The Key by Jennifer Sturman Page A

and like I wasn’t paying attention, you know?”
    The reporter started to give a perky nod, but remembering that she was supposed to be serious, raised her eyebrows instead.
    “Anyhow,” the man continued,“The train was coming, and the next thing I know, it’s like everybody’s screaming, you know, and I guess the one woman fell onto the tracks, and then the other woman, she like ran past me? And somebody was yelling, ‘She pushed her, she pushed her?’”
    “Can you describe this other woman? The alleged pusher?” I could tell that the reporter liked using the word “alleged.”
    “She was pretty normal looking. Like, medium size and everything.”
    “Did she have any distinguishing characteristics?” The reporter seemed to like saying “distinguishing characteristics,” too. “Unusual features or items of clothing that you noticed?”
    “She had, like, long red hair? Sort of curly? And, like, a bright green hat and scarf?”
    A silence fell over the room.
    I turned toward the door, wondering if someone new had come in and if that was the reason for the sudden quiet.
    Then I realized everyone was looking at me.
    Or, more precisely, at my hair, which was long and red and sort of curly, and at the tail end of my scarf, which was trailing harmlessly from my shoulder bag.
    It was bright green.

chapter thirteen
    T he silence continued, unbroken except by the perky reporter, who was summarizing what the witness had told her for the benefit of those just tuning in. But nobody seemed to be paying attention anymore.
    My face felt stiff, as if my smile muscles had been injected with Botox. “Well, I guess I’ll be getting to work now.”
    The whispering started as soon as I turned my back.
     
    I sat in my office with the door closed, a Diet Coke gripped tightly in one hand and my browser open to the New York 1 Web site, which offered an online audio feed of its live broadcast. The reporter didn’t have much new information, so she kept repeating what she already knew: Dahlia had been pushed onto the subway tracks and narrowly avoided being run over by an oncoming car that had screeched to a stop mere inches away, and her unidentified assailant, who was apparently a mirror image of me, had managed to escape in the ensuing chaos. Dahlia herself had been rushed to a hospital, unconscious.
    I muted the sound from my PC and started to call Peter. The shock of the news had wiped the morning’s earlier events from my mind. But then it all came flooding back.
    I definitely couldn’t call him unless I was ready to apologize, and I wouldn’t even know where to begin. No simple “I’m sorry” would suffice after everything I’d said. And I wasn’t even sure it would be fair to apologize, because it wasn’t in Peter’s best interests to forgive me. It was one thing for me to be completely screwed up inside my head, but it was inexcusable to take the screwiness out of my head and dump it on Peter. I was an emotional menace, and potentially a danger to society.
    I thought about calling one of my friends, but it would be impossible to explain everything that had happened that morning over the phone, and I wasn’t sure if I could handle the inevitable lecture that was likely to follow, even if it was justified.
    My next thought was to call Jake, but as soon as I started to dial, I could hear the hurt in Peter’s voice as he suggested I had feelings for him, and that my feelings were getting in the way of my judgment.
    I put the phone down before I could finish dialing. I still hadn’t untangled the knot of emotions that had caused me to flip out at Peter, but it seemed like now would be a good time to figure out what, precisely, I felt for Jake before I tangled the knot further.
    I couldn’t deny the flash of jealousy yesterday. Or the warmth in my cheeks at lunch on Monday.
    But there’d also been Jake’s welcome support in a work environment that had been more than a little stressful of late. He’d helped me