again, thinking about my poor mother’s fingers.
And then my phone rang.
The clock on the table next to me glowed 5:03 a.m. I lifted the phone and Max whispered, “Hey, it’s me . . .”
“Is everything okay? It’s so early.”
“I know, I’m sorry,” he said, “but I’ve been thinking about us. And I need to show you something important.”
“You mean now?”
“Yeah. If you’re not too tired, I mean.”
“No!” I said enthusiastically, a little too happy that he’d called me. I really wasn’t tired since I’d gone to bed five hours earlier than usual. I’d returned to the Bird Cage Club the day before, stinking like the underbelly of Chicago after my sewer hide-and-seek, and left the Mister Kreamy Kone stick on Doug’s laptop where he’d find it. I showered, still stunk, showered again, crawled into bed, and slid into a deep sleep before seven p.m. I was awake and alert as Max told me to meet him at the corner of Hermitage and Cortland in Bucktown. When I asked why, he said he’d answer my questions later and that time was of the essence. It’s one of those terms—“time is of the essence”—that spurs people to action. I dressed quickly and tiptoed past Doug and Harry sleeping on the couch. Passing the control center, I saw a note Doug had left for me, scrawled in red pen on the back of a fast-food bag, with an arrow pointing at the ice cream stick:
Wait until you see what I found online!
Mister Kreamy Kone fans are freaks!
A hug from—
Doug
I bristled with curiosity and was tempted to wake him, but Max’s admonition to hurry kept me moving; butterflies did backflips in my stomach as I rode down the elevator. Twenty minutes later, I pulled the Lincoln to a curb in Bucktown. Max was on the corner leaning on his motorcycle, his brown hair early-morning messy in a good way. He wore classic biker gear—jeans, boots, and a snug leather jacket; it would be warm by noon, but was chilly in the predawn darkness. I approached cautiously, wondering if he was going to break up with me here, on a deserted street. Instead, his frozen breath preceded his lips when he kissed me lightly.
“How do you feel about going to Italy this morning?” he asked.
“Uh, well . . . we have to be in school, remember?”
“It’ll be a quick trip. Short but sweet. As long as you’re not scared of angels.”
“I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
“Great, that makes it even better.” He grinned. His eyebrows rose in happy anticipation, and he nodded his head across the street, saying, “Follow me.” We crossed over to an enormous old redbrick church so huge and imposing that it consumed an entire city block. A tower of scaffolding clung to the wall and rose into the sky. Max looked around and then gave the scaffold a hard shake, making sure it was secure. He grinned again and said, “They’re repairing the brick. All the way to the roof.”
“How high is the roof?”
Max shrugged. “Fifteen, sixteen stories, maybe. Are you okay with heights?”
I looked up, considering my safe haven on the twenty-seventh floor of the Currency Exchange Building on the one hand, and dangling from a hundred-and-fifty-foot-high Ferris wheel on the other. “Sometimes yes, sometimes no.”
“It’s completely safe,” he said, drawing my gaze back to him. “Trust me.”
I looked into his warm, open face, thinking not for the first time that he sometimes seemed too good to be true, but then I shook it off; it was my paranoid gut, trying to jinx me. I smiled back and said, “I do. Always.”
And then we were climbing silently from pole to platform until Max said, “Be careful of his feet . . . her feet. Whatever, there’s a pair up here.” I looked past as he pulled himself onto the roof, and he was right—two large, snow-white feet were at the base of a tall body clad in drapes of alabaster robe, and behind them were a huge pair of folded wings. Max helped me onto the roof and I saw that the
And then my phone rang.
The clock on the table next to me glowed 5:03 a.m. I lifted the phone and Max whispered, “Hey, it’s me . . .”
“Is everything okay? It’s so early.”
“I know, I’m sorry,” he said, “but I’ve been thinking about us. And I need to show you something important.”
“You mean now?”
“Yeah. If you’re not too tired, I mean.”
“No!” I said enthusiastically, a little too happy that he’d called me. I really wasn’t tired since I’d gone to bed five hours earlier than usual. I’d returned to the Bird Cage Club the day before, stinking like the underbelly of Chicago after my sewer hide-and-seek, and left the Mister Kreamy Kone stick on Doug’s laptop where he’d find it. I showered, still stunk, showered again, crawled into bed, and slid into a deep sleep before seven p.m. I was awake and alert as Max told me to meet him at the corner of Hermitage and Cortland in Bucktown. When I asked why, he said he’d answer my questions later and that time was of the essence. It’s one of those terms—“time is of the essence”—that spurs people to action. I dressed quickly and tiptoed past Doug and Harry sleeping on the couch. Passing the control center, I saw a note Doug had left for me, scrawled in red pen on the back of a fast-food bag, with an arrow pointing at the ice cream stick:
Wait until you see what I found online!
Mister Kreamy Kone fans are freaks!
A hug from—
Doug
I bristled with curiosity and was tempted to wake him, but Max’s admonition to hurry kept me moving; butterflies did backflips in my stomach as I rode down the elevator. Twenty minutes later, I pulled the Lincoln to a curb in Bucktown. Max was on the corner leaning on his motorcycle, his brown hair early-morning messy in a good way. He wore classic biker gear—jeans, boots, and a snug leather jacket; it would be warm by noon, but was chilly in the predawn darkness. I approached cautiously, wondering if he was going to break up with me here, on a deserted street. Instead, his frozen breath preceded his lips when he kissed me lightly.
“How do you feel about going to Italy this morning?” he asked.
“Uh, well . . . we have to be in school, remember?”
“It’ll be a quick trip. Short but sweet. As long as you’re not scared of angels.”
“I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
“Great, that makes it even better.” He grinned. His eyebrows rose in happy anticipation, and he nodded his head across the street, saying, “Follow me.” We crossed over to an enormous old redbrick church so huge and imposing that it consumed an entire city block. A tower of scaffolding clung to the wall and rose into the sky. Max looked around and then gave the scaffold a hard shake, making sure it was secure. He grinned again and said, “They’re repairing the brick. All the way to the roof.”
“How high is the roof?”
Max shrugged. “Fifteen, sixteen stories, maybe. Are you okay with heights?”
I looked up, considering my safe haven on the twenty-seventh floor of the Currency Exchange Building on the one hand, and dangling from a hundred-and-fifty-foot-high Ferris wheel on the other. “Sometimes yes, sometimes no.”
“It’s completely safe,” he said, drawing my gaze back to him. “Trust me.”
I looked into his warm, open face, thinking not for the first time that he sometimes seemed too good to be true, but then I shook it off; it was my paranoid gut, trying to jinx me. I smiled back and said, “I do. Always.”
And then we were climbing silently from pole to platform until Max said, “Be careful of his feet . . . her feet. Whatever, there’s a pair up here.” I looked past as he pulled himself onto the roof, and he was right—two large, snow-white feet were at the base of a tall body clad in drapes of alabaster robe, and behind them were a huge pair of folded wings. Max helped me onto the roof and I saw that the
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