City Love

  “Young lady!” he boomed. “I am more than capable of picking up my own mail!”

  I was mortified. Getting yelled at bothered me for weeks. I still feel bad when I think about it.

  Then there was the time in the lounge when a lady spilled coffee all over a side table. The coffee was seeping into a pile of magazines. I ran over with paper towels, but she stopped me.

  “Here.” She gestured for the paper towels. “I can do it.”

  “Oh, it’s no problem—”

  She shook her head, wildly waving her hands for the paper towels. “I don’t need to be cleaned up after. I’m not a child.” She was so exasperated with me I almost burst out crying. And that was in a confined environment. These are the streets of New York City, rampant with weirdos. What if I try to help an old lady open a door or a blind person cross the street who’s bothered by people approaching them all the time when they just want to be left alone?

  There has to be a way to help without worrying about possibly annoying people. Most people want help. A few people going ballistic on me will be worth helping hundreds of others. I also want to do more volunteer work here. There are tons of opportunities in this city. I scoped out some possibilities on Do Something before I moved. But for now, I can pick up this guy’s receipt.

  “Would you hold my place?” I ask the lady in line behind me. She nods. I run over and pick up the receipt, then tap the guy on the back right before he reaches the door. “Excuse me. I think you dropped this.”

  He turns around, clearly surprised that someone cared enough to run after him with what might have been trash.

  “Thanks,” he says. He takes the receipt and leaves. It’s impossible to tell if he meant to drop it. But at least he has it now in case it was important.

  Everyone stares at me as I walk back to the line. My face flushes with the unwanted attention and a rush of adrenaline from helping him. Let them stare. I’m the one who actually cared enough to take action.

  By the time I leave the post office and dart down to the Come Out and Play Festival, Mica is already waiting for me. Come Out and Play is an annual festival of original large-scale games that takes place in a few different locations around the city. Tonight is the After Dark part of the festival at South Street Seaport. When I apologize for being late, Mica brushes me off.

  “Don’t even worry about it,” she says. “It’s like at that camp party when I wanted to come over and say hi but those yammering girls were holding me hostage. Sometimes breaking away is impossible.”

  “Thanks for inviting me to this. It sounds super fun.”

  “Welcome to New York, where you can be into the most obscure activity and find a group just as obsessed as you are.”

  “I didn’t even know groups like this were real.”

  “Oh, we’re real. We’re very real.”

  “You guys are definitely making up for that heinous post office line.”

  “You should join Improv Everywhere. Have you heard of them?”

  “They sound familiar.”

  “They’re an improv group that organizes flash mobs and hilarious pranks. One time a group went into Best Buy all wearing blue polo shirts and khaki pants like the employees wear. The manager called the police and everything. Or they’ll do smaller skits like re-creating Back to the Future near the MetLife clock tower.”

  “Have you done any of them?”

  “Only two so far. About two hundred of us busted out choreo in Union Square.”

  “Do you get together to practice before?”

  “No, the instructional video is posted a week before the event. You have to practice yourself. Which makes the flash mob even cooler because you get to see it all come together for the first and only time. Before that we did Grand Central Station. There were a bunch of us spread out in the crowd. We blended in with everyone else, doing what they were doing. And then on cue we all froze for thirty-second intervals. It was brilliant. You should check out the video.”

  New York is now officially even cooler. Where else could you find all these groups of stone-cold weirdos doing their thing? These kinds of weirdos are my people. Not like the weirdos D warned me about.

  Aaaaand he’s in my head again.

  Get out of my head, Wall Street Guy. You’re not wanted here.

  The game descriptions for Come Out and Play are listed on a big standing chalkboard. Mica and I peruse our options. There’s Super Bacon Grab 2: Return of the Bacon. Which actually has nothing to do with bacon. It’s an apocalyptic survival game. As Mica and I are not fans of dystopian role playing, we rule that one out. Night Games sounds really interesting. It’s an immersive sound and light environment created by the players. As players move in a group, the 3D sound changes to create microenvironments based on their interaction. You can invent your own game or just have fun influencing the sound and light. Mica and I decide to start with the large-scale Frogger game. Each player holds a sign printed with one graphic from the original Frogger. Whoever is playing the frog has to latch onto safe graphics, jumping across four rows of moving players until they reach the other side of the river. These games aren’t so much about winning. They’re more about having fun. Which is why I’m already in love with Come Out and Play.

  Mica and I get in line for the next Frogger game. We both choose to be logs so we can help whoever’s the frog get across the river. While we’re watching the group currently in play, a girl who looks like she’s in middle school trips and falls, going down hard on her knee.

  “Oooh!” Mica grabs at her own knee. “Is she okay?”

  Someone helps the girl up. She’s putting on a brave smile, but you can tell she’s in pain.

  “That’s gotta hurt,” Mica says. “Poor thing.”

  We line up with our logs in the second row. When the game begins, our line moves to the right while the lines on either side of us move to the left. The frog is making her way across the river. She latches onto a log in the first row. Then she jumps to the back of a turtle. I try to align with her so she can latch onto me next, but she’s too afraid to leap. She slides out of bounds and loses her life. Each frog gets three lives, so she starts again. This time she manages to latch onto Mica. But when she jumps to the third row, a crocodile nabs her. She’s out again. One more life left.

  As we’re playing her third round, a strong hand grabs my shoulder from behind. I’m so petrified I almost scream. Then I whip around to see who grabbed me. A guy who chose to be a snake is like, “Sorry. Didn’t mean to scare you.”

  Of course he scared me. He grabbed me in the same way I used to be grabbed.

  But that’s not something I think about. Ever.

  SIXTEEN

  SADIE

  “WHAT TIME IS IT?” AUSTIN asks me on the phone.

  I check. “Almost seven.”

  “Damn. I have to go.”

  We’ve been on the phone for over two hours. I swear I could talk to him all night and still have tons more to say.

  “So soon?” I joke.

  “I have plans with a friend.”

  “Where are you going?”

  “Um . . . just this bar. You wouldn’t know it. It’s in Jersey City.”

  Why does Austin sound distant all of a sudden? We were having the best conversation up until now. I’ve never met anyone I clicked with so strongly. But now it’s like he flipped the switch with no advance warning.

  “When do I get to see Jersey City?” I ask.

  “You can see it all the time from your side of the river.” Sounds of shuffling muffle Austin’s voice. He’s probably getting ready to leave.

  “No, I mean . . . I want to come over. To your place.”

  “You will.”

  That’s it. That’s all he says. I wanted him to ask when I could come over. We’d walk around his neighborhood and he’d show me where he hangs out. Then we’d have dinner at one of his favorite restaurants.

  There’s just silence on his end. No mention of when we’re going to see eac
h other again. I haven’t seen him for two days. It feels like two years. The weekend is this gaping void without him instead of the fun free time it should be.

  “You still there?” he says.

  “Yeah.”

  “I’m late. Talk to you tomorrow?”

  “Okay.”

  But it’s not okay. My heart sinks as he hangs up. I have a horrible feeling something’s wrong. Why did I have to push him like that? He obviously thinks it’s too soon for me to come over. I’m nauseous with that gross feeling you get when you think things are going one way and you suddenly realize they’re not.

  My lack of boy confidence comes rushing back. I might burst into tears any second. Why did I bring up coming over so soon? I wasn’t even saying it to imply we’d make out or anything. It was just something I was looking forward to. Of course Austin didn’t ask me if I wanted to come over. We just met like three seconds ago. What’s wrong with me? Why couldn’t I wait and be patient like a normal person?

  My relationship fail has left me emotionally exhausted. I make an executive decision to haul my drained self to my knitting circle. Otherwise I’ll be mad at myself all night. I grab my knitting bag and run.

  Coming to my knitting circle was the right decision. The ladies here are always so friendly. The click-clacking of needles enveloping me as I knit two, purl two, soothes me enough to loosen the knots in my stomach. It’s like being immersed in a giant warm fuzzy instead of Mrs. Williamson’s living room. At one point I even stop thinking about the whole Austin drama for a few minutes. Mrs. Williamson is dealing with much bigger issues than mine. Her son is fighting cancer. He’s been really sick for the past few weeks. Even though she’s doing her best to make everyone feel comfortable, she’s clearly exhausted. She bends down slowly as she reaches into her knitting bag, then puts her other hand on her thigh for support as she bends back up.

  When Mrs. Williamson gets up to go to the bathroom, I sneak the warm fuzzy I made for her into her knitting bag. I did the same thing for bullied kids at school. Hopefully those kids felt a little better just knowing someone was thinking about them. Hopefully Mrs. Williamson will understand that I feel her pain.

  My own pain comes slamming back, tightening like an elastic around my heart. Austin probably didn’t even notice anything was wrong. He has better things to do than sit around wishing he could take back things he said. Does he even like me as much as I like him? God. What is wrong with me? I’ve never been this unhinged before. The last boyfriend I had was Carlos. He worked at Rite Aid. I was super shy about approaching him at first. My extreme lack of boy confidence prevented me from even saying hi, but I finally managed to push myself. We went out until it became clear that Carlos didn’t aspire to do much besides work at Rite Aid.

  My relationship with Austin couldn’t be more different. I’m falling so hard so fast I can’t control my emotions. And controlling my emotions is something I’ve become an expert at over the years. I know how to compartmentalize the pain of what happened when I was seven into the one day a year in Central Park when I allow myself to feel it. But Austin is breaking down my wall. What if I like him way more than he likes me? What if this isn’t going where I think it’s going? Am I strong enough to put myself in a position where I’m helplessly in love with this boy a year from now . . . and he meets someone he likes better? Or he moves away? Or he leaves me for some other reason?

  Click-clack. Click-clack. Click-clack.

  I really need to chill. Austin seems to like me as much as I like him. He says the most amazing things to me. But I’ve heard of guys saying these kinds of heavier things and then vanishing overnight. From what I’ve heard, the disappearing-boy trick is a common one.

  My yarn gets bunched up. I reach down into my knitting bag for the ball of bright orange yarn I’m turning into a giraffe puppet. Knitting all of my Christmas gifts was a good idea, but it means I had to start early. As my needles start click-clacking again, I look around at the older ladies in the circle. People who knit are beyond petty worrying. They have a grasp on the inner peace I try to project but haven’t actually developed yet. Maybe my chances of achieving inner peace will improve the longer I sit here and absorb their energy. And then I’ll never have to care about this kind of stupid boy drama again.

  SEVENTEEN

  DARCY

  AFTER SADIE AND I HAD lunch at Chat ’n Chew, I ran into Jude again on my way to class. He was in between acts, set up in the same spot. He saw me before I saw him. I almost said, “I was just talking about you!”

  He asked me out. I said yes.

  Jude’s idea to meet up for coffee before he hits the park was brilliant. I’m not fully human until I’ve had my coffee. There are approximately one grillion places to get coffee in New York City and I intend to sample every last one of them.

  The Dean & DeLuca on University Place has a light, airy atmosphere. That’s why I suggested we meet up here when Jude called me to make plans. The ambience will help keep everything else light and airy.

  I spot Jude the second I walk in the door. He’s watching for me from a corner table. He waves even though he has to see that I’m coming over to him.

  “Hey.” I drop my hobo bag on the floor and pull out the wire-frame chair across from him. My bag is almost as massive as Sadie’s today. After coffee I’ll be doing a few errands and then camping out at the library. Slumming it at the library isn’t exactly my idea of a rocking Sunday. But summer session requires you to read a horrifying amount of pages in a crazy condensed period of time. We’re basically cramming an entire semester’s worth of material into six weeks.

  This is the first time I’m seeing Jude in regular clothes. He’s wearing standard summer boy gear—board shorts, ironic tee, flip-flops—but the way he carries himself and the chill Cali vibe he gives off are making everything sexier than it should be.

  “Are you from California?” I ask.

  “Born and raised here in New York.”

  “Huh.”

  “Do I seem like I’m from the other coast?”

  “Sort of. You have a surfer-boy look with a Cali vibe going on.”

  Jude laughs. “‘Surfer-boy look.’ That’s a first.”

  “No one’s ever told you that?”

  “Not to my face.” Jude stands and pats his back pocket. “What can I get you?”

  “Double shot of espresso.”

  “Damn, girl. You’re more hardcore than me.”

  When Jude gets back with our coffees, I dive right into what I hope will be an enlightening conversation. He’s like a crystal clear ocean I can’t wait to explore.

  “So,” I say. “Tell me about your adventures.”

  “Which ones?”

  “The ones most interesting to tell.” We reach for the sugar shaker at the same time. My hand brushes his. A shiver goes through me.

  “Let’s see. . . .” Jude reflects. “Most recently I met a girl.”

  “What’s she like?”

  “First off, she’s smart. Like scary smart. I might be a little intimidated. And she’s gorgeous . . . and inspiring. And alive.”

  “As opposed to all those dead girls you meet?”

  “Most people aren’t living in a way that makes them feel alive. They want more out of life, but they’re too afraid to make any big changes.” Jude picks up his mug and blows on his coffee. “You’re not like that. You don’t go through life like it’s a series of motions. You’re alive. You live out loud more impressively than anyone else I know.”

  Um. We just met and he’s this stoked? Either the boy is playing me or he’s a touch too serious.

  “You already know that about me?” I ask. “Not the impressive part—sorry to disappoint on that. The alive part.”

  “You have an alive vibe like I have a Cali vibe.”

  “Do I have a Cali vibe to you?”

  Jude studies me. “Actually, yeah. Are you from there?”

  “Santa Monica.”

  “Nailed it.”


  “Where are you from?”

  “Park Avenue. Lower Central Park.”

  “Isn’t that supposed to be where the old money is?”

  Jude puts his hands up. “You got me. But please be advised that the statements and opinions of this broadcast are in no way affiliated with Park Avenue old money.”

  “I hear you. My family has money, too.”

  “Really? You seem so down-to-earth.”

  “So do you.”

  “My parents don’t approve of my lifestyle. They want me to be a doctor or a lawyer. Typical Park Avenue bullshit. Their attitude is that if a person isn’t fulfilling his potential financially, he’s not making the most of his life. They were furious when I deferred college. Their heads exploded when I deferred for a second year. After I graduated from high school last year and told them I was going to defer to do what I love, they cut me off financially. Way to be supportive of your kid’s dreams.”

  “Do they know how much you love what you’re doing?”

  “They don’t care. You’d think parents would be thrilled to hear that what their kid loves to do the most is make other people happy. Not mine.”

  “So . . . you’re supporting yourself just from your performance art? Respect.”

  “Not entirely. I’m exploring some supplemental sources of income. This is far from the cheapest city.”

  “Where do you live?”

  “On Spring Street. I’m sharing a place with three other guys. What about you?”

  “We’re a few blocks away. I have two roommates.”

  “Did you know them before you moved here?”

  “No, we were placed together through UNY. They’re awesome girls. I’m psyched it worked out.”

  “Seriously. I didn’t know what I was getting into at all with my roommates. They could have turned out to be morons.”