10. Nick #3
I should have thought of buying Maddie a pen recorder. Luca explains some of the other gadgets, and Maddie looks fascinated. I should not have introduced Luca to Maddie, but at least he’s a good guy. Definitely a better prospect than I am. Unless he returns to being a bodyguard.
We walk out the door into the cool night air. At least this winter has been relatively mild, other than a few freezing nights. Maddie is wearing her huge parka, all the new toys from Luca stuffed into the inner pockets. Her parka apparently doubles as a substitute bag.
Crosby Street has a different feel than where we live, particularly with the brick-paved street. This street in the SoHo Cast Iron District maintains the feel of the old industrial and artistic SoHo.
As we walk to Grand Street, we pass by the hollow cast iron columns and the huge windows that allow sunlight to permeate the far depths of the floors that characterize the west side of the street.
Maddie says. “That was fun. You were right. It was a good distraction from my nerves about tomorrow’s panel presentation.”
“I didn’t expect you to be so nervous. Is it because you’re worried that those women will be there?”
“I haven’t seen them since I left middle school,” Maddie says. “I think I’m over it, but I hated them so much.”
It’s hard to imagine Maddie hating anyone. One of the things I like about her is that she’s such a positive person. But then, I can’t understand anyone bullying Maddie either.
“How did you cope?” I ask.
“I mostly escaped into reading at lunch so I didn’t feel alone.
Then I found Ms. Philips, who supported me when I said I wanted to start a newspaper.
I retreated to her classroom during lunch to work on the paper, so eighth grade was much better.
And then high school was amazing. I met Iris and other friends, and it was great to be among smart kids and appreciated for wanting to study and learn. ”
I escaped into music, and she escaped into reading.
We’re more similar than I realized. Grand Street is quiet now, with only a few people hurrying down the street.
We’re in Little Italy now, and a huge cannoli sculpture decorates the side of one corner building.
The customers sitting in the restaurants look warm and cozy.
“Did you like high school?” she asks.
“High school was better than middle school and elementary school, that’s for sure.
At least parents were no longer expected to show up to all our activities,” I say.
“With my mom working full-time to support us, she couldn’t take off to make school meetings or come to performances.
I always felt like the other kids pitied me.
Luca’s mom kind of adopted me and would try to play that role sometimes.
That meant a lot to me.” I look down. “I loved dinners at Luca’s house.
It was so chaotic and warm with his four siblings.
And his mom always seemed fully present, really listening to us. ”
“And you didn’t feel your mom was?”
“My mom was doing the best she could, and she managed to support us all on her own,” I say.
“But boy, did she hate when I joined a band in middle school, because she was worried that I would pursue a futile dream of being a rock star like my dad and not take academics seriously. And all I wanted to talk about was the band—which didn’t reassure her.
It was absolutely a topic I learned not to bring up. It would put her in a terrible mood.”
“That must have been hard not to talk about what you’re passionate about,” Maddie says.
“At least since she often worked late, I had free rein to practice at home,” I say.
“The neighbors didn’t complain?” Maddie asks with a mischievous glance at me.
“They did.” I grin back at her. “But I learned to practice before they got home from work. That still gave me plenty of time. I’ve tried to do that for you too. I try to practice during the day when you’re not there. I’m sorry I practiced past eleven.”
“I’m sorry I gave you such a hard time,” Maddie says.
We share a look of mutual contrition and acceptance.
We pass by the stores with signs in English and Chinese as we amble farther into Chinatown. As we wait for the light to change, someone exits the bar behind us, and the jazz music from inside reverberates through the quiet night air.
Most of the stores are closed at this hour, bright graffiti decorating the aluminum fronts covering the front entrances. One market with fried chickens hanging on hooks in the window beckons passersby inside with the offer of a warm meal.
“Do we need a code word for these bullies?” I ask. “So I know to be rude to them if they approach?”
Maddie smiles at me. “You can’t be rude to them. That might harm your public persona. It’s okay. I can handle it. But I’m touched you offered.”
“I’ll tell Luca to be rude to them,” I say. “The code phrase should be ‘Have you seen Riley?’ because of that article you wrote last year.”
“Luca’s not going to come, is he?”
“Of course he is.”
“But I just met him.”
“He liked you,” I say. Even if he did try to be my wingman.
We both detour slightly to pay our respects to the tiny lion sculpture that guards Lions Gate Field, Maddie patting his head.
The clouds are low enough in the sky that the bare brown branches of the trees look like they have been tufted with cotton balls.
My hand brushes against her hand once—one feathery touch.
I could suggest we hold hands. No. I need to proceed slowly.
Her brow is already furrowed, like she’s thinking about her story and her spreadsheet. She glances at me, and I smile at her.
It’s so easy with Maddie. I can’t quite believe I’m sharing all these details, but I trust her. She won’t betray me.