Of River and Raynn by Rebecca Ethington Exclusive Content

Jun • 3 • 2014

I knew it would happen eventually; I got kicked out of Grand Central today. I never thought it was possible to be kicked out of the only place you really know. A place that you visit so often that most of the ticket takers know exactly who you are, even though they would never say it to your face.

Even though they are too afraid to talk to you.

It’s like Cheers, but full of angry commuters.

This guy, however, apparently had no idea who I was, or else he probably would have left me be.

Normally, I would have wanted it that way; I would want to remain blissfully anonymous. For once, though, I actually wished he knew who I was.

I had been leaning against the wall in the main concourse, facing the newsstand and the big clock, facing the wide expanse of walkway where everything had started. It had been a while since I had been there, but after the last week, after trying to pack my room and knowing I have to move, I had to come back. I had to see the tiles and the stars and the clock; I had to permanently burn everything about this place into my mind.

I don’t know why, but I have this fear, this feeling that screams at me that, after the move, I will never see this place again. The thought scares me.

So I came.

I came and I stood beside the wall, my frayed jacket pulled close, ear buds in place as I listened to today’s selection, smooth jazz. I’ve got to hand it to Pandora for giving me options.

All I was doing was standing there, but he came up to me, right as Louis started to hit the high notes. His hand was tight on my arm as he pulled the buds from my ears, screaming about stolen property and loitering.

It was all stuff I had heard before. It’s what I get for dressing in three jackets and jeans with holes in the knees. It’s not like I have much more than that, though.

I guess, in a way, that was my first mistake. I should have sat down on the few benches that lined the hall and looked busy or moved around, maybe followed the commuters a bit. But instead, I had stood on the same tiles, the ones with the deep black mark that stretched from wall to wall, cutting across the exact place they had found me. A perfect line of dirt that they swear wasn’t there before me, that no matter how hard they tried they couldn’t clean it off. I stood there, looking out over the crowd as I watched them. Searched them.

Searched for him.

It’s what I do every time I come here, standing beside the line of black, looking for the same face, the same pair of eyes.

I know I shouldn’t, but I can’t stop it. I can’t stop looking for him. My need to find River has only grown now that my move out date has been set. Days. I know its not enough time.

I know what I’m looking for, but I also know I’ll never find him. Even if he is in New York, too much time has passed. The last time I saw him he was eleven, or so they said. They didn’t know how old he was, just like they didn’t know how old I was.

I’d like to think that I would be able to pull his face out of a crowd and find him, know it was him, yet I know I won’t. Time changes you. He’s not a child anymore, just as I am not that little, blonde eight-year-old with freckles.

He would be twenty-two now.

I’m almost eighteen.

And now, according to the City Transit Police, I’m no longer allowed to be in the station. I guess we will have to see how long that lasts. Either that, or find a way to get to Chicago sooner rather than later.

I just pray that he is still there.

Who knows, maybe he will be sitting in the train station looking for me.

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