HER MOBILE RINGS IN THE evening—we’ve both slept away the day, it seems.

  “Who?” she moans, her voice hoarse. She makes no move to get it, so I untangle myself from her limbs and search her discarded clothes for it to no avail.

  “Nightstand,” she mumbles.

  My carefully cultivated look of disdain is completely wasted on her, as she’s thrown her arm over her eyes.

  A glance at the screen reveals the caller. “It’s our favourite bisexual Jewish black friend.”

  “Which?”

  I try handing the phone to her and she waves it away. “Can’t. Exhausted.”

  “It’s jet lag, not Ebola.”

  “That doesn’t even make sense,” she says, awake now. “Just answer it.”

  I do, whipped dog that I am, and put it on speaker. “Hello, you’ve reached the winter of man’s discontent.”

  “That’s Mara’s line. Did you throw her into the Thames?”

  “I’m afraid not. She’s here, sleeping.”

  “Well, wake her up! I need her.”

  “Then come over and rouse her yourself,” I say just as Mara snatches the phone from me. Speaker still on.

  “Hey,” she says. “What’s going on?”

  “Hijinks. Gang’s all here.”

  “Who?” I ask, as she says, “Where?”

  “Me, Daniel, Sophie. Frank.”

  Sophie being Daniel’s girlfriend. She made it into Juilliard, thankfully, as he’s so besotted with her he might’ve followed her if she’d gone somewhere else.

  “Who the devil is Frank?”

  “Restaurant between Fifth and Sixth on Second.”

  “We should invite Goose,” I say to Mara. She nods.

  “WTF?” Jamie says. “You want to eat goose?”

  “You’ll like him,” Mara says. The strap of her bra slips down her shoulder as she gets up, pulls on her clothes from yesterday.

  “When’ll you be here?”

  Mara glances at me over her shoulder. “Car or train?”

  “Either.”

  “We’re taking a car,” Mara says. “So maybe nine?”

  “We’ll entertain ourselves at the bar while we wait.”

  “Mind-fucking the bartenders of New York already?” I ask.

  “Why waste a good mind-fuck on drinks?”

  “With great power comes great responsibility.”

  “Exactly. Now get your asses over here before I tell the staff it’s your birthday and have the restaurant sing when you walk in.” The call ends before I can respond. “Twat,” I say to the phone.

  Meanwhile, Mara’s begun rummaging through my luggage, and for the briefest of moments, my stomach drops. The will is somewhere in there, and the letter, and the moment I realise she might see them, and read them, is the moment I realise I don’t want her to. I will tell her. Just . . . not yet.

  “I’ll dress myself, thank you,” I say, trying to edge in ever so casually. Which bag did I put the documents in? I can’t even remember.

  She shrugs. “Okay. If you wear the blue stripey shirt, I’ll have sex with you later. But it’s up to you.”

  “Will you hand me my bollocks when you get a moment? They’re in one of your bags, I think.”

  She looks at me with doe’s eyes and a shark’s smile as I dress. On our way out, we catch our reflection in the mirror. Mara rises to tiptoes and nips at the lobe of my ear before whispering, “Good choice.”

  We get to the restaurant just before Goose does. He exits a cab, and I glimpse a pair of long, crossed legs dangling inside. A burst of female laughter erupts before the door slams.

  I arch my eyebrows, and Goose says, “Those Brazilian arse lifts are in fact a real thing.”

  Mara looks from him to me, back to him again. “What am I missing?”

  “Nothing. Your arse is perfect,” I say, squeezing it.

  A roll of eyes and a swing of hips and she’s inside the restaurant, which is bursting with people. It didn’t sound nearly this loud over the phone—even without my ability, I’d hardly be able to hear anyone over the roar. As it is, my head feels spinny.

  “All right, mate?” Goose asks, and I nod quick. Not good that he noticed.

  “Sister!” I hear Daniel’s shout above the rest, see his tall frame unfold from behind a long table. Mara hugs her brother gently, then Jamie fiercely.

  “I missed you,” she says over the noise. “Both of you.” I’d probably say the same, if I wouldn’t rather die than admit it.

  “It’s only been a week,” Daniel says.

  “I know. But it felt longer. England’s weird.”

  “Is it?” Goose asks her.

  Jamie notices Goose for the first time. “Noah,” he says, eyes remaining on my sort-of-childhood friend. “You came bearing gifts.”

  “Hey,” Daniel says, reaching up to shake his hand. “I’m Daniel, Mara’s brother.”

  A nod and smile. “Goose. Noah’s Westminster plaything.”

  A bat of Jamie’s lashes. “So all of my English boarding school fantasies are true.”

  “I’m Sophie,” Daniel’s girlfriend says with a bright, open smile, the corners of which reach the tips of her nearly white blond hair.

  “What kind of a name is Goose?” Jamie asks, feigning interest in the champagne sweating on the table, which he pours into Goose’s glass before I take it and fill ours.

  “The kind of name one earns at English public schools such as ours when one engages in the sort of ill behaviour we have.”

  “So a nickname, then?”

  “One doesn’t divulge the origins of such a name. Removes all mystery.”

  In point of fact, I couldn’t even remember the origins myself. He was just always . . . Goose. Of course, he was Alastair Greaves in truth, but no one has ever called him that in my hearing.

  Jamie turns to Daniel. “I can’t really imagine whispering ‘Goose’ in bed, can you?”

  A firm shake of Daniel’s head. “Not even dignifying the question with an answer.”

  “Now, did you do something to a goose to earn your moniker?”

  Goosey pretends to think about it for a moment. “Not so much ‘to’ as ‘with,’ I’d say.”

  “The goose verbally consented,” I say.

  Daniel turns to Sophie. “I post- and preemptively apologise for literally everyone at this table, for everything they’ve said or are going to say, for the rest of the night.”

  “Apology accepted,” she says, kissing Daniel on the cheek.

  “I think you have competition for your most-disgusting-couple award,” Jamie says to Mara.

  “We’re not disgusting,” Mara says, then pauses thoughtfully. “We’re . . .”

  “Smutty?”

  “Yes!”

  “I do have other friends,” Daniel says to Sophie.

  Mara raises her glass. “But only one sister.”

  “I will drink to that.” Daniel clinks his glass to hers.

  “So what are you all doing in New York?” Sophie looks at each of us.

  Jamie lies first. “Early admission to NYU.”

  Sophie’s eyebrows scrunch together. “That’s . . . I didn’t know that was a thing,” she says slowly. “So you graduated from Croyden early?”

  “Yes,” Jamie says, his voice distinct and resonant now. The Jedi mind-fuck at work.
“Mara and Noah too, in point of fact.” It’s the party line we’re towing—Mara’s family swallowed it eagerly. They want to believe; Jamie just helps them along.

  Sophie nods, grins broadly, erasing all signs of scepticism. “And you guys”—she looks at us—“Are you going to stay here too?”

  Mara’s nose wrinkles with her smile. “Yeah,” she says, turning to me. “I think we are.”

  “What are you going to do?”

  I look at my girl. “Whatever we want.”

  11

  WHAT YOU SEE

  WE CLOSE DOWN THE BAR and form a quivering circle on the street. The scale ranges from tipsy (Jamie and Sophie) to piss drunk (Mara and Daniel). Goose is solid, having inherited his tolerance from a long purebred line of alcoholics. I’m a blaze of energy standing between him and Mara, listening to the rumble of the subway beneath us and the footsteps/heartbeats/chatter of (mostly) students far more pissed than we. The moon hangs in the faded blue sky, and I feel a hundred times awake.

  “Cab?” Jamie asks us. I realise then I’ve no idea where he’s been staying.

  “Train,” Sophie says. “I’m in Lincoln Center.”

  Daniel shakes his head. “Come back to Palladium with me? I’d feel better if you didn’t go home alone.”

  “Some of us have to get up early.” Do I detect a sliver of resentment beneath that formerly cheery soprano?

  “Then I’ll go with you.”

  “We’ll all go with you,” Mara says. I can tell she doesn’t want to let Daniel go quite yet. She looks to me for agreement, and I give it. After a fashion.

  “We’ll come for the ride, though Sophie volunteers as tribute to hold your hair when you vomit,” I say to Daniel, and he’s not so wasted that he can’t glare. “We can all take the F.”

  A sceptical, slow stare from Mara. “How do you know?”

  “While you were sleeping I memorised the MTA transit map.”

  “Really?”

  “No,” I pull her into my waist. “But you get carsick, so, I’m calling it. Goose?”

  “Whatever, mate. This is your town.”

  Jamie snorts. “I can take the F too, so. I’ll make sure you . . . toffs . . . don’t get lost.”

  “A-plus use of ‘toffs,’ ” Goose says brightly.

  “Wait,” Mara draws out the word. “Where are you staying?”

  “Aunt’s.” Jamie’s voice is clipped. A shiver ripples through Mara, and something closes off behind Daniel’s eyes. I don’t miss the exchange that passes between them—but it’s hardly the time to ask.

  We walk to the F, noisily (Goose), quietly (Daniel), nervously (Sophie), pensively (Jamie). Mara’s melting into dead weight in my arms.

  “How much did you drink?”

  She holds up three fingers.

  “Did you eat?”

  “Mmmhmm.” Lying.

  “We’re going to have to work on her,” Goose says, tipping his chin toward Mara. “Unless you prefer them unconscious now?”

  “Were you always such an incredible cunt?” I ask.

  “Yes.”

  “How did I miss that?”

  “You didn’t.”

  Jamie cuts in. “If I’d had to guess, between the two of you, I personally would’ve thought Noah would be the one with a predilection for geese. He does love animals.”

  “Mm, no,” Goose says. “That’s the Welsh. And sheep.”

  “An ugly stereotype,” I say.

  “Did you know,” Mara says to Jamie, “that Wales is a whole different country?”

  Jamie looks me in the eye. “She is very drunk.”

  “They have their own language! It’s crazy!”

  “Never,” Daniel says slowly. “Mix. Alcohol. And. Jet. Lag.”

  Mara pats her brother’s shoulder. “Thank you, Gandalf.”

  “I prefer Giles! We’ve been over this. Tolkien is problematic.”

  “Maybe. Who cares? I love him anyway.”

  “That’s the title of your Lifetime movie,” Jamie says, “I Love Him Anyway: The Mara Dyer Story,” and even I start laughing, because it’s fucking brilliant.

  Mara manages to give him the finger and descend the stairs to the subway simultaneously. I’m quite proud.

  We’re swallowed by heat beneath the city, as well as about a dozen New Yorkers milling about on the platform, still clinging to the edges of the night. Mara leans against me, Jamie flirts rather bizarrely with Goose, and Sophie and Daniel settle into a quiet but relaxed silence as I observe what the East Village at two a.m. has to offer; a birdlike girl with wide-set eyes, headphones far too large for her blond head, standing at the very end of the platform. A woman in a black suit, typing furiously on her laptop in one of the bench seats. There’s a somewhat round student in bright blue jeans and a gold cardigan with another boy—bearded, curly haired—tugging at his jeans and pulling him in close for a kiss. Farther down, a guy our age looks down the tunnel. He’s not tall, but holds himself as though he wants to be. He’s thin but soft-looking, somehow, and quite pale. He stares at the tunnel, waiting for the train like everyone else, I think—until I catch him watching me. His eyes are a startling, unclouded blue. I hold his gaze until it slides past me, into shadow.

  Each person is thinking a thousand thoughts I’ll never know, living lives I can only pretend to invent, and then wonder what, if anything, they see and think when they look at me—at us, my eyes flickering toward Mara’s for less than a second. Are we the students we’re pretending to be, exhausted from drinking too much and laughing too loud and dancing too hard tonight? Or aimless gap-year wanderers, on our way to the next adventure? Are Mara and I girlfriend/boyfriend? Not husband/wife, surely?

  The air belowground is dead and feverish, until it isn’t. At first I think, astonishingly, that I might’ve had too much to drink—the world seems to tilt, and darken, and a rush of noise fills my skull.

  Then, strands of blond hair whip in front of my eyes, lash at my skin, and I know it’s happening again.

  I feel someone else’s fear, someone else’s shame, the searing light of the oncoming train on her retinas, and the ground gives way to air as she jumps. She screams before she dies.

  Dark, sharp pain condenses, a collapsing star. I see her last view before her eyes shutter forever. The stinging light, dingy metal—hear the screech and horn and sparks on tracks coming on so fast I can’t breathe.

  And this time, again, I know her thoughts, as I knew Sam’s. The last ones. The feeling, hearing, seeing isn’t new—that’s always been there, all along, part of my (dis?)ability. But this. I’m cut down by the words in her head: furious unstoppable terror pain shame and—

  I’m back inside myself, my mind belongs to me again, but it rings with her agony. Jamie’s voice has risen above the rest—time’s passed, because there are police, clearing everyone out. My thoughts are divided; part of me notices Sophie weeping, Daniel getting sick, Goose stunned, and Mara, beside me, her voice mist-smooth through it all. The rest of me is with Beth—

  Beth. That’s her name.

  Was her name.

  “Noah.” Mara’s voice reaches me from the filth of the tunnel, from the freeze-frames of metal and rust and excruciating light, and I manage to stand and look up. Which is when I realise I hadn’t been standing—I’d been slumped against a pillar. My eyes skim past Mara, she’s blurred and shivering, as is everyone else. Or no, not everyone. That boy—the amphibious-looking one, is somehow in focus. He’s staring right back at me.

  I open my mouth, and my jaw aches. Mara’s soft fingers are on my rough cheeks, bringing my face to look at hers. Her skin her eyes her curls her lips form my name but they don’t quite form her. It’s as though she’s hyper-pixelated, almost.

  “I saw—”

  “Shh. I know.”

  “I felt her—”

  “I know.”

  She begins to come back into focus. “Mara—”

  “Don’t talk. You’re hurt—your head hit the concrete
—”

  “I’m fine.” I’m not.

  “Can you walk?”

  Can I? “Of course.” I reach up to clasp her forearm and see . . . writing. On my own arm.

  Letters, numbers. My bones are ringing with echoes of Beth’s last . . . everything . . . and my own senses are completely overwhelmed. I blink, hard. The writing is still there. It takes a bit to realise that what I’m seeing is an address.

  Jamie, Mara, and I are last to ascend the stairs as the police attend to the mess of what was once a girl, once a person, once like us. I move by focusing on the heartbeats around me—Jamie, fast. Mara, hard.

  Two more. A look across the tracks again. The boy is gone.

  I look down at my arm again. The address is still there.

  12

  A FACT OF THE IMAGINATION

  THE PURPOSE-DRIVEN LIFE. IT’S WHAT we’re supposed to want, or do. Carpe diem, that shit.

  Thing is, I don’t have one. Beth, however, did.

  I hear her voice in my mind, feel her last memories written in her script, somehow, in the grey folds of my brain. Beth’s Top Five Greatest Hits:

  One: Her ninth birthday party, a gulf of a pool, a juicy sun, girls cracking open with laughs, her father’s warm face.

  Two: Eleven years old. Piano recital, fingers skimming ivory, notes perfect, gorgeous, the feel of heart-bursting pride.

  Three: First concert. Her mother, the cool-cool kind, all real, all love. Stevie Nicks provides the score.

  Four: First kiss, first love. I’ll say nothing more—that belongs to Beth. Only her.

  And five: Discovering her Gift. The thought is there, but her Gift itself is vague, gauzy—I can see the brand of the piano she played at her recital, the closed-up hole in her father’s ear where a stud used to be, but I can’t get at her ability. Each time I try, another detail from just before her death reveals itself; the white scuffing on the tan leather strap of her tote bag. The edge of a tattoo peeking out from the cuff of her sleeve. A slight smear of blood on her first knuckle.

  All I’m truly left with, really, is this: the absolute certainty that she didn’t want to kill herself. She didn’t want to die. She didn’t want to jump.