What If It's Us

by Becky Albertalli

  Guess how totally not awkward that is.

  “Hey, what do you think about Craigslist missed connections?” I blurt.

  I don’t know why I do this. I definitely wasn’t planning on telling my parents the post office story. Just like I wasn’t planning on telling them about my sad crush on Cody Feinman from Hebrew school. Or my even sadder crush on Jessie’s very slightly younger brother. Or the fact that I’m gay in the first place. But sometimes things just slip out.

  “You mean like a personal ad?”

  “Well yeah, but not like must love dogs and long walks on the beach. It’s like . . .” I nod. “Okay, it’s kind of like a lost cat ad, except the cat’s actually a cute boy you met at the post office. But a human cute boy. Not a literal cat.”

  “Got it,” Dad says. “So you want to put up an ad to find the post office boy.”

  “No! I don’t know.” I shake my head. “Juliet and Namrata suggested it, yeah, but it’s a total long shot. I don’t even know if anyone reads those things.”

  Dad nods slowly. “It’s definitely a long shot.”

  “Right. Stupid idea. Okay—”

  “It’s not a stupid idea. We should post one.”

  “He’s not going to see it.”

  “He might. It’s worth a try, right?” He opens a new search window.

  “Okay, no. No no no. Craigslist is not a father-son bonding activity.”

  But he’s already typing, and I can tell from the set of his jaw: he’s all in.

  “Dad.”

  The apartment door creaks open, and I hear the click of heels against hardwoods. A moment later, Mom’s in my doorway.

  Dad doesn’t even glance up from the computer screen. “You’re home early,” he says.

  “It’s six thirty.”

  Suddenly, everyone’s quiet. And it’s not even the normal kind of silence. It’s one of those charged, atomic silences.

  I dive into it headfirst. “We’re making a thing on Craigslist to find that guy from the post office.”

  “Craigslist?” Mom narrows her eyes. “Arthur, absolutely not.”

  “Why not? I mean, other than the fact that it’s pointless and there’s no way he’d ever see it . . .”

  Dad rubs his beard. “Why do you think he won’t see it?”

  “Because boys like that aren’t on Craigslist.”

  “Boys like you aren’t on Craigslist,” says Mom. “I’m not letting you get killed by a machete murderer.”

  I laugh shortly. “Okay, I’m pretty sure that’s not going to happen. Dick pics? Probably. Machete murderer—”

  “Ooh. Yeah, as your mom, I’m going to go ahead and veto the dick pics, too.”

  “It’s not like I’m asking for dick pics!”

  “If you put an ad up on Craigslist, you’re asking for dick pics.”

  Dad glances sidelong at Mom. “Mara, don’t you think you’re being a little bit—”

  “What, Michael? What am I being?”

  “You don’t think you’re overreacting? Just a bit?”

  “Because I don’t want our sixteen-year-old son prowling around the underbelly of the internet—”

  “I’m almost seventeen!”

  “Craigslist?” Dad smiles. “You think Craigslist is the underbelly of the internet—”

  “Well, you would know,” Mom snaps.

  Dad looks confused. “What’s that supposed to mean—”

  “Okay, please stop,” I cut in. “Obviously, I’m not doing this. I’m not wasting my time searching for some random guy I talked to for five seconds. Okay? Can we just chill?”

  I look from Mom to Dad and back to Mom, but it’s like they don’t even see me. They’re too busy pointedly not looking at each other.

  So I leave. Grab my laptop. Exit stage left.

  My heart’s beating so fast, it’s almost stuttering. I hate this. It’s never been like this with them. Yeah, I’ve seen them get snippy with each other. We’re not robots. But they could always joke their way out of it. It’s just that these days, even the jokey moments feel like a temporary cease-fire.

  I sink onto the living room couch and shut my eyes—but I swear I’m being watched. By horses. Specifically, by the giant oil painting hanging above the table, which I can only assume is an early portrait of BoJack Horseman painted by Leonardo da Vinci himself.

  Mom’s voice drifts in from my bedroom. “. . . home early. Excuse me? I rescheduled two conference calls to be . . .”

  “Yeah. Like I said . . .” Dad’s voice drops off. “. . . early.”

  “Oh, come off it. Are you kidding me? That’s not . . .”

  “You’re reading too much into . . .”

  “Okay, you know what you’re not going to do, Michael? You’re not going to spend the day playing computer games in your boxers, and then come after me for—”

  I open my laptop. Click into iTunes. Spring Awakening, original cast album. I jam my finger down on F12 until the volume’s as high as it will go.

  “Mara, can you please—”

  And I let Jonathan Groff drown them out.

  Because that’s what cute boys are for.

  Chapter Six

  Ben

  I wish I felt Puerto Rican out in the world the way I do at home.

  Some friends in middle school told me I wasn’t really Puerto Rican because I’m so white-passing and only know a dozen basic Spanish phrases, stuff like te amo and cómo estás. I told Pa that day, begging him to put Post-it notes on different objects around the apartment to teach me Spanish so I wouldn’t get bullied again. Pa was happy to do so, but he broke it down for me that being Puerto Rican didn’t come down to my skin or knowing Spanish, but my blood and family. I really liked that. But that doesn’t mean that I’m not constantly having to basically say, “Hi, I’m Ben. I’m Puerto Rican.” Pa’s complexion is the darkest in our family, though still really light, like a white person’s tan, and how he looks is how everyone expects me to look. No one ever questions my dad being Puerto Rican.

  If only everyone could see me at home, completely killing it while I’m on sofrito duty, mellowing out to Lana Del Rey while mixing the cilantro, peppers, onions, and garlic, along with the fresh oregano my mom’s coworker gave us. My dad prepares our plates with salad first, piling his rice and pigeon peas on top. He hooks me up with extra pegao because I’ve always loved crispy rice since I was a kid, maybe because it’s crunchy like some of my favorite candy. My mom sets her coconut pudding in the oven and we’re pretty good to go.

  Ma taps my shoulder and says something I can’t hear over the music. She pulls out one earbud. “What’s going on with you?” Her dark hair rests over her shoulder, smelling like cucumber shampoo from her post-work shower. She’s a bookkeeper at Blink Fitness, and even though she’s in an office all day the smell of sweat clings to her like a gym bro on a pull-up bar, so she’s always quick to hit the showers when she gets home.

  “It’s been a day,” I say.

  “Hudson?” Pa asks.

  “Ding-ding.”

  Pa shakes his head while cleaning the pots and pans before we eat so the dishes won’t seem as mountainous when our stomachs are filled, a trick Abuelo taught him. The soap foams over his hands.

  “Diego, hurry up, I’m starving.” Ma hands me utensils. “Benito, set the table. Catch us up after prayer.”

  I set the forks and knives on our individual place mats, these impulse buys at the corner store when our money situation was a little better than it is now. Ma’s is shaped like an owl, her favorite animal. Pa’s is a black-and-white linen stitch that he always scratches while waiting for us to finish our dinner. And mine has a T. rex trying to drink from a water fountain, which hasn’t won a smile out of me since I broke up with Hudson.

  We sit really close to one another. There’s never been a time where my parents are both sitting at the heads of the table. Ma says it feels too regal, like we’re eating a feast in some castle’s massive dining room instead of a super-c
ozy two-bedroom apartment. And Pa just doesn’t like being that far away from Ma.

  We take one another’s hands and Ma says grace. My parents are big on faith and we like to say we have a healthy relationship with religion. We’re not old-school Catholics who live by the Bible and conveniently ignore all the verses that contradict the hate coming out of their mouths. We’re the kind of Catholics who think people shouldn’t go to hell for being nonhetero, and that was before I even came out. My parents pray to God on the regular and I jump in during dinner. This evening Ma is thanking God for the food on the table, for my abuelita who fell getting out of the car and my aunt who’s taking care of her, for Pa’s modest pay raise kicking in at Duane Reade, and for everyone’s well-being.

  “Okay.” Ma claps her hands. “Hudson. What’s going on with him?”

  I like that my parents are so in my face but know to give me space too. “I was trying to help him out in class and he flipped on me.”

  Pa’s eyes narrow. “I thought you said he wasn’t the fighting type.”

  “He’s definitely not,” I say, and he cools down. Two years ago I got robbed outside a grocery store and my parents locked me down with tight curfews, which felt like punishment for being a victim, but I know it was all love with the way Pa trained me to throw up my fists and run. Still, that was a summer I lost, and it’s not like they come around as quickly as weekends. “He just shouted at me in front of everyone. And I didn’t argue back.”

  “Good,” Ma says.

  “Also good that you can take him if you need to.”

  “Definitely.” There was that one time where I picked up Hudson and kissed him against a wall because we saw a guy-girl couple doing it in a movie and we wanted to see what it was like for a guy-guy couple. Then we flipped and even though we’re the same weight, he had a harder time carrying me.

  “Okay, barbarians.” Ma shakes her head because she’s not about any talk of violence. She doesn’t even like action movies, which Pa and I are openly fine with since she will ask you ten thousand questions during a movie, even if everyone is seeing it for the first time. “I hope it smooths over soon.”

  “Not holding my breath.”

  I try to stretch dinner for as long as possible because being alone is really getting to me. Ma tells us about the new thriller podcast she’s been listening to, and how each episode ramps up the tension so much that she almost wishes the series was over already so she could breathe and not be held in suspense anymore. Pa tells us about how this afternoon a father and son were buying condoms at the same time without realizing the other was there.

  “How’s your story going, Benito? Have I made a reappearance yet?” Ma asks.

  The only people who know I’m writing this novel are Dylan, Hudson, Harriett, and my parents. This year I couldn’t afford to buy Ma anything for Mother’s Day, so I wrote her into the story as a sorceress who doesn’t age and casts peace spells. I printed it out, but at the last second my insecurities kicked in and I just told her what her character does instead of letting her read for herself. I’ve gotten so far with this story that I’m nervous any negative feedback might make me quit.

  “Nope. Isabel the Serene needs to stay in her tower. Can’t have any more peace spells in a war with wizards.”

  “Maybe they can reach a place of understanding by talking.”

  “Ma, no.” I smile a little. “The laptop has been acting up lately. It gets overheated after twenty minutes.”

  “Maybe if you pass summer school, we can get you a new one,” Ma says.

  “No,” Pa says. “His reward for passing summer school is not getting left behind.”

  “Better to have me home writing than outside getting robbed, right?”

  “Cheap shot,” Pa says. “But well played. Hector the Haggler taught you well.” Hector the Haggler got even less page time than Ma’s character.

  “We can find another on Craigslist,” Ma says.

  I think getting a laptop on Craigslist was the problem to begin with, but I can’t complain.

  “Frankie connected with his new girlfriend on Craigslist,” Pa says.

  “Which Frankie? Employee Frankie or Mailman Frankie?” I ask.

  “Employee Frankie. Rodriquez. He was telling me about this page on Craigslist where you can find people you met or almost met. Missed you connections, I think.” Pa looks at me and Ma like we’re supposed to know what he’s talking about. He shrugs. “Well, Frankie first met Lola on the train and they didn’t trade numbers before he got off. His friend told him to check out Craigslist, and he found a listing from Lola. Been dating two weeks now.”

  “That’s so wonderful,” Ma says.

  “Impressive,” I say.

  It’s like Craigslist is some agent of the universe. Handling business. And maybe the universe is speaking through my dad right now to encourage me to do the same. To see if Arthur, my Lola, tried finding me too. I get up from the table.

  “I have to check something,” I say.

  “What about dessert?” Ma asks.

  I halt and almost double back, but keep it moving. Dessert will still be there. I have this I-must-do-this-right-now-or-explode feeling in my chest. I close my bedroom door and sit on my bed with the busted laptop that started this whole Craigslist conversation. There’s this exciting hope of possibility filling me up, like when Hudson and I started texting for the first time, like when Arthur said hi and we flirted and talked about the universe.

  I go on Craigslist and find missed connections—not missed you connections, Pa, wow—and I look through their dude-for-dude listings in Manhattan. What starts out as hopeful scrolling quickly turns into defeat, and I sort of wish I could start a support group for all these people with their regrets and what-if fantasies.

  I close the laptop.

  I guess that’s it on this Arthur business.

  Chapter Seven

  Arthur

  Wednesday, July 11

  “Arthur, shoes. Come on. We’re going to be late.” Mom checks her phone. “Oy. I’m getting a Lyft.”

  I peer up at her from the couch. “It’s only eight.”

  “Well, since your dad finished off the coffee without telling me,” she says loudly, in the general direction of their bedroom, “we need to stop at Starbucks before the Bray-Eliopulos call. You’ve taken your pill, right?”

  “Yeah, but.” I sit up slowly. “Why don’t I just take the subway?”

  “You’d need to leave now anyway for the subway.”

  “Not really. Not until eight twenty.”

  Mom scoffs. “Is that why you keep rolling into the office at nine fifteen?”

  “That was one time!”

  She ruffles my hair. “Come on. I already called the Lyft.”

  But then the door to my parents’ bedroom nudges open and out shuffles my dad, wearing plaid flannel pants and yesterday’s T-shirt. “Morning.” He yawns, rubbing his beard. “Hey, Art. Want to grab bagels?”

  “Yes!”

  “Michael, can you just . . . not.” Mom exhales. “Not right now.”

  They look at each other, and it’s one of those lightning-fast wordless parental debates—if you can even call it a debate. It’s more like watching a bulldozer run over a worm.

  Dad pats my shoulder. “Let’s do bagels tomorrow.”

  “But I don’t want to be stuck in a Lyft with pre-coffee Mom,” I whisper.

  “You’ll survive.”

  The Lyft pulls in front of our building, and I slide into the back seat after Mom. She smooths her skirt and sets her phone on her lap, screen down, hands clasped together. She’s regained her chill now that we’re moving, but she’s watching me intently, and I think that’s almost worse. No doubt she’s gearing up for a Chat.

  She clears her throat. “So, tell me about the boy.”

  “What boy?”

  “Arthur!” She nudges me. “From the post office.”

  I look at her sidelong. “I already told you about him.”

/>   “Well, you just told me what happened at the post office, but I want the whole story.”

  “Okay. Um. You didn’t want me to look for him, so . . . that is the whole story.”

  “Sweetie, I just don’t want you on Craigslist. Did you read that article about—”

  “I know. I know. Machetes and dick pics.” I shrug. “I’m not doing Craigslist. I don’t even care that much.”

  “I’m sorry, Arthur. I know you were hoping to find him.”

  “It’s not a big deal. He’s just a random guy.”

  “Well, I just think,” Mom starts to say—but then her phone buzzes in her lap. She peeks at the screen and sighs. “I have to get this. Hold that thought.” She twists her body toward the window. “What’s up . . . yes. Okay, yes. On our way. Ten minutes, and we’re swinging through Starbucks . . . what? Oh. Oh no.” She drums on her briefcase. Then she turns to me, eyes rolling slightly, and mouths, “Work.”

  Which means she’s not hanging up the phone anytime soon. So I turn to stare out my own window, mentally cataloging the restaurants and storefronts. It’s not even nine, but the sidewalks are jammed with commuters. They all look exhausted and generally underwhelmed.

  Underwhelmed. By New York!

  I don’t know. Sometimes I feel like New Yorkers do New York wrong. Where are the people swinging from subway poles and dancing on fire escapes and kissing in Times Square? The post office flash mob proposal was a start, but when’s the next big number? I pictured New York like West Side Story plus In the Heights plus Avenue Q—but really, it’s just construction and traffic and iPhones and humidity. They might as well write musicals about Milton, Georgia. We’d open with a ballad: “Sunday at the Mall.” And then “I Left My Heart at Target.” If Ethan were here, he’d have the whole libretto written by the time we stepped out of the car.

  “Oh, I don’t think so,” Mom’s saying into the phone. “Unless Wingate filed a brief. Okay, we’re a block away.” She pauses. “No, that’s fine, I’ll send Arthur. Be right up.”