No Such Thing as the Real World Page 3

  In the hallway leading back to the living room, she stops in front of a photo of the two brothers when they were teenagers. Her age. Possibly younger. She studies their faces. The similarities in their cheekbones and eyes. Their lips are pronouncedly different. One is full while the other is thin. She stares at their faces until, suddenly, she runs for the bathroom. She throws up everything.

  7

  From four flights down she can hear Luke crying. By the time she reaches the door, his cries have become choking wails.

  Fay walks in, and her mother holds out Luke.

  “He’s had a temperature all night and he won’t drink anything.”

  Fay takes him into her arms. “But we’re almost done weaning. I don’t know if I have any more milk.”

  Her mother walks away. “Your body knows.”

  Fay sits down on the couch and unbuttons her blouse, putting him to her breast. Immediately he begins to nurse, but when her milk will not come, he pulls back in frustration and howls. She rocks him, but he only wails louder, his body tense with pain. She sits down again and focuses on making him well. A mother will provide for her child. She puts him back to her breast, and his time when he begins to nurse, she can feel her milk letting down. He finally quiets and gazes up at her peacefully. Fay looks into his eyes. Green as a new blade of grass. Just like his father.

  8

  The letter has been composed for months. The first and last part of her plan. Ever since she discovered, after his death, that he had a brother. A younger brother who lived in the same city. A brother starting to haunt the same places. The same club. The same room. Only this time she would not be caught outside unawares. Naïve. This time she would be the one in control.

  “You send the letter?” her mother asks, walking into Fay’s room.

  “Not yet.” Fay keeps her eyes on the poster. Luke sleeps quietly curled along the side of her ribs.

  “What are you waiting on?”

  “He won’t be home for another week.”

  “Then it’ll be sitting in his mailbox when he gets back.”

  Her mother turns around to leave but lingers for a second longer in the doorway as though she has something else to add. As though she is the one directing the plan. And maybe she is. Fay understands how much her mother has had to sacrifice since Luke was born. Since Fay decided to keep the child against her mother’s warning. And what could her mother really say? She had been even younger than Fay when she got pregnant. But unlike her mother, Fay knows what she wants. Has known from the moment Luke was born. They must leave. This apartment. This life. Return to the home her father left so many years ago. The birthplace of her father, her grandfather, her great-grandfather. An island she has never seen except in pictures, as a vacation place for the wealthy. A paradise. A dream. To Fay, the island harbors a childhood of memories that seem more real to her than her own. Even if he lied about everything else in their lives, she holds on to her father’s descriptions and stories of his island like a religion, a leap of faith. She needs to believe he told the truth when he said he had a boyhood of simple pleasures. And more than anything in the world, she wants to be able to give that childhood to her son.

  The request is simple. She knows he has the funds. His brother did as well, but he died before Luke was born. Before she even realized that she was pregnant. She’s not asking for the world. Only what is fair. For her and for Luke. Just enough to start over. She can go to school at night. And yet, for some reason, she can’t seem to mail the letter with the photos. After everything, she can’t slip the slim white envelope into the mailbox.

  Her mother taps her fingers against the doorjamb. “You didn’t tell him about Luke, did you?”

  “No,” Fay says. “Luke is mine.”

  Her mother nods and then leaves the room.

  Fay hears Luke’s lips smacking in his sleep as though he is still nursing. Her breasts feel raw and tender, but Luke’s fever has finally broken and he sleeps peacefully. A mother will provide for her child. Fay reaches over and picks up the envelope.

  9

  Three weeks later Fay checks the post office box she has set up specifically for the plan and finds a small green envelope. Inside, there is no letter. No note. Only a check folded in half. Fay pulls out the small square and checks the envelope again. It’s stupid, but for some reason she thought he would write. She quickly buries her disappointment, but an ember lingers in her chest, burning fast and hard before it is stamped out completely. She unfolds the check. It is double what she requested. The sheer audacity of the zeros lined up like cans in a shooting gallery infuriates her. She slams shut the small metal door of the post office box and checks the amount again. It’s a joke. He’s mocking her. There’s no way the check will clear. He is refusing to cooperate. Fay has prepared herself for the inevitability of the situation. A picture will be mailed to his workplace. Nothing too risqué, but interesting enough that his office might begin to talk. There will be another letter. This time with the threat of police involvement. Sex with a minor. It would be his word against hers, and with the photos and witnesses at the club, it won’t be too hard to make her case. Fay walks out onto the street and crumples the check, burying it deep in her pocket. Tomorrow. She will mail the picture and letter tomorrow.

  Her mind is still on the money when she rounds the corner and begins to walk toward her apartment. Her eyes focused on the sidewalk, her body braced against the freezing wind. She goes over the plan again and again, thinks about all his possible reactions. She has prepared herself. She is ready. And that is when she spots him. Sitting on the stoop, his dark wool coat draped on the steps. She pauses midstep.

  He sees her and stands up quickly, waiting to see what she will do. Fay bows her head and continues walking. She hurries past him, refusing to acknowledge his presence. Takes the steps two at a time and fumbles in her coat pocket for her keys.

  “Did you get the check?” he asks.

  She pulls out the key and slides it into the front lock.

  “It’s real,” he says. “You can cash it right now if you want.”

  She turns the key and leans her hip on the door.

  “Or we could just keep going.”

  She takes a step inside and then turns around to shut the door behind her.

  “Please listen to me,” he says. “Fay. I want to be in your life.”

  Fay’s anger pushes her forward. “Shut up. Just pay me what I’m owed. I don’t want a boyfriend. You think I’m an idiot? You think just because I let you take advantage of me that I’m just some stupid thing that you can play with?”

  He walks forward, but Fay threatens to close the door and he stops.

  “No, I don’t think you’re stupid. In fact, just the opposite. I didn’t know what to expect when I started looking for you. My brother left behind so few clues. But now that I’ve found you, I don’t want to lose you.”

  Fay shakes her head. “You’re rich. You travel all over the world. People respect you. And I’m supposed to believe that you want to be with me? How does that make sense?”

  “Why does it have to make sense? Why can’t it be that I feel connected to you? Maybe it’s because of my brother, or maybe it’s that I like talking to you or the way your eyes just kill me. I can’t explain it except to say that I feel it and I know you feel it, too, Fay.”

  A wind blows the dust and trash across the streets. Fay wonders about angels.

  “Be with me, Fay.”

  Can they return to the heavens after falling? Can they still fly even with scars?

  “Do it for Luke.”

  She grips the edge of the door and keeps her eyes on the street. He knows. How could he know? She watches a man pushing an empty grocery cart up the sidewalk. The wheels rattle and the metallic clatter accompanies his whistling. How could he not know? The question is: How could she have been so naïve? He has all the resources in the world. He could take away everything.

  “You really should have asked for more,” h
e says, and takes a step forward.

  She steps back.

  “You can cash that check and do whatever you want, but if you stay with me, Luke will always have more.”

  Fay waves to the man passing by and then says, “What are you going to give him that I haven’t already? Who the fuck do you think you are?”

  “His uncle.”

  Fay rushes to close the door. She doesn’t care about the money, the plans. She needs to hold Luke right now. Hold him and never let go.

  He jams his foot in the door. “Fay, please. I didn’t say anything sooner because I didn’t want to scare you off. I wanted you to trust me. I want to be in your lives. I can give him anything he wants. You know that. He can grow up secure and happy.”

  “Money doesn’t buy you any of that,” Fay yells, and kicks his foot out of the way. “Haven’t you wealthy idiots paid someone to help you figure that out yet?”

  He holds up his hands. “I understand. But money does help you do other things. It gives you options. Isn’t that why you asked me for the money? So you and Luke would have options?”

  “Fuck you. He owed me that money. He owed me for everything he did.” Fay brushes aside the tears of anger welling up. Goddamn it. She hates when her heart betrays her this way. “You owe me,” she states.

  “Be with me and I’ll take care of you. I’ll take care of you and Luke. I’m trying to do the right thing.” He steps backward and holds out his hands. “Let me love you. Let me love Luke. I’m not a bad man, Fay. You know that. I’m not like my brother. He was a lot of things that I couldn’t understand. Let me try and fix some of his mistakes.”

  Fay looks out across the street. Stares at the gray-and-brown buildings lined up like tired old men waiting for a wind to blow them all over. She has lived on this block all her life. Watched men and women hustle for a living. Watched men and women die before living. She may be young, but she has lived long enough to know, shackles come in many forms.

  “I’ll be good to you. I’ll cook for you. I want to know you and Luke. That’s all.”

  Fay stares at him. The shade of a nearby building cuts a diagonal line across his face. The green of his eyes in shadow, dark as a forest, old as money. This is a complication she has not anticipated. What would she be giving up for all that he is offering? What would she have to take? It’s never free. But a part of her wants to believe him.

  She remembers the feel of his arms that last night together. The feeling of floating. The taste of salt on her lips. She could imagine him being a kind father to Luke. A kind man. And maybe he could love her. Maybe she could love him. If she believed in happily ever after. In angels. He watches her for a sign, his need to know exactly what she is thinking. She lifts her face, raw as the winter wind, and lets him read her as she slowly closes the door. She was never for sale.

  10

  The warm water laps at Luke’s feet. He toddles in the sand, the uneven surface an obstacle course for his balance. Fay catches him up and throws him high into the sky. She had always dreamed of the colors. Blues and greens and summer white draped with rainbows. But she hadn’t been prepared for the textures and sounds. Slippery scratching sand next to slippery silk water. The scorch of sun on a bare back. The rhythmic, soothing sound of the waves breaking along the shore. Before, she could not have imagined such a world existed even if she had tried. Now, she can’t imagine having ever been away. She runs with Luke across the sand. She runs and slips and slides and falls and gets up and runs again like she’s never had the chance to do before. The image of the poster jumps into her thoughts as they run back toward the water. Far in the distance, Fay believes, she can see the angels soaring up to the rainbows. Shaking the dust and dirt from their wings. They stretch for the heavens. Flying far and fast, scars and all.

  About An Na

  An Na was born in Korea and grew up in San Diego, California. She is a graduate of Amherst College and received her MFA in writing children’s literature from Vermont College. An Na’s first novel, A Step from Heaven, won the Michael L. Printz Award and was a National Book Award finalist. She is also the author of Wait for Me, an ALA Best Book for Young Adults, and The Fold.

  Visit www.AuthorTracker.com for exclusive information on your favorite HarperCollins author.

  The Projection: A Two-Part Invention

  M. T. Anderson

  A living room in a lakeside cottage. There is a fieldstone fireplace, an old sofa, and a comfortable chair with an ottoman. There are some knickknacks: figurines and a few low-grade trophies. Indistinct photos hang on the walls. There are some appliances of mysterious purpose here and there. They are made up of spheres and piping, cowling, a few horns.

  Sam sits on the chair. She looks expectantly at Alec. Alec appears to be waiting. They are apparently seniors at some boarding school. They look seventeen or eighteen, ready to graduate.

  Sam looks artistic—lots of ringlets, which she must have worked on carefully. Throughout the opening of the scene, she has the look of someone who knows secrets, someone who is delighted—if shy.

  Alec does not appear to be shy in the least. He is generally at ease with himself. He knows he is handsome. Nonetheless, their entry into this scene is awkward, if amiable. For a long time, there is silence. They do not know how to act around each other. Finally, Alec speaks.

  ALEC: Man and wife.

  SAM: Yeah.

  They don’t know what to say. Alec wanders around the room, bending down to peer at things. Sam waits, still delighted. She watches him, on occasion. She seems a little nervous.

  ALEC: Man and wife.

  SAM: Whom the Lord hath joined, let no man put asunder.

  ALEC (after a pause—cutely): Nice place we’ve got here…. Nice.

  SAM: The summer place.

  ALEC: Yeah. Where the summer happens. Darling.

  SAM (smiling): Darling.

  ALEC: And the winter.

  SAM: I love the winters.

  ALEC: We have great fires. When it’s cold outside.

  SAM: When the snow’s on the windowpanes.

  ALEC: Here we are, honey.

  SAM: Should we light a fire?

  ALEC: It’s the middle of the summer.

  SAM: The kids collected kindling.

  ALEC: We’d swelter. The smoke wouldn’t rise.

  SAM: You need to fix the flue before the weather gets colder.

  ALEC: Is that the kind of thing we talk about?

  SAM: Sure. Or I could fix the flue.

  ALEC: You’re good with your hands. You’re handy.

  SAM (increasingly sly and playful): The workbench is mine. All the tools. You never come down there. You’re afraid you’ll find me welding.

  ALEC: Yeah. I call it “the Outback.” You disappear for days. I hear the circular saw. You get that look in your eyes. There’s something that needs to be built. So I say, “I guess you’ll be going to the Outback now, honey.”

  SAM: Sure. I’m a gal who knows how to put flanges on stuff.

  ALEC: What are flanges?

  SAM: Exactly. Stay away from my workbench, bastard.

  ALEC: The Outback.

  SAM: Keep your distance. You’re one giant thumb waiting to get whacked.

  Alec ranges around the room, looking at things.

  SAM: You sure you don’t want a fire?

  ALEC: You’re all the light I need, honey.

  SAM: Darling.

  ALEC: Sweetie.

  Alec keeps inspecting the walls.

  SAM: The McMasters aren’t up yet. It looks like no one has driven down their drive since the thaw.

  ALEC: They never come up until the middle of July. They always spend the Fourth in D.C.

  SAM: I wonder if their daughter’s still a painted whore.

  ALEC (laughs): Now, hey there.

  SAM: Please. I wouldn’t let that child near our dog, let alone our son.

  ALEC: Son? Jesus.

  SAM: She just renamed herself something. Their daughter. (Snapping her
fingertips, trying to remember.)

  ALEC: Nikki-Lu. With two K’s and no O.

  SAM: See? She’s ready for a strip joint.

  ALEC: Kids these days…Sluts and trollops, all of them…I don’t know what the McMasters did to deserve the daughter. They’re solid. They entertain well. That was a great bonfire last fall.

  SAM: It was lovely.

  ALEC: I like to see you drunk. You laugh a lot. What the fuck are all these machines?

  SAM: Appliances.

  ALEC: What kind of appliances?

  SAM: I don’t know. It’s the future.

  ALEC: I mean, what are they supposed to do?

  SAM: Beats me. Turn one on.

  ALEC: No fucking way. What do they do?

  SAM: How the hell should I know?

  ALEC: You’re the one who’s good with a band saw.

  SAM: You’re the one who’s good with a credit card. You bought them all.

  ALEC: I’m good with a credit card?

  SAM: Whatever.

  ALEC: I can’t picture that.

  SAM: I can. You get a boyish glint in your eye. It’s completely charming. You hum the William Tell overture. Next thing, bam. We have some new…I don’t know…gamma-ray toaster oven or electron swiveler.

  ALEC: I don’t even know the William Tell overture.

  SAM: Budda-bump, budda-bump, budda-bump, bump, bump.

  ALEC: Oh. Do you bitch me out when I buy a new gadget?

  SAM: No. I look at you like you’re an idiot, but a lovable idiot. We take it out of its box and try to figure out how to put it together. We sit in the middle of all the packing material for about an hour after, laughing hilariously, going, “Where the hell is sprocket G?”

  ALEC: I buy them, you set them up.

  SAM: I’m good with my hands.