The Secret Runners of New York Read online

  Shortly after, Mr Johnson—sorry, Ken—introduced the artist of the moment, a talented yet provocative young sculptor from London named Clive Mayhew (although he went by the single name ‘Clivey’). Together, they swept a large white sheet off a sample of the artworks to come: a ten-foot-high crucifix made of fibreglass and painted bright pink. Instead of the usual image of Christ attached to it, a life-sized pink sculpture of a woman in a business suit was nailed to it, arms spread wide. It was called THE PRICE OF FEMINISM. Very meta.

  The crowd oohed appropriately. Some gasped.

  ‘That’s not gonna be controversial,’ Jenny said sarcastically.

  But I could see that her dad was as proud as punch. He and the young artist smiled as a hundred flashbulbs popped.

  As January came to an end, Red’s lacrosse training picked up. The season was fast approaching (if the world didn’t end), but since Red was too cool to walk home with me anymore, I’d lost track of the days when he trained.

  Which was how I came to be in my bedroom early one evening with the door half-open, focused intently on my physics homework, my ears covered in noise-cancelling headphones. I was dressed in an old yellow Jake the Dog nightshirt, pink Ugg boots and one of my mother’s old green SoulCycle headbands, when a muffled knocking invaded my sonic cocoon.

  It was not my best look, but I was home alone on a winter’s evening doing homework, so sue me.

  You can imagine my horror, then, when I looked up and saw Bo Bradford standing in my doorway, smiling at me and looking gorgeous in his lacrosse tracksuit.

  I hadn’t known today was lacrosse training and Red had brought the boys back to our place to hang.

  ‘Hey there,’ Bo said.

  I swallowed, literally unable to speak.

  ‘I was just going to the restroom and, well . . .’ He nodded at my nightshirt. ‘Jake the Dog, huh?’

  I curled my shoulders inward. ‘Who doesn’t like Adventure Time?’

  Then, to my total mortification, Bo stepped into my bedroom, strolling casually around it, calmly taking it in.

  They say a stranger can see more about your home in one minute than you can in six months. As I suddenly saw my room through Bo’s eyes, I knew that to be true.

  The books on my shelves: my prized Stephen King collection, a couple of Michael Lewis books, some Philippa Gregory historical novels, and, yes, the Twilight saga.

  All of them held in place by white woodcut bookends that read: DREAM and LOVE.

  On my dresser, my dearest toy from childhood, a gift from my dad that he’d purchased on a trip to Australia: a fluffy pink kangaroo with a heart sewn onto its pouch plus the words: HOPPY THE HAPPY KANGAROO.

  Oh, dear Lord . . .

  The posters on the walls made a cooler showing, I thought/hoped: Green Day, The Killers, and my vintage pink ‘Eric Burdon and the Animals at Whisky a Go Go’ poster.

  But, then, perhaps all this coolness was negated by the cheesy motivational picture of a basketball under a ring with the shout line: YOU MISS 100% OF THE SHOTS YOU DON’T TAKE. Thank Christ I’d taken down my old ‘Hang in there’ kitten poster a few months back.

  ‘It’s hockey, not basketball,’ Bo said.

  ‘I’m sorry, what?’ I said.

  ‘That quote: “You miss 100% of the shots you don’t take.” It was Wayne Gretzky who said that. He played ice hockey, not basketball.’

  I shook my head mock-seriously. ‘Don’t you just hate it when motivational poster companies get it wrong?’

  He laughed before nodding at my desk.

  ‘Whatcha studying?’

  ‘AP physics,’ I said.

  ‘Advanced placement physics?’ He gave me a sideways look. ‘That isn’t normally popular with girls.’

  ‘I am no ordinary girl,’ I said with what I felt was my winningest smile.

  Then I shrugged. ‘My dad told me once that if you want to be big in the twenty-first century, be an engineer. Engineers can go into lots of industries and these days, all the heavy hitters studied some form of engineering: Bezos, Brin, Bloomberg, even the Koch brothers.’

  ‘Is that so?’ Bo said.

  ‘Uh-huh,’ I said, but the look he was giving me made me suddenly fearful I’d said the wrong thing, made some kind of social mistake.

  I plunged on anyway. ‘And if I want to study engineering at a good school, I have to do well in physics. That is, of course, if we don’t all die in March.’

  He laughed at that. Then he jerked his chin at my textbook. ‘What’re you working on today?’

  ‘Increasing electric current in a circuit.’

  ‘Ah, yes, Ohm’s Law,’ Bo said.

  ‘You know it?’

  ‘’Course I do. I love physics. I’m good at it, too. But, alas, when I get out of school, I won’t be becoming an engineer.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘Let’s just say—again, assuming we don’t all die—that my father has grand plans for me.’ The way he said it made it sound more like a death sentence than a grand plan. ‘Go to Yale, like he did. Study law, like he did. Be a Bonesman, like he was. Then go into politics, like he never did.’

  I was vaguely aware that Bo’s father was a player in the Republican Party. Not a congressman or anything like that, but a donor, a behind-the-scenes kingmaker.

  ‘Last year, Father invited Bush 43 to our place just to talk to me about the best way to—’

  Bo cut himself off, blushing. ‘I’m sorry. Bush 43. That sounded like the name-drop of the century, didn’t it?’

  He was genuinely abashed, annoyed at himself for performing the drop so effortlessly.

  It made me want to jump him then and there.

  He rallied well, as smart people do, by turning the conversation away from himself.

  He looked out my window at Central Park. ‘A lot of the girls around here, they don’t want to do anything. No goals, no ambition, no thinking. They just want to find a husband and live the life. But engineering. Wow. That’s something. Takes dedication, commitment, and smarts.’

  He looked at me oddly, evaluating me closely. ‘It’s nice to meet a girl with those qualities.’

  I smiled shyly but on the inside I was exploding with excitement. I liked impressing him.

  ‘Well, that’s my grand plan,’ I said. ‘Right now I just need to answer these problem questions.’

  ‘Here, let me help you . . .’ he said, pulling up a chair.

  He brushed against my shoulder as he casually sat down beside me. I felt almost naked in my flimsy nightshirt; hot, flustered and thrilled.

  After helping me with a few questions, Bo excused himself. ‘I’d better go. The guys’ll be wondering where I got to. See ya round.’

  ‘You bet,’ I said. ‘See ya round.’

  He left and for a few moments I stared like a dumbstruck fool at the empty doorway.

  Then I saw myself in the mirror: pink Ugg boots, yellow Jake the Dog nightshirt, green SoulCycle headband.

  ‘Great look, Skye,’ I said to my reflection.

  As it happened, being abandoned after school by my brother wasn’t all bad.

  I was leaving Monmouth one afternoon in late January—alone—when I spotted Bo crossing Fifth Avenue on his own and hustling up the steps of the Metropolitan Museum of Art.

  Curious, and a little jazzed by our recent interaction in my bedroom, I decided to follow him.

  After a little bit of searching, I found him sitting on a bench in the Egyptian Wing of the Met. He was facing the Temple of Dendur, the awesome ancient Egyptian temple that had been transplanted brick-by-brick from Aswan in Egypt to New York City in the 1970s, but he wasn’t looking at it.

  Bo’s head was buried in a book—a math textbook—while on his ears he wore top-of-the-range Bose noise-cancelling headphones to block out the world. Rising high into t
he air behind him was the enormous bank of glass windows that encased the ancient Egyptian temple.

  I debated whether or not to go and speak with him. This was clearly his personal study space, somewhere he went to be alone with his work and his thoughts.

  Would he be upset if I interrupted him? Or would he—maybe—like it?

  I didn’t know. I couldn’t know. I felt paralysed with indecision, terrified of being rejected.

  But then a strange resolve materialised inside me and I thought to myself: Go on, Skye. Be brave. Give it a try.

  And so I went over there and tapped Bo gently on the shoulder.

  He turned, removing his headphones, and as his eyes met mine they widened with genuine delight.

  ‘Hey! Skye! Hi,’ he said. If anything, he seemed a little tongue-tied, which kinda delighted me. ‘I’m just studying here. Want to join me?’

  And that was how I came to visit the Met on nine glorious occasions to study with Bo Bradford, Head Boy at The Monmouth School and all-round sublime specimen of manliness.

  Sometimes we sat in the Egyptian Wing while at other times we sat in the American Wing, with its soaring ceiling, enormous faux façade and café.

  It was kinda awesome.

  I’d get him a coffee, he’d get me one. I’d flirt mildly with him and he’d flirt with me. I particularly liked it when we worked at a table facing each other and our feet would inadvertently touch underneath. Bo knew it and I knew it, but neither of us moved our legs apart.

  We took breaks to look at the various art exhibits. I adored a visiting collection of Monet paintings but recoiled at a gruesome modern-art display of bear traps titled THE EVOLUTION OF CRUELTY: it was comprised of six spring-loaded bear traps, each older than the last; they ranged from a rusty 130-year-old iron model to a modern steel trap. To think of the spring-loaded jaws crunching through a poor bear’s leg made me ill.

  But most of all Bo and I talked about stuff, all sorts of stuff, from school politics and real politics to novels and engineering and the end of the world.

  ‘What do you think?’ I said as we stood in front of the hideous bear traps. ‘Do you think everything is going to end on St Patrick’s Day?’

  He looked away into the middle distance, thinking. ‘I hope not. Because there are a lot of things I’d still like to do. See the pyramids, hike to Everest, you.’

  I almost didn’t hear that last part, with the unexpected double entendre. I’d followed his faraway gaze and when I turned back to face him I found him looking right into my eyes.

  He took my hands, moved forward and gently pressed his lips against mine.

  Adrenaline flooded through me. His kiss was electric. If this was what the gamma cloud was going feel like, I thought, bring it on.

  He pulled away and we were left standing there, facing each other, awkwardly holding hands.

  He looked confused, surprised at what he had just done.

  ‘I’m sorry. I honestly don’t know why I did that. I just . . . had to.’

  ‘That’s okay.’ I looked down shyly and he laughed gently, released my hands and turned back towards the café.

  ‘We should get back to studying,’ he said.

  I paused as he walked away from me, thinking about the feel of his lips on mine, the spark in his eyes, the end of the world and one other thing.

  As I’d held his hands and looked down, I’d seen the collection of marks on his left wrist: nine parallel slashes.

  January became February, and as the world swept toward its destiny—and I walked on cloud nine whenever I thought of Bo Bradford—the gossip at Monmouth turned to the last and most exclusive debutante ball of the Season, the East Side Cotillion, which would take place on Saturday, March 3.

  Misty Collins, as we all knew, was going, as was a senior named Donna Abrahamson.

  Misty’s squad gossiped about the pre-parties that were scheduled and the night itself, which promised, they said, to be totally snatch.

  I listened wanly, knowing that I had more chance of going to the moon than I did of attending any of those parties or the Cotillion.

  And then came the day I lingered in the girls’ locker room, a day that would change my life.

  AN UNEXPECTED FAVOUR

  It happened after gym class, which at that time was held during the final period on Wednesdays.

  For the record, I should mention that, for a girl, gym class is as horrible at an elite private school as it is at any other school.

  No-one enjoys changing in the locker room with twenty other teenage girls or putting on tight white gym shorts, tube socks and a navy polo with a collar patterned in the school’s signature green-and-navy tartan.

  Nor does anyone enjoy the running, jumping, climbing and throwing of balls. I’m naturally fast but put any kind of ball in my hands and I’m completely useless.

  Anyway, after another pointless and humiliating session in the school’s indoor gym, we had all showered and changed and were leaving for the day.

  As I always seemed to do, I’d left my housekey in my temporary locker and went back to get it after everyone had gone.

  I only just heard her.

  Heard an ever-so-faint sniffle coming from the row of toilet cubicles adjacent to the shower room.

  Someone was in there. I peered under the door, but whoever was inside the cubicle had raised her feet so no-one would spot her.

  I edged toward the cubicle and knocked hesitantly.

  The sniffling ceased immediately, as if the person doing it had frozen instantly at being caught.

  ‘Hello?’ I said softly. ‘Are you okay in there?’

  Pregnant silence.

  And then a husky voice. ‘Please go away.’

  It was Misty.

  Eventually, I coaxed her out and saw her dilemma.

  Oh, God.

  It was every high school girl’s nightmare.

  That time of the month . . . an extra heavy flow that came unexpectedly early . . . during gym class . . . in tight white shorts.

  Misty’s eyes were puffy and red from crying. She sat in the cubicle, pantless, holding her bloodstained gym shorts and underpants in her hands. She’d been hiding in the cubicle—as I certainly would have done myself—waiting for all the other girls to leave, after which she would make her escape.

  And for someone whose friends had made an art of passing snide judgements on others—from nose jobs to the awful incident with Winnie Simms—there would be no coming back from this.

  Live by the sword, die by the sword.

  And yet as I stood there looking at her, I couldn’t help but feel sorry for Misty. Maybe I was a softy, maybe I was a sucker, but despite her imperfections, she was still just a girl who lived like I did at the mercy of her anatomy.

  ‘It’s okay,’ I said. ‘Let me help you. And don’t worry, I won’t tell a soul.’

  The following day, Misty Collins added me on Snapchat.

  That small act of kindness in the locker room would change the course my life, no matter how much longer it lasted.

  THE PLAZA, THE DAKOTA AND THE CARLYLE

  It was like I had been knighted or damed or whatever the hell the female equivalent of being knighted is.

  Both at school and outside it, Misty ushered me into her inner circle.

  I was in.

  The first thing she did was wait for me one morning in her Escalade outside the San Remo and ask me if I wanted to ride to school with her. Of course, I jumped straight in the back of the car with her, Hattie and her beanie-wearing brother, Oz.

  She showered me with praise in the hallways, and in the junior common room she would not tolerate an unkind word said about me, not from Hattie or Verity or anyone.

  Red was both impressed and confused. ‘What did you do?’ he asked me one morning as I gleefully left him to walk t
o school across the park by himself.

  ‘Nothing,’ I said, skipping away. ‘We just bonded on a female level. You wouldn’t understand.’

  Misty asked me to accompany her to her ‘bouquet fitting’ for the Cotillion. (Unlike other balls, for the Cote, the debutantes get to choose their individual bouquets of flowers. This, naturally, creates an expensive competition of its own.)

  I hung out at her place after school with her, Verity and Hattie. We talked about the usual stuff: school, fashion, hair, boys.

  (One conversation that I will never forget involved Hattie saying that she thought the world was flat, like some rapper I’d never heard of. ‘I mean, look at the horizon, it’s flat,’ she said. ‘And, hello, if the world was round, wouldn’t the people at the bottom fall off? Until I see it for myself from space, I just won’t believe it.’ Seriously. She said that. I wanted to ask her if she believed in gravity.)

  One afternoon at Misty’s apartment, I went to the restroom. This meant walking past her brother’s bedroom.

  Oz was in there studying. His room was a shrine to the New York Rangers: the walls were covered with red, white and blue Rangers paraphernalia, including framed jerseys, posters, pennants, hockey sticks and even a goalie’s facemask painted with the American flag and signed by Henrik Lundqvist.

  I suppose a kid’s gotta have a hobby, I thought as I kept walking.

  Misty even invited me along to one of her fortnightly afternoon teas with Griff O’Dea at The Plaza Hotel, a rare honour that even Verity and Hattie prized very highly.

  Now, I should be clear about this. There is The Plaza and there is The Plaza.

  Towering over Central Park South, with its steeply slanted Parisian mansard roof, The Plaza is an icon of New York City. It is also one of the most expensive hotels in the world. Its commanding location affords it unobstructed north-facing views of the park.

  Now, your standard well-to-do lady of leisure might do high tea at the hotel’s Palm Court, a lavish garden-like space encased by a stained-glass dome. This impresses most.

  We, however, went to The Plaza’s private tearoom up on the 14th floor. It is not advertised. If you do not know it’s there, you’re not invited. It was quietly added to the hotel during its $400-million renovation in 2008. A plush little salon, it has panoramic views of Central Park, a gorgeous fireplace and its own dedicated butler. Access is permitted only to owners of the private residences in the building and to people like Misty Collins.