Take Me There

  He’s like, “Hot?”

  And I’m like, “Huh?” And I’m all freaked out because two seconds ago I was thinking how I’m totally sweating and I must look disgusting and I can feel the sweat pooling on my upper lip and how attractive is that? Not very. And I was thinking how I should go to the bathroom and make sure I look okay, but I so don’t want to leave this room, and then all of a sudden he asked if I was hot like he could totally read my mind. Which just proves how connected we are.

  So he says, “Are you hot?” And I’m starting to suspect that maybe he doesn’t just think about math all day.

  I go, “I guess I am. A little.”

  And he goes to turn on the fan and I laugh at the absurdity of it all, and he’s like, “What’s so funny?”

  And I’m like, “Nothing.”

  But he’s all, “Oh, come on. I could use a good laugh. Do you know how boring derivatives are?”

  So of course I have to say, “Well, actually, yes. I do.” And I pick up my pencil and say how it’s really nice of him to tutor me, because no one else is here so he could have canceled altogether, and I really appreciate the extra help, and I’m just babbling like one of those crackheads talking to themselves on the subway.

  And he’s like how I can come in anytime, and it doesn’t have to be only on Tuesdays since he stays late most days anyway. So I tell him how I was going to come in the other day but I was afraid that he might be busy so I didn’t but I wanted to.

  He goes, “What did you want to talk about?”

  I’m like, “Um . . . I don’t remember.” Because of course all of this is just an excuse to be in the same room with him as often as possible.

  He’s like, “Well, you know where to find me.”

  And then he winks at me!

  He goes on about how hard it was for him junior and senior years, all stressed about college, even after he got in.

  I’m like, “Where’d you go?”

  He says, “NYU.”

  And I’m like, “Oh my god! That’s where I want to go! I mean, I’d rather go to Columbia, but I don’t exactly have a four-point-oh.”

  Then he laughs and says, “Yeah, that was my case, too. But only the cool people go to NYU, so . . .”

  I go, “Totally. We’re way too cool for Columbia.” And I swear it feels like I’m talking to a friend instead of a teacher. He’s just so easy to talk to and super nice and he’s young . . . like probably twenty-four or twenty-five. And if he’s twenty-five, then by the time I’m his age he’ll be thirty-three, which is totally not scandalous at all. I really want to ask him how old he is, but you don’t do that.

  And then he’s like, “You’ve never thought about going out of state?”

  And I’m like, “I just love it here so much. It’s like . . . the energy is so amazing, you know?”

  Then he nods and I say, “Well, I can’t wait to move out, of course,” and he laughs, and I’m just having the best time. I can’t remember ever having this much fun with Danny, just sitting around talking and laughing like there’s no one else you’d rather be with. With Danny it was always about having fun for a while, but then it usually turned into him ranting about how so many people in the States can’t afford health insurance or how all these people are starving around the world while we have hot-dog-eating contests on Coney Island.

  Mr. Farrell says how he loves the energy here in the Village. So I’m like, “Yeah, same here. Rhiannon lives down the street, so I hang out here a lot.”

  And he’s like, “I’m surprised I’ve never seen you around, then. I’m here a lot, too. New York is like the smallest town on the planet with”—and I have to interrupt him and go—“running into people! I know!” Because it’s totally freaky how like eight million people live here, but you could be walking down some random street at a time when you’re never out and you turn a corner and all of a sudden you run into some kid you went to elementary school with a lifetime ago. It’s so weird how that happens. I used to think it only happened to me, like I have some kind of special power to make those kinds of things work. But maybe it happens to a lot of people. Or maybe it’s just us and we both have the special power.

  I look down at my textbook and wonder if we’re ever getting back to tutoring. Not that I want to, but it’s interesting how Mr. Farrell is just talking like this as if we’re sitting in some café or something. Like he wants to know me just as much as I want to know him. But then I get scared that he’s noticing me looking at the book, and I don’t want him to think that I want to get back to doing problems or anything.

  So then we compare places we like to hang out and it feels totally comfortable and like we could be really good friends in another life. And I ask where he lives and he says Upper West Side so I say, “Me, too! I’m on West Seventy-third Street, near the park.”

  And I say how I love to hang out in the park when it’s all nice out like this. Then he says how he chills in the park a lot. So I tell him about going to Strawberry Fields to work on my screenplay sometimes or to listen to the guys with guitars play old Beatles songs. Or to Café Lalo for Heath Bar Cheesecake, and just to Barnes & Noble and coffeehouses and stuff.

  And he gets all excited again and says how he loves Café Lalo and have I ever been to Crumbs and I’m like, “I live at Crumbs!” So we debate about which cupcakes are the best there and he says how he has a major sweet tooth and I’m like, “No one has a bigger sweet tooth than me!” And we argue about who has a bigger sweet tooth for a while, but he keeps insisting that he does. I can’t believe we have so much in common, but of course we do. This would kind of feel like we were on our first date if it wasn’t in school.

  But then I get paranoid, like what if he thinks I’m only talking to him for some grade enhancement? And the custodian comes in to empty the garbage can, and I look up at the clock and it’s 4:45. Which is so weird, because I came in here right after school at 3:10 and it feels like we’ve only been talking for five minutes.

  Mr. Farrell’s like, “Wow. Time flies when you’re having fun.”

  And I’m thinking, You’re having fun? Sweet! And then I swallow way too loudly.

  Out in the hall I hear someone say hi to James and then James walks in and wants to know where Rhiannon is. And I can’t even answer him because I’m wondering how long he’s been standing there. But then I’m like, Why am I being so paranoid? He obviously stopped by just now to pick her up.

  So Mr. Farrell tells him that tutoring was canceled and Rhiannon went to the library, and James gives me this look like, If tutoring was canceled, what are you doing here? But you know. Maybe I’m just imagining things.

  He puts his hand on my thigh and squeezes. I feel his other hand brushing my hair off my back. He blows against the back of my neck, not really cooling it off.

  His lips brush my cheek. I grit my teeth. I hate when he gets like this. And he always gets like this when he drinks too much.

  When he pushes me down, the grass feels wet against my back. Grass pokes into my arms. I feel his fingers sliding under my shirt, rubbing over my stomach. His breath smells like beer.

  I want to scream. But that only makes it worse.

  The only thing I was allowed to know about what we’re doing tonight is that I was supposed to bring a flashlight. But now Rhiannon’s explaining about Operation Steve and it’s obvious that I have to tell her now, and I’m kicking myself for not telling her sooner.

  She goes, “It’s not like I’m signing it or anything, so I should be okay, right? And Steve’s really the only one who’s going to know what it means, because who else is into chem like that?” And she’s all using big Italian hand gestures the way she gets when she’s excited, and I can’t believe how daring it sounds. I love Ree forever, but this is the last thing I’d expect her to think up.

  I’m like, “Ree.”

  She quits with the gesturing.

  I go, “There’s something I have to tell you. And I’m really sorry I didn’t tell you before.??
?

  So she’s like, “What’s going on?”

  And then I tell her everything. About hearing the rumor from Joni but thinking it was bogus. About seeing them kissing in the hall. About going up to Steve and what an ass he was.

  Ree stands there, staring at the sidewalk. She doesn’t say anything for a few minutes.

  Then she goes, “I guess we should just go home then.”

  I don’t know what to tell her. I mean, I obviously don’t want her to do something that will probably be totally humiliating tomorrow, but I don’t think it’s that simple. True, Steve was a total jerk when I talked to him, but there’s obviously more to it than what we know for him to give Ree those roses. And then deny it like that. I just get the feeling there’s more going on, especially since he was acting all weird with me.

  But it’s totally up to her. So I say, “If you want.”

  Ree’s like, “What’s the point of doing this? He’s with Gloria now.”

  But she’s not walking away or anything, so I just wait with her. I can tell she’s still thinking about it.

  She goes, “Or maybe not.”

  I’m like, “True.”

  And Ree’s all, “Maybe he denied about the roses because he was mad at me for not saying thanks. Or maybe he thought I got you to go up to him because I was avoiding him. Like I didn’t want to talk to him or something.”

  I go, “Yeah maybe,” because I’m liking this exciting new Ree. I’m really passionate about expressing yourself, and Ree was majorly psyched about doing this. And I just think that if you believe in something and you want it so much and you’re not hurting anyone else, you have to go for it. Which sometimes means taking a risk, even if it’s scary. But the thing you want most to happen doesn’t stand a chance unless you give it one.

  She says, “So then he probably thought I didn’t want him back, so he denied about the roses to save face.”

  I’m like, “And one kiss in the hall doesn’t mean anything. Especially with a skank like Gloria who, P.S., is probably just trying to get you back and doesn’t even like Steve. She just took advantage of the situation to make it look like Steve broke up with you for her.”

  “Isn’t that what he did?”

  “No. We have no idea what Steve’s problem is right now. When I talked to him before? It was like . . . he was a different person. I swear you would not have recognized him.”

  “At first I wanted to do this so I could prove to Steve that I could be more exciting. But now it’s like . . . I just want to do it for me. To prove it to myself, you know?”

  “Totally.”

  “And if whatever it is with Gloria is nothing now but it might turn into something, then this could be my only chance to get him back.”

  I don’t want to see her get hurt even more, but if she doesn’t do this, she’ll always regret it and wonder What If. And the What Ifs are the worst.

  Ree takes out two packs of sidewalk chalk from her bag. She’s like, “Remember that episode of Sex and the City when Carrie says how anything is possible in New York? This is what she’s talking about! Right now!”

  I go, “Rock on! So . . . we’re doing this?”

  Ree rips open the sidewalk chalk. She looks around the courtyard.

  Then she goes, “Yeah. We are.”

  I’m stoked. If she didn’t do this now, she’d regret it forever. And if Steve doesn’t come back to her, then she’ll get the closure she needs to move on. She’s not going to move on just because James and I are telling her to. She’s not going to let go until she sees for herself that there’s nothing left to hold on to.

  JAMES CHAPTER 9

  Saturday

  IT’S ABSURD TO walk by a thirteen-million-dollar brownstone with some homeless guy sleeping on the sidewalk right outside. Something like that really makes you think about how the world works.

  I live in this really upscale neighborhood. Which is a joke, because if you saw my crappy rent-stabilized apartment, you would never assume this. Especially with the roaches in the kitchen we can never seem to get rid of and the noise that never ends.

  Incessant noise.

  Like right now. I’m trying to get this Industrial Design report done, but the beeping is driving me crazy. And it’s not going to stop until I make it stop. Our insane neighbor who blasts the TV at three in the morning doesn’t help things, either.

  It’s not like our apartment has other features to make up for the constant noise. Highlights of our “living room,” which is technically a converted space where Ma strategically placed screens to create a separate living room and dining room, include a pool of candle wax on the ancient radiator, a lamp from 1964 with a broken shade, and a dusty philodendron hanging in the window. The window, of course, overlooks an alley, in which the classier guys pee when they get too drunk at the bar next door. And that would be why we keep the window closed.

  Whenever the smoke detector goes off like this, it’s the same story. Ma wildly smacks at it and swings a towel around in a frenzied fit, knowing the whole time that both methods are entirely ineffective. The smoke detector goes off when it’s having a bad day and/or the oven’s been on for at least twenty minutes. And since Ma is currently baking bread, the alarm naturally decides to go off.

  I pull on some jeans and yank a T-shirt over my head, pulling it down as I walk to the kitchen. The alarm sounds like an air-raid alert.

  “Sheesh!” Ma’s towel frantically jabs at the air. “James! Can you—?”

  “I’m on it.” I drag a chair across the floor so it’s under the smoke detector. Then I stand on it and snag the detector’s cover so hard I crack the plastic. I guess you could say I have some repressed anger. Or maybe not so repressed. I grab the batteries and throw them on the floor.

  Silence. Finally.

  “Thanks, hon,” Ma says.

  “Anytime.”

  Except, really, it’s more like all the time. I don’t know how much longer I can take it. Sharing a room with my little brother. Never more than three consecutive seconds of quiet. The neighbors with the music playing all night. The other neighbors with the loud sex. In fact, the only redeeming neighbor around here is Mrs. Schaffer.

  My parents mean well. Ma nags because she cares about me. I get it. But that doesn’t make it any easier to live here. It’s just too suffocating when all I want is some time to myself, to do what I want without everyone on top of me all the time.

  I’m sick of never being able to do homework without being interrupted. Or work on my computer projects. Or even think clearly.

  This is why I’m going to be a software designer. So I can do something I love, and make tons of money at the same time. So I can get the fuck out of here. Buy a huge house with so much space I can’t even use it all. And then I can send money home. My parents have had a hard life. It’s not easy when you do what you love but it doesn’t pay. And you have four kids. My two older sisters moved out, but it’s not like my parents can afford to help them much with college. So I’ll send my parents money, and maybe they can get a bigger place, too. They can relax when they’re older, the way they deserve to. Without having to worry about how they’re going to survive.

  But for now, I’m the one who has to survive. Which sounds a lot easier than it actually is.

  I have to walk way over to the East Side to get the 6 train. And then I have to go uptown to the Citicorp Building. It’s my favorite skyscraper, with that cool slanted top. It’s Rhiannon’s favorite, too, but we like it for different reasons. She just has a thing for buildings with slanted tops.

  I like what it symbolizes. You can smell the money all the way down the street. And I know how obnoxious that sounds, but to me it means freedom.

  When I was thirteen, I wanted to be a finance guy like Rhiannon’s dad. I used to ask him tons of questions about his job. And I found out that going into finance is a guaranteed way to get rich. The only problem is that I’m not a shark. You have to be ruthless to be an extremely successful stockbroker.
I’m too much of a nice guy to make that possible.

  I also got the impression that having a lot of money can turn a decent person into an asshole. So when I’m successful, I’ll have to make sure that doesn’t happen to me.

  Schlepping it to the East Side isn’t exactly my idea of fun times. But I have to do it. Rhiannon is bumming hard-core. We have this thing where we help each other out. I already have a girlfriend—it’s not like that, we just go way back is all. We’re solid.

  When I get to her place, Brooke answers the door.

  “Hey!” She immediately zeroes in on the Cinnabon box. “Aww! For me? You shouldn’t have.”

  “Yeah, I guess that’s why I didn’t.” The biting sarcasm is our thing. It’s this game we play where we pretend to hate each other. It never gets old.

  “Oh, well. There are worse things.”

  “Speaking of . . .”

  “She’s not up yet. I’m afraid she’s never getting out of bed again. But!” Brooke snatches the box from me. “This will most definitely help.”

  “So . . . can you just . . . ?”

  “No prob. Isn’t there that party tonight?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Because I don’t think she’s going.”

  “Don’t worry,” I say. “She’s going.”

  Although the prospect of returning to my decrepit apartment is highly appealing, I decide to go over to Thompson Street for a game of chess with the NYU geeks. I’m not doing Mrs. Schaffer’s thing until four, anyway.

  Max is already sitting in the window seat. He’s working out strategies. He’s waiting for a decent opponent. And then I walk in.

  He’s like, “Dude. You’re late.”

  “Sorry,” I go. “Emergency intervention.”

  “Shit happens.”

  “Big-time.”

  Max and I have been playing chess all year. He was asking about his brother Brad last week. Which was weird because we don’t hang out or anything, we just go to school together. So there wasn’t much to tell.