“I’ve never attempted to skateboard,” I say, swallowing back my thoughts about Byron. “I put it in the category of Horrible Things like snowboarding and skiing. Capital ‘H,’ capital ‘T.’ When my family skis I hang out in the lodge and drink hot chocolate and read.”
I have no idea how I’m able to babble right now. Even though I’m with Froggy and therefore off the boyfriend market, I always freeze around cute guys. For instance, there’s a lusty boy in my grade named Cole Nevins. Whenever I’m seated near Cole in class, I stare at his brawny arms and forget I have a brain and vocal cords.
“Don’t even talk to me about snowboarding,” this guy says, groaning. “I’ve broken my wrist twice and cut up my face, and I’ll never try it again.” He touches the scar on his cheek and flashes me a smile that is in competition with his eyes for Most Beautiful Ever. “What else is in your Horrible Things category?”
Just then, Dad texts me. I glance at my phone. Get me an onion bagel with extra scallion cream cheese. #yum
Okay, I write. I’m almost at the front of the line.
And I’m just walking from the subway to the parking garage. I’ll pick you up outside Absolute Bagels in a few. Did you bring your learner’s permit?
I wish I could text him that I dropped my learner’s permit in a volcano full of hot lava. Instead I write back that yes, I have it.
The person at the front asks to take my order.
“One onion bagel with extra scallion cream cheese,” I call out. I glance quickly at the guy behind me and then add, “And one everything bagel toasted with butter.”
Screw the #carbpolice. Screw Dad’s obsession with skinny women. I’ll eat my everything bagel and I’ll love it.
As I’m paying I hear the cute guy ordering an everything bagel toasted with butter, too.
“See you around,” he says to me. “I like your hair, by the way. Purple and green.”
“Thanks,” I say. Then I add, “New York City has almost nine million people. The likelihood that I’ll see you again is nonexistent.”
“That would be a Horrible Thing.”
“So is Greek yogurt,” I say. “So is when people say ‘anyhoo’ or ‘coinkydink.’ I hate that.”
He starts laughing. I wave to him, grab a few extra napkins, and walk out, swinging my bagel bag in my hand.
As soon as I get to the sidewalk, the hot air engulfs me. My underarms are slick. Or maybe I’m sweating from my conversation with that guy. On top of being incredibly cute, he was funny, and he had this way of laughing at what I said like I was the most hilarious person ever.
I’m standing at the curb, simultaneously sweating and smiling, looking for Dad’s silver car zipping up Broadway, when a text comes in.
An important call just got scheduled, Dad has written. I’m in the car but had to double-park outside the garage because I need to take notes. It’s going to be a while.
I bite down on the inside of my cheeks. I could be home studying. Or sleeping. Or not being stranded on Broadway and 108th Street in ninety-degree mugginess.
How long? I write.
Not sure. Grab an iced tea. I’ll text.
That’s it. No mention of whether “a while” is a half hour or an hour or six hours. No “sorry” for making me trek to Absolute Bagels and then ditching me for an important call. In Dad’s world, calls are always important calls. It could be an investor, a client, or an old friend from Dartmouth, and they will always get priority over me.
That thought makes me sad, and, all of a sudden, I’m swallowing back tears.
“Hey.”
It’s him. He’s standing next to me, and his eyes are wide with concern. “You okay?”
I shrug and gesture to my phone. “Family stuff,” I say vaguely. It’s not like I want to tell this beautiful guy that I have Dad Issues—no, actually, Entire Family Issues.
“Yeah,” he says, nodding. “Family sucks sometimes.”
I glance curiously at him.
He shrugs. “I’m dealing with some family stuff now. Pretty intense.”
“Want to talk about it?” I ask. The second it’s out of my mouth, I can’t believe I said that. I’ve never been one of those confident girls who has cute guys confiding in her and crying on her shoulder.
He shakes his head. “I would actually love not to talk about it. I would love to spend time with someone who has no idea about any of it or what’s been going on. That sounds like a dream.”
I exhale. I know exactly what he’s saying.
“I was supposed to be getting picked up by a family member right now,” I say. It’s tumbling out of my mouth before I can tell myself, Virginia, you don’t do this kind of thing either. “But I actually have some time, so do you want to hang out and take a walk?”
He grins. “That would be the opposite of a Horrible Thing.”
I smile back at him. “Agreed. And we won’t talk about family.”
“Or drama. Or any details of our lives.”
“Unless, of course, the drama is that you’re an ax murderer,” I say. “In that case, you should inform me now.”
He shifts the skateboard to his arm with the sketch pad, holds up his free hand like scout’s honor, and says, “No axes. Promise. No murder for that matter.”
As my insides churn with excitement and, I’ll admit it, lust, I remind myself I have a boyfriend. Even though I’ve fallen out of like with Froggy, I probably shouldn’t be doing this. But then I argue with my brain that this isn’t anything. This is a walk and maybe eating a bagel.
“There’s a cathedral I’ve been wanting to check out,” he says. “Saint John the Divine. I think it’s near here?”
This is walking to a cathedral. Innocent. G-rated.
“Yeah,” I say. “My best friend and I used to go there and look for peacock feathers.”
“Peacock feathers?”
“There are some peacocks wandering the grounds. I think two of them.”
“New York City is so cool,” he says, taking out his phone. As we begin walking, he starts typing, but then he stumbles into a trash can on the corner.
“Shit!” he says, leaning over and pressing his palm against his shin. I try not to notice that his calves are muscular and coated in toasted-almond hair. “That’s what I get for walking and looking up directions. I’m totally not a New Yorker.”
I have to crack up. “You were looking up directions to Saint John the Divine? It’s like four blocks from here.”
“There you go being a snob again,” he says.
“And I won’t even comment on the tourist thing,” I mutter back.
He laughs as he slides his phone in his pocket, and I steer him toward Amsterdam. Saint John the Divine is a neo-Gothic cathedral around 111th Street with acres of lawns and stone buildings and a little garden with a fountain. Shannon and I came here a lot in middle school because she wanted to find turquoise peacock feathers and whittle them into supersized quills.
“You know the book A Wrinkle in Time?” he says as we hit Amsterdam and start walking north. “I heard that the author, Madeleine L’Engle, used to have an office at the cathedral. That’s why I want to see it. Isn’t that crazy? I’ve probably read that book ten times.”
“Charles Wallace was the genius kid, right?”
He nods enthusiastically. “And there was Meg, the main character. And IT. And—” He pauses at the steps and gapes at the massive stone cathedral. “Wow.”
I look upward with him. I forget how amazing the cathedral is, tall and imposing with ornate windows and arches over the entryways. I’ve seen it so many times over the years that it seems like a regular part of the landscape of Amsterdam. Along with the peacock phase, Shannon had a medieval birthday party in the basement of the cathedral. When I was a lot younger I had a nanny who would bring Byron and me here to have picnics on the grounds.
“Wow,” he says again, exhaling loudly. “It’s wild to think about Madeleine L’Engle walking up those exact steps with ideas for a n
ew book in her head.”
“There’s a garden in the back,” I say. “Want to check it out? My brother and I used to play tag there when we were little.”
“Do you have an older or younger brother?” he asks, but then quickly shakes his head. “Hang on. No family details. A garden? Hang on. Before I agree to walk to a remote garden with you I should ask if you have an ax. I don’t want to be sexist and assume that only men are ax murderers.”
I have to laugh. I love the way he talks, all fast and funny and semiscattered. I hold out my hands to show him I have nothing except the bag of bagels looped over one wrist, and my backpack is too obviously stuffed with books to conceal any weapons. “No ax. No machete. No ice pick.”
“Glad that’s settled,” he says as we amble through the gate and follow the driveway around the side of the cathedral. I glance up to the stone landing where the peacocks sometimes hang out, but none are there now. Just a mom following a toddler up the stairs, holding her arms out to catch her if she tumbles.
Even though I haven’t been to the garden in a few years, it’s exactly how I remembered. We navigate along the little stone paths, around the neatly trimmed hedges, and over the floral mosaic in the center until we get to a tall bench shaded by a wooden canopy. The weird thing is, it’s not like we discuss sitting down, but in one easy motion we both lower ourselves onto the bench. I set my backpack next to me and he drops the skateboard and sketch pad on the ground, and we unwrap our bagels.
“It’s perfect,” he says after a few silent bites. “Chewy and crunchy and garlicky and the perfect butter-to-dough ratio.”
My mouth is full of bagel, so I just nod yes, agreed. A perfect butter-to-dough ratio is something Mom would never admit exists. She’d be too busy scooping out the dough and going light on the butter.
After a few more bites, I ask him, “Since you love A Wrinkle in Time, I was wondering if you’ve read When You Reach Me?”
He shakes his head. “Never heard of it.”
“Oh!” I say, clapping my hands together. Yes, dorky. But When You Reach Me was one of my favorite books in middle school, and I get hyper about things like that. “First of all, it’s amazing. You won’t be able to put it down. Also, it takes place in this neighborhood, but in the 1970s. It’s an homage to A Wrinkle in Time. That’s why I think you’d like it.”
He’s grinning so hard there are crinkly lines around his eyes. “That is so cute”—he pauses to wipe his lips with a small paper napkin—“that you just word-dropped ‘homage.’ I’ve never met a girl who uses the word homage.”
“So your guy friends are into homages?” I shoot back.
“Come to think of it … nope.”
“For years I’d only read the word and I thought it was ‘ho-mage.’ Hard ‘h.’ ”
He laughs. “Oh, like ‘cha-ohs’ instead of ‘chaos.’ That was mine.”
My phone vibrates in my back pocket. I slide it out.
My call wrapped up, Dad has texted. I’m almost at the bagel store.
I swallow hard. What happened to It’s going to be a while? The thing is, I’m not ready to say good-bye to this guy. I wish I could blow Dad off, but that is obviously not an option.
Before I have a chance to write back, another text comes in.
I’m at the light at 103rd and Broadway. Are you out front?
Shit. I guess I have to do this.
I’m in the garden behind Saint John the Divine, I write quickly.
I’ll turn on 106th, Dad texts. Be there in two minutes. Come to the sidewalk on the east side of Amsterdam.
I sigh heavily. I can feel the guy watching me. As I slide my phone back in my pocket, he says, “Do you have to go?”
“Yeah.” I sigh.
“Family stuff again?”
“Pretty much.”
I stand up and sling my backpack over my shoulder. Twenty minutes ago, I was biting back tears because Dad wasn’t coming and now I want to cry because he’s almost here.
The guy stands up next to me. I notice all over again that he’s really tall. He also happens to have broad shoulders and arms that look like they could pull me into a serious hug.
“Are you—?” I start to ask, but he’s talking at the exact same time.
“Do you think we should—?”
As soon as he hears me, he halts and shakes his head. “What were you going to say?”
I shrug. “I was just going to ask if you’re leaving now, too.”
He stares at me for a second and bites his bottom lip. It suddenly hits me that he was going to ask something entirely different, that maybe the Do you think we should was the beginning of Do you think we should:
Exchange names?
Exchange numbers?
Have sex?
Get married and live happily ever after?
“I think I’ll stay and finish my bagel,” he says. “Then I’m going to go inside and sketch and try to channel the spirit of Madeleine L’Engle.”
My phone vibrates in my pocket. I don’t have to take it out to know it’s Dad telling me he’s out front.
“Well … ’bye,” I say. As I do, my heart lurches a little.
“Yeah … ’bye.”
I turn and walk out of the garden. I don’t let myself look back until I get to the sidewalk. By that point, it’s too late. There’s nothing left to see.
4
Because of the delay from Dad’s call, he has to haul ass on the highway. We get to our Connecticut house at the same moment as the Tree Man is arriving in her blue pickup truck. Yes, the Tree Man turns out to be a Tree Babe. I swear, I can hear Dad mentally whistling as she walks with us up our front path and into the house.
She’s about twenty-five and skinny with huge boobs, a body-type combo I will never understand because breasts are fat cells and boy hips are lack thereof. Also, she’s totally working the landscaper-meets-porn-star angle, with her minuscule green shorts and thin white T-shirt, her mane of blond hair barely contained by a green baseball cap.
Dad is loving it. They’re in the kitchen, and he’s supposed to be telling her about the trees on our property that need pruning so they don’t cause damage in a storm, but he’s offered her seltzer three times and now he’s in brag mode. He’s leaning against the marble counter describing how they bought this country house at the right time in the market, like she cares, and how his older daughter is planning to go to medical school and his son will head to law school after Columbia. Not like I want to be on the brag bingo card, but I’m feeling a tad invisible right about now.
I cross the room and flop onto the sectional couch. If we had a TV, I would blast the volume and send Dad the message to take his middle-aged married self outside. But my parents have always been insistent that we don’t have television or Wi-Fi in the country. We don’t even get a cell phone signal out here. Based on my morning texting, I know that Froggy and his friend Hudson are visiting his grandparents on Fire Island, and Alyssa is baking cookies and working on her Humanities essay. Shannon still hasn’t texted me back about her big crazy news.
“Let’s take a stroll,” Dad says to Tree Babe as he slides open the glass door to our porch.
Barf. Like he’s inviting her to walk with him along a moonlit beach and not to inspect a bunch of maples and oaks.
I allow myself to read Fates and Furies for fifteen minutes. Then I pull a chemistry sheet out of my backpack and attempt to focus on chemical equilibrium and rates of reactions, but my mind keeps wandering back to the nonskater artist boy who bumped into garbage cans and gazed up at cathedrals and made my stomach flip with a yearning I didn’t even know existed.
Fates: I met him.
Furies: We will probably never see each other again.
“Well, she was lovely,” Dad says to me. “I can see why Green Arbor sent her over.”
“Uh,” I say. What else is there to say? It’s not like I’m going to bond with Dad about how lucky he is that he got the hot tree pruner.
We’re
in the driveway. I’m at the wheel of his car, and Dad is in the passenger seat. I’ve turned the ignition, and I’m waiting for him to start Dadsplaining. That’s the endless lecture he gives before every lesson—mirrors, signals, blind spots—but today he seems to be thinking more about trees and the people who service them.
I shift into drive and press my toes on the gas. It turns out to be more like a lurch, jerking my seat belt into lock mode. I refuse to look at Dad. I hate this so much. Most New York City kids don’t even get their license until the summer before college because there’s a plethora of ways to get around—subway, bus, cab, bike, walk—that don’t involve the insane act of maneuvering a four-thousand-pound machine and putting your life and others in danger. But Dad doesn’t get that. Teaching his kids to drive at sixteen is another bragging point for him. Also, he’s obsessed with the practical aspects of having a license, like what if I’m stranded in the middle of nowhere and the person driving becomes deathly ill? The thing is, most places I go have public transportation, and most people I hang out with aren’t dying.
“She had a great figure,” Dad says. “Really top notch.”
I hit the brake hard, but suddenly the car is careening into the road and I realize, crap, I pushed the gas instead.
“Dammit, Virginia!” Dad shouts, grabbing the wheel and turning us quickly so we don’t ram into the mailbox across the street.
“Sorry.” I slide my foot over to the brake. I’m biting down on the inside of my cheeks, already raw from when I was gnawing them this morning, and my hands are trembling.
“Don’t apologize,” Dad says, exhaling slowly. “Just don’t do that again. You should know your gas from your brake by now. If a car was coming from either direction we could have been hit. This is real life. This isn’t one of your video games.”
I’m not sure how Dad doesn’t know that I don’t like video games and never play them.
“Now, let’s get going,” Dad says. “What are you waiting for?”
I’m waiting to stop shaking. I’m waiting for you to realize I hate driving. I’m waiting to remember what side of the road I drive on. I’m waiting for you to understand that it’s not appropriate to drool over hot young tree pruners to your sixteen-year-old daughter.