The City Series (Book 2): Peripeteia

  “Guillermo, no one will be mad at you. Just tell them.” He shakes his head, and I step into the lantern light. “Look at me, I’m not mad at you. If anything, I love you more. They’ll be so happy they won’t care.”

  “No, they won’t.”

  “They will.” I want that party at any cost, but I do think it’s true.

  “If you can think of some way we can say it came from you—”

  “Guillermo, you in here?” Eric calls from upstairs.

  “Yeah, coming up now!” Guillermo yells, then mumbles, “Can’t even go to the basement for five minutes.”

  Eric meets us on the garden floor, shoving back his hair in a harried way. “Denise is trying to leave. They haven’t let her because they want you there. She’s at 6A.”

  “Leave?” Guillermo asks. He mutters something in Spanish before he’s out the door.

  Eric and I trail him up the block. The inner gate is still open, the outer gate closed. Twenty people stand on the street in excited conversation, but Denise is nowhere to be seen.

  “Where’d she go?” Guillermo asks.

  Felipe comes forward, hands up as though he doesn’t know and doesn’t care. I’m with him on that one. “She had one of the Glocks. When she started waving it around, we let her through. I’m not getting shot to keep her in here. She took a bike and a trailer packed with supplies, and the kid. I felt bad for him, but what could we do?”

  “Her choice, I guess,” Guillermo says, rubbing the back of his neck. “I wish she didn’t take Dominic with her. It’s not his fault she’s an asshole.”

  I could remind him that Dominic is a chip off the old block, but he’s right that it isn’t Dominic’s fault. Kids mirror what they see, and maybe we could’ve rehabbed him into a nice kid. Not me, but Grace could’ve.

  “She’ll be okay,” Eric says. “Someone like Denise will figure it out.”

  Guillermo nods, but his shoulders droop. Who knew that losing the worst person here would affect him so much? I take his arm. “You did everything you could, short of making her the queen of SPSZ. She didn’t want to do anything. I don’t think she wanted to be here, honestly. And now guess what this means?”

  “What?” he asks, head lowered.

  “We don’t have to give her any of that alcohol.” Guillermo yelps out a laugh while the others watch in bewilderment. I say to them, “We brought a bunch of alcohol when we moved here, but we thought we should save it for a special occasion. I think we just got one.”

  Eric is quick enough on the uptake to accept the hearty thanks we receive. I nudge Guillermo and whisper, “See how happy they are? Sorry I’m taking the credit.”

  “As long as I’m so drunk I can’t see straight, I don’t give a shit.”

  ***

  Guillermo can’t see straight, or sideways, or any other way, because he’s passed out on a park bench. Someone’s hung a homemade sign that says OFF DUTY around his neck, and he may be missing the fun, but he wears a smile as he drifts in oblivion. The park is strung with Christmas lights that feed off the batteries, which will charge tomorrow on another sunny day.

  It’s magical to be sitting outside on a warm night with electric lights and happy people. There are less-happy people who guard the roofs, but they all got one drink and the promise of bottles to keep for their very own if they worked a shift tonight. Eli took Guillermo up on that offer, and Grace is in full-on morose drunk mode, sipping at her beer and staring at the ground.

  Eric sits at an angle to me at our folding table. “I finally get to solve the Drunk Sylvie mystery. Will she cry? Will she dance on the bar with her sorority sisters? The answer remains to be seen.”

  “The latter, definitely,” I say. An annoying giggle escapes. “I don’t know why you’re excited about this. But you’re cute when you’re two sheets to the wind.”

  He laughs, fairy lights reflected in his eyes. “I think it’s three sheets to the wind.”

  “You’re only two so far.” I push a cup of something at him and clink it with my bottle. “Here’s to number three.”

  He grimaces after he swallows. “Too sweet.”

  “What?” I place my full beer in his hand and taste the mixed drink. It’s sugary and fizzy and I’m going to drink another five.

  Indy and Paul are just down the table. Maria and Jorge are dancing in the rec center at the top of the park, where the noise doesn’t travel as far. I’ve been watching them for signs of romance, but aside from a little more time spent together, likely because they share an apartment, it doesn’t seem to be going anywhere.

  Leo climbs into my lap with a soda, moves my cup to the side, and sets his down. “Make yourself at home, squirt,” I say.

  His smiling mouth is ringed with stains left by colored sugary liquids. “Emily is chasing me. I’m hiding.”

  “Don’t get on Emily’s bad side. She’s a tough lady.”

  Eric tousles Leo’s hair. “Sylvie can tell. It takes one to know one.”

  I hold Leo so he doesn’t topple to the concrete and lean to kiss Eric. He’s so kissable. I am enamored of him. Besotted.

  “Bro!” Paul calls, and we break apart. “Maybe not with my kid on your lap?”

  I kiss Leo’s head. “Sorry.”

  “My dad and mom kissed all the time,” he says. “Gross.”

  “Truth,” Indy says. “Don’t get involved with all that for a long time, little man.”

  I look to Paul, who gives me a tight smile and empties his bottle. I shove my cup down the table. “This is happy juice. Drink it.” He takes a sip and frowns, then tilts it to his mouth anyway.

  “Don’t listen to Indy,” I say to Leo. “Love is grand. One day you’ll want to kiss someone—when you’re well over eighteen, of course—and you should go for it.”

  Paul chokes on his drink and raises his eyebrows at Eric. I just said something about love. I need to shut up.

  “And you,” I point at Indy, obviously not heeding my own advice, “are a sexy, hilarious woman. You are not cursed.”

  I turn to Paul. “Is she not sexy and hilarious?” He nods and shrugs at Indy, who lifts her eyes heavenward. I poke Eric. “Tell me you wouldn’t hit that.”

  Paul bellows out a laugh. I kick Eric’s foot under the table. “Um, yes?” he says.

  I point at Indy. “Boom. Two great guys who think you’re awesome.”

  “Because you forced them to say it.” Indy takes a long draw of her drink. “But thanks.”

  “Grace, tell her she’s not cursed,” I say.

  Grace lifts unfocused eyes. “You’re not cursed,” she says in a monotone. “I’m going to bed.”

  She thrusts herself up and weaves along the path, leaving us in silence. I lift Leo off my lap. “Save my seat.”

  I catch up to her at the edge of the park, where the lights only just reach, and steady her when she stumbles. “Gracie, you need to stop feeling guilty. You can’t help that you don’t like Eli that way. He’ll get over it. You were being honest. He can’t fault you for that.”

  Grace studies her feet, nodding slowly, and then lifts sorrowful eyes to mine. “That’s the thing, I wasn’t being honest.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I knew he liked me, Syls. And I liked that he liked me. I pretended not to see it because—” she takes a deep breath, “because it made me feel good, and I didn’t want to lose that feeling. I hated that I was using him like that, but I didn’t stop.”

  I stand, astounded, and watch her tears roll. Grace isn’t dumb, so of course it didn’t go over her head. Her response is completely understandable but totally fucked up.

  “Shit,” I say, in what is possibly the least helpful statement ever.

  “And Eli is such a great person,” she says. “He’s my friend and he’d pretty much be the perfect guy if my dead husband didn’t haunt me. I told myself I wasn’t hurting anyone, and I wasn’t cheating on Logan’s memory because it was innocent, and Eli is…Eli, so I convinced myself he wasn’t
serious even though we have a real connection. There were no consequences. But there were. I hurt him. And now I’m lonelier than I was before.”

  The words have gushed from her in a torrent. I open my mouth to say something besides a four-letter word, but she continues, “I know how selfish that sounds. Don’t get me wrong, I deserve to feel this way, but I miss Eli.” She laughs—a drunk, sobbing, sardonic laugh. “And my dead husband, let’s not forget him.”

  I take her in my arms. If only we could wipe out the memories of before and carry on, slate wiped clean. I’ve tried it, and it doesn’t work forever, but whereas I can slam the mental gate, Grace can’t.

  “You have to tell him,” I say. She shakes her head. “Grace, you’re always yelling at me to be honest and say what I feel. I suck at it, but you don’t. Tell him. If he’s as good a friend as you think he is, he’ll understand. And you know what? I think he is. You should hear him talk about you like you’re a perfect angel. It’ll be good to show him you’re a human jerk, too.”

  She laughs, a genuine one, her head still pressed to my shoulder.

  “You guys can make a vision board together,” I say. “Of you not being a jerk.”

  “Have I ever told you you’re an asshole?” She steps back, checks every pocket, and then sighs and wipes her face with her shirt. “When am I going to learn to carry tissues at all times?”

  “Never, obviously. Come back and drink more. Or find Eli and talk to him. I know he’s on a roof at 5A.”

  “If I drink any more I won’t be able to talk.” Her forehead wrinkles. “You really think I should talk to him?”

  “Are you seriously asking me that? You’re the freaking therapist.”

  “You’re different now.”

  “I’m drunk now. I’m not that different.”

  She sniffs. “You’re getting there. Don’t stop.”

  “You’re turning this around on me, aren’t you?” I drag her along the path by her arm. “We’re discussing your fucked-up issues, not mine, woman. Because tonight I am the one, for once in the past umpteen years, who has not been a jerk.”

  “Astonishing.”

  “It’s not a bad feeling,” I say in a snooty tone. “You should try it sometime.”

  Grace’s laugh is music to my ears. “I love you so much,” she says.

  “I love you more.”

  “Indy’s going to hate me. I would hate me.”

  “She won’t hate you, and neither will he.” We reach where the path splits, and I prod her toward the lower part of the park. “Go get your friend back.”

  Grace pulls at her lower lip. “Maybe it’s working out the way it’s supposed to. Maybe the universe is trying to tell—”

  “No,” I say. “You’re not pulling the universe card for this. Make it the way you want it. At least try. Be the change you want to see and all that crap.”

  “I don’t like when you’re right,” she says petulantly, then kisses my cheek and disappears down the path.

  I catch sight of Brother David strolling uphill and wait for him to reach me. “Good evening,” he says, though we’re way past evening.

  “Don’t tell me you’re not drinking,” I say.

  He’s recovered from his near-starvation. His dark hair is in a ponytail, and with his brown monk’s habit and the new addition of his dark beard, he could be a modern-day prophet. He holds up a beer bottle that I missed in the folds of his robe. “I’m not a saint.”

  “Glad to hear you’re into all kinds of spirits,” I say. “Come sit with us over there.”

  Brother David walks beside me. “Speaking of spirits, will I see you this Sunday, Sylvia?”

  “I’ll be there,” I say. “When Hell freezes over.”

  He laughs uproariously. I have a feeling Brother David wasn’t always so pious. And still isn’t, where humor is concerned. “Fair enough. I look forward to the day.”

  Our original table is now full, with Leo and Emily sharing my seat. I plop onto Eric’s lap and he circles my waist with his arm. Brother David wastes no time entering into conversation with Indy, Paul, Lucky, Carlos, and Micah a few chairs down.

  After a minute, Indy looks my way. “Is Grace okay?”

  “She will be. She’ll tell you later.”

  Indy nods, then returns to her conversation. Eric moves a cup filled with more delectable pink drink in front of me. “Bottoms up.”

  “You’re trying to get me drunk.”

  “Yup.”

  I take a swallow. Rissa slides over a chair and sits beside us while April stands over her shoulder, drinking a beer. Jordan and Junior, brother and sister, linger on the outskirts. They’re always together—perhaps any sibling rivalry was put to rest with their parents’ bodies.

  I peer into Rissa’s cup. “Is that soda or something forbidden, Rissa? I don’t care either way.”

  Her eyes blaze with exhilaration. “Forbidden.”

  “Ooh,” I sing, and she giggles. “Just don’t get caught.”

  “My mother’s asleep, and have you seen my brother? I could dump this on his head and he wouldn’t know.”

  “I think you’re safe. But they might smell it in the morning, so be sure to eat something strong and use mouthwash. And stay three feet away at all times.”

  “That’s what I said,” April says. She’s eighteen, but I get the feeling she’s been around the block once or twice.

  “Are you corrupting our youth?” Eric asks me.

  “I’ll be eighteen in two months,” Rissa says in a huff. “I’m going to go crazy here if I don’t drink. It’s like my mother wants me to be all grown up and do everything, but I can’t be grown up in the good ways.” She guzzles the rest of her drink, tosses her empty cup on the table, and glares in the direction of her house.

  “Welcome to being a minor,” I say. “Try not to let it get to you for two more months.”

  “Have you met my mother? Nothing’s going to change. She’ll rule me until the day she dies. My life is over before it ever began. You have to help me, Sylvie.”

  She’s likely semi-right about the first part. The second part is a whole lot of drama, as is her hand that grips my arm and the desperate look on her face. “Have you been listening to The Smiths?” I ask.

  “The what?”

  Eric shakes with silent laughter, which threatens to send me into a tailspin of giggling. “They’re a band.”

  “Oh, right. Do you have them? I lost my phone today, and it was all I had for music. I didn’t take any CDs when we moved here, and Guillermo won’t get them for me. He says it’s not important.” Her face contorts and she screeches, “How is it not important?”

  I pat her head. That drink is kicking in. “We’ll find you some music.”

  “Will you?” she begs.

  “Sure,” I say, because she’s asked me for help. And my cognitive level is at Pink Drink. “We’ll fix you up right. Start you on a diet of Morrissey, maybe some Dashboard Confessional.”

  “I have them on my phone,” Micah says from the end of the table. “I have tons of stuff on there.”

  “Why didn’t you ever tell me?” Rissa screams.

  He tugs his hair over his eye. “Sorry. I didn’t think you liked that kind of music.”

  “Micah moved to New York partly for the music scene,” I say. “He has good taste.”

  She jumps to her feet and takes April’s hand. April makes an annoyed noise but allows herself to be dragged to Micah’s end of the table. “Can we see?” Rissa asks, her face an inch from his.

  He pulls back. “Sure. It’s at my house, though. You can borrow it and listen whenever you want.”

  Carlos looks from Micah to Rissa, back to Micah, and then the hair smoothing begins. “You should come over and listen now.”

  Micah shakes his head. “I’m not sure that’s—”

  “Let’s go,” April says, and Carlos practically lifts Micah from his chair.

  “We have to get everyone else on the way,” Rissa yells. “
This is so fun!”

  I catch Micah’s eye and motion him over. He kneels by my side. “Keep an eye on Rissa?” I ask. “She’s pretty drunk.”

  “I won’t let her do anything stupid. She’s…young.”

  I prod his shoulder. “So are you, goober. Have some fun already. Just don’t let Carlos get in her pants.”

  Micah gives Carlos a covert glance and whispers, “I don’t think she wants him in her pants. She’s shot him down every time.” He chews his lip to hold back a smile, eyes on Eric. “I don’t know where he got the idea she likes him.”

  “Carlos is more tenacious than I thought,” Eric says. “I’ll give him that.”

  “What?” I whisper-yell. “You did this?” Eric drinks his beer instead of answering, though his eyes dance above the bottle. My jaw drops. “You need to stay out of love lives, my friend.”

  “Carlos won’t do anything,” Micah says. “He’s a good guy, just…”

  “Testosterone-laden?” I ask.

  “Totally.”

  I thank him and send him on his way. Rissa waves, and I yell, “Behave!”

  She scampers off. I turn to Eric. “Between Grace and Rissa, I have exhausted my advice-giving capabilities for tonight. I’m the last person anyone should ask about anything. The whole world has gone crazy.” I slam the rest of my drink. “Maybe I should start an advice column in the SPSZ Times.”

  “We’ll call it Sylvie Sorts It Out.”

  “Sylvie can’t sort anything out.”

  “Sylvie likes to put herself down.”

  “Sylvie needs another pink drink,” I say. “And to stop talking about herself in the third person.” Eric reaches under the chair and places a new drink in my hand, then clinks the rim with his beer. “You’re magic! Let me try another: Sylvie needs all the zombies to die.”

  “If only I could,” he says.

  “Oh, well. Pink drink is a close second.”

  Felipe has swung by with Elena, and Rob and Dennis with their wives. I like it here at the end of the table, where I can listen to the conversations yet stay out of them, which is basically how I conduct myself here ninety percent of the time. I notice Eric watching me in my peripheral vision and ask, “Why are you staring?”