Lost in Love

  After dinner we swing over to Perry Street. I want to show Darcy all the beautiful behind-the-scenes parts of New York I cherish the most. The parts of New York only a native bursting with city love would know. We will walk down Perry Street and she will soak up the amazing energy and forget about Logan not planning anything for her birthday (which must sting despite all the insisting that it doesn’t). I convinced Darcy to wear sneakers for a lot of walking around since it’s such a gorgeous night. She was down with that. More because she has these limited edition Kate Spade for Keds sneakers than she wanted to be comfortable.

  “Brooke lives here,” I point out when we pass her brownstone between Bleecker and West 4th. I don’t mention that I canceled plans with Brooke and some of my other friends from high school to take Darcy out tonight. They’re my girls, but now so is Darcy. There is something surreal about getting together with your high school friends after you graduate. Like we’re still the same people, only everything has changed. There’s this bittersweet sense that everything we do together might be for the last time. Simple things like getting gelato at Cones or acting all rowdy over pizza around a big table at John’s take on this significance that wasn’t there before. I wonder what it’s going to be like when we get together during breaks. Or even if all of us will ever be together again.

  “Wow,” Darcy marvels. “Her building is beautiful.”

  “You should see her room. Her dad had a designer redo everything before she moved in.”

  “Where did she live before?”

  “With her mom in New Jersey. She moved here senior year.”

  “Why’d she move?”

  “She’d always dreamed of living in New York. A lot like Rosanna did. But at the time she thought she came here to be with a boy.”

  “Go Brooke!”

  “I know. She’s my role model.”

  “So what happened? With the boy?”

  “There was a better boy here for her all along.”

  We head east down Bleecker Street. I tell Darcy about Brooke and Scott Abrams, the boy she came here to be with only to realize that moving here was about finding herself, not finding him. And then Brooke and John Dalton, my friend who gives me the best boy behavior insight.

  And then I see something that makes me stop in my tracks.

  I’ve seen this store before. Back when it used to be a different store. Then when it closed and was under construction. And even when it opened as the new place it is now. Darcy and Rosanna and I were walking down Bleecker Street the night Darcy moved in, and I ranted about how this street has changed in a suburban strip mall way that makes me want to throw up. But for some reason, seeing it all lit up tonight is making me more enraged than ever.

  “That is not right,” I announce from across the street. Java Stop is everywhere, muscling in to take over indie stores that can’t defend themselves against the giant coffee corporation. Java Stop is overpriced, underwhelming, and relentless in its pursuit to achieve worldwide domination. Java Stop is a bully no one is standing up to.

  Darcy is trying to figure out what I’m talking about.

  “There should not be a Java Stop on Bleecker Street,” I explain. “A Java Stop should not be allowed to exist on the most historic part of Bleecker Street in the West Village. Where Bleecker Street Records used to be. Hello, that store was only here for my entire life!”

  I dash across the street and peer into the window of Java Stop. Darcy runs after me.

  “This is wrong,” I tell the window. The people gurgling in their Java Stop stupor inside don’t even see me. They are too busy tuning out with their music or screens or pretentious posing. I turn away from the window to face the stream of people walking by. “There cannot be a Java Stop on the most historic part of Bleecker Street!” I yell for anyone who will listen. A tourist couple clutching an unfolded map of Manhattan shrink away from me as if I might attack them. Yeah, I’m that girl having a meltdown/enraged fit/full-on rant outside of an insatiable conglomerate where a mom-and-pop store should still be. And don’t even get me started on the 16 Handles two doors down. This is not a suburban strip mall. This is the West Village of New York City. Have some respect.

  “Sing it, sister friend,” Darcy cheers me on. She is thrilled by my impromptu protest.

  I spin back around, glaring at the traitors sipping their grande skinny mocha half-caf lattes like it’s nothing. Like they are anywhere. Like what they are doing isn’t a stab at the heart of the greatest city in the world. A heart dies if you stab it. Don’t they understand that?

  “Are you going in to complain?” Darcy asks. “You know I would fully support that.”

  “No. I’m going to complain right from here.”

  “Let’s round up some more tourists you can yell at. The last ones weren’t scared enough.”

  “Would you film me if I picket?”

  “Of course.”

  “Thanks.” There’s a pile of collapsed and sliced cardboard boxes at the curb ready for recycling tomorrow. I go over to the pile and rummage around.

  “Oh,” Darcy says. “You meant now.”

  The perfect piece of cardboard presents itself. Big, uncrushed, and smooth. I yank it from the pile.

  “Hells yeah now,” I say. “We’re going beast mode up in here.”

  Darcy whoops. “All we need is a marker.”

  “Try borrowing one from Rocco’s.”

  She goes into Rocco’s while I wait outside Java Stop with my cardboard. At least Rocco’s is still here after like forty years. It’s not that I think ranting in front of Java Stop will make the rents in this neighborhood decrease. I’m sure that’s why Bleecker Street Records and some other stores that had been here for decades were forced to move or fold. Rents in the West Village are outrageous. The little stores that were doing fine before can’t afford to survive anymore. What’s the heart of the Village going to be like twenty years from now? Or even ten? It would be a crying shame if New York ends up looking like any other American city.

  Darcy skips over to me with a big red marker. “The cashier totally hooked us up.”

  “Awesome.” I write SAVE THE WEST VILLAGE in tall red letters on my big cardboard sign. Then I stand right in front of the Java Stop window, holding the sign up in front of me. Darcy whips out her phone and starts filming. I don’t yell. I don’t scare any more tourists. I let my sign speak for itself.

  An amazing thing happens as I’m taking a stand. This rush of elation overcomes me. I am confident. Empowered. Happy. The rush is so strong I can feel it zipping through every part of me. I feel alive in a way I never quite have by myself before. Like I should be wearing a button that says GIRL POWER. Sadie Time is my time to focus on self-improvement. And being happy on my own. And accepting myself as a complete person. That’s the power of a boy break. Right now isn’t about finding love. It’s about loving myself.

  “What happened to the rant?” Darcy asks.

  Only a few people have bothered to glance at my sign. Most people walking by have ignored me completely. The ones that noticed Darcy filming me probably think we’re just some bored teens. Not activists making a statement.

  Time to bring back the rant.

  “There should not be a Java Stop where history was!” I yell. “Is this what the West Village is becoming? A strip mall you could find in any other city?!”

  “Word,” Darcy chimes in.

  I rant on. Everyone passing by looks at me. More people are reading my sign. A few people hold up power fists. One girl cheers. A European tourist guy in tight red pants snaps a pic.

  Then the Java Stop manager comes out.

  “May I help you,” he states.

  “This is beyond your grasp,” I say. “But thanks for checking.”

  “You’re not allowed to film inside the store.”

  “Which . . . is . . . why . . . we’re . . . outside?” Darcy snarks.

  “You’re filming into the store. That’s not allowed.”

  Darcy fil
ms the manager telling her she’s not allowed to film.

  “I’m going to have to ask you to leave,” he tells me.

  I lower my sign. “The sign makes the most sense here, but I understand you’re just doing your job.”

  “Thanks for not making a scene,” he says.

  “Oh, did you not see her a minute ago?” Darcy asks innocently. “She was making a really disturbing scene. Have the whole thing right here.” She points to her phone, still filming.

  A few minutes later, we move on. Physically. Emotionally I am still protesting the demise of my beloved neighborhood. I can’t bring myself to put my sign down until a few blocks later. Then I wedge it between two paper recycling bags outside the Washington Mews, this quaint cobblestone path with cute little buildings. Maybe someone who lives there will find my sign and smile. My sign is the crudest warm fuzzy I’ve ever made, but considering how many people smiled when they walked past me holding it, I think that it qualifies.

  I want to tell Darcy how I felt so confident and happy in my girl power moment of taking a stand. Only I can’t think of the right words to explain it. Darcy is in girl power mode all the time. Darcy is the most badass person I’ve ever met. She might think I’m ridiculous for feeling empowered just from a few minutes of ranting. And it’s not like I can explain how my mini protest diluted the horror of Enraged Guy at the deli or the scary dream sensation that lingered from my nightmare. Better to keep moving on.

  Live music is spilling out from a bar. The bar is luminous with red light. The front door is propped open with a stool that an enormous, disgruntled bouncer is sitting on.

  “Wait,” Darcy says. “I know that band.”

  Darcy goes right up to the bouncer, confident as ever. The bouncer shifts his harsh expression into one of admiration as Darcy charms him. It’s so funny how Rosanna thinks I’m confident. She actually said her goal is to be as confident as me. Darcy is way more confident. My goal is to be as confident as her.

  Darcy waves me over to the door. The bouncer lets us in. He doesn’t even ask for my ID.

  “I was right!” Darcy yells over the music when we’re inside. “I totally know this band!”

  “Who are they?”

  “Residue!”

  We grab seats in the back and watch the band. I love the lead singer’s voice. He seems almost shy about singing, mostly looking down and doing this hunching/shrugging thing. But they’re really good. As he sings moody lyrics to a slow song filled with longing and regret, I can feel the power of being in the Now that Darcy always talks about. Tonight was supposed to be all about me showing her the real New York. But she is showing me a side of New York I’ve never really noticed before. I would have never come into this bar with my other friends. Even if I wanted to, there’s no way I would know how to get us in. Darcy’s New York is like this secret wonderland I’m only starting to discover. She can unlock doors to this city that have never been opened for me before.

  The moody song ends. The drummer clicks his sticks to a fast beat. A supernova of sound explodes, all heavy bass and frantic keys and much louder lyrics than I expected the lead singer to bust out. This guy and girl get up to dance, followed by a few more couples.

  “Let’s dance!” Darcy yells.

  “With who?” I yell back.

  “Each other!” She grabs my hand and pulls me right up in front of the stage. We dance like maniacs in the red light and the supernova sound in a place that is opening my eyes to the New York that’s been here all along, waiting for me to find it.

  Residue keeps the beat up for three more songs, stoked that people are so into them. Then they announce they’re taking a break. Darcy and I spill back out into the night, laughing and breathless.

  “You know what I’m in the mood for?” Darcy asks.

  “What?”

  “Sugar. Residue has that effect on me.”

  “Birthday cake time!”

  “The deal was no birthday cake. But something else.”

  “How about warm cookies fresh out of the oven?”

  “Girl, you are on fire today.”

  “This place has seriously delicious cookies. And it’s a short walk from here.”

  “Yes, please.”

  We walk along East 11th Street toward Insomnia Cookies. I tilt my head back and look up. You could miss out on something magnificent if you don’t look up.

  “What are you looking at?” Darcy asks.

  “See those trees on that rooftop terrace up there?”

  Darcy tilts her head back and follows my gaze. “Yeah?”

  “That freaking rules. I’m going to have a rooftop garden with trees.”

  “Are you having parties?”

  “No doubt.”

  “Am I invited?”

  “Only if I want my parties to be legendary.”

  “You know me so well already.”

  Looking up makes living here even more spectacular. Looking up anywhere does. When you look up, you notice all these beautiful details you would never notice otherwise. You become more in tune with the infinite possibilities this life brings. You open yourself to positive energy. You wake up.

  Darcy freaks out at Insomnia Cookies. She gets a peanut butter and I get a triple chocolate chunk. They’re warm and gooey. Darcy makes me promise to bring her back here again. We leave with our cookies and eat them as we walk farther east.

  “I need to find a birthday candle for your cookie,” I say. “So you can make a wish.”

  “You’re forgetting that I’m not a birthday person.”

  “Not forgetting. Just . . . trying to change your mind.”

  Darcy looks up. “Check out that octopus mural!” she screams. There’s a purple octopus painted high on the side of an apartment building. Tentacles are wrapping around some of the windows. The purple octopus seems right at home here in the East Village with the gritty building exteriors and rusted-out fire escapes and iron bars clamped over the ground-floor windows. It’s fun being this far east for a change. Being a west side girl means rarely venturing east of 5th Avenue.

  We’re almost at Avenue B when I notice a majestic, expansive building across the street with a wide staircase and huge stone columns. You can tell it has remained unchanged since way back in the day. This building is probably one of the historically preserved structures that are protected from being knocked down or altered. Unlike Bleecker Street Records.

  “What do you think used to be here?” I ask Darcy. We survey the building. I look up and see that it says FREE PUBLIC BATHS OF THE CITY OF NEW YORK etched across the top.

  “Let’s find out.” She whips out her phone. One thing Darcy is good at is whipping out her phone. She quickly finds a bunch of info. There was a public bath movement that began here in New York in the 1840s. A lot of apartments didn’t have showers or even bathtubs back then. Free public baths in crowded tenement districts like the Lower East Side provided places where people could bathe. This building had seven bathtubs and ninety-four showers. The public baths closed in 1958, and then the building was used as a garage and warehouse. Now it’s a posh photography studio. But the heart and soul of this building will always represent what it originally was.

  There’s a whole new part of New York I’m beginning to discover even though I’ve lived here my whole life. It’s amazing how when you think you know someone or something so well, you can suddenly find out that there is so much more to see. At the same time, the New York City history I love so much is still here. I can find it anytime I want. All I have to do is look up.

  TWENTY-NINE

  DARCY

  WAS IT WRONG OF ME to lie to Sadie when I told her I’m not a birthday person? Possibly. But the truth was too depressing to reveal.

  I thought Logan was going to be the first person to call me today. He would call me before my first class and jack up my mood for the day. He would wish me a happy birthday. He would tell me where he was taking me for dinner. We would have this fun night we’d always remember.
He didn’t say anything about my birthday at the Standard. I thought that was strategic on his part. You know, not mentioning my birthday so I’d be more surprised when I found out what he had planned?

  Yeah. Turns out there were no plans.

  Logan didn’t call me until this afternoon. He left a message while I was in Social Foundations. When I called him back after class, he sounded like he’d just woken up.

  “Hey, babe,” he slurred.

  “Are you drunk?”

  “No. Juss hungover. Stayed out too late with the boys last night.”

  Um, was I suddenly supposed to know who the boys were? Logan never tells me about his New York friends. Or where they hang out. Or what they do together when they stay out late and get wasted.

  I waited for him to say happy birthday.

  He didn’t say anything. A muffled car alarm went off on his end.

  “Are you at work?” I asked.

  “Nah. Blew it off.”

  My stomach twisted in a slow, murky roll.

  “So . . . ,” I probed. “Do you have anything you want to tell me about tonight?”

  “Like what?”

  The way Logan said it wasn’t like he was playing dumb. He wasn’t trying to throw me off. He wasn’t covering up a surprise party. Or planning any kind of surprise.

  The surprise was that he forgot my birthday.

  Oh, and then he said he was busy tonight. Something about the boys wanting a reprise.

  When Sadie asked me why Logan wasn’t taking me out tonight, I brushed it off with some nonsense about how I’m not a birthday person. That was such a lie. I freaking love birthdays. Mine, other people’s, celebs’, it doesn’t matter. Any excuse to throw a party is a mitzvah in my book. My friends went all out on my seventeenth birthday. They did this whole “17 on the 17th” thing at the Penthouse. Everyone was there. We had a cupcake bar, three photo booths, and enough barbecue to feed a small country. They even got Ethan Cross’s mixer to DJ. It was one of the best nights of my life.