Short Story: West 82nd Street
*Written for Dear City Girl on Substack
Three city kids find themselves immersed in a true crime on the Upper West Side.
On West 82nd Street, Sylvie turned the corner of Columbus as Tamara approached from the opposite direction on Central Park West. Sylvie slowed her pace so that they would arrive together. When they reached the front of the building, Tamara gave an unnecessary friendly wave, which was ignored by Sylvie who took the initiative to buzz the door.
Every Wednesday at 3pm, they sat at a rectangle wooden dining room table along with Ernie who was normally stricken with the worst of seasonal allergies and came equipped with a personal tissue box and even a small trash receptacle beside him underneath the table. Patiently the three students waited for their lesson to start.
Sylvie caught Tamara gazing at the family size tissue box that was positioned perfectly to the right of Ernie’s elbows. Lefthanded, all he had to do was reach for the tissue with his right hand with ease. “I dare you to move it,” Sylvie whispered. Tamara shook her head in defiance while giving a side eye to Ernie who was in the beginning throes of a sneezing frenzy.
Ms. Fiorentini appeared from her bedroom door shutting it behind. She greeted the students with a gracious smile and once the formalities of how everyone’s school day had been, the lessons began abruptly when she stood in front of the large white eraserboard on wheels. The sunlight from the bay window seeped through landing on Ms. Fiorentini’s dark shoulder length hair. An attractive woman in her mid-30’s was an aspiring novelist with an impressive degree from Bard College who used her one bedroom apartment to tutor junior high school kids to supplement her income. Always with a sunny disposition, today she seemed rather disturbed.
Tamara could sense that having today’s lesson was in fact a bothersome chore for their tutor, her head kept swiveling toward the bay window. Her questions were short, cut-off before the given answer attempting to hurry on with the next set of equations. Every time Ernie raised his hand, she would remind him that it wasn’t necessary since this wasn’t a formal classroom and that there were only four of us. Thick-headed he remained, Ernie was somehow trapped in the body and nervous system of an adult man with respect to mannerisms and tradition.
The phone rang and Ms. Fiorentini rushed to answer it. Sylvie let out a tiresome loud yawn, Ernie sneezed consecutively on cue and Tamara sat still waiting for whatever was holding Ms. Fiorentini back to implode. She had a sense of other’s mood swings, plenty of home practice. Ms. Fiorentini’s back was to the students, all that could be heard was her swift replies of ‘yeah,’ ‘got it,’ repeated continuously until she hung up the phone.
“Hey guys, I have to step out just for a bit,” Ms. Fiorentini said with unexpected pleasure in her voice. “I won’t be more than half an hour, probably shorter.” Tamara looked at Sylvie who was unalarmed by what the tutor had said. Ernie on the other hand, was perplexed beyond means.
*AN EXCERPT VIA DEAR CITY GIRL, SUBSCRIBE FOR MORE SHORT STORIES, ARCHIVED LETTERS AND DISCOUNTS ON MERCH AND FREELANCER FOR HIRE POST.
