Pull Down the Night (The Suburban Strange) Read online

  “How do you know?” Sylvio’s “Oh . . .” made it clear he had answered his own question.

  Sylvio found a parking space. The morning was bright and clear, and the white noise of hundreds of kids filled the air like ocean spray. The brothers got out of the car and looked at each other over the roof. “You ready?”

  “Sure.” They were about to head toward the building when Sylvio stopped. Bruno followed his brother’s stare to a black sedan rolling sedately through the parking lot. It made a graceful arc into a space and stopped. Three doors opened, and out stepped two girls and a boy.

  “They look like you,” Bruno said, but his brother actually shushed him.

  The girl who had driven wore a fitted black dress covered with tiny white polka dots. Her razor-sharp black bob shone like vinyl in the sunlight.

  “Is she wearing driving gloves?” Bruno asked.

  “Just shut up,” Sylvio hissed.

  The boy wore a light-gray suit with a gray shirt and a black vest. He pushed his curls back from his forehead, and what looked like the cross of a rosary on a beaded chain escaped from his shirt cuff. The second girl towered over the other two. She wore a charcoal suede skirt and a black sleeveless turtleneck, and her long, straight hair fell halfway down her back.

  The three of them turned toward the building and caught sight of Bruno and Sylvio. As if someone had given an unheard command, they all stopped. They carefully bent their heads together to converse. Then the three strangers walked deliberately toward them. They reminded Bruno of slow-moving runway models, or one pack of lions approaching another on a wildlife television show.

  “Hello,” the boy said to Sylvio. “Are you new?”

  “Yeah,” Bruno’s brother said. “We just moved here.”

  “I’m Marco.” The boy extended his hand, and they shook.

  “I’m Silver.”

  “Silver?”

  “Well, my real name is Sylvio, but I’ve always gone by Silver.” Bruno’s brother looked at him for reinforcement, and Bruno remembered how desperately Sylvio had tried to get that nickname to stick in his old school. He nodded, wondering whether Sylvio would be any more successful here.

  “Nice to meet you. This is Regine.” Marco presented the girl in the polka dot dress, who smiled at Sylvio while her eyes devoured him. “And this is Celia.”

  “This is my brother, Bruno.” Everyone shook hands, and Bruno felt like the sore thumb on a hand of elegant fingers. When it came time for him to shake hands with Celia, his discomfort became more acute. Her long, dark hair was shiny and impossibly straight. Her eyes were green and her skin was fair and smooth. She was almost a foot taller than Bruno in her heels. She smiled politely at him, and he was struck dumb—because Bruno was sure this was the girl he had seen in the window of the house next door—somewhere—the night before. In the darkness beneath her window he had found her captivating. Standing in front of her now, he was transfixed. Once again the rest of the world was a blur, and she was the only person he saw clearly.

  “What year are you?” she was asking him.

  “First year,” he mumbled.

  “I’m a junior. I can tell you all about this place.” Celia smiled. “Do you need help finding your homeroom?”

  Bruno had effortlessly memorized the floor plan of Suburban High and was sure he could find every room in the school, except those in the new wing. He had acquainted himself with the stairwells, the bathrooms, the cafeteria, the auditorium, the pool—even the janitor’s closets—before he had packed his boxes to move. He looked up at Celia.

  “Yes.”

  “Last year when I was new, Regine walked me to my homeroom,” Celia said when they had parted with the other three in the lobby. Regine had volunteered to help Sylvio find his way, leaving Marco to smirk and watch them all go. “I had just met Marco and their other friends in the parking lot, like we did today. I was so nervous.”

  Bruno looked at her as they walked up the stairs. He waited for her to say more, but she didn’t. He realized she was comfortable with silence, and if Bruno could have taken his heart out of his chest and handed it to her, he would have done it right there in the stairwell. She stopped for a moment on the landing between floors and pointed out the window. “These are my favorite trees. In another month they’ll turn an amazing golden color.” He looked out the window and then back at her. She carried a black bound sketchbook in one arm.

  “So, are you into the same things as your brother?”

  “Some things,” Bruno said. “I like a lot of the music he likes.”

  “Really? That’s great. But you don’t dress like he does.”

  “No. I’m sorry.”

  “That’s okay!” She laughed, and it was like a bell ringing. “You may not believe this, but a year ago I didn’t have the first clue about style, or music, or anything, really.”

  “No, I don’t believe it.” Bruno couldn’t imagine Celia in any other clothes. His brother’s outfits always seemed affected, but Celia was something altogether different—sophisticated, effortless, beautiful.

  An older boy passed them on the stairwell and said, “Hi, Celia.” She gave him half a smile but didn’t reply. She murmured to Bruno, “I don’t think I’ve ever spoken to that guy.”

  In the first year hall Celia helped Bruno look through the lists posted by each of the homerooms. On the third one they found his name. “Well, here you are,” she said. “God, I remember how petrified I was to walk in there!” She peered into the room, and pushed her hair back from her temple, flashing her delicate wrist. She turned back to him and saw he had been watching her. “Are you going to be okay?”

  “Sure,” Bruno said. “Can I ask you a question?”

  “Of course.”

  “Where do you live?”

  “Over on the east side, on Market Street,” she said.

  “Oh.”

  “Why do you ask?”

  “I just . . . like to know where people live,” he fumbled. “I like maps.”

  “You’re funny.” Celia smiled. For a few seconds she studied him, searching his face in an exquisite, terrifying way that made him feel she hadn’t looked at him completely before then. “Maybe I’ll see you at lunch. Good luck!”

  “Thanks.” Bruno watched her glide slowly down the hall. It was easy to keep her in sight even as she neared the far end. He turned and tried to walk into his homeroom with the same grace. In his beat-up sneakers he knew he wasn’t pulling it off.

  He sat down at the first free desk he saw, pondering what Celia had just told him. Bruno knew where Market Street was, and that had to be at least four miles away from his house. Was he mistaken? The girl in the window next door had looked exactly like Celia. He was sure he had seen her. It didn’t make sense.

  No matter. Before that day, Bruno would have scoffed at the idea of love at first sight. Now only one thing mattered: figuring out how, in less than twenty-four hours, he had fallen helplessly in love with two identical girls who lived on opposite sides of this new town.

  BRUNO TOOK HIS TIME getting to his next class, looking in each doorway, examining the spaces that corresponded to the room numbers he already knew from the plan of Suburban High, half hoping he might catch a glimpse of Celia in one of them. He reached the intersection of the science wing and the main hall and noticed a girl stopped in the middle of cross traffic, studying her schedule. She looked in one direction and then the other, the ringlets in her blond ponytail flicking back and forth. Bruno thought she was a second or two away from tears.

  “Where do you need to go?” he asked her.

  “Um, two fifty-seven,” she said. Her eyes were round and startled.

  “Down there. It’s the last door on the left.” He pointed.

  “Thank you!” She gave him a relieved smile as she rushed away.

  High school was going to be a lot like eighth grade, he thought. Sit down and think about whatever it was the teacher wanted him to think about. Fifty minutes later, get up, go
somewhere else, and think about something else. He liked the way his knowledge accumulated like water dripping in caves, gradually leaving long spikes of mineral deposits behind, hanging from the ceiling or rising from the floor, sometimes even meeting in the middle to make a column. Bruno couldn’t think of any better use of his time. He didn’t care much for making friends. If someone was nice to him, he was nice back. If someone was mean, he ignored them. A few times Bruno had surprised his middle school peers by stepping in to stop a fight. When it was over, he had walked away and put it out of his mind.

  All morning Bruno thought about Celia. He had admired girls once or twice before, but he never had been entranced by one before. The dark style Sylvio liked, which to Bruno had seemed like some kind of pretend dress-up, Celia made seem natural. And she was beautiful—it always came back to that. Bruno felt like a fool, daydreaming about her, but he liked it.

  At lunchtime he looked for her in the cafeteria, but it was Marco who stood up and waved across the room at him.

  “Hey, Bruno! How’s it going?”

  “Good,” Bruno said, setting his things down next to Marco. He was surprised to be acknowledged, much less called over.

  “Go get food. I’ll be here.”

  “Is Celia coming?”

  “Um, I don’t think she has lunch this period.” Marco looked curiously at him. When Bruno returned with his lunch, Marco said, “I was sitting here with Brenden on the first day last year when Celia came in. I remember thinking she had no idea how beautiful she was. We kind of interrogated her, but she didn’t seem to mind.” Marco looked into the distance. “It seems so long ago. So much has changed. Our group used to be six, but three of them graduated, and they’re all off at Metropolitan this year. And things were really crazy for a while when one of Celia’s other friends died.”

  “Someone died here last year?”

  “Yeah, she drowned in the pool. When we walked in here this morning I could still feel a sadness hanging around this place. Celia doesn’t really talk about it. I wonder how she feels.” Marco fell silent for a moment, and Bruno waited. “I remember at that first lunch we asked her for her favorite opening line of a song.”

  “Why did you do that?”

  “We have those conversations a lot,” Marco said. “Best cover version. Best black-and-white music video. This morning in the car we were listing our favorite couplets—you know, two lines from a song.

  “When did they build the new wing?”

  “The technology wing? This summer. They built the pool the year before last. This place was big and sprawling enough as it was, and now it’s kind of ridiculous,” Marco said. “Have you had any classes in the new wing yet?”

  “No.”

  “There’s a mosaic that last year’s senior class donated. Celia designed it. Check it out when you go over there.”

  “Oh, okay.” Bruno tried to look nonchalant.

  “I know you have a total insta-crush on her.” Marco grinned at him. “It was kind of obvious this morning.” He saw the alarm on Bruno’s face. “Don’t worry! To start with, you have excellent taste. Even I’ve had a crush on her. I should tell you, though, she has a boyfriend.”

  “Oh, sure.” The news was like a heavy door slamming. Of course she’s taken.

  “Tomasi. He’s a senior at St. Dymphna’s. I don’t know him too well, but he’s a good guy. And they’re serious. Anyway, I just thought I should tell you. Might make it easier for you to let it go.”

  “Well, thanks,” Bruno said.

  “But she’s one of the nicest people you’ll ever meet,” Marco continued. “So don’t let a little crush stop you from getting to be friends with her.”

  “Why did you say even you had a crush on her?”

  “Because I’m as queer as a Lewis Carroll story.” Marco grinned at him. “My boyfriend, Brenden, was a senior here last year. He’s at Metropolitan now. He only left a week ago, and I’m already jonesing for him. I’m going to visit in two weeks.”

  “That’s cool. Do you have a picture of him?”

  “I do!” Marco was thrilled to pull out his phone, and Bruno studied the photo carefully. “He reminds me of someone . . . I feel like I’ve seen a picture . . .”

  “Maybe the Smiths? He looks a lot like the lead singer, Morrissey.”

  “Oh, yeah. My brother has a couple of his albums.”

  “Smiths, or his solo stuff?”

  “Solo, I think.”

  “I’m not surprised Silver likes him, though the Smiths albums are even better than Morrissey’s solo albums. So, what’s your brother’s deal, anyway? I mean, the way he dresses, he looks like he listens to the same music we do.”

  “Probably. But he didn’t have any friends at our old school who liked that stuff. He went to a dance club every weekend, but it was thirty miles away.”

  “There’s a great club here. Would you be into that scene, the music and everything?”

  “I hear a lot of stuff he plays, and I like some of it. I don’t look like it, though, do I?” Bruno said.

  “Look like what?”

  “Like you guys.” Bruno wondered why that mattered to him, all of a sudden.

  “Well, that’s up to you. I have a feeling Regine will have sucked Silver into our group before the end of the day, judging from the way they hit it off this morning. All last year she was hung up on our friend Ivo—he’s at Metropolitan this year, too—and I would have said she still hadn’t gotten over him completely, until the moment she laid eyes on your brother in the parking lot.” Marco chuckled. “Anyway, we tend to get a little serious with our clothes and our music and stuff. But it doesn’t mean you have to.”

  “Okay.” Bruno wondered what it would be like to take such things seriously.

  “I kind of made it sound like we’re a cult, didn’t I? We’re just friends who like the same things. If it turns out you do, too, well, we’re not going anywhere—at least, not for a year. Don’t take this personally, but if I could, I would leave now. I’m basically just waiting for this year to be over so I can go to Metropolitan and be with Brenden again. I’m almost finished with my application already.”

  Bruno looked aimlessly around the cafeteria, but he was thinking of the girl in the window from last night. If he had to get over his crush on Celia, how fortunate that there was another girl, who looked exactly like Celia, to whom he could devote his feelings. Bruno turned back and caught Marco studying him. “Well, maybe I could make you a shirt while you’re thinking about it,” he said.

  BRUNO WENT TO HIS web design class, stopping on the way to check out the mosaic Celia had designed. It was pretty much what he had expected: a rectangular cobblestone patch from which kids in mortarboards, open books, and computers emerged. He imagined Celia laboring over the design in her sketchbook.

  The computer lab was stark, with rows of laptops cabled to long tables and whiteboards on every wall, but Bruno’s attention was caught by the teacher, who had wheeled around, obviously startled by his presence. Statuesque and imposing, her long wavy hair pulled loosely back, she wore a wide-legged pantsuit and a fitted blouse. “You surprised me!” Her deep voice was either nervous or defensive.

  “I’m sorry . . . Is the web design class now?” He pulled his schedule out of his pocket.

  “What’s your name?” She took up her class list.

  “Bruno Perilunas.”

  She located what he assumed was his name and put a mark next to it. A few other students arrived, and the tension dissipated. “Sit wherever you like.”

  The teacher wrote her name on one of the boards and started the class. “I’m Ms. Moreletii. One t. Two i’s, but only pronounce one of them. All right.” She left the board and walked the aisles like a general reviewing her troops. “This is not a keyboarding class. This is not a class to learn to make cute presentations, or desktop publish, or create spreadsheets. You should have been doing all that since third grade or earlier, and if you haven’t, God help you, but I’m not here
to teach it to you. This is a programming class.” Ms. Moreletii stopped at the end of a row and turned to face the table where Bruno sat among his classmates. “You are going to learn web design. Sometimes we will use software that does the programming for us, but we also will be digging into the code and editing it directly. This class is an elective, but don’t be fooled—it will not be easy.

  “Because some of you may not have realized what you signed up for, I have a two-week grace period during which you can drop this class. Okay, your login ID is your first initial and the first seven letters of your last name. If your last name has six letters, use the first two letters of your first name, and so on. Your initial password is Suburban with a capital S, and you will be asked to change it the first time you log in.” The class hesitated, and a hint of impatience crept into Ms. Moreletii’s voice. “Well, go ahead!”

  Bruno logged in, wondering whether he had made the right decision to take this class. Welcome to high school, he thought.

  WHEN BRUNO MADE IT down to the lobby at the end of the day, he found his brother with the three kindred spirits. Celia smiled at Bruno, and he wondered whether Marco had told her anything about their conversation at lunch. “How was your day?” she asked Bruno.

  “It was good. How was yours?”

  “It was good, thanks,” she said. She turned to talk to Marco, and Bruno waited patiently for his brother, who did not seem to have any sense of urgency about ending his conversation with Regine. Once again Bruno felt conspicuously out of place standing so close to this glamorous group of people. Sylvio managed to look as though he had known them for years. Bruno hung back from the four of them, but then something inside him rebelled and he stepped forward.

  “This might be the best day of my life, and I never would have guessed it,” Sylvio said when they were finally in the car. “How’d you do?”

  “Fine. They’re nice.”

  “They are! And they’re so cool, too! I can’t believe it.”