Chapter One: The Interpreter

  
     I race down the steps to the crowded platform, Zoe at my heels.  The train is heading into the tunnel, we’ve missed it by irretrievable seconds.  It is late afternoon rush hour, so I know our wait will would be short.  Still.   Behind me, I hear Zoe huff.  She overexerted herself for nothing.  I hold back a smile as I lean in and give her a squeeze.  She hugs me back.  I guess I’m forgiven.

     We inch our way on to the yellow warning line, our bodies hanging over it farther than is safe. Mine is anyway. Zoe hangs back a bit. I stretch my neck out and look down the tunnel. Darkness. I roll my eyes at Zoe. Her mouth turns upward in a hint of a smile. She shrugs her shoulders in resignation. She doesn’t mind the wait. But others do. It is building up behind us. The pressure. Like steam, trapped inside a sealed pipe. Gathering force as it grows, waiting to blow. Feet shuffle and stomp. Someone groans in frustration. An uneasy restlessness permeates the platform.

     A few handfuls of hair spring loose from my baseball cap. I stuff it in, hoping no one has noticed. My hair always attracts attention, which is the last thing I ever want to do to myself. It is a shocking platinum blond. Rare for the city. Most people have hair the color of kidney beans. Or pavement. Dark and dull. But not mine. My highlights have highlights. No matter how many days I go without washing it, or brushing it, the color of my hair shines through the grime and grease. So I wear my cap whenever possible.

     “Lily,” whispers Zoe, and I cringe. That’s another thing about myself that I wish I could change. My name. Most of my friends have way cool names, like Misha or Lexi. Or Zoe. Lately, parents have been naming their baby girls Lily, which makes it even less cool. Like I have a baby name. I try not to hate it. After all, my parents named me after my grandmother.

     Zoe is telling me about what happened today in history class. I listen to her voice, the soft slow pauses, followed by a sentence or two all in a rush. The way I would imagine a roller coaster climbing up the tracks toward the peak, stopping for a fraction of a second as it tips over the edge, then plunging into the next valley. As she speaks, I study my boots. They are worn and faded. A hole is forming on the side of my right boot. One of the laces is fraying. I hear every word she says, even as my eyes dart from my boots to the tunnel. Soon, there is a whisper of a vibration in my toes. My laces shiver in reply. Zoe, unaware of the sudden shift, is still talking. Soft slow pulses. Racing sentences. The vibration growing.

     “It’s coming,” I say. Zoe stops in mid sentence. We look out in time to see a faint glow spreading across the tracks. It is barely noticeable at first, a light that hasn’t yet reached the dimmest setting. Then, as if someone is turning up the control switch, it grows brighter, bolder. As if it has been there all along, waiting for someone to welcome its radiance. It is blinding and we look away and cover our ears seconds before the piercing honk of a horn fills the platform. Like a signal to react, people are in motion. They close in on us, nudging us past the safety of the yellow line. The concrete platform shudders as the conductor slams the brakes and the train’s wheels screech to a halt.

     Shiny double doors glide open at our feet. I clasp hands with Zoe and we steel ourselves for the onslaught of people propelling us into the car, even as others push us back in their effort to get off the train. We are in the middle of a tug of war with an invisible rope. With one last heave, people exit out the doors, but the path is far from clear. We weave our way in, further and further, towards the back, until we are hugging each other in a tight corner. A bag presses into my leg, I shift my weight to avoid it. There is hardly room to move and even less to breathe. But we are on the train, I think with a small sigh of accomplishment.

     I look around at the passengers surrounding us. The car is filled with Laborers, heading home after finishing their shifts. Sanitation collectors, sewage cleaners, subway operators, dock handlers. The car reeks of their hard work and exhausted bodies. Beads of perspiration form on their foreheads and trickle down the side of their faces. The benches are filled with those lucky enough to grab a spot. Their eyes are closed, faces void of expression.

     At the far end of the car, I see a few kids from school. Loud voices and laughter drift over the monotonous hum of the engine. Their carefree energy is out of sync with the Laborers that dominate the car without making a sound. I try not to let it bother me.

     A sharp, buzzing sound signals departure. Arms shoot up to secure a spot along the metal bar that spans the length of the car. It almost seems pointless. We are so packed in it would be impossible to fall. Still, I clasp my hand over Zoe’s, the only remaining space available. With a sleek silence, the doors slide closed. I catch a glimpse of the platform, already brimming with the unlucky stragglers forced to wait for the next train.

     “We made it,” says Zoe, a satisfied smile spreading across her face.

     I grin back at her. “I knew we would,” I say. “We had the perfect spot this time.”

     We don’t say anything for a moment. The train picks up speed, swaying from side to side as it barrels down the tracks into the awaiting tunnel. The lights flicker twice. I can feel the entire car holding its breath. But then the lights remain on and everyone exhales. Including me. My body relaxes to the familiar jolts and turns. So does Zoe’s. Only her thick mass of cinnamon curls bounces to its own rhythm, oblivious to the jarring motions of the subway.

     “So, was she sent to Principal Leffert’s office?” I ask Zoe, eager to hear the rest of her story.

     “No. If you can believe it,” Zoe shakes her head and her curls fly into a woman’s face. “But Sydney was.” Pause. “I mean, Lexi is a good friend and all, but it was totally unfair. It’s not like Sydney was causing any trouble.”

     I nod. “Well, you know Lexi is Ms. Stefle’s favorite.”

     “Yes, I know,” says Zoe, with a meaningful nod. “She’s everyone’s favorite.”

     We both laugh, catching the eye of a tired looking man.

     “How’d you do on your geography test,” I ask Zoe, reaching a hand in front of her face just as a bag comes swinging in her direction.

     “Don’t know,” she shrugs. “We find out on Friday.” Pause. “I think I did okay though. It was only twenty questions.”

     Each station stop is a game of musical chairs. The music stops when the doors open. Straphangers dash for an opening on the bench, no matter how slim. Pushing and shoving with what little energy they have left in their weary bodies to get there first. Soon it is time for Zoe to get off.

     “My stop, Lils,” says Zoe as we roll into a congested station. She leans in and we hug. “See you tomorrow.”

     “Bye, Zo,” I call back to her, giving her an air kiss as I watch her fight her way through the thick, unmoving crowd. It is like mud. Filthy, heavy, sludgy, spreading out of the doors of the car onto the concrete platform, oozing past the turnstiles, towards the stairs.

     I lean against the wall of the car, waiting for the tell tale buzzer that will signal our departure. I smile, thinking of how different Zoe and I are from each other, and how happy I am that we are best friends. Have been since we started at school together in grade One. I wish we had more classes together this year. My thoughts drift to the homework I need to finish up tonight. I hope I will have time to do it. Before. I look down at my wrist. Unlikely.

     After a few more stops, the air lightens and the congestion lifts. The benches open up. I slip into a spot and hug my backpack in my lap. After a minute, I rummage through its contents, for lack of anything better to do. There is not too much in there. A half empty water. A second hand e-pad. A stale roll leftover from yesterday’s lunch. I relax to the hypnotic flux of the subway motion as it swerves along the tracks. My stomach rumbles softly. I am almost home. I will make it in time after all.

     I am thinking about my geography test, visualizing each question and my (hopefully correct) answers when he strides through the door. The remaining passengers step aside, giving him a wide berth to enter. He doesn’t bother to acknowledge the courtesy. I feel my body tense and stiffen before I look up. But it doesn’t matter. I know he’s there. I sense the intrusion.

     I grasp for a safety net. My mind reaches for the first thing it can find. A nursery rhyme. Something silly, about staying out of the rain. I hold onto it, as I feel the subway car closing in on me, even though there are fewer than twenty people on it. Including the Interpreter.

     My eyes are pulled upwards toward his face, like a magnet with irresistible force, even though there is nothing to see. His all-knowing eyes are concealed behind a sleek pair of opaque black glasses. The rest of his face is an ominous mask of mystery. If he’s staring back at me, I can’t tell. But I can’t seem to look away either. I feel his presence with the force of a weapon boring into my brain with the precision of a laser. Drilling into my head, digging for my secrets. My breathing accelerates and my head begins to ache. I search for the calmness but it has left me. And then a slow anger seeps into the crevices of my mind. At the sight of his impenetrable glasses and what they represent. All the Interpreters wear them. As if they are the ones with something to hide.

     The car doors bolt shut behind him and the train pulls away from the station with a violent jerk. My backpack goes flying from my lap and I lunge for it. As I grab onto it I take a few deep plunges of breath to steady myself. I am aware of the kids from my school, still in the car, clustered at the opposite end. They are a few years older than me. Maybe even close to graduating. They speak in raucous voices with an occasional chortle drifting my way. If they are concerned that an Interpreter is in the car with them, feet away, if they even notice he’s there, they make no attempt to show it. I envy them.

     I remind myself I’ve done nothing wrong. I have nothing to hide. Still. His presence provokes waves of disgrace in my head, as if I were born with guilty thoughts that were about to leap into action. I must calm myself. I hum softly.

Don’t play in the rain, little girl

It will ruin your pretty hair

Before you know it you’ll be outside again

But don’t go play out there.

     The familiar song grows louder in my head. It reminds me of my childhood, sitting on my father’s lap while he sang that song to me in a silly voice and then afterwards we would burst out in hysterical laughter, and sometimes I’d fall off his lap and that would set us off laughing all over again.

     The Interpreter turns toward me. I will myself to focus every last neuron on the song and only the song. I shut out random thoughts of my childhood, my family and friends. Don’t play in the rain…

     The train decelerates as it enters the station. The nursery rhyme is not enough to drown out the sound of the brakes, which reverberate like someone shrieking in terror. The doors unlatch and he slides out. I realize I haven’t been breathing. I exhale and loosen my hold on my backpack, wiggling my fingers to get the blood flowing again. The subway doors begin to close, but not before he turns around. This time I know with the same certainty I know it will rain tomorrow that his veiled eyes bore into mine.

     A shiver races up my body, starting at my toes and finishing at the tip of my skull. An icy chill fills my brain. Was I mistaken, or did I catch an almost imperceptible grin on his unreadable face? A drop of cold sweat falls from my hairline. My mind is a frenzy, in my head I am screaming the nursery rhyme over and over again. I don’t stop until long after the subway car has left the station.