Michael and I lived in the apartment our dad left us, three bedrooms in South Slope. I worked in a restaurant and won this fellowship to sculpt, an endowment from some millionaire’s wife, a Russian woman named Kitty Kitchen who was passionate about abstract ceramics and had a vague affiliation with Columbia University. She had huge silicone fake tits and a drawn-on mole that punctuated her face, which I thought indicated her talent for knowing what was missing.
You are like ugly duckling, she said. My ugly duckling. One day, you swim.
So things were going really well for me when Simon, our landlord, pounded on our door at the end of summer. I opened it. I fucking hated Simon. He wore this bright blue polo tee tight to his biceps and rubbed a hand over his bald head. His parents had left him newly in charge of the building, but he rarely responded to service requests about leaks and broken dryers.
We need to talk, he said.
I stepped outside.
No more late rent.
Got it.
Also, rent is increasing by 30 percent, he said. And also, he was in touch with new prospective tenants who were thrilled about his new listings, dirt cheap considering the location (which, for many years now, was incredibly desirable). I didn’t know you’d posted the place, I said. I spoke with some interested creatives, he said. Renters’ rights? I asked. I could try, he explained, it was well within my rights to try, but this kind of thing was perfectly legal on his part, as the increase would begin with the new lease, which he was writing up now. The old one was about to end, something my dad hadn’t told me. There hadn’t been a price increase in about ten years, because Simon hadn’t been in charge, his dad had, and he’d liked my dad.
I feel this is reasonable, he said then. I understand how hard it’s been for you. I admire you in fact, taking care of Michael and everything.
He was so condescending.
Also, have you seen Maura?
Of course I had.
No, I said.
She hasn’t paid rent in two months.
That’s awful, I said. So crazy.
Maura was this leathery, sixty-year-old ex-hippie who was from South Slope but always talked about how she lived for years on the West Coast. She’d gotten on the FREE LAND bus in 1970, in hopes of grabbing free property. The FREE LAND bus was a bus with FREE LAND written on the side. She’d been a screenwriter on a sitcom back in the day, she’d claimed, though she hadn’t said which. She had a huge tattoo of a hydrangea on her right bicep, and definitely didn’t own land. Could you hide this? she’d asked me yesterday, and handed me a sealed manilla envelope. I liked Maura and her secrets. I liked the idea of free land, and of someone hating Simon as much as I do.
Well, let me know if you see her, he said.
Mmhm.
It seemed like we might have to move, or at least have to cancel our vacation. How to break any of that to Michael was a problem. We’d already decided we’d go to SeaWorld for his birthday in two weeks. It was an average hotel, three stars, but it was his favorite and the only place away from home Michael would ever agree to stay overnight. We used to drive down there, to Orlando, with our dad. There was a swimming pool shaped like a stingray, an LED mushroom fountain that gushed neon water and doubled as a karaoke machine. Occasionally, they hosted banquet hall conferences for bondage furries or ex-cops, or people who all owned dachshunds.
I didn’t like un-promising things, and in all honesty, I wanted to go too.
* * *
My sculptures lately were ceramic rocks and cups made to look like rock, sometimes frosted or crumpled, like stuff I’d find walking along local beaches, the edges of broken glass, the texture of shells. In a gallery space, I’d collect them and incorporate running water, which Kitty Kitchen board members approved of, though the idea was only sketched out so far.
Michael liked to sculpt too. I’d lay out tarps in the living room and he’d sculpt self-portraits from gray clay over and over, always his head, always busts of different sizes. For two eyes, he used plastic peel-away gemstones. All his heads were lined up along the kitchen counter, gemstone eyes staring straight ahead. He liked to watch South Park while he sculpted, and would pace around squeaking, copying the obscenities. He drank crispy Diet Coke with crushed ice. Lately, he was obsessed with crushed ice and the idea of the SeaWorld ice cream man, the one who’d sold us blueberry soft serve out of a cart at the theme park when we were kids. Blueberry soft serve was hard to come by; in fact, it kind of seemed like it didn’t exist outside of SeaWorld. Back then it was always the same man, every summer.
Are we gonna see him? Michael asked me again, pressing his two fingers into the clay to make eyes. The man?
Michael resisted change most of all and wanted everything to stay the same forever and ever. I wasn’t allowed, for example, to use the word “beard,” in reference to the hair that sometimes showed up on his chin, because he didn’t want to grow up. I wasn’t allowed to say his real age either. So, I just silently bought him razors and handed them over, and he took care of it.
We have to wait and see about the ice cream man, I said. Like, he might’ve retired. He’s ultimately just some guy.
I know that, he said. I just like to think about him.
We cleaned up and walked across the street and down past brownstones and the fenced edge of the overpass. From there you could see the Statue of Liberty, which Michael pointed out each time without fail.
There she is, he said. He held his hand up to his forehead like a pioneer.
Should we go to Trader Joe’s? I asked.
I just don’t feel like it today. Okay?
No problem.
We passed a garden of bougainvillea. A monarch fluttered past his face and he flinched. He had a fear of butterflies—I swatted it away. Something about the brisk, unpredictable quality of movement.
Past that was the deli. Stan waved. Friend of our dad’s. Next door, we saw a brand new coffee shop, where Ed’s used to be. It seemed like just last week Ed’s was still there. My dad too.
It’s different, he said, processing the change. Ed’s is gone, he said, then turned to observe whether I understood too.
Ed’s was this horrible pizza shop, decades old. We’d order baked garlic bread knots sometimes, however shitty they were. Ed’s wife cut hair in the area too, not mine since high school, but still. We loved Ed’s.
Instead of Ed’s peeling painted white facade, the cafe facade was now gray black and featureless. Out front, a square wrought iron sign hung over the door: Three Sparrows.
Can we go in there? he said, curious now.
I guess.
I’m gonna go in myself, okay? he said, as in, don’t follow me, please.
Got it, I said, sitting at the table out front. You want money?
No, I have money, he said. Michael saved his monthly government stipend, which he got for being autistic. He held onto about two thousand dollars in his piggy bank at any given point, which, I sometimes considered, was insane. It was a lot of money.
He went inside and came back holding a muffin.
How much?
Actually none, he said. I didn’t have to pay. He sat and unwrapped his muffin, peeling the crimped parchment away.
Why not?
He shrugged. Don’t know.
She said it was free?!
I don’t know, okay? She just said I didn’t have to pay. He bit the baked blueberry-thick edge.
I felt vaguely concerned that he’d misunderstood, but that was unlike him. He understood rules, and in fact thrived knowing exactly the limits prescribed, in all situations, which I considered one of his best qualities. The clay has to dry before we paint it, he’d say to himself. He had strong concepts, which he knew how to commit to. Once, when he was mad at me for being late to pick him up from school, I came home to find a trail of sticky notes leading from the front door, through the hall, to the bathroom. In the bathroom he lay on his back playing dead, with one big sticky note stuck to his chest: LAST KID.
I got up and walked inside. The woman at the register wore white overalls. She was serving a woman with a dog on one leash and a little kid on the other. She smiled at me, then carefully carried her matcha away.
Hi, the barista said. He’s the sweetest! She smiled an inarguably pretty smile, even if self-satisfied. An Anne Hathaway smile, fake humble with maybe-Veneers. Are you his aide?
Oh no, he’s my brother. But thank you, I said. And thank you for the muffin.
Oh! I see. Her face brightened. Embarrassed, maybe. Why? No reason to be. Uncomfortable? I didn’t mind that. Michael and I had pushed past shame, for instance, over his disability, and didn’t easily succumb to discomfort. But weirdly I felt a small thrill. I sort of liked seeing someone else uncomfortable for a change, caught off guard.
She just sort of smiled. Well, love that, she said. He’s the cutest. He offered to tip. So good with his words too, she continued. Very articulate.
He could be bad with his words sometimes, actually, especially with strangers. This of course bothered me, as in, sometimes what I knew he wanted to convey was not conveyed to others. Of course that bothered me; it would bother anyone. It bothered me that sometimes we couldn’t even share the same thoughts or words, or that I wasn’t always sure which ones we did share.
But the fact that she’d clocked this trait wasn’t what made me dislike her, even if it made me feel vulnerable, like she’d seen something intimate of Michael, of me. I just didn’t particularly like that she’d called him “cute.”
I’d like to pay, I said. Could I just go ahead and pay for it?
Oh. Okay sure. She blinked at me. She hadn’t actually said anything wrong, I just didn’t like her. She was around my age, a few years out of college. I felt her staring at my face, the way someone does when they figure they could know you outside of the given circumstance. And “cute.” Kind of bold. Presumptuous. I felt the need to shield him, the wrong impulse to have. Like I couldn’t trust others with him, of course they’d act weird.
What’s his name? she asked.
Michael.
What’s your name?
Sasha.
Nice to meet you. I’m Mackenzie, she said. We’re new, still getting to know the area. Really loving it so far.
Yeah, I see. I handed her ten dollars.
She took it and gave me a terse smile. Well, he’s the sweetest. She held the bills up as if to say thanks. So polite.
It was true, he’d been raised polite.
Mackenzie continued to stare at me. I actually thought maybe she liked me. Really, really liked me. I felt a strange surge of something teenage in me. I hated this girl.
Have a good rest of your day, I said.
* * *
Lucas sat on my couch and rambled. Our fascination with aliens is fucking nuts, he said. There are aliens all around us.
He showed me a video on his phone of big killer whales like Shamu, carving through water colored artificially blue, in a massive aquarium. They bleated at each other, communicating like we do, the best ways to trap their prey, and balletically, they go right, go left, circle, and now, eat.
The whale drifted like a balloon, fins outstretched.
He’s big, Michael said.
Lucas, my best friend, was over at ours scouring the internet for jobs on his laptop. Recently, he’d been paid to participate in a study in which he attached electrodes to his brain and then watched Pornhub for an hour. Lucas never seemed uncomfortable about the things I would’ve been uncomfortable about, things that should have been private. Lucas made a point of trying to diminish his shame; it was often how he made his money.
Do you have any food? he asked, now, rifling through my fridge. I’m starving.
I’m not sure, I said. We went to this cafe today. Three Sparrows. Have you been there?
No.
It’s brand new, I said.
Oh okay. Why?
The barista was rude to Michael, I said.
What did they say?!
I don’t know. She gave him a free blueberry muffin and told him he didn’t have to pay.
Lucas blinked. That seems nice?
I shrugged. She probably felt pretty good, giving a muffin to the autistic teenager, I thought. That wasn’t even what annoyed me. She could have that. I just didn’t like her, or her smooth face. I imagined the smooth heads of her delicious buttermilk blueberry muffins, smooth all over.
Lucas mindlessly typed Three Sparrows into his phone. Michael entered the living room and watched as we scrolled through the Yelp reviews.
There was a picture of eggs benedict and a selfie of a woman, the camera very close to her face. Yummy!!! I LOVE. Heart eye emoji.
Another picture of a teenage girl with a muffin, holding up a peace sign. So good love this spot. And owner Mackenzie is so sweet!
She’s the owner, I said.
Lucas was obviously kind of bored. He glanced back at his laptop.
God. Fuck these people. My dad would’ve hated to see this, I said. I imagined my dad saying: The neighborhood is going to SHIT. GODDAMMIT. And slamming a Michelob Ultra.
I know, Lucas said. He’d heard me say it a thousand times before. But that is what happens, he said. People move to New York. People always will. It’s the number one place people move. You can’t be in constant agony over it.
I nodded.
I don’t know, it could be worse. Simon could be tripling the rent? You had it pretty good for a while.
Still, I said.
I hear you. Maybe you should leave a bad Yelp review, he said, and was kidding.
Maybe I will, I said, taking his phone. I scrolled more. Mackenzie’s picture again.
She has a pig nose, Michael said. He stood near us now.
Write that, Lucas said.
Haha, Michael said. Pig nose. He did the pig nose at Lucas.
Pig, I wrote.
I typed out the rest of it, then showed it to Lucas. He kind of laughed, and then also typed a line or two. He handed it back to me.
Is this really mean? I asked.
Lucas stared at me for a second. Yes, he said. I mean, that will probably upset her.
Maybe it’ll keep people away, I said.
I went to hit post.
Wait, you can’t.
Why not?
He stared at me like I was dumb. It’s a terrorist threat, he said. But also, he was amused. Come on. Don’t actually post it.
I shrugged. Doesn’t have my name on it. Instead of listening, I made a Google account with a nonsensical password and posted it.
Don’t come to the cafe tomorrow. I was there on Friday and owner Mackenzie kicked out a homeless teenager who asked for water. She was literally on the verge of tears. How fucking hard is it to give out water?? What a pig. Neighborhood is going to shit and I for one am sick and tired.
This is a warning. Everyone gets what they deserve.
* * *
On our walk the next day we passed the cafe again. The facade was black and featureless as the Pornhub website. Mackenzie was there. She waved, with a sort of half-smile. I waved back, then realized Michael was already walking inside again. I assumed she hadn’t seen the Yelp review, which all in all, was ridiculously written. There was no way any person would take it seriously.
I know you, she said to Michael, in a sort of cute way. Muffin?
He nodded, smiled. Blueberry please.
I felt sudden guilt then, seeing how comfortable he seemed. Maybe she was nice. What was wrong with me?
Thank you, Michael said. Appreciate it.
He was raised polite.
She gave Michael a blueberry muffin for free, as if to say: I am standing my ground, please take the free muffin, I insist. Thanks, Michael said, taking his muffin with two careful hands. He looked to me. Should I–?
Yes, I confirmed. Go ahead and pay.
Would you actually want to pay? he said, in a sneaky way.
Sure. Go sit.
He was pleased at this.
How’s your day? she asked.
I blinked at her. No malice in her voice at all. She must not have read the review. In a way, I was grateful she hadn’t. Or, she had read it and was putting up a good front. If she had read it, how could she know it was me? That was ridiculous. I was just standing there with Michael, who had a way of disarming people. He was charming. “Cute.”
I pointed to a row of ceramics near the espresso beans. That’s nice, I said, lying.
I sell them, she said, proudly. My girlfriend’s.
Gay, I considered. Interesting. I tapped a small ceramic jewelry tray, priced seventy-five dollars by sticky note. Nothing of note about it. A subtle glaze. Identity deficient, featureless. I’d have bet she wielded her gayness as much as she could, however featurelessly. What about Ed, who’d always made an honest living? I knew what an honest living was, I liked to tell myself. I told myself a lot, but nothing really stuck. Stuff went into my head and out of it. I never understood what the right thing was. I just knew what I’d heard and what I’d told myself. Sometimes this scared me.
I make ceramics too, I said, slightly defeated.
Oh! she said, smiling, delighted. You know, we sell other peoples’ crafts—people who live in the neighborhood. We’re having an art party pretty soon!
Crafts, I thought. Knickknacks. I’m on a fellowship, I wanted to say, and the impulse disturbed me. There was a set of polymer clay ketchup bottle earrings on a rack nearby.
I’m actually doing a fellowship, I said, in spite of myself. For ceramics.
Oh, no way. So is my girlfriend.
Nice.
Yeah! It’s the Kitty Kitchen fellowship. For ceramics. She’s really loving it, so far.
* * *
Later that day, we walked around the corner to the rec center to swim. It was humid-hot even though it was September. My skin was sticky and I felt tired.
Michael looked down at his green crocs, kicked at a pile of broken concrete. I like his hat the most, he explained. I like his hat because it covers his eyebrows, so he doesn’t look mean.
He’d been fixated on eyebrows for a few years now. If a person’s eyebrows were severe—tattooed or drawn-on—he often perceived them as mean, evil even.
I get what you’re saying, but remember what I said.
I know. Eyebrows don’t mean you’re evil.
No, about the man, I said. We have to wait and see.
What is the ice cream man’s hat called? His hat covers his eyebrows.
I’m not sure.
At the rec center swimming pool, I sat on the plain white lawn chair with my legs up and crossed, hoping the UV index might be somehow enough to tan me even though it was nearly fall. I lay there and thought about the ceramic jewelry tray. It’s just a jewelry tray, I reminded myself. Nothing wrong with it, just a jewelry tray.
Don’t look, Michael said, urgently.
Huh? I said, on edge.
There’s a bee. I listened with my eyes closed as he slipped out of the water, sloshing wet, and padded over to where I was and squashed the bee dead. Michael always killed the bugs for me. I hated bugs. He never minded. His only phobia was butterflies.
Don’t be scared, he said. That’s nonsense. He said nonsense like he’d heard it on TV. That’s nonsense.
Maura walked through the gate. I waved for her to come over, lowered my sunglasses.
Simon’s looking for you, I said.
God, she said.
Simon’s a retard, Michael said, swishing around in the water. He slapped a hand into the water. I’m gonna kill him.
Today, I didn’t scold him for saying that. Sometimes I let him have fun.
Simon is just SO rude! Maura shouted.
I shielded my eyes. Maura, do you drink coffee?
No honey. Hi Michael.
Maura, remember you told me about the free land bus? I said.
Free land? Oh! Sure. Yes.
Did you ever get the land?
Oh no. No no. But I did live with some Natives for a while. My first husband was Cherokee. She turned to Michael. You like the pool? Can I come in too?
Sure, Michael said. Come in. He leaned back and dunked his head in, then went blurry under the surface. I wanted badly as always to communicate exactly what I thought: that it was hard to see the neighborhood change, that I was scared. That there was more than a neighborhood out there, there was an actual world. He knew that, sort of, and sometimes sensed he wasn’t part of it. I’m autistic, he’d observe sometimes. That’s why I’m scared of eyebrows, as in, I’m scared of other people, their expressions, what they mean when they talk. He had great instincts. But still, he didn’t always know the full extent of what he was missing.
Maura slipped off her pants to reveal her one-piece. Then she backstroked toward the other end of the pool.
That woman at the new coffee shop is awful, I told Maura. Just warning you.
I don’t drink coffee, honey. She dipped beneath the surface.
Who are you talking about? he asked.
Mackenzie, I said. I think she’s mean, I clarified. I don’t want to go to that place anymore, I told him. Bottom line.
She’s nice to me. She gives me free food. Why mean?
I felt badly, then. “Mean” wasn’t correct.
Mackenzie does have a funny face, he said, after some thought. She has weird eyebrows. In South Park Cartman doesn’t always have eyebrows.
No, I said, solemnly.
Michael covered both his eyebrows with his hands. No eyebrows, he said, and glanced up at mine. Are we gonna see the ice cream man at SeaWorld? he asked.
Yeah, I hope so.
He lowered his hands. I feel like, in my head, he’s always there though, he said, trying to make me understand. It will feel weird if he’s not. It just won’t be the same without him.
* * *
The next day, Michael, Lucas, and I walked past Three Sparrows. Huge on the front door was a poster with Mackenzie’s face.
Missing:
Mackenzie Lowell
Please share. Last seen wearing orange beanie, hiking shoes.
When she smiled, a little too much gum showed. Her mousy brown hair looked tousled in the wind. In this image she looked like anybody. She looked like an AI rendering of a missing child grown up, her skin soft with an optimistic glow. She was mousy, derogatorily. Brunette. The kind of person that blends into a crowd. It frightened me that this girl could be anywhere.
My stomach turned. That’s the woman, I said.
Lucas blinked, looked more closely. The one who gave you guys free muffins?
Some other woman picked up her dog, walked to look at the poster. Concern grew on her face.
Who’s working inside? I asked, urgently.
Uhhh some guy. Mustache. Big glasses.
I stared at Lucas. So she’s missing?
Lucas stared back, at a loss.
What? Michael said, sensing panic. Is everything okay?
I jogged inside.
Hey, I said. I stood next to the college-aged boy ordering, startling him. What happened to Mackenzie?
The male barista had long curly hair. He was steaming almond milk. He cleared his throat, glanced around, like it was a sensitive topic.
They don’t know, he said. He shook his head solemnly, lips a terse line. We’re holding out hope.
The row of blueberry muffins sat in the case, fresh baked, uneaten.
Do they know anything at all?
He shrugged, glanced around again. Not yet. It’s rattled everybody, he said, in a low voice. Her family too. It’s just such horrible timing. She just opened up the place. Worked really hard to do it. Things were going well. It’s disheartening.
He stared at the ground for a minute, then back up at me. What’s your name?
Sasha.
Collin. Nice to meet you. He stuck his hand out to shake. Come in anytime. Even if you just want to talk. He was immediately friendly, forthcoming in a way that seemed inherently false, though he himself didn’t seem to know it was.
I know it’s been hard on everybody, he said, nodding.
And then, I swore, I thought he might be tearing up.
* * *
Lucas and I just sat next to each other on my couch that night, drinking. The Snoopy Thanksgiving special came on the TV, so early in the year. It was September but the months were pushing onward, quickly.
Do you think somebody killed her? I said.
Calm down, Lucas said, setting his glass down on my table, no coaster. No, I really don’t. I think it’s a coincidence and I think you need to stop thinking about it.
He seemed unbothered about it. Or maybe, just pretending to be unbothered, watching Snoopy intently.
I stared at Snoopy in his chef’s hat, heating popcorn up on the stove. It popped and flew. How can you be so sure? I said, trying to seem levelheaded.
Because it was a harmless stupid post. There’s just no way it mattered that much.
I leaned forward and put my head in my hands. Where do you think her girlfriend is, in all this? She said she had a girlfriend.
Lucas shrugged.
On the TV was the Snoopy scene where he fights a folding chair that he can’t get to open. It keeps snapping shut. Eventually, the chair gets sick of Snoopy trying to pry it open and comes to life, with fists, and after much antagonizing, they beat each other up.
Shouldn’t we take the post down then? I said.
Do you remember the username or password? Didn’t you use a fake account?
I can’t just sit here, I said. I need to do something.
Let’s take a walk.
So we walked silently down the street to an Irish bar we liked, just us two. Michael was fast asleep. The drinks were dirt cheap and the owner played Irish ballads during Happy Hour, wailing along sadly, mournfully.
We didn’t make her disappear, did we? I said, a few hours later, with severity, with too much spiritual gravity. I was the kind of drunk where I’d start talking about ghosts or God and I could sense, then, that I’d already asked Lucas that same thing quite a few times, but couldn’t stop myself from asking. My speech slipped out and away, hovering apart from me.
You did this, Lucas said, finally. I didn’t do anything.
You let me post it.
He seemed unhappy.
I checked Yelp, squinting at my phone in the dark bar, which seemed too bright. Our post was gone. Removed, I guessed, due to violating community guidelines.
I showed Lucas, then pocketed my phone, ordered another mezcal soda.
Maybe a cider or something instead, Lucas said.
To me, it seemed like a good thing it was gone. Our problem was erased, scrubbed away. If nobody could read it, it couldn’t cause any damage. Some dumb lapse in judgment.
I’ll get the next drink, Lucas sighed. It’s on me, he said, softening.
What if someone saw the post and killed her? I asked. Like found her and got rid of her? Took care of her?
Lucas glanced around like I’d said it too loudly. I don’t think that’s the case, he said, again, trying to curtail my wildest guesses, even though I would continue to ruminate, and continue to make him curtail.
The only semblance of autism in me was maybe my inability to discriminate as far as what people, what Lucas especially, knew about me. He had to know everything. I had to disclose everything or else I’d be lying. I had to get everything in, however difficult or inconvenient. Lucas knew about all of my problems. How can you know me if I don’t spread it all out for you to see clearly? I had to talk things over and over, too, over and over to death so I knew, for sure, what the answer was, until the thing itself was sufficiently studied, tiresome enough to be shoved from my head. I couldn’t risk reaching the wrong answer. So I obsessed.
Two months before, I’d drunkenly led Lucas to a house party bathroom and said: just do it already. Do what? he’d asked. Just do whatever you want to me. What does that mean? he said, startled. You know what it means, I’d said. You won’t, I’d said, spitefully, so full of spite I scared myself, thinking back on it afterwards. Why haven’t you done it yet? I’d said. You know what I’m talking about. And he wouldn’t kiss me. Not now, he said. So he saw what I maybe might’ve wanted, what I thought he wanted too. He had to know everything.
He walked me back home tonight. For the first time, I felt maybe he was mad at me, for all of it.
* * *
I woke up with a pounding headache. I made myself useful and pushed the couch aside and vacuumed, then swiped the kitchen counter.
Michael had placed his piggy bank on the kitchen counter. I lifted it to clean. That’s one thing my dad never did: smash Michael’s bank open and use the insides. That would have been near impossible to explain to Michael, the violence toward the piggy bank, whose name was Oliver. There’d be hell to pay if he were crushed to pink ceramic.
I’ll be taking that, Michael said, and lifted Oliver. That’s mine, thanks, he said, and tucked him under his arm. You okay? He could tell something was off.
I’m fine, I said. All good.
He showed me Oliver, whose one eyebrow lifted quizzically, as if knowing some secret. I tapped his head.
I took extra shifts at the Venetian-Italian restaurant. I started a new project proposal draft for Kitty Kitchen. On Instagram, Three Sparrows posted the flyer for Mackenzie’s disappearance. Last seen, it explained, taking the PATH train to New Jersey. The most recent post was a flyer advertising the communal art show Mackenzie had described. Free drinks. I sent it to Lucas.
As always it seemed to go without saying between us, that of course we’d go.
* * *
We went to the art party a week later, which served cold brew and alcohol at the same time. Local artists, like Mackenzie had promised, had contributed to the party, but no Mackenzie. “In her name,” I thought I heard someone say, like she was dead. I wondered if they’d channel funds toward search efforts.
Lucas and I browsed the art for sale. It was a random mix. There were air-brushed floral motifs on a big drape-y canvas, air-brushed bees buzzing around it. Multicolored Navajo friendship bracelets. Ultra-realistic charcoal portraits of different dead rappers. Intimate oil paintings of the same teenage girl in vaguely compromising poses: legs spread while licking an ice cream cone. The girl who’d clearly drawn them was sitting next to them, sipping a hot chocolate. I thought I recognized her from the pool. Wedged between the artists’ booths, I worried I shouldn’t have come.
Lucas picked up a friendship bracelet the color of pea soup. Mine was yellow like cartoon sunshine.
Modest amounts of champagne in plastic flutes sat in a row on the stained wood countertop. Lucas and I downed several. Eventually, we were greeted by Collin, the emotional barista I’d met earlier.
Hey, this is Lane, Collin said. She runs a gallery in the area.
Lane was beautiful, with long black hair. She wore these vintage black-heeled boots.
Oh great, Lucas said, casually. Lucas seemed miserable, in general, to be there. Had I dragged him here? He’d agreed, I’d thought.
I live in the building down the block, I said. The pale yellow one.
Oh, Simon, of course, Lane said. I know him. He owns most of the buildings on that block, right?
Owns, I thought. Taking credit for what his family does. I had this dull bitter feeling, something I was beholden to but already bored of.
I think I’ve seen you guys around. You and your…?
Brother. Michael, I said.
Then, I couldn’t stop myself.
I’m a sculptor, I said. Focusing on ceramics right now.
Ohh cool.
I started describing my work to Lane, who nodded, smiled politely.
That’s awesome, she said. And, must be nice to live in one of Simon’s buildings. They’re a steal, and so beautiful. Historic inside.
Simon’s a great guy.
Lane nodded vigorously.
But to be honest, he put my neighbor out on the street last week, I lied. Did you hear about that?
Lane was uncomfortable then. Wow, no, I didn’t know that. A hesitation showed on her face, a resistance, a skepticism.
It’s been… a challenge. It’s been challenging, I would say, and I looked to Lucas for reassurance. He didn’t meet my gaze. It’s been a challenge for Michael and me.
Lane seemed intrigued, then, interested in the subversion of her idea of Simon, in my blatant disapproval. That’s just awful, she said. Wow wow, I had no idea. Wow.
Simon, I said, and closed my eyes, and thought, don’t say it. Simon complained about Michael too, I said. Complained about the noise. It’s just hard, you know, when people don’t understand Michael. It can be pretty hard.
She looked at me like she cared, then. I would’ve said anything, in that moment, to make her care even more. I could’ve said anything at all. It was so easy to just say anything I wanted, to have that care.
Lucas downed champagne, miserably. I could tell he was hoping I would shut the fuck up, confused at how I hadn’t shut the fuck up already. I fell out of my drunkenness. My face got hot. Lucas hating me, I couldn’t handle. Lucas not being on my side.
That’s… awful, Lane whispered. God.
* * *
Lucas and I were on our way out when we saw Ed.
Sasha! Oh boy. How’s everything? Ed seemed jovial, red-faced. He held a half-full champagne flute, and wore his same khaki slacks and crisp white t-shirt.
Ed, what happened? I said. I went to hug him. Too personal, probably, but he loved it. Michael and I miss the garlic bread, I said. His hug was warm, familiar.
I sold the place! he said. Made great money.
To Mackenzie?
Yeah. Heartbreaking, what’s going on with her.
But don’t you think a place like this is kind of… bad?
Lucas kicked at a square of sidewalk that had chipped away from the ground, revealing a dark square.
Ed shrugged. Bad how? People love this place!
Well. Just different.
She made me a rich man, I’ll tell you that much, he said. Finally, I can retire. After twenty-five GODDAMN years. Your dad would be happy to know that. Goddamn.
Someone touched my back. Lane. She handed me her card. If you have a website, send it over. Sooo nice to meet you.
She smelled amazing. Whatever perfume she had on smelled like wet leaves and lilac. She clacked away in her Prada boots, toward the train.
Why do you keep lying to people? What the fuck is wrong with you? Lucas said.
We started walking towards home.
What do you mean?
You keep making everything worse. It’s like you can’t stop making everything worse.
What does it matter? Everything’s already worse.
He stopped and rubbed at his face. I’m gonna go home. I have to be up early.
Why?
You’re acting pathetic and I don’t want any part of it. I’m tired of you making me part of it. I’m tired of you complaining and then lying even more for attention. Nobody did anything to you. You’re digging your own hole.
He left me there alone.
* * *
I came home visibly distraught, visibly drunk. I lay down flat on the couch, my arms stretched back.
What’s wrong? Michael asked. He stood in the hallway entry.
We can’t go to SeaWorld, I said, finally. I sat up.
He looked startled at the severity of the comment. Why?
There’s not enough money.
He ran his fingertips down the door frame, thinking. I have money, he said.
No.
But I have Oliver.
No.
Why not?
Because we’d have to break him, I said.
He stared at me. Yes we can, he said. That’s what Oliver is for.
We’d have to take a hammer and smash him into pieces.
He considered this. We have to break him to go to SeaWorld?
Yeah.
Let’s break him then. Haha. With a hammer?
Are you sure? That’s your money, I said.
Yeah sounds fun. Let’s break him. He’s gonna yell like this: AHHHH.
Exactly.
He considered the destruction of Oliver. Then, he seemed upset, actually. Why didn’t you ask me? he said. Why didn’t you ask of course?
I don’t know.
That’s silly. You always know. If something goes wrong, we ask for money, he said, like it was an old saying. Just like if you go to jail, you ask for help.
That’s true.
Am I gonna go to jail? he said. Can they take you to jail for clowning around?
No Michael. I’m sorry I didn’t ask.
Can we break him now?
Let’s do it tomorrow.
Okay fine. He rubbed his eye, tired, now. Next time, just ask. That’s nonsense. Of course there’s money.
Guilt washed across me. I hadn’t realized how much I’d failed to explain, not even trying for fear he wouldn’t get it.
Next time, I’ll ask, I said. Promise.
* * *
Early the next morning, Lucas texted me. My hangover felt like wearing a helmet, like a headache tightly fitted to my head. He was probably mad at me. I would apologize. As always. I rolled over in bed.
Instead, he’d texted: You need to see this. And attached an article.
Cafe owner Mackenzie Lowell found dead in an abandoned swimming pool in New Jersey.
Michael could tell, by my face, that something was wrong, when I walked to the kitchen counter, started mindlessly making coffee.
Are you sad? he said.
No, I said.
I wished, hard, that I could explain. I was so hungover that the idea of trying seemed completely out of reach. How would I start? “I should not have posted to Yelp.”
He left the room, then retrieved Oliver. He placed Oliver on the counter. Here he is. Like I said. Okay? So we can use him. Okay?
I nodded. Okay. Thank you. That’s perfect.
I could tell, now, that he was remembering our dad, and sadness, seeing me sad, and remembering how unprepared we’d been, how sudden his death was: an unforeseen heart attack so silent and so quick, one day here, one day gone.
Everything’s okay, I said. We’re going to SeaWorld!
He nodded. He took the information in, processed it, paused. Can I watch South Park?
Of course.
I read on. There was foul play suspected. Allegedly, she’d been intoxicated at the time, and found all alone. An investigation was underway. No security footage. At the end of the article, they prompted the public to come forward with any leads they had, which implied they didn’t have very many. I wondered if it was possible they’d find my archived post. Even if deleted, surely it could be found.
In my room, I sat at my desk. I sculpted a pitted swimming pool shape, asymmetrical like a kidney bean, but also rounded, with a cavernous, hollowed bottom, kind of like a half-shell.
I molded clay with my hands. I didn’t normally make figurative stuff but this time, I made a tiny girl, sitting on the edge of the pool. I attached a tiny arm to her abdomen. She had a peanut head and her tits were globs. She was rudimentary. I squashed her, embarrassed that I’d tried. I balled her up.
I walked out to the living room, the carpet fresh with vacuum tracks. Michael had turned South Park on. Cartman wore no clothes, his bright white body doughy, no penis visible. His squeaking sounded sort of buried, but comforting, under the AC on full blast.
If Michael and I couldn’t live here, on our own terms, forever, I didn’t want to live anywhere. She was worth that.
Michael lounged on the couch. Can we have blueberry muffins? He asked.
I worked my shift later that day, in silence at the Venetian-Italian tavern. I swiped a rag across the same tables over and over again.
Lucas came in.
Are you mad at me? I asked. I’m really sorry. I don’t really know what I’m doing sometimes.
No, he said. I just don’t want to think about Mackenzie anymore. I want to move on. He said it like it was for both of us.
I’m sorry I said it was your fault, I said.
He shrugged. I’m used to it. Then he kind of smiled. The sky seemed fake blue. It was perfect vacation weather.
Do you think we killed her? He asked. Do you really think that?
I shrugged. You definitely didn’t, I said.
You didn’t either, he said. He knocked my arm, like usual, and I liked the thought of continuing, just the same as usual. He sat at the bar. An Aperol spritz, please?
It was that my lies felt like the truth, that’s why I’d told them. I held what Lucas said in my head, that it wasn’t me who’d hurt anyone, it couldn’t have possibly been me, saying something out loud didn’t just make it come true. I wanted so badly to believe him.
We never talked about her again.
* * *
My alarm went off as planned at 4am. Michael had been up since even earlier.
He parted my blinds for me, then ran a hand across them like they were wind chimes. They made a paper-clatter. He whispered, Wake up Sasha. SeaWorld.
He stood in his boxers but also wearing his SeaWorld visor, embroidered with the outlines of dolphins. He looked like what you picture when you think: that’s a young man. You look bad, he said. You okay?
Just early, I said. I threw the covers off. Let’s go.
I hauled canvas grocery bags of random things out to our car. Our apartment complex stood fading yellow in the early sun.
Can we bring this? Michael said. It was a DVD boxset of every single South Park episode from 2005 to 2010.
I leaned against the car, sweating. No. We’re not gonna have time to watch it, I said. We’ll be at SeaWorld.
But could I just bring one?
I’m not sure that makes sense, I told him.
He agreed. We don’t need it.
In the car, we sped across the bridge. I lost visibility for the few seconds it took to enter the Holland Tunnel, a sudden dark cast across the windshield, the tunnel too dark against the bright day. I hit the gas and could see again, everything lit up yellow.
Michael loved tunnels. He rolled both his windows down. Yellow light bulbs everywhere, light flicking past.
I rolled my window down too. I chose not to feel guilt. I wouldn’t even think of her. In my rearview, Michael was happy.
I’m thinking about the ice cream man’s eyebrows, Michael said. I want to think about them forever.
Please let him be there, I thought.
* * *
We drove for hours, no stops. I wanted to drive the whole way straight through. Michael slept. Eventually the ocean appeared, the gulls screeching. We arrived at his favorite hotel, which looked exactly as it had, six years ago when we’d last been there. We dropped our stuff off, smeared sunscreen on our faces, and headed straight for the theme park.
The ice cream man, Michael said, once again. But he was happier now, anticipatory.
We have to wait and see, I said, but felt eager then too.
I know. You always say that.
We entered the park. A huge blue waterslide towered in the distance. I felt the kid-thrill of being at an amusement park. We passed the gift shop, saw the charms and seashells coated in glitter paint, and walked immediately to the dolphin tank, which was massive. When the cold air hit, it revived me. The charge of dolphins together in their small rocky grotto, bleating with their tiny teeth and perpetual smiles.
Two killer whales, water-slick and black, heaved their heavy bodies up and out of the water, whales so powerful they could literally kill with one clean pound downward. I remembered standing there as kids, when it felt like there was more to glean about the world, like this break in our normalcy was opportunity, like there was understanding I suddenly had access to. We liked to be pressed up against the glass, looking closely at the same thing.
Now before I could stop him, Michael slipped from reach, and ran. Quickly I turned to see where. He ran hard toward the ice cream man with his cart, and it was the same guy, just grayer in the hair, with his same white cap. I held my breath as he charged, faster than I’d ever seen him run.
I ran after him. I felt the sudden surge of power you feel as a kid racing another kid, when you near the end of the track and there’s only so much time to close the gap. I ran until the cement turned to grass and the ice cream man came into view. His hat! I heard Michael shout, not just to himself, but to me. I saw the ice cream man wave. Michael waved back. I ran to catch up.
Aurora Huiza is a New-York based writer originally from Los Angeles. Her writing has appeared online at Expat Press, X-R-A-Y, Rejection Letters, and others. She is a recent graduate of the Syracuse MFA Program for fiction. Her X is @aurora_huiza_.