The doors slide open. Heat washes over me in a wave of anger and resentment. Of all the people I’m fine sharing a tiny, ancient elevator with today, Izzy Blair is not one of them. He hesitates before coming in, finally squeezing into the corner furthest from me. Not an easy accomplishment, given the limited space. This box can hold a maximum of five people, and then you start running the risk of the weight sending you plummeting to your death on top of dying squished against strangers.
A gut-wrenching jerk, and we begin our unsteady ascent. You could cut the tension with a steak-knife. I fix my gaze straight ahead to avoid any accidental eye-contact.
“So—” he tries after a few agonizing seconds, acting like the bigger person, because of course he would, “how’ve you been, Beatrice?”
Snob. Can’t even use a nickname like everyone else, no, he has to call me by my full name every time. I take a moment to compose myself before answering.
“Fine.” I manage dryly. If he can pretend to be polite, so can I. “You?”
I watch him out of the corner of my eye. He hunches his shoulders in a half-hearted shrug.
“Fine. Busy.”
I give a grunt to show I’ve heard, and we lapse into silence. I’m tired from a long day, and I haven’t got the patience to try and be nice even for the supposedly brief ride. To my horror, I’ve no sooner wished for this ordeal to end than a terrible screech resounds from the overhead gears. The elevator jerks to a sudden halt, nearly throwing me off my feet. Seconds pass. Izzy and I exchange a look of mutual panic, our differences briefly set aside. No. No, no, no. I pound on the door, the buttons, to no avail. The little light flickers in protest.
“Maybe you shouldn’t—” Izzy starts, forgetting who he’s addressing. I whirl on him, panic making my anger all the worse.
“Shut up! Don’t you tell me what to do! Don’t you dare! You’re not my mother, you’re not my friend, so shut up and stay away from me!”
The explosion takes us both by surprise. I hadn’t realized the extent of my fury. He hangs his head, shuffling his feet in uneasiness, hands deep in his jean pockets. When he looks up, there’s an unexpected light of curiosity in his owlish green eyes. He adjusts his thick-framed glasses with one finger, studying me. Izzy is fifteen, a year older than I am, and I suppose there was a time when we might have been friends. Strangely enough, I find I can’t quite remember what happened to destroy that possibility. It’s my turn to look away. I try to focus on the more pressing problem of getting the elevator moving again, but I can feel his gaze on the back of my neck and it makes me uncomfortable. I kick the door in frustration, stubbing my toe, then fish my cell from my purse to call for help. No luck there either. The building is old, and service is dicey at the best of times.
“Mine too.” Izzy says quietly. Ignoring him, I slump in my corner. I pull my knees up to my chest and hide my face so I don’t have to see him sitting there across from me. They’ll come get us soon. People will realize we’re missing, that this damn thing’s busted again. They’ll put two and two together. They have to. The seconds tick by like hours. My cellmate doodles absentmindedly on the worn, puke green carpeting with a yellow highlighter. Annoyed, I kick it out of his hand. He stiffens, clicking his tongue in irritation.
“That was uncalled for.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah!”
He shoots to his feet, face scarlet with rage.
“What the hell is your problem? You think I’m happy to be stuck in here with a brat like you? I don’t like it any more than you do!”
I scramble up, clenching my fists to keep from hitting him. He makes me so angry I find I’m having trouble breathing. My chest heaves, my lungs burn. There’s an icy tingle in my toes and a burning fire in my cheeks. I’ve never in my life hated anyone as much as I hate him. The words to keep shouting are in my head, but my tongue is in knots, unable to let them out. Izzy doesn’t give me a chance to speak, shoving me hard into the back wall. My shoulder flares in pain.
“You’re a spoiled little brat, Beatrice! What’d I ever do to you anyway? You and your—perfect life—perfect family—I have more reason to hate you than anybody else. Your dad—”
He stops short, backing off. Agitated, he turns his back to me, twisting his fingers in his curly black hair. All my anger melts away. His point has hit home. I let the comment about my dad go without further probing. Try as I might, I can’t remember why I hate him so much. Something I heard at school, maybe. Or at home. I don’t know. Maybe he started hating me first and I’m the one who took it too far. As for my dad, both of my parents are lawyers. They try to do right, but there’s always a winner and a loser in the cases they defend. Someone has to get hurt. I want to apologize all of a sudden. The words stick in my throat, held down by sheer pride. We’ve been feuding too long for me to let go of it easily.
“You think they’d hurry up and get us out of here.” I mutter, trying to diffuse the situation before it gets worse. It works. Izzy’s shoulders slump in tired submission as he turns to face me once more.
“It’s late. Not many people are gonna be around to realize we’re stuck.”
His tone has softened considerably. Hesitant, I pick up the marker and hand it back, hoping he’ll accept that as my apology. He takes it, almost managing a smile. Feeling strangely awkward after the outbursts, we settle back into our corners. Izzy starts doodling again.
“It was only 10:00 when we got trapped. Not all that late. I was babysitting for Mrs. Daniels from downstairs, and she got back on time for once. By now it’s—what—10:15? We’ll be out soon.”
He nods but says nothing in reply. I get the feeling he doesn’t quite believe me. Curious in spite of myself, I scoot closer to see what he’s drawing. The yellow stain shows up surprisingly well against the awful green. I spot a few spiral snails, some smiley faces. He’s not the best artist. I start to point it out, then remember I don’t hate him now. Not as much, anyway.
“You got another one?” I ask instead. He fishes around in his hoodie pocket for a bit, then shakes his head.
“No. I was lucky to have this one.”
Slightly miffed by his tone, I rise again and pace back and forth, counting how many steps it takes to get from one wall to the other. The result is four length wise, three width wise. Not the most exciting revelation.
“I’ve got a deck of cards in my bag from babysitting. Wanna play?” I suggest after the fifth count. He doesn’t raise his head.
“No thanks. I don’t get over hate as easily as you. Like you said. We’re not friends.”
I’m starting to remember why, too, now that he’s actually talking. He reminds me of a bad petting zoo experience I had when I was six. Both he and that cranky old mule have the same attitude.
Bored, I press each floor button a few times, and the red emergency one, hoping for a miracle. When nothing happens, I make faces at myself in the back wall mirror. I stick out my tongue, pull the skin under my eyes, until I look like a goblin.
“Keep trying. It’s almost an improvement.” Izzy chuckles, moving his horrible doodles to his hand. I shrug off the insult.
“Whatever. Like you’re such a hottie yourself. You’re just jealous. Admit it, Izzy. You wish you were a redhead like me.”
He scoffs, finally making eye contact.
“Seriously? That’s the best you can come up with? Please. I bet you don’t even know my real name.”
I sit cross-legged in front of him, wrinkling my nose in confusion.
“What does that have to do with anything?”
Truthfully, I’ve never given the matter any thought. I always assumed Izzy was his given name. Even his mom calls him that. He leans back against the wall, arms pillowing his head.
“Nothing. But I bet you don’t know it. In fact, I’ll wager my highlighter you won’t guess in a million years.”
“And if I lose?”
His grin widens, maniacal.
“If you lose, you have to do my calc homework for the rest of the year.”
Izzy is notoriously bad at math. In first grade, he argued with our teacher for over twenty minutes that 2+2 should equal 22. I shake my head.
“For a highlighter? No way. How about—a secret. You lose, you have to tell me something about you no one else knows.”
“Deal.”
We shake on it, letting go quickly. Neither of us wants the other to get the wrong idea and start thinking we’re friendly now. I figure the bet can’t be too hard to win. How many names could possibly fit with something as ridiculous as ‘Izzy’?
“Isidore?” I venture, going for old fashioned. I think I read it in a book somewhere. He raises a cocky eyebrow, clearly pleased with himself.
“Thank God, no. I’ll give you two more guesses.”
Damn. I bite my lip, focusing on the floor as I wrack my tired brain for ideas.
“Isaac?”
“Ha! Don’t I wish. Last chance.”
He chuckles, certain of victory. With my luck it’ll be something foreign, or a name that has absolutely no relation to ‘Izzy.’ I’m starting to regret accepting the challenge. Damn it. I purse my lips, tossing my braid over my shoulder in an attempt to play for time.
“Can I have a hint?”
At that he laughs outright.
“Hell no. We’ve been in school together since pre-k. You should definitely know it by now. I’m not gonna help you cheat, my math grade’s on the line.”
What math grade, I want to say, barely holding my tongue. He has a knack for making me uncomfortable. I squirm like a worm on a hook. If we’re going to be rescued at all, now would be great.
“Can’t we just play cards instead?” I plead. Izzy shakes his head slowly, watching me with a great deal more interest than he’s ever shown before. I heave a sigh. Goodbye free time. I risk my last guess with no hope of being right.
“So, what, your parents give you a girl name like Isabel or something? You can stop looking so smug. I’ll do your damn homework. I give up. What is it?”
A gut-wrenching jerk, and we begin our unsteady ascent. You could cut the tension with a steak-knife. I fix my gaze straight ahead to avoid any accidental eye-contact.
“So—” he tries after a few agonizing seconds, acting like the bigger person, because of course he would, “how’ve you been, Beatrice?”
Snob. Can’t even use a nickname like everyone else, no, he has to call me by my full name every time. I take a moment to compose myself before answering.
“Fine.” I manage dryly. If he can pretend to be polite, so can I. “You?”
I watch him out of the corner of my eye. He hunches his shoulders in a half-hearted shrug.
“Fine. Busy.”
I give a grunt to show I’ve heard, and we lapse into silence. I’m tired from a long day, and I haven’t got the patience to try and be nice even for the supposedly brief ride. To my horror, I’ve no sooner wished for this ordeal to end than a terrible screech resounds from the overhead gears. The elevator jerks to a sudden halt, nearly throwing me off my feet. Seconds pass. Izzy and I exchange a look of mutual panic, our differences briefly set aside. No. No, no, no. I pound on the door, the buttons, to no avail. The little light flickers in protest.
“Maybe you shouldn’t—” Izzy starts, forgetting who he’s addressing. I whirl on him, panic making my anger all the worse.
“Shut up! Don’t you tell me what to do! Don’t you dare! You’re not my mother, you’re not my friend, so shut up and stay away from me!”
The explosion takes us both by surprise. I hadn’t realized the extent of my fury. He hangs his head, shuffling his feet in uneasiness, hands deep in his jean pockets. When he looks up, there’s an unexpected light of curiosity in his owlish green eyes. He adjusts his thick-framed glasses with one finger, studying me. Izzy is fifteen, a year older than I am, and I suppose there was a time when we might have been friends. Strangely enough, I find I can’t quite remember what happened to destroy that possibility. It’s my turn to look away. I try to focus on the more pressing problem of getting the elevator moving again, but I can feel his gaze on the back of my neck and it makes me uncomfortable. I kick the door in frustration, stubbing my toe, then fish my cell from my purse to call for help. No luck there either. The building is old, and service is dicey at the best of times.
“Mine too.” Izzy says quietly. Ignoring him, I slump in my corner. I pull my knees up to my chest and hide my face so I don’t have to see him sitting there across from me. They’ll come get us soon. People will realize we’re missing, that this damn thing’s busted again. They’ll put two and two together. They have to. The seconds tick by like hours. My cellmate doodles absentmindedly on the worn, puke green carpeting with a yellow highlighter. Annoyed, I kick it out of his hand. He stiffens, clicking his tongue in irritation.
“That was uncalled for.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah!”
He shoots to his feet, face scarlet with rage.
“What the hell is your problem? You think I’m happy to be stuck in here with a brat like you? I don’t like it any more than you do!”
I scramble up, clenching my fists to keep from hitting him. He makes me so angry I find I’m having trouble breathing. My chest heaves, my lungs burn. There’s an icy tingle in my toes and a burning fire in my cheeks. I’ve never in my life hated anyone as much as I hate him. The words to keep shouting are in my head, but my tongue is in knots, unable to let them out. Izzy doesn’t give me a chance to speak, shoving me hard into the back wall. My shoulder flares in pain.
“You’re a spoiled little brat, Beatrice! What’d I ever do to you anyway? You and your—perfect life—perfect family—I have more reason to hate you than anybody else. Your dad—”
He stops short, backing off. Agitated, he turns his back to me, twisting his fingers in his curly black hair. All my anger melts away. His point has hit home. I let the comment about my dad go without further probing. Try as I might, I can’t remember why I hate him so much. Something I heard at school, maybe. Or at home. I don’t know. Maybe he started hating me first and I’m the one who took it too far. As for my dad, both of my parents are lawyers. They try to do right, but there’s always a winner and a loser in the cases they defend. Someone has to get hurt. I want to apologize all of a sudden. The words stick in my throat, held down by sheer pride. We’ve been feuding too long for me to let go of it easily.
“You think they’d hurry up and get us out of here.” I mutter, trying to diffuse the situation before it gets worse. It works. Izzy’s shoulders slump in tired submission as he turns to face me once more.
“It’s late. Not many people are gonna be around to realize we’re stuck.”
His tone has softened considerably. Hesitant, I pick up the marker and hand it back, hoping he’ll accept that as my apology. He takes it, almost managing a smile. Feeling strangely awkward after the outbursts, we settle back into our corners. Izzy starts doodling again.
“It was only 10:00 when we got trapped. Not all that late. I was babysitting for Mrs. Daniels from downstairs, and she got back on time for once. By now it’s—what—10:15? We’ll be out soon.”
He nods but says nothing in reply. I get the feeling he doesn’t quite believe me. Curious in spite of myself, I scoot closer to see what he’s drawing. The yellow stain shows up surprisingly well against the awful green. I spot a few spiral snails, some smiley faces. He’s not the best artist. I start to point it out, then remember I don’t hate him now. Not as much, anyway.
“You got another one?” I ask instead. He fishes around in his hoodie pocket for a bit, then shakes his head.
“No. I was lucky to have this one.”
Slightly miffed by his tone, I rise again and pace back and forth, counting how many steps it takes to get from one wall to the other. The result is four length wise, three width wise. Not the most exciting revelation.
“I’ve got a deck of cards in my bag from babysitting. Wanna play?” I suggest after the fifth count. He doesn’t raise his head.
“No thanks. I don’t get over hate as easily as you. Like you said. We’re not friends.”
I’m starting to remember why, too, now that he’s actually talking. He reminds me of a bad petting zoo experience I had when I was six. Both he and that cranky old mule have the same attitude.
Bored, I press each floor button a few times, and the red emergency one, hoping for a miracle. When nothing happens, I make faces at myself in the back wall mirror. I stick out my tongue, pull the skin under my eyes, until I look like a goblin.
“Keep trying. It’s almost an improvement.” Izzy chuckles, moving his horrible doodles to his hand. I shrug off the insult.
“Whatever. Like you’re such a hottie yourself. You’re just jealous. Admit it, Izzy. You wish you were a redhead like me.”
He scoffs, finally making eye contact.
“Seriously? That’s the best you can come up with? Please. I bet you don’t even know my real name.”
I sit cross-legged in front of him, wrinkling my nose in confusion.
“What does that have to do with anything?”
Truthfully, I’ve never given the matter any thought. I always assumed Izzy was his given name. Even his mom calls him that. He leans back against the wall, arms pillowing his head.
“Nothing. But I bet you don’t know it. In fact, I’ll wager my highlighter you won’t guess in a million years.”
“And if I lose?”
His grin widens, maniacal.
“If you lose, you have to do my calc homework for the rest of the year.”
Izzy is notoriously bad at math. In first grade, he argued with our teacher for over twenty minutes that 2+2 should equal 22. I shake my head.
“For a highlighter? No way. How about—a secret. You lose, you have to tell me something about you no one else knows.”
“Deal.”
We shake on it, letting go quickly. Neither of us wants the other to get the wrong idea and start thinking we’re friendly now. I figure the bet can’t be too hard to win. How many names could possibly fit with something as ridiculous as ‘Izzy’?
“Isidore?” I venture, going for old fashioned. I think I read it in a book somewhere. He raises a cocky eyebrow, clearly pleased with himself.
“Thank God, no. I’ll give you two more guesses.”
Damn. I bite my lip, focusing on the floor as I wrack my tired brain for ideas.
“Isaac?”
“Ha! Don’t I wish. Last chance.”
He chuckles, certain of victory. With my luck it’ll be something foreign, or a name that has absolutely no relation to ‘Izzy.’ I’m starting to regret accepting the challenge. Damn it. I purse my lips, tossing my braid over my shoulder in an attempt to play for time.
“Can I have a hint?”
At that he laughs outright.
“Hell no. We’ve been in school together since pre-k. You should definitely know it by now. I’m not gonna help you cheat, my math grade’s on the line.”
What math grade, I want to say, barely holding my tongue. He has a knack for making me uncomfortable. I squirm like a worm on a hook. If we’re going to be rescued at all, now would be great.
“Can’t we just play cards instead?” I plead. Izzy shakes his head slowly, watching me with a great deal more interest than he’s ever shown before. I heave a sigh. Goodbye free time. I risk my last guess with no hope of being right.
“So, what, your parents give you a girl name like Isabel or something? You can stop looking so smug. I’ll do your damn homework. I give up. What is it?”