Take Me There

  Twenty minutes later, he’s got me.

  “Checkmate.”

  “Fuck.” I study the board. I go over my last five moves. “How did that happen?”

  “Um . . . maybe because I’m a genius and you suck?”

  “Maybe not.” I’m off my game. All unfocused. Story of my life.

  I’m too stressed all the time. Not sleeping enough. There’s always too much work that never seems to get done. And when it does, there’s tons more. I’m pressurized, ready to explode any second.

  Something has to change. I don’t know what. But something.

  It’s righteous that I convinced Rhiannon to go to the party. But now I have to call the one person I’m dreading the most. Because I already know how she’s going to react.

  “Hello?”

  “Hey. It’s—”

  “Hi, James! I know your voice by now.”

  “Oh. Well . . . how’s it going?”

  “Great! What about you?”

  “Great. Except . . . there’s something I have to ask you.”

  Nothing from Jessica’s end.

  “You still there?” I say.

  “Yeah. But I’m not sure I want to hear this.”

  “I know we’re supposed to go to the party as a date, but—”

  “What are you telling me?”

  She does this every time. I don’t get why she goes ballistic if I even mention Rhiannon’s name. It’s like I’m not allowed to have friends who are girls or something. Which is absurd, considering all the straight guy friends Jessica has.

  “Just that . . . would you mind if Rhiannon came with us?”

  “Would I mind?”

  “Yeah.”

  “What do you think?”

  “That you might.”

  “Ya think?”

  See? I knew this would happen. This is exactly what I wanted to avoid. Why can’t there be an easy way to do this? It’s not like I’m saying I don’t want to go with her at all.

  “You know what I think?” Jessica has this bitchy, sarcastic tone. Which I’ve never heard from her before.

  “Um . . . not really.”

  “I think you’d rather be with her.”

  “With who? Rhiannon?”

  “Duh.”

  “Come on, Jess, that’s crazy.”

  “Oh, really?”

  “You know it is.”

  “No, what I know is how it makes me feel when you never talk to me about your problems but you always talk to her!”

  “When did I do that?”

  “Oh my god! Like, I don’t know, all the time?”

  “I talk to you.”

  “Not like you talk to her.”

  “How would you know?”

  “Let’s just say I’ve overheard some of your conversations.”

  “Like what?”

  “Please. The point. Is that I always ask you what’s wrong and if everything’s okay, and you never tell me anything. And I want you to come to me, but no. You always have to go running to her.”

  “I don’t—”

  “And those walks you guys take? What’s that about?”

  “They’re just walks.”

  “Well, did it ever occur to you that I might want to go?”

  “We’ve walked before.”

  “Oh, yeah, like what, twice? And we never go to the pier. Like that’s your secret place or something. Did you ever think that maybe I’d want to go, too?”

  This blows. Big-time. I was only calling to see if Rhiannon could come with us, and now I have to deal with this crap. Jessica seriously needs to get her jealousy issues under control.

  “Look, Jess. I’m sorry I asked about the party. Just forget it, okay?”

  “No! I can’t forget it! You obviously want to go with her instead, so why don’t you just admit it?”

  “Because it’s not true.”

  “Whatever.”

  “It’s not!”

  “Do you even realize how much time you spend with her compared to me?”

  “Why are you acting like she’s my girlfriend? We never even went out!”

  “Why would I be acting like that? I’m your girlfriend, remember?”

  I don’t know how to get out of this. It’s like no matter what I say, she’s determined to think what she wants.

  “I guess not,” Jessica decides.

  “Yeah, I remember, but . . .”

  “But what?”

  “Why are you getting so crazy about this?”

  “Oh, so now I’m crazy?”

  “Come on, Jess. You know what I mean.”

  “You know what? It’s funny. Because I thought you were different.”

  I have no idea what to say to that. Different from what?

  “But,” she says, “I guess I was wrong.”

  I check the time. “Look, let me just call her and—”

  “Go be with her then! She’s the one you want!”

  “I was—”

  “Forget it. I really don’t care anymore.”

  And then she hangs up.

  I’m pretty sure I’ve just been dumped.

  I should feel all tragic right now. But I don’t. I feel . . . empty.

  And I don’t even know why.

  “Is that you, James?”

  “It’s me, Mrs. Schaffer.”

  Three locks click open. The chain lock rattles. Mrs. Schaffer peeks out. She examines the bags of groceries I’m holding.

  “An angel, this one.” She opens the door all the way. “Come in, come in.”

  I go over to her kitchen counter and put the bags down. Then I start unpacking.

  Mrs. Schaffer shuffles over in her slippers. “Now, you leave those, James.”

  “That’s okay.” I pull out a gallon of water. “I don’t mind.”

  It’s this thing we do. I start unpacking. She protests. I keep unpacking. She orders me to sit down at the kitchen table, where she has a plate of cookies out for me. They’re really good cookies. She always has these green and pink ones shaped like leaves with chocolate in the middle.

  And then later, after we’ve talked for a while and I’ve eaten all the cookies, I unpack the rest while she’s dusting in the living room. She pretends she doesn’t know what’s going down, and I pretend the same thing doesn’t go down every week. This way I can help her out and she doesn’t have to be embarrassed. Which she would be if she ever admitted that her arthritis makes it really hard for her to unpack the heavy stuff.

  “I’m an old lady. Haven’t you ever heard of respecting your elders? Get over to that table and sit.”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “I put your cookies out nice, the way you like.”

  “Thank you.”

  We sit. I eat.

  She watches me eat.

  “So and?”

  “Yes?”

  “What’s happening with the girl?”

  “Nothing so far.”

  “How can this be?” Mrs. Schaffer gets up to pour me a glass of milk. “How can it still be like this?”

  “I told you. She has a boyfriend. Well, had.”

  “Oh? So, a new development?”

  This would be referring to the potential development Mrs. Schaffer keeps hoping for. She met Rhiannon once outside my apartment and hasn’t stopped talking about her. Old people tend to get treated like crud in this city by teens, like almost getting knocked down by kids running past them on the sidewalk and stuff. So she couldn’t get over how sweet Rhiannon was to her. And now she thinks we should be together. At first I tried to explain that we’re just friends, but Mrs. Schaffer wasn’t hearing that. She only wants to hear that we’re together. So now I go along with her. To keep her happy and all.

  “Sort of. I mean, yeah. Her boyfriend just broke up with her.”

  “And why was this?”

  “We don’t know.”

  “What?”

  “He didn’t really explain it.”

  “What? Who does such things?” r />
  “That’s what I’m saying.”

  “These kids nowadays. Such frivolity.”

  I eat another cookie.

  “Well? This is good news for you, yes?”

  “Uh . . . maybe . . .”

  “Why the uncertainty?”

  I smile at her. I don’t want her thinking I’m a total loser. “I’ll let you know if anything changes.”

  “Good, good.” She gets up. “Now, what am I doing up?” She presses her hand against her forehead.

  “Mrs. Schaffer?”

  “What did I get up for?” She stands there, holding on to the back of the chair.

  “Are you okay?”

  “Fine, fine. Just some old mishegoss running around in my head.”

  I eat another cookie.

  Mrs. Schaffer looks at me adoringly. “You and those cookies.”

  “I love these cookies.”

  “I don’t know this?”

  “Where do you get them from?”

  “From the nice Jewish bakery around the corner. You know the one.”

  “They all come from there?” Sometimes she’ll mix it up. Like sometimes there’s these rainbow sponge cake ones with chocolate on the outside. Or these flaky thin ones that are round with chocolate along the rim. Somehow, chocolate is always involved with these cookies. Rhiannon would think that’s cool.

  “All of them from there. Nice man, that baker.”

  I’ve been shopping for Mrs. Schaffer since fifth grade. I wasn’t so into it at first, but Ma made me do it. Now I do her grocery shopping every week and I like it.

  We have this thing. She gives me money and a grocery list and coupons every week. Then I bring over her groceries and we check in with each other. Not that there’s a lot to check in with on her end. I feel bad for her. Mr. Schaffer died of cancer six years ago. She has like no other family, because she never had any kids. A couple of Bingo friends stop by now and then, but for the most part it’s just Mrs. Schaffer, here in her apartment all alone.

  I’m probably the only teenager who’s worried about dying the scary New York City death. The one where you die old and alone with no one to even notice that you’re gone. Until someone smells your dead rotting body three days later from all the way out in the hall. Or just this fear of being eighty and alone, crying at the bottom of the stairs because no one’s there to help you up.

  “Is that you, James?”

  “Yeah, Ma.”

  I try to escape to my room without her coming out of the kitchen. I need a shower and a nap. And maybe I can finally get that report done.

  She comes out of the kitchen.

  “James, do you think you can give me a hand?” She’s got the tall broom. That means she wants me to sweep the muck out from behind the refrigerator and in between the stove and the counter because she can’t reach.

  “Where’s Dad?”

  “Out interviewing someone important.”

  Dad’s a journalist for The New York Star, which is like a bootleg version of The New York Times. But it’s supposedly gaining more of an audience.

  “Who?”

  “Don’t know. It’s top secret.”

  I take my glasses off and rub my eyes. It feels like I haven’t slept in about a year. “All right.” I reach for the broom.

  “Were you next door?”

  “Yeah.”

  “How is she?”

  I shrug.

  “What’s that mean?”

  I’m all bent over, trying to stretch the broom handle to the corner where the nastiest gunk is. For added fun, it feels like I’m in the process of pulling a key muscle. Or an entire muscle group.

  “James?”

  “What?”

  “What’s with the tone?”

  “I just . . . Look, can you give me a minute here, Ma? I’m trying to get this.”

  “So what, you can’t do that and answer a question at the same time?”

  It’s like this constantly. Constantly.

  She comes over and stares at my face.

  “What?”

  “Are you eating?”

  “Yes, Ma, I’m eating.”

  “Enough?”

  It never ends. She’s always bugging me to eat more. As if I can help being skinny. It’s like, dude. If eating more actually worked, I wouldn’t be such a joke. I’m like one of those walking stick insects all the time. Highly appealing. But at least they don’t call me Noodle Arms anymore when we play basketball.

  Finally in my room, I take inventory of my clothes situation. Not to be a girl about it, but I have nothing to wear. And it would be nice to appear at least remotely attractive. Now that I’m officially single again.

  “Can we read now?” Brian says from his area.

  One of the myriad amenities of these refined living conditions is the need to share a room with my little brother. I call it his area, but really it’s two inches away from my area. Ma’s brilliant solution was to put up a screen between our beds. Which is supposed to look like a wall and provide the illusion that we have some privacy. Which of course we don’t.

  “Not now,” I tell him.

  “Why?”

  “Because I have to do something.”

  “What?”

  “Just something.”

  “Can I help?”

  “No.”

  “Why?”

  “Because you just can’t.”

  “Why?”

  I sigh this really big sigh. The sigh is like, I have to pick out a shirt that’s not entirely repulsive and then endure dinner with its endless questions and nagging and try to get some work done on this new computer program and it never ever ends.

  Even if everyone just left me alone, it’s too loud to work anyway. Trying to block out the noise with my iPod only works if I blast it, which totally prevents me from concentrating.

  What I would give for an hour of peace and quiet. Or even five minutes.

  It was even worse when my sisters lived here. When it was us and my parents, with my sisters sharing the room Brian and I share now, and me scrunched into a walk-in closet that posed as a room, it was bad. My sisters would fight constantly. I tried to keep out of it by being quiet, but that only works for so long.

  It’s amazing how you can be surrounded by so many people every day who care about you and still feel alone.

  Keith did not just ask Rhiannon out.

  I don’t like the way he’s looking at her. And I definitely don’t like the way he said, “If you ever feel like hanging out . . .”

  Whatever. It’s her life. She can do what she wants. But Keith? He bothers me, man. He shouldn’t be anywhere near her. I don’t know why, but it’s like I go into this hyper-protective-bodyguard mode whenever some dude tries to hit on Rhiannon. Especially when I think he’s not worth her time.

  “Oh,” Keith goes. “Are you two . . . ?”

  “No!” Rhiannon yells. “We’re just friends.”

  Dude. Why’d she have to yell like that? Is the thought of us together so horrendous? I mean, it’s not like I want to be with her, but jeez.

  Keith’s clearly not leaving until Rhiannon agrees to have his children.

  “Can I get back to you?” she asks him.

  “Sure,” Keith says. “Take your time.” Then he looks me over. “I don’t doubt your answer will be yes.” He laughs.

  “Egomaniac,” I mumble.

  “What?” Rhiannon says.

  “Nothing.” I hope she’s not seriously interested in that moron. “I’m getting a Coke.”

  Danny’s over by the window. Well, over by the entire wall that’s one huge window looking out over the city would be more accurate. There’s a telescope over there. So of course a pack of guys are shoving each other, trying to be next. Seeing if there’s anyone having sex in the other buildings. Danny’s maneuvering the lens, trying to find some action. Apparently, he’s been hogging the telescope. He’s getting called out for it.

  “Dog! You’ve been on that for, like
, ever.”

  “Type rude to bogart the view, yo!”

  “Get off the fucking scope, Trager!”

  Danny reluctantly pries himself away. He sees me and comes over.

  “That thing is sick! There’s some chick taking a bath in the next building.”

  One of the most excellent things about Manhattan is that no one has curtains. Or they do, but hardly anyone uses them.

  “Nice,” I say.

  “So,” he goes. “What’s good?”

  “Same old.”

  Evan and Carl come over. They’re mainly Danny’s friends. Radical leftist types. Carl’s dad owns a printing shop and gave Danny a discount on his election posters. I roll with them sometimes.

  We pound fists.

  Evan goes, “You guys hear about Marion?” Which immediately gets Danny’s attention. He’s been sweating her since the thing with Nicole ended. I’ll admit that Marion Cross is gorgeous and easily the best-looking girl in our class, probably in the whole school, but she’s not my type. Too shallow.

  “What?” Danny says.

  “Son.” Evan pauses for dramatic effect. “Word on the street is that Marion might actually like . . . Carl.”

  Carl looks like he just won the lottery. And not the cheap discount game where you have to split it with a thousand other people. We’re talking Mega Millions. Exclusively.

  “Word?” Danny goes.

  “Word up, yo.”

  “How do we know this?”

  Evan clarifies. “Well . . . allegedly.”

  I’m like, “Allegedly?”

  “Yeah,” Carl says. “Supposedly.”

  “And where did this information come from?” Danny presses.

  “Jared says she was asking him about me,” Carl insists.

  “She never does that,” Evan adds.

  “This is true,” I confirm. I heard that Marion only dates college guys. I’ve never heard that she was asking about one of us. The news would have been legendary.

  Danny goes, “Sweet!”

  “Oh, man,” Carl says. “If she wants me . . . fuck.The things I’d do to her.”

  “He’s only been choreographing them for two years,” Evan informs us.

  “Way before that, dude. Maybe I didn’t know she existed, but she was still the ultimate babe.”

  “A score for you would be a score for the entire junior class.”

  “Hell, yeah!”