Maybe this won’t work out and I won’t care about it ending. But I can’t get from A to B without us being A and B first. Live in the moment.
Except it’s hard to think about living in the moment when Arthur brings up time travel. “If you could time travel,” he says, “would you go to the past or the future?”
“I can only choose one, right?”
Arthur nods as we cross through Union Square to make our way to the Strand Bookstore since he hasn’t been there yet. The Union Square area is the place to be for the bookish crowds. There’s a four-story Barnes & Noble, where I attended a midnight release party for Harry Potter and the Cursed Child, and a few blocks over is Books of Wonder, where I’ve met some authors and gotten graphic novels signed.
It would be really helpful to jump into the future to see how everything with Arthur plays out. But I wouldn’t even want to do it hypothetically. I want to trust that everything runs its course for some reason. Maybe meeting Arthur is supposed to teach me to be open to another dude in the future, to be bold and get his name and number if we meet somewhere out in the world.
“If I go to the past, can I change things?”
“Sure.”
Part of me wishes Hudson and I never dated. We were better friends than boyfriends. The good times were good, but I don’t think it was worth losing a friend over. “I would go back to the past, like a couple years ago, with the winning lottery numbers for my mom. Change the game up for us.”
“You’re nobler than I am.”
“What would you do?”
“I’m Team Future.”
“Because of school?”
“Other reasons too,” Arthur says. He squeezes my hand. “Probably better I go to the future. If I go anywhere near the past, I’m just going to write Hamilton before Lin-Manuel Miranda can.”
“You would dick him over?”
“Fine. Cowrite with him.”
I spot a churros food truck parked by the Best Buy and across the street from the park. “Have you ever had a churro before?”
“Not sure I know what that is.”
“It’s just fried dough. I like them best with cinnamon, but sugar is cool too. Come on, my treat.”
We rush to the cart. The guy asks me what we would like in Spanish and I answer in English. One cinnamon, one sugar, one chocolate, one raspberry. We go to the park to eat the churros so we don’t get powder and crumbs all over the books at the Strand.
“Do you speak Spanish?”
“Not really. I picked up some stuff from just listening to my parents speak to my aunts and uncles, but I understand more than I can speak.” Fourth-Grade Ben got really tired of not knowing what the other Puerto Rican kids were saying about him behind his back. I take a bite out of the cinnamon churro, which has that freshly baked warmness to it. “Which one you trying first?”
Arthur grabs the chocolate churro. “This is crack,” he says, taking another bite. “Where have these been? Is this a New York thing?”
“I don’t think so? Some Mexican restaurants might have them as dessert.”
“I’m a cookie guy, but I can be converted to a churro guy.” He takes another bite. “I feel like a whole new world has opened up to me. Between you being so white and not speaking Spanish I keep forgetting you’re even Puerto Rican. Your last name always reminds me though.”
I freeze with the churro between my teeth. Arthur continues chomping away at his chocolate churro, completely unaware that he’s just nudged me really hard in one of my sore spots. It’s 2018. How are people—even good people—still saying shit like this? I mean, I’m an idiot too—I learned that with Kent at the Yale meetup. I swallow what I can and drop the rest of the churro in the cardboard tray.
It’s really not my job to train people on catching themselves.
It’s really not my job to reprogram people so they not only don’t say something stupid, but that they don’t think it.
But I want Arthur to be better. To be worthy and see that I’m worthy.
I look around at all the other people around us, couples or family or friends or strangers, and I wonder how many of their days are going south because of nonsense coming out of someone’s mouth. I stare at the ground because I can’t look Arthur in the eyes right now.
“I used to wish my last name was Allen,” I say. “Alejo was too hard for people, and teachers would never mispronounce Allen. My second-grade teacher kept calling me ‘Uh-ledge-oh’ until my mother shut it down.” I can’t explain, but without even looking at Arthur, I feel this thickness around us like he’s realized what he said. “Not looking the part of Puerto Rican messed me up. I know I get some privilege points from looking white, but Puerto Ricans don’t come in one shade.”
“I’m sorry—”
“And not every Puerto Rican is going to run down the block for churros or speak Spanish. I know you didn’t mean anything bad, but I like you and I want to trust you like me too for being me. And that you’ll get to know me and not just think you know me because of society’s stupidity.”
Arthur scoots closer to me and rests his head on my shoulder. “If I could time travel, I’d rewind five minutes and not be so stupid. I know that’s an empty gesture because this is a make-believe scenario, but I really would. I would even give up the opportunity to cowrite Hamilton with Lin-Manuel, which, let’s face it, I have no place being anywhere near that anyway. But I really don’t like hurting you or making you feel bad, and I know I’ve done that a few times now.”
“It’s okay.”
“It’s not. It’s really not. I’m really sorry, Ben.”
“I know you didn’t mean any harm. I just want to put it out there. I love being Puerto Rican and I want to feel as Puerto Rican around you as I do at home because that’s who I am.”
“So I’m not getting the boot?”
“Nope. I take your time-travel answer to heart. Sucks that you won’t get to hang with Lin-Manuel though. Guess you’ll have to settle for another Puerto Rican.”
“Good. I still have a lot to learn about you anyway.”
“And you probably know everything there is to know about Lin-Manuel already, right?”
“I know nothing of Pulitzer Prize–winning Lin-Manuel Miranda, who was born on January sixteenth and attended Wesleyan and named his son after the crab in Little Mermaid.”
“I’m walking away from you.” I take the basket of churros. “And you’ve lost your churro privileges.”
Arthur gathers up his shopping bag from the Strand, where he bought magnets, postcards, and a Strand shirt, and now we’re riding the train uptown to his place on the Upper West Side. I know the neighborhood well. I used to go up there all the time with Hudson because of the skating rink, and yeah, he had a thing for the Hudson River too. Acted like it was named for him. Arthur wants to share his view of the Hudson River and just sit there with me, and I’m not bringing up the times I sat there with Hudson because what am I going to do, not go anywhere I’ve been with Hudson? Not happening.
Besides, our options are kind of limited. I can’t bring him home without feeling too exposed—and it may be too soon to meet the parents. I wouldn’t mind, but I can’t force it the way I tried with meeting Hudson’s mom. That was a fail on my part.
Arthur and I are tired now though. I’m probably better off just going home and sleeping, but I don’t want to leave him. By the time I wake up, I would only be able to text or call or FaceTime him and I’ll miss hanging out in real life.
“Too bad we can’t charge ourselves like phones,” I say.
“We can. It’s called sleep,” Arthur says. “It’s just that phones don’t take eight hours to charge.”
“I like sleep. A lot. Summer school is costing me enough sleep, and now you? Betrayal.”
The train is going local since it’s Saturday, which means we might be sitting tight for thirty minutes. Maybe forty or fifty minutes if someone has pissed off the MTA gods.
“I’m going to power nap,�
� I say.
“Can I join you?”
I wrap my arm around him and he comes closer to me. The car isn’t packed and I’m able to spread my legs a bit to get more comfortable. “I can’t sleep without sound. Mind if I put one earbud in?”
“What do you listen to?”
“I just put my songs on shuffle.”
Arthur whips out his phone and boom, the Hamilton soundtrack. He plays it from the beginning as we close our eyes, cuddled up against each other. It’s like everything I imagined for myself last night while I was alone in bed and Arthur was on the phone listening with me, except we’re really together this time. This kind of freedom is enough inspiration to go away to college and live in a dorm room where I can hang out with whoever I want whenever I want.
I’m half-asleep, but awake enough that when our stop comes up, I’ll be able to jump up and drag Arthur out of the train before the doors close. Someone kicks my foot and I open my eyes to apologize for stretching out because I’m definitely on some inconsiderate shit, and this guy is hovering over us. He’s holding a little boy’s hand.
“Sorry,” I say.
“No one wants to see that,” the man says, gesturing at me and Arthur with his newspaper. He keeps standing there. Other passengers pay attention.
“See what?” I sit up and Arthur opens his eyes; I get this feeling like he wasn’t really asleep.
“Just keep it at home, okay? I got my kid here.”
“Keep what at home?” I say.
“You know what you’re doing,” the man says. He’s getting red in the face, and I don’t know if he’s pissed or embarrassed because I’m not taking his shit.
“Yeah. I’m hanging out with a guy I like.” I stand up. My heart is pounding because I don’t trust this guy to not do something stupid. But someone is filming him, so if this really goes south, I have hope this will go viral so I can share it with the police so this guy won’t harass anyone else.
“I don’t need my son seeing shit like this on the train when we’re just trying to go home.”
His problem is not a real problem. I’m losing the courage to tell him this. Even though my shoulders are high, my knees are shaking. This guy is going to lay me out any moment. Arthur stands up and I push him behind me.
“It’s okay, it’s okay,” Arthur says to the man. “We’re not going to do anything else.”
“Screw this guy,” I say. I really wish Dylan were here to back us up.
The man’s son starts crying, like I’m the real aggressor here, like I provoked his asshole father because I was resting with another boy in public. I really feel for this kid and the tough road he may have ahead of him if he likes anyone who isn’t a hetero girl.
The man picks up his son. “You’re lucky I don’t want to pop you in front of my kid.”
Arthur tries dragging me away, and I only step back because he’s begging me and my name is a choked breath and he’s crying and he’s probably more scared than that five-year-old kid. Some guy with a gym bag steps in front of the man and tells him to keep it moving, that it’s done and over.
Except it’s not over, because Arthur and I have to carry this around.
We get off at the next stop and Arthur loses it. I hold his shoulders, like Dylan wants me to do when he’s panicking, but Arthur shakes me off and looks around the platform. “I thought New York was cool with . . .” He takes a deep breath and wipes the tears from his cheeks. “Gay bars and Pride parades and same-sex couples holding hands. What the hell. I thought New York had it together.”
“For the most part, I think. But every city has its assholes.” I want to hug him, but he doesn’t want to be touched right now. Like any affection is going to become a target sign on our backs. Like we’ll get punished because our hearts are different. “Are you okay?”
“No. I’ve never been threatened before. And I was so scared for you. Why didn’t you just stay quiet?”
I should’ve. I shouldn’t have endangered Arthur just because I wanted to speak up for us and everyone like us. “I’m sorry. I was scared too.”
We stand there for a few minutes and when the next train comes, Arthur doesn’t want to get on. Same for the next train. He’s collected himself as best as can be expected by the third train, and he’s only willing to get on because it’s packed so there will be more people to protect us if something happens again.
I don’t like that the same world that brought us together is also scaring him.
“I’m not leaving your side until you’re home,” I say.
Arthur looks around the train, and his tired, hurt blue eyes look up at me.
And his hand links into mine and he doesn’t break the hold the entire ride.
Chapter Twenty-One
Arthur
“Did they respond to your text?” Ben asks as I press the button for the third floor. “I don’t want to walk in on your parents having sex.”
“Eww. They don’t do that.”
“They did at least once.”
“Never. No.” I gag.
“You’re funny.” He takes my hand and smiles. “This place is nice.”
“On behalf of Uncle Milton, thank you.” I pause for a moment in the alcove. When you step off the elevator, there’s not really a hallway—just a little nook with three doors, leading to apartments A, B, and C.
“A for Arthur,” Ben says, like this is the most satisfying coincidence of his life.
“We planned that.”
“I figured,” he says smoothly—but when I glance back at him, he’s chewing his lip.
“Are you nervous?”
“Yes.”
I squeeze his hand. “That’s insanely cute.”
And—wow. I’m actually about to do this. I’m bringing this boy home to meet my parents. I’m pretty sure that’s not a typical second-date activity. But maybe Ben and I aren’t typical.
My parents.
I don’t know why I suggested it. Tonight just rattled me, I guess. I can’t stop thinking about the guy on the subway and his crying kid and the look on Ben’s face and the way it made me feel like the whole world was watching me. All I wanted, in that moment, was to be alone. I’ve never wanted to be alone so badly in my entire life.
But Ben stayed. He just stayed. And now I don’t want him to leave. I’m not ready to say goodnight.
I glance back at Ben as I fumble with the keys.
I’m not going to panic. I’m not. This is going to be fine. Totally great. Quick visit. Super casual. So what if my parents know a little too much about Ben. So what if they can barely keep it together around regular friends, much less boyfriends. Not that Ben’s my boyfriend. I can just picture what would happen if I introduced him like that.
Me: Meet my boyfriend, Ben!
Parents: *showering us with condoms* HELLO, BOYFRIEND BEN!!!
Ben: *launches self into the sun*
But—okay. If he’s not my boyfriend, what do I call him? My friend? My gentleman caller? The guy with whom I think about having sex 99 percent of my waking hours? And yes, I mean that both ways. I spend 99 percent of my waking hours thinking about how I’d like to spend 99 percent of my waking hours having sex with Ben.
My parents don’t need to know that.
Okay, I’m just going to casually open this door and breathe and—
“You must be Ben. So nice to finally meet you!” My mom beams up at him from the couch. Where she’s sitting. Right next to Dad.
I gape at them.
She pauses the TV and stands, coming straight over to shake Ben’s hand. “We’ve heard so much about you.” Dad nods pleasantly from the couch, and that’s when I notice they’re both wearing pajamas and glasses. I’m sorry, but what kind of alternate universe did I just step into? What mythical creature bit my parents and turned them into a lovey-dovey Saturday-night-on-the-sofa kind of couple?
“Come hang with us,” Dad calls from the couch, while Mom offers Ben some water.
Ben peers around the
apartment, gaze flitting from painting to painting.
“Uncle Milton likes horses.”
“I cracked that code,” says Ben.
We settle onto the love seat.
“So, Ben, tell us about yourself.” Mom slides back onto the couch, leaning forward to really nail that uncomfortable eye contact with Ben. “How’s your summer been?”
“Um. Great.”
“I bet you’re keeping busy,” Mom says. “I’m glad Arthur’s finally spending more time outside the apartment, too. I kept telling him, when are you ever going to get the opportunity to explore New York for the summer? Go enjoy it. Don’t spend your time watching YouTube videos of—”
“So, Ben actually grew up here,” I interrupt. “He’s a New York native.”
“Very cool,” says Dad.
“Did you always live in Georgia?” Ben asks, looking back and forth between my parents.
Dad shakes his head. “I grew up in Westchester, and Mara’s from New Haven.”
“Yankees,” I say. Ben glances at me and smiles.
Mom turns casually to Ben. “So are you working this summer?”
“Uh.” Ben looks like he wants to melt into the couch. “I’m taking a class.”
“Oh, wonderful. For college credit?” She smiles expectantly.
“Mom, don’t interrogate him.”
“Oh, come on. I’m just curious. Your dad and I were just talking about how much summer jobs have changed. When I was younger, we were all camp counselors, or we worked at Ben & Jerry’s. But you guys have these fancy internships or college-prep courses. I mean, I guess that’s what you’ve got to do, these days—”
“Mom, stop it.”
“Stop what?”
I glance sideways at Ben, who’s staring uncomfortably at his knees.
“Just. Stop . . . talking.” I don’t think I’ve cringed so hard in my entire life. I get it, Mom’s used to a particular kind of badass. The Ethan and Jessie kind, who come with rock-solid PSAT scores and debate team trophies and National Merit Scholarships.
“I’m actually in summer school,” Ben says.
Mom’s eyes widen. “Oh!”
Ben looks mortified, which makes me mortified, too. My fucking parents and their fucking achievement spirals. I want to send a secret message straight into Ben’s brain. I’m not like them, okay? That stuff doesn’t matter to me.
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