The Invisible Life of Addie LaRue Page 45

It is a cold evening, and they walk side by side, not intertwined but elbows brushing, each leaning a little into the other’s warmth. Addie marvels at it, this boy beside her, his nose burrowed down into the scarf around his throat. Marvels at the slight difference in his manner, the smallest shift in ease. Days ago, she was a stranger to him, and now, she is not, and he is learning her at the same rate she is learning him, and it is still the beginning, it is still so new, but they have moved one step along the road between unknown and familiar. A step she has never been allowed to take with anyone but Luc.

And yet.

Here she is, with this boy.

Who are you? she thinks as Henry’s glasses fog with steam. He catches her looking, and winks.

“Where are we going?” she asks when they reach the subway, and Henry looks at her and smiles, a shy, lopsided grin.

“It’s a surprise,” he answers as they descend the steps.

They take the G train to Greenpoint, backtrack half a block to a nondescript storefront, a WASH AND FOLD sign in the window. Henry holds the door, and Addie steps through. She looks around at the washing machines, the white-noise hum of the rinse cycle, the shudder of the spin.

“It’s a laundromat,” she says.

But Henry’s eyes go bright with mischief. “It’s a speakeasy.”

A memory lurches through her at the word, and she is in Chicago, nearly a century ago, jazz circling like smoke in the underground bar, the air heavy with the scent of gin and cigars, the rattle of glasses, the open secret of it all. They sit beneath a stained-glass window of an angel lifting his cup, and Champagne breaks across her tongue, and the darkness smiles against her skin, and draws her onto a floor to dance, and it is the beginning and the end of everything.

Addie shudders, drawing herself back. Henry is holding open the door at the back of the laundromat, and she braces herself for a darkened room, a forced retreat into the past, but she’s met instead by the neon lights and electronic chime of an arcade game. Pinball, to be precise. The machines line the walls, crammed side by side to make room for the tables and stools, the wooden bar.

Addie stares around, bemused. It is not a speakeasy at all, not in the strictest sense. It is simply one thing hidden behind another. A palimpsest in reverse.

“Well?” he asks with a sheepish grin. “What do you think?”

Addie feels herself smiling back, dizzy with relief. “I love it.”

“All right,” he says, producing a bag of quarters from one pocket. “Ready to lose?”

It’s early, but the place is far from empty.

Henry leads her to the corner, where he claims a pair of vintage machines, and balances a tower of quarters on each. She holds her breath as she inserts the first coin, braces for the inevitable clink of it rolling back into the dish at the bottom. But it goes in, and the game springs to life, emitting a cheerful cacophony of color and sound.

Addie exhales, a mixture of delight and relief.

Perhaps she is anonymous, the act as faceless as a theft. Perhaps, but in the moment, she doesn’t care.

She pulls back the lever, and plays.

III

 

“How are you so good at pinball?” Henry demands as she racks up points.

Addie isn’t sure. The truth is, she’s never played before, and it’s taken her a few times to get the hang of the game, but now she’s found her stride.

“I’m a fast learner,” she says, just before the ball slips between her paddles.

“HIGH SCORE!” announces the game in a mechanical drone.

“Well done,” calls Henry over the noise. “Better own your victory.”

The screen flashes, waiting for her to enter her name. Addie hesitates.

“Like this,” he says, showing her how to toggle the red box between the letters. He steps aside, but when she tries, the cursor doesn’t move. The light just flashes over the letter A, mocking.

“It doesn’t matter,” she says, backing away, but Henry steps in.

“New machines, vintage problems.” He bumps it with his hip, and the square goes solid around the A. “There we go.”

He’s about to step aside, but Addie catches his arm. “Enter my name while I grab the next round.”

It’s easier now that the place is full. She swipes a couple of beers from the edge of the counter, weaves back through the crowd before the bartender even turns around. And when she returns, drinks in hand, the first things she sees are the letters, flashing in bright red on the screen.

ADI.

“I didn’t know how to spell your name,” he says.

And it’s wrong, but it doesn’t even matter; nothing matters but those three letters, glowing back at her, almost like a stamp, a signature.

“Swap,” says Henry, hands resting on her hips as he guides her over to his machine. “Let’s see if I can beat that score.”

She holds her breath and hopes that no one ever will.

 

* * *

 

They play until they run out of quarters and beer, until the place is too crowded for comfort, until they truly can’t hear each other over the ring and clash of the games and the shouts of the other people, and then they spill out of the dark arcade. They go back through the too-bright laundromat, and then out onto the street, still bubbling with energy.

It’s dark out now, the sky overhead a low canopy of dense gray clouds, promising rain, and Henry shoves his hands in his pockets, looks up and down the street. “What now?”

“You want me to choose?”

“This is an equal opportunity date,” he says, rocking from heel to toe. “I provided the first chapter. It’s your turn.”

Addie hums to herself, looking around, summoning a mental picture of the neighborhood.

“Good thing I found my wallet,” she says, patting her pocket. She didn’t, of course, but she did liberate a few twenties from the illustrator’s kitchen drawer before she left that morning. Judging by the recent profile of him in The Times, and the reported size of his latest book deal, Gerald won’t miss it.

“This way.” Addie takes off down the sidewalk.

“How far are we going?” he asks fifteen minutes later, when they’re still walking.

“I thought you were a New Yorker,” she teases.

But his strides are long enough to match her speed, and five minutes later they round the corner, and there it is. The Nitehawk lights up the darkening street, white bulbs tracing patterns on the brick façade, the word CINEMA picked out in red neon light across its front.

Addie has been to every movie theater in Brooklyn, the massive multiplexes with their stadium seats and the indie gems with worn-out sofas, has witnessed every mixture of new releases and nostalgia.

And the Nitehawk is one of her favorites.

She scans the board, buys two tickets to a showing of North by Northwest, since Henry says he’s never seen it, then takes his hand and leads them down the hall into the dark.

There are little tables between each seat with plastic menus and slips of paper to write your order on. She’s never been able to order anything, of course—the pencil marks dissolve, the waiter forgets about her as soon as he is out of sight—so she leans in to watch Henry fill out their card, thrilled by the simple potential of the act.