“Not necessarily. There are people who work hard their whole lives and never pull themselves out of poverty. Plenty of single mothers are working two or three jobs and can barely put food on the table. No matter how hard they work, they’ll always be stuck. And their kids will probably grow up to perpetuate the same cycle of poverty.”
“What do you think should be done to help them?”
“More extensive educational outreach. More affordable housing. More charitable contributions.”
“The client I was telling you about contributes millions to charities every year.”
“We should raise taxes for millionaires. Then more government money could go toward services in low-income areas.”
“That might happen. But there will always be a huge discrepancy between low-income earners and the wealthiest Americans.”
“The inequality shouldn’t be so extreme.”
“So you’re saying there should be a limit to what people can earn? What if you became a millionaire? Would you want the government limiting the amount of success you’re entitled to?”
“No, but . . . I just think it’s unfair that so many people are living in poverty while others have far more money than they could ever spend. It’s not right.”
“Your opinion would be different if you had money.”
“Is that why you want to be an investment banker? To make a lot of money?”
“Working in finance gives you the freedom to live exactly the way you want. My parents have created a comfortable, amazing life for themselves and their kids. They can afford to experience the best this city has to offer. They can travel anywhere in the world. Money is just a tool to accomplish those goals. You have to admit, life is a lot less stressful when you don’t have to worry about paying the rent or putting food on the table.”
Okay, he has a point. Not that I’m about to admit it out loud. Money does make life easier to some extent. But D is wrong about money allowing you to live exactly the way you want. The most important things in life can’t be purchased. Love. Happiness. Purpose. Will D feel as fulfilled as he thinks he will?
Dessert menus suddenly appear. I can’t believe we’ve already had dinner. The whole debate with D went by in a flash. Does he really think it’s okay that so many people who work hard are barely scraping by? That’s like saying it’s okay that kids go to bed hungry every night, or spend winters with no heat or hot water, or don’t even have a home to live in. How is any of that okay?
When it’s time to go, I take a last look around. This will probably be my one and only time at an upscale restaurant. My life will be dedicated to working hard and helping people in need. The combination of those two goals doesn’t tend to result in big paychecks.
D pulls out my chair for me. We walk to the door in silence. Out in front of the elaborate ivy, we stand off to the side so other people can get by. Thursday is apparently the big night to go out in New York. People pass by us in couples or groups. It’s amazing how many people are out at ten on a weeknight.
“This was fun,” D says. “We should do it again.”
I really don’t see that happening. But I smile and nod a little to be polite.
D hugs me. He feels really good. I can’t help noticing that we fit together like puzzle pieces.
He pulls back, says he’ll see me soon, and we part ways. He hails a cab at the corner. I could never afford to take cabs. They’re crazy expensive. D told me he takes them every day. He takes cabs the way most people take the subway. He’ll take a cab even if the subway is right there. I forget what he said exactly . . . something about how money is a tool to make his life easier. If I were him, I’d take the subway and save as much as I could. How much of a relief would it be to have money saved? I wouldn’t have to worry all the time. I wouldn’t feel the need for a Plan D.
Walking home, I think about D. His glossy charm and smooth ways don’t impress me. I’m a long-term-relationship kind of girl. Not that I’ve had a long-term relationship yet. But when I do have a relationship, I want it to be serious. I could never date around casually like Darcy. I want to fall in love with a boy I can share my life with in a real way. Isn’t that the point of a relationship? To really share your life with someone? And if you’re sharing your life with someone, shouldn’t that person share the same morals and values as you?
D could never understand me. He can’t relate to my background at all. His parents are paying for everything. He has no idea what it’s like to constantly worry about money every day. He doesn’t need a Plan D. He has, and always will have, everything he needs. I have seventy-three cents.
I want to stop thinking about the date.
I want to stop thinking about D.
But I can’t.
Yeah, he’s appalling. But he’s also kind. And smart. And every time he complimented me, he seemed genuine. As much as I hate to admit it, I felt a real connection. And there’s the way he makes me feel. The way he looks at me, the way he touches me. Underneath the stuff that bothers me, I can’t help feeling attracted to him.
Not that it matters. I could never get serious about someone like him.
THIRTEEN
SADIE
WE’RE GOING TO PAPER LOWER Manhattan with warm fuzzies.
This just might be the best idea my Random Acts of Kindness group has ever had. Our objective is to make the world a better place by doing good things for everyone. Random acts are all about being aware of your surroundings and taking an active role in improving other people’s lives. A random act of kindness could be helping a senior in the grocery store reach a can on the top shelf. Or complimenting someone on her beautiful necklace. Or even just smiling at the bus driver and saying hi. These might seem like small things to you, but they could be huge to someone else. Everyone appreciates help. Everyone likes compliments. Well, almost everyone. We occasionally encounter antisocial people who don’t want human contact for whatever reason. That’s okay. The point is to keep reaching out.
That’s why we’re going to paper lower Manhattan with warm fuzzies. Most of us live downtown. We’re going to break off into our respective neighborhoods of the West Village, East Village, Tribeca, Gramercy, Battery Park, the Lower East Side, and the Financial District. Each of us will make twenty-five warm fuzzies. Then we’re going to leave them around for people to find. Why? The best reason for random acts of kindness. Just because.
The warm fuzzies will feature motivational quotes and uplifting encouragements like “Be the change you want to see in the world,” “Go confidently in the direction of your dreams! Live the life you’ve imagined,” and “Imagine all the people living life in peace.” We’ve been brainstorming places to leave the warm fuzzies that are easy to find. The list in my notebook looks like this:
– Next to a coffee cup at a café
– Tucked under a string of lights in a tree outside a restaurant
– Between two books at a library
– Taped to a parking meter
– Stuffed into the takeout-menu box at a deli
– Left on a subway seat
– Sticking out of a dryer at a Laundromat
It makes me so happy to think about people finding our warm fuzzies like little treasures. Each one is unique. My rules about making warm fuzzies are strict. You can’t whip out a raggedy pen, write a note on some old discolored loose-leaf, and proclaim that to be a warm fuzzy. Boring pen plus generic paper does not a warm fuzzy make. You must use fun paper. Construction paper is fine. Better if you cut the edges with patterned scissors. Pretty stationery is the best. To create the most important warm fuzzies, I use the heavy cotton stationery made with pressed flowers that Brooke gave me for my birthday. And I always use Gelly Roll pens. The glitter ones and the lightning ones are the best. Using a quality pen is just as important as using quality paper. It’s a yin-yang dynamic. Warm fuzzies must also include some sort of design element. Whether it’s drawn, painted, glued, or otherwise attached, artwork adds pizzazz. Additional be
dazzlement involving sequins, stickers, or rhinestones is always welcome.
Making twenty-five warm fuzzies will take a while. But that’s the kind of time commitment I love. Hopefully the warm fuzzies will bring a ray of happiness to everyone who finds them. Maybe their finders will be motivated to pay it forward and do something nice for someone else.
My stomach has been fluttering with butterflies the whole meeting. These meetings usually go by so fast I can’t believe it when they’re over. But tonight is different. Tonight I’m going to a party with a boy I like. A boy I really, really like. And he’s picking me up in five minutes. Maybe he’s already out front waiting for me. The thought of Austin waiting for me in his car to take me to a party for our second date, which will probably end with kissing, makes the butterflies flap like crazy.
It’s time to go. I make sure I have everything. This takes a minute. Carrying around a ginormous bag is kind of my thing. Ginormous bags can be a hassle, but I like to be prepared for anything. Like for this party with Austin. What if my lips got dry and I didn’t have gloss? Or it was humid and my hair spazzed and I didn’t have clips? Or I desperately needed a mint? After making sure I’m not leaving anything behind, I say a quick collective goodbye and dash to the elevator. The butterflies are flapping harder than ever. They really, really like this boy, too.
Austin is in front of the community center, leaning back against a white SUV. Or one of those cars that’s bigger than a regular car but smaller than an SUV. I have no idea what anything is called when it comes to cars.
“Hey,” he says. “How was the meeting?”
“Awesome. We’re papering downtown with warm fuzzies.”
“Warm what now?”
“Warm fuzzies.”
“Define.”
“You know . . . encouraging notes that make people feel better? A warm fuzzy is just a way to spread the love.”
“Oh. I thought it was more like a feeling.” Austin pushes off the side of his car and comes over to me. “You know. As in, You make me feel warm and fuzzy.”
“You have so much to learn.”
“I can’t wait for you to teach me.” Sunlight glints off his eyes. I bask in their blue glimmer. His eyes have sparkles of silver I didn’t notice before. They probably only come out in the sunlight.
I can’t believe how gorgeous he is. I can’t believe this gorgeous boy wants to be with me.
Where are we going again? Oh yeah. The party.
Austin opens the passenger door for me. He’s such a gentleman. I love how mature he is. As he’s walking around to the driver’s side, I resist the urge to check my hair in the rearview mirror. I covertly touch a few clips to make sure they’re still in place.
He gets in and starts the car. This is so weird. Austin seems like an actual grownup.
“Thanks for driving me,” I say. “Attempting to navigate the wilds of Brooklyn by myself would be an epic fail.”
“You’d do fine. But I’m more than happy to drive you. It means we can spend more time together.”
I glance in the back. “You have a lot of room.”
“Perfect for those shopping sprees at Costco.”
“Seriously?”
“No.” He laughs. “I just like having the extra space. The Rodeo’s good for getting out of town with friends and stuff.”
“What rodeo?”
“My car. It’s an Isuzu Rodeo.”
“Oh.”
“Much better than the Focus I had before.”
I give him a blank look.
“You don’t know much about cars, do you?”
“The only car names I know are Porsche and BMW. Not that I’d be able to recognize either of them.”
“Classic city girl. When’s the last time you rode in a car?”
“Um . . . like . . . two years ago?” Riding around in Austin’s car is a whole different experience than those family road trips. Door-to-door service in New York City is so luxurious. Avoiding the sweltering subway stations. Arriving at your destination without being all sweaty from trekking in the summer heat. Being able to wear heels without having to change in and out of flip-flops. This is the life.
“Sorry about the mess.” There are a few takeout bags and papers on the passenger-side floor. “I didn’t have a chance to clean up.”
“Are you kidding? This is better than a private car service. You’re making me feel like a princess.”
Austin smiles. “I’ll do my best to keep it up.”
To be honest, I wasn’t expecting anything in Brooklyn to impress me. But Trey’s rooftop garden is unreal. As a rooftop garden enthusiast growing up in the West Village, I’ve seen quite a few gorgeous ones. This one is exceptional. Flowers in all shapes, sizes, and colors are everywhere. Jelly jars with flowers are on each of the patio tables gathered in the center. An herb garden is flourishing in one corner. Another corner has tomatoes and lettuce growing. There are even some couches up here.
“How does Trey have all this?” I ask Austin.
“He doesn’t. This is his parents’ place. He lives with them.”
“I thought you graduated from high school together.”
“We did. If Trey knew what he wanted to do with his life, he’d probably have his own place by now.”
Austin goes to get us drinks while I wait by myself. Whether or not I know anyone at a party isn’t usually an issue. Meeting new people is super fun. I believe everyone has goodness in them and I like finding out what that goodness is. But sometimes the darkness creeps in. The darkness makes me forget that people are inherently good. So doing things like random acts of kindness and striking up conversations with people in line and going to parties where I don’t know anyone reminds me of what I don’t want to forget. But this party isn’t inspiring me to be social. All I want to do is sneak off to a corner of the roof with Austin. No one else is anywhere near as interesting as he is.
Austin brings our drinks. “Is it wrong that I only want to talk to you?” he says.
“I was just thinking that!”
“Then I guess it’s not.”
“If only talking to you is wrong, I don’t want to be right.”
“We already said hi to Trey. I don’t really know anyone else here. Wait, do I know that guy?” Austin squints at someone across the roof. “Nope, don’t know him. Looks like we’re forced to appropriate this crazy-comfortable-looking couch with the sick view of the river.”
“You mean the couch that’s going to be the best place to watch the sunset?”
“That’s the one.” Austin sits at the far corner of the couch. He looks up at me expectantly. Do I sit right next to him? Or should I leave some space between us? I don’t want to leave any space between us. What if I leave space between us and I never see Austin again and I regret it for the rest of my life? But it doesn’t feel like I’ll never see him again. It feels like the beginning of something real.
I sit down right next to him, one leg bent against the couch so my knee is touching his thigh. When did I get so fearless? Lacking boy confidence was one of my biggest flaws in high school. Now it’s like I’m a whole different girl.
The conversation flows easily from one subject to another: which quotes I’m going to use for the warm fuzzies I’m making, his case for why I need to get into Monty Python, my obsession with How I Met Your Mother, his obsession with Breaking Bad, my ongoing search for the perfect veggie burger and chocolate chip cookie, his favorite restaurant in Jersey City.
“Razza,” he proclaims, “has the best food and atmosphere anywhere. You would not believe how good their homemade bread and butter is. They make these artisanal pizzas that take pizza to a whole other level. But I could seriously just eat their bread and butter.”
“You sound like a food critic.”
“I kind of am. Unofficially, of course. But yeah. I love that place.”
“Maybe we can go sometime.”
Austin juts his chin toward the river. “Presunset.”
W
e kick back to watch the sunset. Everyone else has left us alone. We’re giving off that unmistakable vibe of two people falling in love who do not want to interact with anyone else. A neon sign flashing DO NOT DISTURB over our heads would be less obvious.
Just as the sun touches the Manhattan skyline, Austin wraps his hand around mine.
“Being with you makes me so happy,” he says. “I could stay here with you all night.”
“Same here.”
Austin looks at me. His look lingers. Like he likes what he sees. This is the beginning of something incredible. I have a Knowing that my life is about to change forever. Does he feel it, too?
“I know we just met,” he says. “I know you’re not supposed to say these things this early. But I feel like I’ve known you for a long time.”
“Me, too.”
Austin puts his arm around me and pulls me close. I lean my head against his shoulder, watching the sky bleed from blue into purple.
Austin opens the passenger door for me. “Your chariot awaits, princess,” he says, waving me inside.
Instead of dropping me off at my place, Austin parks on West 11th Street. We get out and start walking slowly. Slowly is the opposite of how I usually like to walk. Hardcore New Yorkers aren’t only fast walkers, we’re strategic walkers. There’s a certain pattern I like to follow in familiar places. But being with Austin is a whole different experience. I’m a better person when I’m with him. The most adventurous, romantic parts of me are accentuated. We’re walking like we have nowhere to be. It’s the best feeling ever.
“Have you ever had an epic feeling?” I ask him. “Like, a feeling that was so monumental it was impossible to describe in words?”
“Kind of like a . . . transcendental experience?”
“Exactly! You’re completely transported to another realm of existence. It’s more intense than any other feeling.”
“I know what you mean. But I have to say . . . being with you is pretty intense.” Austin reaches for my hand. And then we’re walking down one of my favorite streets, holding hands on a perfect summer night.