Subway Love Read Online Free PDF Page B

Hispanic, longish hair, retro sneakers and running clothes, an odd, floppy hat.
    “He’s totally going to get tossed,” Jonas said, turning to Nick.
    “Where?” Nick said, looking around. “Where?”
    Jonas lifted his chin slightly to indicate where the kid was standing, or where he had just been standing, the kid who had stepped over the ropes. A security guard was bound to show up any second, and maybe there’d be a scuffle or something exciting to liven things up, but he was gone.
    “Where? Who?” Nick asked again.
    “Nothing.”
    They hung around awhile, but there were no pretty girls, or at least no pretty girls who seemed interested in anything but the paintings. “It’s better in the summer,” Nick reminded them both. “More European girls on vacation.”
    “Let’s go,” Jonas said.
    Nick agreed. “Falafel?”
    “Sure.”
    HER dad hadn’t started dinner, Laura was glad to see. It meant she could have some input, maybe make the whole thing herself, as long as Mitchell was busy doing something else, like watching TV. For a hippie, he sure liked
Adam-12
and
Mission: Impossible.
    On her way back downtown to the apartment, Laura had passed a couple clinging fiercely to each other. They were young, and the smell of patchouli and marijuana lingered after she had passed them. He wore a military jacket festooned with yellow fringe, and striped bell-bottoms, and she a long, velvet tie-dyed dress, but it was the way they walked, so closely connected, that stuck in her mind. It was weeks ago already, and no chance she’d ever see that boy again, from across the subway platform. He had also been wearing an army jacket. His didn’t have the brass buttons or the yellow fringe, though, and come to think of it, she had no idea why she was even remembering him again.
    “I’ll start supper, Dad,” Laura called out.
    She took out three TV dinners, her favorite: Salisbury Steak. She peeled back the thick aluminum foil and stuck them in the oven. She opened a jar of Mott’s Applesauce, all blended like baby food, sugar and all. Her mouth was already watering. She put out three glasses, a container of milk, and the ketchup (her dad liked ketchup on everything, a habit he claimed had resulted from his years serving in Korea).
    “I met this guy named Spike today,” Laura said out loud.
    The apartment was small; there wasn’t really anywhere you could go and not hear someone talking in the kitchen, but no one answered.
    She started talking to herself: “He’s Spanish. He’s an artist. I met him at the museum. At the Metropolitan Museum of Art.”
    “Oh, yeah?”
    Her dad came out of the bedroom. The door to the guest room, where Laura and Mitchell had folding cots pushed against opposite walls, was closed. Mitchell must be in there, doing God knows what.
    “Yeah, he was really cool.”
    Her dad took a cigarette out of his pack. He tapped it on the counter, put it to his lips, and struck a match. While he smoked, he leaned against the sink and looked out the tiny window to the window across the way.
    “You know better than to talk to strangers.” He drew in on the smoke and exhaled slowly. Marijuana smelled — skunky, earthy, and sweet — but tobacco just plain stank.
    “That’s bad for you, you know, Dad,” Laura said. “It says so right on the box.”
    Her dad smiled. “It says it
may
be bad for you, sweetie. It hasn’t killed me yet. I’ve been smoking since I was eleven.”
    “All the more reason to stop.” Laura pulled open the oven to check on their dinners. The triangle side dishes of mac and cheese were just about to bubble. “Anyway, it doesn’t say that. It says the surgeon general has determined that it
is
bad for your health. Look.”
    Her dad picked up the box from the counter and turned it over thoughtfully in his hand. “Hmm, so it does. And what does that have to do with talking to strangers? What were you doing way up there anyway?”
    “Nothing. Walking.”
    “So you decided to