Here I am. A mid-way through college student, currently studying iambic pentameter + villanelles, the ins-and-outs of the American presidency, how vaccinations work, and the electoral college. I run to and from meetings, finding such joy in crossing out to-dos in my planner. The spontaneity of college seemed to have slipped through the cracks, and now we’re over halfway done! Excuse! Me! What! Trying to convince professors that you really don’t have room in your schedule to take their class. Searching for post-grad plans. Crying for lost time!
But somebody asked me the other day what my dream that doesn’t deserve to be compromised is, a dream that I want to spend all my days working towards! Not acceptance to law school, not a good paying job. But a true dream! And mine has been and always will be to be a published novelist…to have a book listed on the New York Times bestseller! It’s a big one, but aren’t all dreams worthy of chasing after? So here I am, a story itchin’ my fingertips. And I want you to read the first page! Tell me whatcha think!
He slid his card through the scanner, stuffed his hands back into the pockets of the pea coat that swung against his knees, and pushed himself against the bar. Instead of giving into his weight, granting him entrance, the bar pushed against him, and he was forced to swipe again.
Error.
He swore under his breath and threw his head back. Swiped again.
Error.
“Here, kid. Follow me,” a man said as he swiped his card in a different scanner. It opened a gate off to the side, where the man began to push his bike through. “Bikes have a separate entrance. The doors stay open.” He motioned for the boy to follow.
It crossed the boy’s mind that maybe he would find himself in trouble for this. The growing, bustling crowd around him reminded him that in this city, one could get away with anything. Or…at least, he hoped so. He smiled and touched the biker man’s shoulder. “Thank you.”
He moved with the bulk of the crowd, down more tattered stairs, and to the middle of the platform. It was loud, but not with voices. It was loud with the rumbling of approaching trains, cellphone buzzes, and the tip tap of leather loafers on the tile. As he looked around, he noticed silent, empty faces. Dark colored coats and bulky scarfs wrapped around their necks so tightly, their mouths were hidden. In New York, there was no need for conversation. Especially at eight o’clock in the morning. Everybody was tapping their feet, checking their watch like it was the most terrible thing to be late.
A train marked with the number one emblazoned on each car, screeched to a halt, and the boy watched as the platform parted and a mob of subway passengers skidded out, purses pressed to breasts, phones glued to ears, eyes narrowed onto the stair exit. He mindlessly watched as a mother pressed her toddler’s head into the crook of her neck and carried the child and a black diaper bag onto the train. No seats left. Only standing room.
He hoped her destination wasn’t too far.
“Attention passengers: this is your conductor speaking. The train is about to leave the station. Please stand clear of the closing doors.”
The boy leaned up against the tiled wall as the passengers attempted to shift away from the door, hands scrambling for something or someone to hold onto. He watched one hand, red fingernails with a tiny ring on the thumb that glittered in the fluorescent lights, touch an old man’s hand then pull back as if it had touched a skillet.
“Oh, I’m so sorry, sir,” the faceless woman said. Her voice was soft.
The boy could see the old man’s face. He had taken his hand off of the bar in order to touch the woman’s shoulder. Kind. Gentle. Reassuring.
At that very moment, the toddler lurched forward and laughed, pushing the woman with the red fingernails forward. He could see her body now, her profile. Her hair was black curls, dancing down her spine. She wore a turtleneck of cream wool, a matching skirt that sat perfectly on her waist and fell a couple inches below her knee. In his head, he remembered how his Sunday school teacher always said white was not allowed after September. It was November, so he chuckled to himself. Why did he remember that? No answer.
The doors began to shut. Finally. He was ready for his train.
But then the woman in white turned, glanced through the glass window at the platform, and then turned back. Just a moment. A moment that seared into his body like a burning knife.
Her face. Her milky skin. The red lips and the brown eyes. The hair. The white after September. The voice and the ring. Yes, the ring. Was it gold? Oh, the familiarity. It couldn’t be. His lungs were breathing in deep; his hands were white fists. Move, train. Move.
She turned again. This time she didn’t glance. This time her neck jerked his direction, a spiral of black silk in front of her left eye, her mouth agape. Her eyes lost and intentional.
He tripped over air, sputtering to himself and turning to escape up the stairs. But his legs stopped working, and he looked at her, still. Her face became a blur, and the platform erupted in noise. Gone.
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