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Show If only your brother had run faster, he yelled to no one in particular, wheeling me past the other less-angry tourists and back into the heat of the day. We wasted time trying to get tickets to Cats. We never should have seen that play. I stayed quiet, knowing how best to weather the gale. Back and forth he stormed in front of the guard rail, glancing at the park ranger every now and then, naming his stupidity with his gaze. We never should have taken this trip, he yelled finally, turning to find the restroom and leaving me in tears on a bench to wait for my mother and brothers to appear. The second day was little better. We managed to secure cheap tickets to The Phantom of the Opera, but we all had to sit by ourselves. The production let out at 10:30PM, the city sky dark but, for the first time that day, clear of rain. Perhaps it was the clarity of the air that made my dad decide we could make the 10:40 train at Grand Central Station. Having arrived at a split second decision and pleased by the prospect of making such a tight connection, he sent Scott ahead to hold the train, yelling at the back of my already-running brother, track 17. The rest of us took off in the same direction, jostling our souvenirs, play bills, and cheap umbrellas. Within several blocks, we made the station but almost immediately found that our train left from track 21; in fact our train was getting ready to pull away. Meanwhile Scott was waiting for us to meet him on 17. Pushing a wad of cash into my hand, my dad told my mom, Bryan, and I to use our bodies as blockades to keep the doors from closing while he went and retrieved Scott. The certainty with which my father suggested we could stop the train made wedging my body between the doors seem logical. With my foot against the tired rubber bumper pads and my back against the other door already impatient to be shut, I tried to ignore the electronic voice telling me to step away from the doors, watching in terror as 203 |