Chapter Twenty-Seven
Twenty-Seven
But if he notices, he doesn’t let on. Peter’s being very casual today. Like he’s trying extra hard to not draw attention to the absolute absurdity of what we’re here to do. Which is hand almost-dead people hot dogs. Metaphorically. Or literally. I’m still not sure.
I have no idea where we are, but Peter keeps commenting on the stoops and pointing out different slivers of skyscrapers that loom over the brownstones.
“See that one with the really cool architecture?” Peter points to this building that looks exactly like the last six buildings. “That’s actually part of NYU. It’s just an office of theirs. But still. Isn’t that wild? Imagine New York City as your college campus.”
“Oh.” I stop and actually pay attention.
There are little purple flags with torches hanging off the awning.
A girl with a leather jacket, a high pony, and AirPods walks up the steps to the building.
She pulls the handle of the giant door and goes inside without looking back. And why would she? She belongs here.
For a second, I let myself imagine what it would be like to grab the cold brass door handle in my own hands, pull open the door and walk inside …
No. No, I can’t go down that road. It’s one thing to come out here with Peter and do this thing, it’d be a whole other to live here. I can’t even let myself think about it.
“Hey, are you okay?” Peter lowers his voice. “Do you … see something, or, you know, someone?”
I shake my head, tearing my eyes away from the little purple flags and putting the impersonation of a smile on my face. “No. Everyone around here gets to live. At least for the next three days.”
“Copy that.” Peter lets out a little breath. “You know, I’m not sure if I’m supposed to get excited when we actually find a, uh, Clocker, or if I should feel bad or … I don’t know.”
He says the word Clocker in this kind of stiff way, like he still doesn’t believe it’s real, and to be honest neither do I.
I mean, not the death part. That part is plenty real.
But the part where he knows and he’s here with me, and we’re doing this thing.
I still can’t really wrap my head around it.
“Is that shitty?” Peter asks. “To be kind of looking forward to finding one, I mean, a Clocker? It is, isn’t it? Shit. Sorry.”
“It’s fine,” I say. “I mean, that’s what we’re here for.
They’d have a clock even if we weren’t around to see it.
So. Yeah. It’s all good.” And, it kind of is all good.
It’s so weird—I hadn’t even realized how much my subconscious was constantly scanning my surroundings for clocks.
But now that I’m trying to find them instead of trying to avoid them it’s like I can breathe or something.
“Cool,” Peter says, putting his hands in his pockets and looking back out at the city. “That little sliver of building over there? That’s the Plaza.”
“That one I actually know,” I say, thankful for the subject change.
Peter raises his eyebrows. “You know the Plaza but not the Chrysler Building?”
“My dad took me there once. To ride the elevator.”
“Like Eloise in those kids’ books?”
“Exactly.” It’s kind of wild sometimes how Peter just, like, knows what I mean. Although, yeah, of course he’s read those books. He’s read everything. “Eloise was my favorite when I was a kid.”
Peter laughs. “That’s because you basically are Eloise.”
“I’m a turtle-obsessed pain in the ass who doesn’t own a hairbrush or know when to shut the fuck up?”
“No,” Peter says. “You’re someone who doesn’t take any shit.” We keep walking and then Peter starts rubbing his neck. Oh god, he’s going to ask me something. He pauses. “What’s he like?”
“Who? Oh, you mean my dad? I don’t know. He’s a dad. He’s fine.” I feel kind of shitty, talking about him like that, so I add, “That day in the Plaza he let me push every single button,” as if that redeems him.
“That’s cool,” Peter says.
“It was, actually. Every time the elevator doors opened, I’d say, ‘Ohhh, I absolutely love the Plaza. Fifth floor, please!’ or whatever.
People were mostly cool about it, but there was this one old bitch who gave me the stink face, and my dad, without missing a beat, said, ‘So sorry, she cawn’t, cawn’t, cawn’t help herself,’ like in the nanny’s accent, you know?
” The image of Dad’s clean-shaven face, young and pudgy, crinkled in a laugh is suddenly so clear in my mind.
I haven’t thought about him like that in so long.
Now he’s all sharp angles and beard and a flat line for a mouth.
God, I can’t even remember the last time he laughed at all.
“He sounds awesome,” Peter says.
“Yeah, well. He’s not like that anymore.”
“Because of your mom?” Peter asks, carefully.
“Death sometimes kills the living too.”
“Yeah,” he says, squinting into the sky, “I guess it does.”
“What about yours?” I ask.
“What? My dad?”
“Yeah,” I say. “Tell me some This Is Us wholesome shit. Like, I bet your dad does the laundry and knows who you have for fifth period.”
Peter smiles sideways at me. “He does, actually.”
“I knew it. Let me guess, he went to all your flag football games too.”
“Little League. But yeah. He coached, actually.”
“Of course he did.” I try to picture a tiny version of Peter catching a pop fly, but all I can see is him sitting in the dugout reading comic books, not even pretending to give a shit.
I bet his dad still took him out for pizza or whatever afterward, though.
“If he’s so great …” I don’t know why, but suddenly I feel kind of weird about finishing that sentence.
Like there’s a locked door that I’m not sure I want to look behind.
“What?” Peter prompts.
“Just … Why were you so weird about going camping with him? Is he, like, a closet climate-change denier or something?”
Peter lets out a kind of laugh, but I can see his jaw tense just the tiniest bit. “I wasn’t being weird about it. I just … don’t like camping.”
I stop and raise my eyebrow at him. “Come on.”
He lets out a sigh and runs his hand through his hair, his waves flopping back down on his forehead.
“I don’t know. Sometimes he can get … too obsessed with making memories or something.
Like he puts all this pressure on us to enjoy our time together.
And I mean, I love my dad. He really is great.
But sometimes I wish he’d just relax, you know? ”
“Not really,” I say, my eyes on the buildings ahead.
“I mean, my dad is excessively relaxed about parenting. Sometimes I swear he wishes he could just leave Jules and me behind.” I try to stop myself, but the words just keep coming like a pileup car crash.
“Sometimes he looks at me and I can tell, you know? That he’s seeing my mom’s face.
And it doesn’t make him happy like Oh wow, it’s so beautiful that Beth is living on in my daughter’s smile, or whatever bullshit.
It’s the opposite. He can hardly stand to look at me.
” Shit. That was a lot of words. Now I’m going to have to look at Peter.
I expect to see his face all steely and furrowed with that fix-it boy energy. But that’s not it at all. In fact, he looks sort of … soft. “I didn’t know your mom’s name was Beth.”
“My grandma had a thing for Little Women.”
“Who doesn’t?” Peter says. “I mean. The book. Not like little women in general. I mean, Louisa May Alcott knew how to write a book. You know what I mean.”
I laugh. “Yeah. I know what you mean.” We stop to let a cyclist aggressively push his way onto the sidewalk, and then keep walking. “It’s kind of messed up, though. Like she named her after the one who dies young. Maybe she hexed her or something.”
“I thought you didn’t believe in any of that,” Peter says.
“I don’t,” I say. “It’s just … sometimes things feel destined, you know?”
“I do.” Peter stops and looks me in the eyes. All of a sudden there’s this buzzing between us—this electric force—and I get the urge to lean toward him. But I don’t. I just clear my throat, and take a step back, and squint up at the buildings next to us.
“Listen, Sydney, if today gets weird for you, we can always go home. Seriously, no pressure.” His face is open and warm but I can also feel this wanting emanating from him.
“I don’t want to go home,” I say, a little too quickly.
The trace of a smile slides onto Peter’s face. “That’s good because … we’re here.”
I have no idea where “here” is—I kind of thought we were just wandering around—but then we turn the corner and I see it.
Dylan’s Candy Bar.
It’s just as bright and obnoxious as I imagined it would be. All giant candy sculptures and rainbow colors and neon lights and—
A clock.