Forever in Love

  “Old-school air-conditioning!” Sadie yells. “Our neighbor used to do that.”

  “How old was she?” I ask.

  “Ancient.” Sadie hands out Italian ices and spoons. She gives a watermelon ice to Rosanna, an orange ice to me, and keeps a lemon one for herself. “She lived alone. We were always worried that she wouldn’t be cool enough in the summer.”

  “I miss central air.” Remembering the big house I grew up in with its refreshing pool and perfectly regulated temperature in every room is like recalling snippets of a dream I had a long time ago. Will I ever be able to create a life like that for myself? Is that even what I want? Or will I end up like Rosanna, working extremely hard and barely managing to support myself?

  “So what are we watching?” Sadie asks. She scrolls on her laptop, searching for possible movies to stream.

  We throw around some choices. Every movie one of us suggests is shot down. Either one of us has already seen it or has no interest in seeing it.

  “What about . . . ?” Sadie searches some more. “I just saw a trailer for something that came out last year that looked good. But I can’t remember. . . . Let me see if I can find it.”

  A minute later, Sadie screams.

  “Our video went viral!” she yells at me.

  “What?” I spring off the couch and dash over to where Sadie is sitting in the puffy chair, sliding onto the wide arm. Rosanna leans over on Sadie’s other side.

  “Look how many views it has! And all these comments!”

  She’s right. The video I took of her ranting how there should not be a Java Stop in the heart of the West Village is showing a sharp spike in activity. Sadie posted it like a week ago. There were a few views at first. Some of Sadie’s friends commented. But this is insane. The video has over a hundred thousand views and almost five hundred comments. Some big site must have just posted it. That’s the power of public relations for you. With the right exposure, almost anything can go viral.

  The comments are fantastic. People are saying Sadie should do more videos. One guy said he would pay her to go out with him. There’s a comment string of people organizing Java Stop protests in their cities. An old lady who has lived in the Village forever left a long comment lamenting the homogenization of this unique neighborhood. It wouldn’t surprise me if she was Sadie’s old neighbor with the fan ice.

  Sadie responds to some of the comments. Rosanna and I tell her stuff she should write. We come up for air an hour later. I flop back on the couch and Rosanna crashes on a beanbag.

  “You guys,” Sadie says, flushed with the thrill of social attention. “Should I do a video series on New York life?”

  “Yes!” Rosanna yells. “You can expose injustices people walk by every day.”

  “Java Stop.” Sadie makes a checking-off motion in the air with her finger. “Check.”

  “Can I be your PR rep?” I ask.

  “That depends. Are you expensive?”

  “My fee is . . . one cold-pressed juice at Bubby’s.”

  “Deal.”

  “Ooooh!” Rosanna claps, struck by a good idea. “Maybe Claire Danes would do an interview with you. We know she lives in the neighborhood. We know where she shops. We could figure out how to get in touch with her.”

  “Totally,” I agree. “Stalking Claire Danes instantly made us BFFs.” Rosanna is still basking in the afterglow of when we saw Claire Danes on the street and shamelessly followed her for a couple blocks. “But you were a fangirl before that, right?”

  “I loved her in My So-Called Life,” Rosanna says.

  “Um, excuse me.” Sadie puts her laptop aside. She perches on the edge of the chair, pinning Rosanna to the spot with blazing eyes. “Obsessed with My So-Called Life. I cannot even tell you how many times I’ve watched those eps.”

  “Remember the one with the substitute English teacher who throws their papers out the window?”

  “I know! And the one where Angela thinks ‘Red’ is about her?”

  Rosanna pauses. “I’m not sure if I saw that one.”

  “Wait. You haven’t seen all the eps?”

  “No. I’ve seen like . . . four or five.”

  Sadie gapes at Rosanna. “Did you see the one where Brian writes that note?”

  “What note?”

  Sadie turns her gape to me.

  “Don’t look at me,” I say. “I have no idea what you people are talking about.”

  “Okay, no.” Sadie goes to her room. We hear her rummaging for something in her closet, moving stuff around. She comes back to the living room, proudly hoisting a DVD box set over her head like a trophy. “This is entirely unacceptable and cannot continue. We are binge watching My So-Called Life for movie night. From the beginning.”

  Sadie fires up the pilot. I really hope I like this show. Sadie is being so bossy she might make me keep watching even if I hate it. I catch her sneaking peeks at me while we’re watching, trying to gauge my expression to see if I like it. Fortunately for both of us, I do.

  Mental note: Find a boy who leans like Jordan Catalano.

  We watch the first three episodes before I even realize what happened. Damn this show is good. Why isn’t anything like this on TV anymore? Television has devolved into too much reality nonsense that is anything but realistic. This show is so real I get goose bumps at the end of the third episode, which involves my favorite character, Rickie, and a gun at school. But the one where Jordan will only make out with Angela in the boiler room and ignores her everywhere else wins me over as the newest MSCL cult fangirl. Jordan eventually gets his act together enough to hold hands with Angela as they walk down the hall at school. I have to say, watching that scene even makes me believe boys can change.

  “Oh my god,” Sadie says as the credits roll. She presses pause instead of going on to the next episode. She looks at me, all swept away by the romance. “Don’t you love this?”

  “I do. It’s amazing.”

  “How could I not have seen this one?” Rosanna is aghast.

  “Jordan Catalano is so sweet,” Sadie sighs.

  “Is he?” I wonder.

  “Hello! Holding Angela’s hand was huge. It was a grand gesture for him.”

  “A grand gesture for Jordan Catalano would be basic behavior for any other boy,” I argue. “Why are we grading him on some scale for slackers? Was holding Angela’s hand a grand gesture or like the simplest thing he could have possibly done?”

  “But we know he means it,” Rosanna says. “Not like . . .” She shifts on the beanbag, hugging her knees to her chest.

  “Not like what?” I prod.

  “Forget it.”

  “No, what were you going to say?”

  Rosanna glances at Sadie. “Well . . . when Logan showed up, we thought it was a grand gesture. So I think the intention behind the act is more important than the act.” She presses her lips together, shooting me an apologetic look. “Sorry for bringing him up.”

  “It’s fine.” I sit up on the couch and reach over to the end table, readjusting the fan. It does seem a little cooler in here.

  “At least with Jordan we know he wants to be with Angela,” Rosanna continues. “He’s just struggling with himself. It’s not like he’s struggling with feelings he has for another girl.” She rips the elastic out of her ponytail, her long wavy hair falling around her shoulders in an exhausted heap. Then she gathers her hair up into a tighter ponytail. Sadie and I know Rosanna well enough by now that we recognize her signs of distress. Yanking hair down + scraping it back up = bothered.

  She wrestles to tighten the elastic around her hair.

  “What’s wrong?” Sadie asks.

  Rosanna secures the elastic around a higher ponytail. Her arms drop to her sides. “Everything,” she breathes.

  “Boys,” I say. “Boys make everything way more complicated than it has to be.”

  “If D were like Jordan Catalano, I wouldn’t be afraid he’s with the wrong person.”

  “What do you mean?”
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  Rosanna gestures desperately at the paused screen. “Jordan isn’t treating Angela how she deserves to be treated. But we still love him because he’s making progress. He’s conflicted, but it’s okay because his conflict is only within himself.” Rosanna hugs her knees to her chest again. “D is amazing to me. He treats me better than I deserve. He keeps saying he and Shayla are just friends. But they used to be a couple. And Shayla still has feelings for him.” Rosanna fills us in on what D told her last night about Shayla wanting him back. I knew that girl could not be trusted. And Addison is just ridiculous. What the eff is her deal? “It just makes me wonder if he still has feelings for her, even though he denies it. Maybe he does and he’s conflicted about having feelings for two girls. Maybe that’s why he’s treating me so well . . . like he’s trying to force himself to fall in love with me and forget about her.”

  “No, because then he wouldn’t be hanging out with her,” Sadie says. “He would stay away from her and focus more on you.”

  “It just seems like he still has feelings for her.”

  “How can you tell?”

  “He would do anything for her. The way he ran off to help her when we were on his sundeck? Or how he always gets together whenever she wants, even if it means not seeing me that night? There’s this way he gets when he talks about her, like he’s trying too hard to downplay their friendship. It’s hard to explain.”

  Sadie nods. “It’s more like this vibe he’s giving off, right?”

  “Exactly. He can’t help how he feels. He deserves to be as happy as he can be. I just think he might be trying to do the right thing instead of what he truly wants. Like I’m a . . . charity case or something.” Rosanna’s voice breaks.

  “You are definitely not a charity case,” I say, remembering how she threw the clothes I gave her at me. How she packed those clothes away and hasn’t worn them since. It makes me sad that she won’t allow herself to enjoy them, but I have to give her credit for taking a stand.

  Rosanna looks at us, her eyes wide with fear. “What if he wants to be with me, but I’m not the one he loves? What if he still loves her?”

  I can’t with this. D sucks for making Rosanna doubt his feelings for her. “Then he’s obviously deranged and you’d be better off without him. Any sane boy would know that you are a catch.”

  “Which he does,” Sadie adds.

  “Anyway, tonight is about us,” I insist. “And Jordan Catalano. I’m dying to know what happens next after his ‘grand gesture.’”

  “It’s not what you think,” Sadie hints, starting the next ep.

  “Is it ever?” I wonder.

  CHAPTER 18

  ROSANNA

  D WANTED TO EXPLORE THE East Village tonight. He’s been feeling bad all weekend, ever since breaking the Shayla news to me. And he knows I’m totally worrying even though he told me not to. So he decided that tonight would be all about making me feel better. We had pommes frites at Pommes Frites with five different dipping sauces. We watched some cute birds in a little park. We found a lotion in Fresh that smelled a lot like the lemony minty cucumber lotion I loved from our hotel in South Beach. We’re just walking around, seeing where the night takes us.

  I am actually starting to feel better when a guy yells, “Donovan Clark!”

  We look over at some people standing around outside a bar. D recognizes the boy who called his name, so we go over to him. D is smiling all big as they pound fists.

  “Good to see you, man,” D says.

  “What’s it been? Like three years?”

  D turns to me. “This is Eliezer. I know this guy from high school. I mean, we didn’t go to the same school, but his parties were legendary. Everyone was at his parties.”

  “I aim to please,” Eliezer says. You can tell he grew up here. He has that effortless hipster look most likely funded by rich parents. Destroyed black jeans, a vintage band T-shirt, studded belt, high-tops that look like they’re not from here. I wouldn’t be surprised if he’s wearing a thousand dollars worth of gear, strategically put together to appear like he just threw on whatever before running out the door.

  “So what’s up?” D asks.

  “Not much, papi. Just waiting on—”

  “Heeeyyyyyy!” A girl comes running up to Eliezer. She flings herself against him and grabs him up in a hug before I realize I know that voice.

  And that pin-straight blond hair.

  And that perfect size-zero body.

  When she turns around and sees us, my heart sinks. Of all the places she could be, why does she have to be right here, right now?

  “Hey,” D says.

  Shayla stares at me. She must know I know what she did. But she doesn’t apologize. She doesn’t say anything to me at all.

  Shayla recovers quickly, aiming her high-voltage smile at D. “Hey! What are you doing here?”

  “We just ran into Eliezer.”

  “Shut the front door.” Shayla gapes at Eliezer. “He doesn’t know?”

  “Know what?” D asks.

  “We’re meeting up with Lemarr and those guys. Do you have plans?”

  “No, we’re—”

  “Then you have to come in!” Shayla grabs D’s arm and pushes Eliezer toward the front door of the bar. Eliezer shows his ID to the bouncer. Then Shayla shows hers. They disappear inside as if it’s a given we will follow them.

  My head is spinning from staying up until three in the morning watching My So-Called Life and then waking up way earlier than I should have. And now this.

  “Is it okay if we go?” D asks. “Only for a little while? I haven’t seen Eliezer and those guys in forever. We’ll only stay for a few minutes, I promise. You’ll really like Eliezer. He’s hysterical.”

  D obviously wants to go. The last thing I want to do is get in the way of his fun. And like he said, we won’t stay long.

  “Okay,” I agree. I try to sound happy about it, but I’m not.

  The bar is packed. D grabs my hand and leads me through the tight groups of people. I say sorry to a girl I bump into. She doesn’t even notice me.

  We find Shayla and Eliezer, who have somehow managed to squeeze themselves up to the bar.

  “What are you drinking?” Shayla yells at me over the music.

  “Water.”

  “What?” Shayla scrunches her perfect features into a confused expression. Is it because she didn’t hear me? Or because she can’t believe anyone would order water at a bar?

  “She’s underage!” D yells to Shayla. He holds up my hand, a neon-orange underage band dangling on my wrist. “She doesn’t have ID!”

  “Oh!” Shayla laughs. She says something to D I can’t hear, then orders drinks for the two of them. Is she laughing at me because I just graduated from high school and they’re twenty-one? She probably thinks D is ridiculous for wasting time with someone who can’t get into places he wants to go.

  I hover awkwardly at the bar while D and Shayla wait for their drinks. Eliezer is already talking to two pretty girls sitting at the bar. They’re smiling at him and laughing at something he just said. Shayla has D engrossed in a conversation I can’t hear. D turns halfway toward me with my glass of water, handing it to me with a tight smile. Maybe he’s starting to feel like he’s wasting time with me, too. Everyone around me is laughing and smiling and having a blast. I feel alone in a sea of couples and groups who are entirely in their element. It’s the same empty feeling I had at Bryant Park movie night when I was waiting for my boyfriend who was never going to show up.

  This has got to be the most crowded bar in the East Village. And the loudest. Three girls next to me in identical outfits of skinny jeans, stilettos, and shiny crop tops are laughing so hard they’re shrieking. I tug at the hem of my washed-out black tank, wishing it were clingier. I also wish my jeans fit better. They’re so old no one even wears this cut anymore. I watch the shiny crop-top girls, wondering why they think this is a good time. Is this what most people consider fun? Screaming at each other in a cro
wd so packed you can’t move without bumping into someone? There is nothing fun about this. Even if I wasn’t here with my boyfriend and the girl he might still be in love with.

  D and Shayla twirl from the bar with drinks in their hands. They are effervescent, thriving, radiant twentysomethings. I am the immature teenager tagging along on a grown-up date.

  “Where’s Lemarr?” D asks Shayla.

  “Late. You know how he is.” Shayla presses her lips together in a smug little twist.

  I sip my water.

  “So!” Shayla bubbles at me. “D told me you’re a camp counselor. Do you love it?”

  “Yeah. We have a lot of fun. The other—”

  “Kids are so cute,” Shayla cuts me off, swatting D on the arm. “Remember Lemarr’s little sister? Wasn’t she a trip?”

  “Like the time she almost flooded the bathroom at Eliezer’s party?”

  “Yes!” Shayla squeals. “I totally forgot about that! With the Ashleys having a dance-off on the antique table?” She simpers at me, lifting her glass to her lips. “You had to be there.”

  She did not just you had to be there me.

  D’s arm is touching Shayla’s arm. Neither of them seem aware that they’re touching. They have this fluid connection built on a shared history and past relationship that is extremely painful to be around. They are completely at ease with each other, like touching is the most natural thing in the world. What are they like when they get together? Are they always like this? With the inside jokes and the effortless rapport and the constant touching?

  I get the feeling they are even worse when it’s just the two of them.

  “How badass is Eliezer?” Shayla says. “He picks up not one but two girls the second we walk in and then totally ignores us.” Shayla squeezes Eliezer’s arm. “Making new friends?” she singsongs.

  Eliezer turns toward us to introduce the girls. But I’m not really listening. I’m noticing more details about Shayla that I was trying to block out before. Light glints off her hair. Her glittery eyeliner is on point. Her deep-red lip gloss is so resilient it is miraculously maintaining its mirror shine with every sip she takes from her drink. The cheap lip gloss I use is splotched all over my glass. I glare at the smudgy rim of my water glass as if it has betrayed me.