Take Me There

by Susane Colasanti

  It’s distracting me from the poem I’m supposed to be reading for English. I can’t concentrate on iambic pentameter. I can’t think about anything but why Steve isn’t calling me.

  He gave me flowers. He should be calling me.

  I get up from my desk and open my window some more. It’s so nice out. I’m dying to walk to the pier and sketch the moon since it looked so incredible yesterday. But I don’t want to go in case Steve calls. I can’t have my cell on when I’m visiting the moon. That would be impolite.

  I sit back down at my desk. I stare at the next page. My brain refuses to work.

  The phone still doesn’t ring.

  I can’t concentrate. But I have to do something.

  Sitting still long enough to watch a movie is not an option. I need to move around, but I can’t leave. Cleaning my room would be a perfect solution if it wasn’t already perfect. I’m so anal about it. I don’t know where it comes from, but I’m an organization freak. If even one thing is out of place, I have to put it back or else it totally distracts me. I guess that’s why I want to be an interior designer. Or even a closet organizer. I think organizing people’s stuff is super fun. The most fun is when someone is a total slob. You can organize their life for days. And inspire this calm feeling that permeates into all areas of their life. Since everything is connected.

  Nicole is always saying my room is so cool. It has a puffy red couch against the wall with all the pillows I made that have satin trim and ribbons and sequins. And a stainless-steel mini fridge with a magnet that says, LEAP AND THE NET WILL APPEAR. Then there’s my architect table with the special lamp that I love sitting at because it makes me feel all adult. Like I just came back from a hard day at work, figuring out how the skylights should look in a new green office building.

  And then there’s all my projects. Things I haven’t felt like doing since The Incident. Like the decoupage jewelry boxes and bags I make for my friends.

  There’s just no inspiration anymore. The passion’s gone.

  The phone still doesn’t ring.

  At my computer, I click on my day-planner widget. I have this thing about writing down everything I have to do. I like the feeling I get when I finish something in my day planner and I can check it off. So maybe there’s something pending I forgot about. But when I go through everything, there’s only school-related stuff.

  There’s a pile of journals on my desk. Each one is for something different: fave quotes from books and movies, Top Five lists, and my general journal where I do my moon sketching. I’m not ready to take it to the blog level. Because how can you be totally honest about your feelings if you know someone’s going to read all about them?

  I decide to make a new list.

  Top Five Reasons Why Steve Isn’t Calling Me

  5. He’s cramming for a test.

  4. He thinks I’m asleep.

  3. He’s asleep.

  2. He’d rather talk to me in person tomorrow.

  1. He hates me.

  It feels like the walls of my room are closing in on me.

  What if I organize my books by size and color instead of author? I saw that one time in Real Simple magazine and it looked sharp. And it’s only ten thirty. Steve might still call for like another hour. . . .

  By the time I’m done with Project Reconfiguring Bookshelves, it’s after midnight. None of my homework is done.

  And the phone never rang.

  CHAPTER 4

  Tuesday

  “EAT YOUR EGGS,” Mom says.

  “They’re too runny,” I say.

  “No, they’re not.”

  “How do you know? You’re only having coffee.”

  Mom gives me The Look. It’s the look she gives me when I’m being persnickety.

  “Someone woke up on the wrong side of the bed,” she goes.

  “That tends to happen when someone was up until three.”

  Mom sighs. “Do we need to take away your TV?”

  That would be the royal we. She uses the royal we whenever she threatens, implying that Dad has input. But in reality, it’s more like my dad is never here and Mom makes all the real decisions herself. He’s not even here now. Dad leaves wicked early, because by the time we wake up in New York, people have had most of their day in Japan already. So all those finance guys have to be at work by seven—sometimes earlier. Apparently, no one is allowed to work on Wall Street plus have a life. And even when Dad’s here, he’s a severe CrackBerry addict, so it’s not exactly like he’s really with you when he’s with you. Mom is a corporate lawyer, so she works long hours, too, but she doesn’t OD like Dad.

  “I was doing homework, Mom.”

  “Why so late?”

  “I couldn’t concentrate before.”

  “Why not?”

  Here’s what will happen if I tell Mom why not. She’ll listen up to a point, with these strategically timed glances at the clock I’m not supposed to notice. So it’s really just half listening, half thinking through her itinerary for the day. Then while she’s giving me detailed advice, she’ll pack files into her briefcase. And then her briefcase will click shut, along with my problem. Case closed.

  It’s not like she’s a bad mom. I know she tries. It’s just that when you’re trying to balance so many things at the same time, it’s inevitable that something’s going to fall. And her job has changed her a lot. My parents didn’t used to be this way. They were all into that seventies lifestyle, way more relaxed about life. They were just different people back then, wearing different clothes and even listening to different music. I basically grew up with our stereo (and, horrifyingly, our record player) exclusively playing all these songs about peace and love and a time when things were much easier for kids.

  Question: What happens to people when they grow up?

  It’s like they forget who they originally were or something. But I guess some of it rubbed off on me, because I definitely have this seventies vibe/style thing going on.

  I’m sure in another life, Mom would be one of those super involved soccer moms. But in this life, it’s all about multitasking. Which means she’s never completely here. And since I’m not really in the mood to race the clock, I’m not getting her started.

  I poke my fork into my eggs. “Long story.”

  “I’ve got time.”

  “No,” I say. “You don’t.”

  When Sheila and Brad show up way late to math, it’s like I’m seeing her for the first time.

  Sheila is the most put-together girl I know. Her makeup is always perfect, and she has this amazing style with clothes where it’s like she has this different theme going every day. Like one day she’ll come in all hard-core biker-chick and the next she’ll be type peasant in lace and a flowy skirt. Plus, she’s always in a good mood. Or at least that’s how she presents herself.

  But not today. Today she looks terrible. Actually, this isn’t the first time I’ve seen her like this. Totally frazzled. It has to be Brad’s influence. He’s a mess and he’s dragging her down with him.

  I wish there was something I could do to make her realize. But how can she not already see it herself?

  We’re doing a poetry unit in English. I usually don’t like poetry, but we all got to pick a poet to do a project on. Mine is E. E. Cummings. He totally rocks. All of his poetry is like this random, flowing thought process. He liked to use lowercase letters when they should have been capital. And unlike with other poetry, even when you don’t get it, it’s still interesting.

  Today we’re getting extra credit for presenting our original poems. It’s optional because most of the stuff people are writing is way personal.

  “Tatyana?” Ms. Portman says. “Would you like to present?”

  Tatyana Dias is amazing. She has more self-confidence than everyone else in here put together. And she does all this eccentric stuff like paint her bags and write song lyrics all over her sneakers, and she wears this loud beaded jewelry her mom makes. I swear she has every color of Convers
e ever invented. Even the ones with polka-dots. And she’s not afraid to say these weird, random things to stick up for herself, but it’s like she’s also being funny at the same time. Like if you press her, she’ll be all, “You best back up before you get smacked up! And I put you on the bulletin board and you get tacked up!” Then she’ll crack up for days. But the coolest thing about her is that she writes freestyle poetry that completely blows you away. Just hearing two lines of her poetry makes you feel really intense. She’s already won two New York City poetry slams.

  Tatyana strides to the front of the class like nervous is this foreign country she’s never been to. She has this strong, clear voice. Totally unlike most kids who mumble so bad you can hardly hear them and the teacher always makes them repeat what they just said. And you still can’t hear them.

  Usually when someone goes to the front of the room, they’re all jittery or they ramble or they say how they don’t know what they’re doing. And you feel bad for them because you can totally see their hands shaking the paper they’re holding. But not Tatyana. She just reads.

  Rebel

  I have the might of separating the fight between darkness and light.

  With ashes that surpasses my sight, crime in time slashes, isolating my rights.

  I speak with my eyes, and visualize with my mind. I’m on a quest that has left me

  possessed and stressed ’cause I envy the blessed and pity the depressed.

  You can whip me, strip me, crucify me to a cross; my imagination within my deepest

  destination will not fall!

  The poem rocks me to my core. It’s all about following your heart and never giving up until your beliefs have become reality. And how if you don’t follow your heart, you’ll never become the person you want to be.

  Something just clicks for me. Like, hearing her words and feeling the power of her voice, I realize that I have to put myself out there to get what I want. Even if it means surviving a potentially humiliating experience. Because my life isn’t going to wait around while I figure out how to make it work.

  I’m like, “This is it?”

  No one else is here for tutoring. Not even Nicole.

  “It would appear so,” Mr. Farrell says. He’s at his desk, grading papers. “Pull up a chair.”

  “What for?”

  Mr. Farrell looks up at me.

  “I mean . . . if nobody’s here . . .” I can’t wait to get to the library. Ever since my epiphany in English, I know how to get Steve back. But I have to do some research first.

  “Are you implying that I’m nobody?” He smiles.

  My pulse speeds up. It’s remarkable that a man can look so incredible every single time you see him. Like, doesn’t he ever have a bad hair day?

  “You—no! I’m . . .”

  Mr. Farrell waits.

  I sit down at the desk in front of him.

  “So,” he says. “How’s school going?”

  Coming from anyone else, this question falls into the Extremely Annoying Small Talk category. But with Mr. Farrell, I actually care enough to answer. Maybe it has something to do with the fact that he could be a stand-in for Jude Law. All the girls have a colossal crush on him.

  “Good.” I clear my throat. “You know.” I cross my legs. “Same old thing.” I mash my lips together.

  “Do you like school?”

  “Sometimes.”

  “What do you like about it?”

  “When we’re on break.”

  He laughs. “There’s that sense of humor we know and love.”

  No one is coming to tutoring today. It’s obvious. I’m about to ask Mr. Farrell if I can go when he’s like, “By the way.”

  “Yeah?”

  “I want to tell you something.”

  “Okay.” Here’s the part where he tells me that I’m a sucky tutor and I’m not getting credit and I can’t put it on my college applications because I suck so bad.

  “Thanks for tutoring this year,” Mr. Farrell says. “I know you’ve helped a lot of kids. You’ve really made a difference.”

  “Oh.” I’m mad gassed. “Thanks.”

  “You’re welcome.”

  “Is it okay if I go? I mean, since no one’s here and all . . .”

  “It’s probably safe to say you’ve been stood up.” Mr. Farrell picks up his pen. “Onward. Go be a teenager.”

  Yeah. I think I’m starting to get how to do that.

  Whenever I get this really strong feeling to do something, I know I have to do it. And right now I’m motivated to do something huge—like, way over-the-top huge—that I normally wouldn’t do.

  The thing that clicked while I was listening to Tatyana’s poem has to do with something Steve said. It was two weeks before we broke up, and we were in my room listening to some new music I’d downloaded. Steve was lying on the couch with his legs in my lap, reading The Outsiders. I was trying to decoupage the front cover of a journal, but it was hard to balance everything on his legs.

  One second I was bending over to pick up a tropical-fish sequin off the floor, and the next second Steve’s saying, “Do you ever wish you were more spontaneous?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Like . . . more . . . doing unexpected things.”

  I had absolutely no idea what he was talking about. “Where is this coming from?”

  “Nowhere. Don’t get mad. It’s just a question.”

  “I’m not mad,” I huffed. But of course I was. What was he trying to say? That I’m not exciting enough for him?

  “Well?”

  “Well what?”

  “Do you?”

  “I don’t know. I’ve never really thought about it.”

  “Oh.” Steve went back to reading.

  “Wait!”

  “What?”

  “You can’t just say something like that and not tell me why you’re asking.”

  “There’s no reason. It just came into my head.”

  “It just came into your head?”

  “Yeah.”

  “From where?”

  “Dude. You’re being irrational.”

  “How is that being irrational?”

  “You can’t ask me where it came from. It’s impossible to know.”

  I scrunched up my face like, Do you even hear yourself when you talk?

  Steve closed the book. “You always say you want me to tell you what I’m thinking, right?”

  I pressed the fish sequin over the journal.

  “Right?”

  “Yeah.”

  “So I’m telling you. You can’t get mad at me.” Steve sat up and rubbed my back. “I’m only doing what you wanted.”

  Which I guess in a way was true. But there was obviously more to it. And he just didn’t want to tell me.

  So now I know I have to be more spontaneous and exciting. Or that I already am, but I need to prove it.

  Question: Does it still count as spontaneous if you plan what you’re going to do before you do it?

  Steve is the only person I know who loves chemistry. So there’s no way my plan won’t get his attention.

  I’m all about the pheromones when I’m going out with a boy. Like how Steve would sometimes let me borrow his shirt after he took it off. Then I would keep it under my pillow for a week. It would still smell like him that whole time. I loved breathing him in all night.

  In the chem section of the library, I find a humungous college textbook called Pheromone Biochemistry. I lug it over to a table. I’m practically the only one in here, so I don’t have to worry about anyone seeing.

  I look up moths in the index. There’s something about them on page 533.

  There’s this saying that goes something like, “I’m drawn to you like a moth to a flame.” That’s how I feel about Steve. There’s always been this pull between us, like I couldn’t turn away even if I wanted to. I happen to know that moths are all about the pheromones, too. I saw it on the Discovery Channel.

  I open my journal fo
r random things and take some notes.

  It all means nothing now. But by tomorrow, it will mean everything.

  Nicole’s like, “So . . . we’re doing this?”

  I think about it. After what Nicole just told me, this could be really embarrassing. Plus, I could get in so much trouble for doing this if anyone figures out it was me. But I want to do it anyway. I want to take that risk.

  “Yeah,” I decide. “We are.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Absolutely.”

  There’s a courtyard area in front of our school that’s not too close to the sidewalk, but far enough away from the front doors for people to notice. I take out the two packs of sidewalk chalk and rip them open.

  “The flashlight’s in here somewhere,” Nicole promises. She’s rummaging through her bag. “Could it be any darker?”

  “Your bag is like the Bermuda Triangle.”

  “At least that explains why my history homework’s missing.” She finally digs the flashlight out of her bag. She glances around nervously.

  “Don’t worry.” This block of West Tenth Street is pretty quiet at night. It’s basically all residential except for our school.

  “So how are we doing this?” she whispers.

  “Okay.” I take out the folded paper. “I think I should outline the letters first, and then you can color them in.”

  “Do you want patterns or solids?”

  “Um . . .” If I were Steve and I was looking at a huge sidewalk-chalk message for me that took up the whole space in front of the school and everyone was going to see it, would I want the letters to have patterns or would I like it better if they were just colored in? “Maybe solid colors? That way after everyone walks on it, you’ll still be able to see what it says.”

  “True. What colors do you want?”

  “Whatever you think looks good.” I survey the area. If we start over near the flowerbed and go all the way to right before the grass . . . and if we make each letter about two feet high . . .

  I bend down with a pink chalk stick and start the first letter, which is tricky because it’s an S. Those are always the hardest to draw in block letters.