Part 25 (2/2)

I ease my way through the crowds of old people and guys with lawn chairs and moms holding little kids, until I'm right up along the caution tape. It's so strange to have all these people here, in this place that I always thought of as a secret. I wonder how many of them ever came here before today, and what this demolition means to them.

I sit cross-legged in the street with people all around me.

Then the orange machine comes to life.

It rumbles to a start, inches ma.s.sively forward. Its mechanical neck raises to the sky, reaches at least thirty feet above me, before it crashes down on the side of the theater.

It all happens so fast after that. Powerful metal jaws at the end of the neck eat through the wall in only minutes, and then the machine rolls into the theater and attacks it from the inside, sending the back wall cras.h.i.+ng in. The ground beneath me shakes. A man sprays water from a fire hose, stopping the dust from blowing into our faces. The air smells strong and toxic, but as I reach to cover my face, I remember this thing about Ingrid that I haven't thought of for so long.

Once, my mom was taking us somewhere and we had to fill the car up with gas, and Ingrid rolled her window down as we pulled into the station. She stuck her head out, breathed in deep.

What are you doing? I asked. I asked.

I love the smell of gasoline, she said, exhaling. she said, exhaling.

I made a face. All I knew about gas was what my parents grumbled about-it was too expensive, Mom hated getting it on her hands.

Ingrid leaned out the window. Try it, Try it, she said. she said. You'll love it You'll love it.

I didn't. You have problems, You have problems, I told her, and she laughed and inhaled again. I told her, and she laughed and inhaled again.

I recognize the gasoline scent now, mixed with the familiar must. And as the machines chomp away at the theater, and walls collapse deafeningly, I breathe in the smell of change. It isn't as bad as I thought it would be, or maybe it's so bad it's intoxicating-I'm not sure which. Behind me, a baby wails, but I can hardly hear her over the noise.

Before I've prepared myself, the machine approaches the front of the theater. It stops right next to the marquee, raises its neck, opens its jaws, and my heart grows too big for my chest. My vision blurs. It crashes down. The roof crumbles. I imagine Ingrid's journal tumbling from its shelf, pages flapping in the air like wings, hitting the ground face open. Water from the fire hose drenches the paper until the colors blend together, the drawings lose their shape, the words turn indecipherable.

A hand squeezes my shoulder. I look up. It's Jayson.

He lowers himself next to me and pulls a pack of tissues from his pocket.

I don't think I can speak yet. I try to force myself to smile, and it's easier than I thought it would be. It lets out some of the pressure. He smiles back. The last wall collapses and I'm still smiling, blotting tears from my face with Jayson's tissues, watching the wood splinter under the ma.s.sive machine, the theater becoming less and less what it used to be.

After it's over and the ground has stopped shaking, a dozen men flood into the site, filling the trucks with what's left. The crowd starts to pack up and leave.

”Were you here for the whole thing?” Jayson asks.

I nod. ”Were you?”

”Most of it.”

Soon, the crowd is gone except for Jayson and me.

”I'm gonna go run now,” he says, standing.

I look at the empty block. It's already hard to believe that a theater once stood there.

”I'm staying a while longer.”

Jayson says, ”See you at your place,” and jogs off. I watch the men as they work. They shovel wood into one truck, copper pipes into another. They break up the concrete from the foundations, wheel it away. I unpack my lunch and eat while they work. It's been hours since my breakfast, but I haven't felt hungry until now. Slowly, the blocks get emptier, the workers drive away. It's about four in the afternoon when a man comes by to take the caution tape down.

”Show's over,” he says to me, smiling. ”Afraid there's no more excitement for the day.”

He bunches the tape in his hands. His eyes are friendly.

”Was it your first demolition?” he asks.

”Yeah,” I say.

”So . . .” He sweeps his arm across the open blocks. ”What did you think?”

I don't really know what I think, so I open my mouth to tell him that. But what I end up saying is, ”It was amazing.”

And I mean it.

”Sure was, wasn't it? I've been doing this for more than twenty years, and it still gives me a thrill.”

He looks down at me and scratches his head. I know exactly what I look like to him-a crazy teenager just lingering here for no reason.

I pull my legs to my chest and squint up at him. I lift a hand to block the sun.

”I'm just remembering things,” I offer.

And that seems to clear something up. He nods and turns toward the empty s.p.a.ce, as though he'll see what I'm thinking about, projected in the air.

6.

The night before Ingrid died, we studied for our biology finals halfheartedly on the floor of my room. We kept getting distracted, saying I love this song I love this song whenever something good came on the radio, turning it up and forgetting about our textbooks open to unread pages in front of us. whenever something good came on the radio, turning it up and forgetting about our textbooks open to unread pages in front of us.

Ingrid said, ”f.u.c.k bio. Let's plan our futures,” and her voice had all this urgency, this forced lightness, that I only partly noticed.

I shut my book and said, ”Okay. You start.”

”You start.” start.”

I turned onto my back and looked up at the ceiling. I said, ”I want to go away somewhere for college.”

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