What If It's Us

by Becky Albertalli

  “Not silly,” Alima says.

  “Definitely not. I used to beg my parents to take me outside so I could catch a Squirtle,” I say.

  “I was a Pikachu guy,” Kent says.

  “Pikachu was my man,” Dylan says.

  I can’t tell if Dylan is my wingman or competition. I give him a hey-maybe-go-away look and he actually gets my signal.

  Dylan turns to Alima. “So, what do you do for fun? What’s your drug of choice? Not literal drug, unless literal drug is your speed. Not speed as in the drug—”

  My deepest apologies to Alima, but I feel a flicker with Kent that I like. And maybe I came here looking for someone who won’t show up, but I’ll leave with someone who could be even better for me.

  “So how do I find this Pikachu fanfiction?” I ask.

  “It’s long gone. Destroyed. I threw it in a volcano and then I threw that volcano into another volcano.” If Kent’s chuckle is this charming, then I can’t wait to hear his laugh. “So where’d you grow up?”

  “Alphabet City,” I say.

  “No way, that’s not far from me. I live a couple blocks from Union Square.”

  Okay, now this definitely feels like the universe is involved. We’ve lived fifteen minutes apart from each other and we’re just now meeting.

  “My dad is an assistant manager at Duane Reade right across the street from Union,” I say. I’m proud of my dad, but some dicks at school thought lesser of my family because my parents don’t have “cooler jobs,” and Dylan was the muscle who shut them all down. It feels good to get this out right now in case Kent is a huge snob.

  “I go there all the time. I’m in charge of dinner on Tuesdays and Thursdays, so that’s where I get my supplies.”

  “But Whole Foods is like a block down,” I say. His sneakers and clothes suggest his family can spring the extra few bucks.

  “The lines are always a mile long and everything I need to whip up Spanish dishes is there,” Kent says.

  “Oh cool. Are you Puerto Rican by any chance? Or—”

  “I am, yeah,” Kent says. Another smile. I still don’t have any clear confirmation he’s into guys, but it’s going well, at least.

  “Me too! Everyone always thinks I’m white. It sucks,” I say. “It’s pretty annoying always having to make that clear.”

  Kent bites his lip as he nods. “At least no one follows you around grocery stores like you’re trying to steal something. And I bet no one is asking you if you got into Yale to meet some sort of diversity quota. That actually sucks.”

  I look away because wow, Kent didn’t swing, but it still felt like I got punched. “I’m sorry, I . . .” It’s quiet between us. Having to tell people I’m Puerto Rican is not a problem compared to what Kent faces regularly. I’m the worst. “I should rescue Alima from Dylan.”

  “Yeah. I’ll see you around, Ben.”

  Of course he won’t, and that’s got to be a good thing.

  I go to Dylan and grab his arm. “Excuse us a sec,” I say. I drag him away. “I want to go.”

  “Are you kidding? I was wrong about the a.m. vibes. Kent is pure p.m. He wants you to take him into that bathroom and catch his Pikachu.”

  “I have no idea what that is supposed to mean. We need to have a chat about what dude-on-dude sex looks like.” I shake my head. “I don’t belong here. I’m not actually about to build a future at Yale or with Kent or Arthur. I’m done.”

  “You’re not being fair to yourself,” Dylan says.

  “Maybe not. But I’m being honest.”

  I rush for the steps and head back down into the park.

  This was such a waste. I can’t believe we did all this, like Arthur was ever actually going to be here. I was stupid to think that the universe had some master plan. All I know now is that I cared enough to show up here, and I’m walking away completely clueless on what’s next for my future. I just know I’m back at the start with no idea which way to go.

  Friday, July 13

  I can’t focus on Angry Birds when I hear Hudson and Harriett laughing while taking a selfie together.

  “The bags under my eyes are so . . .” Hudson can’t find the word.

  “WWE cage match?” Harriett says. She flips her hair over her shoulders and sticks her chest out. “You should make a silly face. It’ll distract from the beat-up look you got going on.”

  “Thanks for the ego boost.”

  “I’m just being honest. You need more beauty sleep,” Harriett says.

  Beauty sleep hardly seems important for someone who filters the holy hell out of her photos, but what Harriett does for the ’gram is her business—literally. She does these ads for healthy juices that she doesn’t even like because they give her stomachaches. Doesn’t stop her from making two hundred dollars a picture. Harriett once did a #BoyfriendTag with Dylan where she did his makeup—contour on his cheekbones and eyeshadow. Dylan was a total champ about it and loved the attention. Harriett was so proud of the photos that she didn’t even delete them after he broke up with her. Harriett tagging me in photos was always wild. I would get a couple dozen followers. Then they’d all gradually unfollow because they could give a shit about my pictures of cool graffiti I’d find in bathrooms around the city. Or my pictures with Hudson.

  “That photo sucks even more,” Hudson says, after another attempt. “My face is not good today. Forget it.”

  Hudson is always hard on himself.

  “Let’s try one more,” Harriett says. “Silly faces.”

  “You got it, Boss.”

  Hudson leans in, puts his fist underneath his chin, and stares off into the sky like he’s just had the most epic eureka moment and is now ready to remake the world. Harriett is blowing a kiss at absolutely no one in the opposite direction. They review the photo.

  “Love it,” Harriett says. “I need a caption.”

  “Wait,” Hudson says.

  “You look hot!”

  “No.” He zooms in and they both turn around.

  Staring at me.

  I must’ve photobombed their selfie. Their one good selfie. And of course I was staring at them instead of casually looking at my phone. Hudson shakes his head and looks away. My face goes red. I get back into Angry Birds and mind my business.

  Or try to, at least. I still have ears.

  “He looks good too, I got to admit,” Harriett says.

  “No, you don’t have to admit that,” Hudson harshly whispers.

  One more month until I’m free from this hellhole.

  I walk into Dream & Bean and Dylan is sitting by the window.

  “Big Ben, step into my office,” Dylan says, removing his backpack from one chair so I can sit.

  “Your office needs a bigger table.”

  “Who needs tables when you have this wonderful view.” Dylan gestures to the window.

  “There’s literally trash piling up.” Three bags’ worth. There’s a better view from Hudson’s bedroom and it’s just brick wall.

  “Do you want something to drink? My people can get right on that.”

  “You’re a regular, not the owner.”

  “Why are you so hurtful, Ben?”

  “Quick recap: I’m in summer school with my ex-boyfriend. I thought I was going to reunite with a cute guy yesterday. I didn’t. Life sucks.”

  I lost some sleep last night thinking about both Hudson and Arthur. Hudson because I wasn’t looking forward to another school day with him. Arthur because I realized I screwed up by moving along. Up until yesterday when Samantha got involved, I never thought there was a real chance of finding him. It’s New York City and I know next to nothing about him. But then she got her Nancy Drew on and hope became a thing. And the Yale lead was a smart one, but it led to nothing except how much I wanted it to work out. To find Arthur and see what could happen between us.

  “You won’t stay single long with that face.” Dylan’s eyebrows bounce.

  I’m not in the flirty mood.

  “I feel like
I’m being punished for wanting to be happy,” I say. Like maybe life would’ve been fine if I gave Hudson a second chance. Maybe everything would’ve gotten better.

  “Maybe you’re just Friday the thirteenth’s bitch.”

  “At least we have our marathon.”

  Dylan is quiet for a second. “Samantha-less marathon.”

  “I’m sure she’ll reach out.” I’m not sure. She never texted him back last night.

  Not to be that person, but I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t a little relieved things aren’t coming together with Samantha. Don’t get me wrong—I want him to be happy, he’s my absolute best friend. But sorry, he’s not good at being a best friend when he’s someone’s boyfriend. It’s like the only topic in the world becomes his girlfriend, and I don’t ever feel like I can get a word in about what’s happening with me. Maybe this is a bad attitude for me to have. But I just get, I don’t know, threatened and feel pretty worthless every time he starts liking another girl. My dad asked me if I had secret feelings for Dylan, which is seriously not the case. Dylan is just the best and I would drop-kick someone for him. But I just miss him whenever he’s dating. And I don’t only want to feel relevant when he’s single.

  I’m thirsty, so I get up and go to the condiment bar. While I’m pouring some complimentary water into a plastic cup, I check out this bulletin board with tons of flyers for campus internships, a Resist poster, some phone numbers, dog walker job listing, random ads and—

  My face.

  My face is on the bulletin board.

  The water spills over the cup and I don’t even have the common sense or decency to immediately wipe it because that’s my face on the bulletin board.

  What did I do? What am I wanted for? Wait. No. This isn’t some police sketch or shady security camera snapshot. My face is cropped out from that picture where I smashed a snowball in Hudson’s face. Is this from him? I almost call for Dylan, but I’m still speechless because there’s a memo too:

  Are you the boy from the post office?

  I feel super awkward right now, and I can’t believe I’m doing this, but here we go.

  We talked for a few minutes at the post office on Lexington. I was the guy in the hot dog tie. You were the guy mailing stuff back to your ex-boyfriend.

  I loved your laugh. Wish I’d gotten your number.

  Want to give me a second chance here, universe?

  Arthur.Seuss@gmail.com

  Um.

  My heart races because the universe has got to be fucking with me.

  I tear down the flyer from the thumbtack. That’s definitely my face. This is for me. I’m supposed to find this.

  I just found this.

  This . . . this doesn’t happen. Yeah. This doesn’t happen.

  I storm back over to Dylan. “This some dumb joke of yours?”

  “What? None of my jokes are dumb.”

  “Don’t play stupid.”

  Dylan reads the paper. “Wait. Holy shit.”

  “Is this seriously not you?”

  “Dude. Ben. This isn’t me.” Dylan looks me in the eye, and he’s not laughing. “Where was this?”

  “Condiment bar. Bulletin board. He must’ve known to put it up here since I was wearing that Dream & Bean shirt.”

  “You’re welcome! Man, Samantha is going to be pissed she didn’t solve this herself. Happy for you too, I’m sure.” He grabs my shoulder. “This is it. It’s happening. You’re going to reach out, right? This is amazing. Hollywood will make a movie about you two. And a Netflix spin-off about your gay children.”

  “But how? I’m so confused. How did he get this photo? That’s kind of creepy. Am I being stalked? Lured into a trap?”

  “Maybe make sure you meet in a public place. With a Taser.”

  “I just . . . This doesn’t happen. I see cute guys all the time.”

  “Do you ever see them again?”

  “Nope.”

  Dylan waves the paper around. “Big Ben, your life just got so easy. Don’t get in your head about this. No one wants to binge a Netflix series about someone who does nothing, no matter how cute your smile and freckles are.”

  I stare at the email at the bottom of the flyer.

  I guess I’m not Friday the thirteenth’s bitch.

  I’m the boy from the post office.

  And Arthur is looking for me too.

  We’re not ready to press play on Chucky. Dylan and I are sitting on his bed. He’s on his phone and torturing himself by looking through Samantha’s Facebook profile. And I can’t stop staring at the paper from Dream & Bean, which I pocketed from the bulletin board since no one else will need a photo of my face. I’ve typed the email address into my phone already, but my message is blank.

  “You got to help me out here, D. What do I do?”

  “Just speak from the dick, Big Ben.”

  “You’re canceled if you don’t help me write a useful message to Arthur.”

  “Right. Okay. If you’re not going to speak from the dick, I think you should speak from the heart. That seems like the next logical step.”

  “Speaking from the dick was never a logical step.”

  “Says you.”

  If you let Dylan go on long enough, like I do, he eventually hits on the thing a normal person would know to say immediately. Like how I should just speak from the heart.

  I keep it really simple and say the thing that I’ve been feeling ever since I first saw my face on that bulletin board: Is this for real?

  Chapter Eleven

  Arthur

  “You need to chill,” Dad says. “Put it aside and check in an hour.”

  “Yeah, but what if—”

  “What if he emails you? Perfect. You don’t want to write back right away anyway.”

  “I don’t?”

  “No no no. God no. You have to play it cool, Art. Not too cool. But a little cool,” says the man wearing an apron with a picture of a flash drive and the words Back that thing up.

  My phone buzzes with a new email notification.

  Dad makes a grab for it, but I swipe it out of his reach and tap into my inbox.

  Two more. This blows my mind. The poster’s only been up for eleven hours, and I’ve already gotten sixteen emails.

  Saw ur poster, I’m not your boy but good luck!

  OMG this is so romantic & the boy in the pic is so hot wow

  Nothing from Box Boy, of course, but my heartbeat doesn’t know that. It goes haywire every time.

  I skim their subject lines quickly. The first one says, how old are you. No punctuation or preamble. The second one says: Is this real?

  “Come on, I need you. We’re making grilled cheese.” He holds up a giant knife. “Lose the phone. Now.”

  “Or else . . . you’ll stab me?”

  “What?” His brow furrows. Then he glances at his knife. “Oh. Ha. No. I’m cutting the crusts off the bread. Go put your phone away, Wart.”

  “Wart?”

  “Like The Sword in the Stone. No?”

  “No.” I tap into the second email from someone named Ben Hugo. I bet it’s nothing. It’s probably some random fuckboy. But there’s this knot in my stomach, and I can’t seem to untie it.

  Because what if it’s him?

  “I think I’m going to call you Wart until you put your phone away,” Dad says.

  Okay, there’s text. There’s a paragraph. And—

  Holy shit.

  Hey, so I don’t know if this is supposed to be a joke or a prank or what, but I saw your flyer about the post office. I’m not going to lie, I’m a little freaked out. In a good way, though. Because I think I’m the guy you’re looking for? I hope that isn’t creepy. Anyway, hi again. I’m Ben.

  I just stare at it.

  I’m speechless.

  My hands are shaking. I need to—okay. I’m sitting down. On the edge of my bed. Phone’s in both hands. All the words are hazy. I can’t quite—Ben. He has a name, and it’s perfect. Arthur and Ben. Arthur and
Benjamin.

  I have to write back. Holy shit. This is real.

  Unless.

  I stare at the message. Okay.

  Okay.

  So, it’s technically possible that someone’s trolling me. Which means I can’t get excited. Not yet.

  I have to test him.

  Hey Ben.

  Ben. So you claim.

  Thanks for your email. It’s very nice to meet you. Please answer the following question in detail: on the day of our meeting at the post office, what type of piercing did the postal employee have?

  Send.

  A minute later: Is this a joke?

  Excuse me?

  In detail? You sound like my teachers. Smiley face.

  Okay, that’s rude, right?

  I type quickly. Yeah . . . this actually isn’t a joke, so if you’re just here to make fun of me, please don’t.

  Send.

  But Ben doesn’t reply, for what feels like an hour.

  “Wart, are you alive in there?”

  Dad. I almost jump.

  “Coming! Just—”

  My phone buzzes. You think I’m making fun of you?

  Well. Yeah.

  Okay, wow. I’m sorry. I’m not, I promise.

  My stomach flips. Okay.

  Look, do you want to just call me? I think maybe that would work better.

  He wants me to call him. Like an actual phone call. With Benjamin. Ben. Who isn’t making fun of me. Of course he’s isn’t. He’s Ben. He would never.

  He sends me his number.

  I click call. And it’s ringing. This is happening. This is—

  “Hey.”

  Oh my God.

  “Is this Arthur?” His voice sounds muffled. “Hold on.”

  I hear shuffling and footsteps. Then a door closing.

  “Okay, sorry. It’s just—my friend. Anyway, listen. I’m not making fun of your email. It just—I don’t know. It sounded like something a teacher would write. It was cute.”

  “Teachers aren’t cute.”

  That makes him laugh. Which makes me smile. But I can’t tell if it’s him. I can’t tell if Ben’s my guy. I was so sure I’d recognize his voice. I thought I’d know him as soon as I heard it.