There’s no barrier between the passengers and the train tracks in the New York City subway. Other than the yellow rubber path at the very edge of the platform, passengers don’t receive a warning not to step on the tracks. Consequently, people fall from the platform, whether intentionally or unintentionally. It’s not abnormal to find a body between the trash and the rats. What would ordinarily be a tragic event in a small town becomes a nuisance in a big city. A corpse on the tracks of the subway was millions of morning commutes ruined, meetings stalled and tardy slips written.
I don’t like taking the trains. I don’t like the crowds, the smells, or the homeless people panhandling from car to car. But what I did like was the train fare, which was $2.75 per ride or free if I ducked under the turnstile.
Ainsley’s penthouse was forty-five minutes away if I caught the express line. I hop on the train, dress and shoes stowed away in a bag tucked under my arms. I hold on to a metal bar, the car crowded with rush hour office workers and children going home.
There are natural delays on the ride, the kind that comes from too many people packed into too little space. I don’t think anything of it when the train halts in the tunnels and the electricity shuts off, the hum of the air conditioning fading and lights flickering off. But when ten minutes pass in the sweaty, humid darkness, I start to worry.
My phone has no signal. I try to text my friends anyway, all of my messages returning with red exclamation marks. I mustered up the courage to ask a kindly-looking woman next to me what happened. She shrugs, just as in the dark as I am.
A slow ripple passes through the car. Fragments of other people’s conversations reach my ear, words like “body,” “tracks,” and “jumped” form a gruesome narrative.
“Did someone die?” I ask the question aloud, mostly to myself.
“No,” a man chimes in. “They tried to kill themselves. Some idiot jumped in the tracks, but the conductor hit the brakes just in time.”
“So why aren’t we moving?” Another passenger speaks up, this one with a tone of voice that was accustomed to complaining about things.
“Because that idiot got his legs stuck under the wheels.”
I wince, imagining the pain. A collective groan swept through the car.
“Of course, this has to happen on my ride home.”
“Couldn’t this guy have tried to kill himself at a different time?”
I dimly remember a lesson in health class where I was told that most people with suicidal ideation attempted during the evening. Articles I read for homework informed me that those suffering from depression typically also choose the spring and summer months. Given that I was standing in a train car in early June during rush hour, the guy with his legs trapped in the tracks picked the statistically most likely time to commit suicide.
But I wasn’t going to say that while I was stuck in a car full of angry New Yorkers.
It takes thirty minutes for the train to move again. When I reach my stop, an onslaught of people exiting pushes me forward, propelling me into the station. I branch off from the crowd and whip out my phone, quickly sending a text to my friends saying that I was running late. Already, I see a few missed calls from Ainsley and some worried messages from Maia.
As I frantically search for the train exit, someone shoves me, nearly knocking me into the tracks. I regain my balance, dropping my phone in the process. It falls to the metal with a dull clatter, and my heart drops to my stomach.
For a moment, I contemplate walking on the tracks. I imagine myself jumping down and grabbing my phone, easily hoisting myself back up with superhuman strength.
But then the next train pulls into the station, and I hear my phone snap in half under the wheels.
That could have been me.
The unwanted thought springs to my head. There was a time in my life when I used to gaze down from my precarious perch on the platform with longing. Shortly after Natalie abandoned me, I wanted an easy way to end my suffering.
I remind myself that life is different now as I stumble into Ainsley’s penthouse. When I started school at Two Bridges, I was gifted an Android. It was old and unstylish, a phone I rarely pulled out unless I needed to pick up a call from my mother. Natalie had laughed at my Motorola, poking fun at the green text bubbles that showed up on her screen. It took much convincing and a flimsy homework-related excuse for my parents to finally buy me an iPhone.
I would need to come up with one heck of an explanation for them to buy me another one.
The stylists were halfway through Ainsley’s makeup. Maia sat across from her, perfectly still with cucumbers over her eyes as two women were working on her nails. They greet me leisurely, more focused on looking their best instead of my chronic lateness. One of the staff in Ainsley’s home quickly ushered me to beauty treatments, taking my dress and shoes.
Personally, I felt that the setup was over the top for a sophomore dance. But if sitting through three hours of hairstyling, facials, and manicures would make me look as good as my friends, I’d tolerate it. Anything for the world to buy into the illusion that I was as rich as them.
We arrive to the school late, courtesy of Ainsley’s chauffeur struggling to navigate Manhattan traffic. Maia takes many photos of the three of us, eager to upload them on Instagram when the evening ended. Upon her insistence, I made an account for the app, but I rarely used it beyond liking my friends’ photos.
“Why aren’t you taking any pictures?” A frown mars her glowy painted face.
“My phone got stolen.” The lie comes easily to me, no longer choking me the way it did in the past.
“You poor thing! No wonder you were so late,” Ainsley says, her voice dripping with sympathy. “New York is so dangerous.”
“They probably saw your cute face and thought you’d be an easy target,” Maia adds before striking a pose and taking yet another picture.
In a way, Maia has a point. Of the three girls, I look the most innocent for the dance, clad in a white dress and blushy pink makeup. The stylist curled my otherwise stick-straight hair into soft waves and added a shimmery powder to my exposed shoulders. Ainsley was positively regal in her royal blue off-the-shoulder dress, the pale blossoms at the hem giving her a girlish touch. Maia resembled an actual flower, the folds of her hijab seamlessly blending with the layers of the ruffles on her pink dress. It was hard not to feel so ordinary between the two of them.
We gather in the gymnasium, grabbing cups of punch before finding a table. Most of them were already full, occupied with other overeager students more than happy to pay their way into a higher grade.
I spot Yuey from across the room and catch her eye. Lucky for us, her table is empty. I wave Maia and Ainsley over and they follow reluctantly.
“Who is she?” Maia glances at her black Chanel dress appreciatively.
“Her name is Yuey. She’s a friend of mine.”
“I thought we were your only friends,” Ainsley remarks. I can’t tell by her tone of voice if she’s joking.
“No need to get jealous,” I tease her.
“As if,” she replies, but I see that my words crack a smile on her face.
The girls chat with Yuey, curious about her family, fashion taste, and most importantly, her fortune. They learn that she was the heir to the Wang Corporation, a fact that made Maia’s eyes shine in recognition.
“So that’s how you got your dress. I don’t think they’ve even released those designs yet!”
Yuey smirks cryptically. “Not in the U.S., no. But they’ll be hitting the big fashion houses in Paris next week.”
For a split second, I wonder if her dress was fake. She gives me a knowing look. Something passes between us, a feeling that was not unlike telepathy.
“I heard your family has substantial holdings in Shanghai. Beautiful properties from what I’ve been told,” Ainsley slips in.
“Is your family interested in buying?”
The rest of their conversation passes by in the same absurd fashion. I seem to be the only one aware of the fact that we were children at a school dance, not businessmen conducting deals. Meanwhile, my stomach twists in knots thinking about how I would explain my missing phone to my parents.
Even when the DJ blasts pop music and everyone moves to the dance floor, all I could do was worry about my phone splitting in half on the station tracks. I picture the device crushed to smithereens with every train that pulls in.
“Are you alright?”
I turn to see Mikael, unexpectedly concerned for my well-being. He wore a blue suit that took away all his softness.
“I’m fine.” For some reason, my response makes him laugh.
“You said that last time in the stairwell. Your face tells me otherwise.”
There it was, that discerning eye of his. I couldn’t get anything past him, so I decided to tell him the truth. And he listened, with nothing about him mocking my situation.
He hands me his phone. “Take this. Call your parents and explain everything. Maybe then it won’t bother you.”
“I’m scared.”
“I’ll be there with you.”
We walk outside of the gym together, telling the teachers chaperoning us that we need some air. He stands with me, a warm, reassuring presence as I tell my parents in hushed Mandarin tones what happened to my phone. They don’t yell at me the way I expect them to and instead arrange for my father to pick me up in a friend’s car.
“But you will have to buy your own phone next time,” my mother says. “Work at the bakery and earn the money to get it yourself.”
It was more than I could hope for. We go back to the gym together. I feel lighter with the weight off my chest.
Mikael and I sway to the music, dancing along with everyone else. I spot my friends near the DJ, making a note to join them for the next song. From the corner of my eye, I sense Natalie staring at me for the first time in a year and ignore her, wishing to forget all bitter things.
Thus, my sophomore year came to an end.
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