The Wild One

by Gemma Burgess

  She brought us into the city to see The Lion King for Julia’s tenth birthday. We started out at Serendipity, for Frrrozen Hot Chocolates, which was officially my favorite dessert in the entire world until … actually, it’s still my favorite dessert. Then we saw The Lion King, which was awesome and, at the time, a little scary. And then we walked over here to watch the toy sailboats on the lake.

  My mom told us it was her favorite place in the whole world.

  She said Central Park had a little bit of magic, that it opened the sky to the world below and vice versa, that you could stand in the middle of it and feel at one with everything around you.

  We watched the boats for a while, before going to a playground to swing. After that we went down to this restaurant in Chinatown for dinner. Eventually we headed back to Aunt Jo’s house, and Julia and I were so tired we fell asleep in the cab, and my dad carried Julia and my mom carried me up the stairs of Rookhaven and put us to bed. I can still remember the sensation of being carried by her, what it felt like to put my face into the soft crook between her shoulder and her neck, the smell of her perfume and shampoo. I remember her momness.

  And then, suddenly, I realize I can’t remember my mom’s voice.

  No. No way.

  What did her voice sound like? What was it like?

  When I try to imagine it, I have like a blank fuzzy white noise in my head. I can hear Julia’s voice, and Angie’s voice, and Pia and Madeleine and Miss Audrey and Mrs. James and every other woman’s voice I’ve ever heard. But I can’t remember my mother’s. What happens if soon I can’t remember what she looked like, or her smile, or the feeling of her arms around me? It’ll be like she never even existed! Why didn’t I record her voice? Why? All we have is an old birthday video that my cousin made at Christmas once, and I’m, like, three or something. Why didn’t we video every single day we ever had together? Why?

  Suddenly, I’m going to cry. I know I am. The tears are already overflowing, blinding me, oh, God, this sadness is going to swallow me up.

  Crying about death isn’t like normal crying, it’s not like crying over a TV show or a boy or whatever. I wouldn’t say that to Pia, of course, I don’t want to be all “you don’t really understand sadness”—but truly, no one who hasn’t experienced it themselves can understand. It’s desperate and overwhelming, like drowning … It’s like you’re suffocating with fear. I try to not let myself cry about my mom because I’m scared that if I do, I’ll never, ever stop.

  Sometimes I used to wake up crying at night, like my body was holding in tears and would only let them out when I was sleeping.

  Now, with every bit of strength in my body, I will the tears to withdraw, taking all of my sadness back into the center of my body where it normally lives. Then as I blink away the tears, focusing again on all the pigeons, I have a flashback to Julia’s birthday.

  We were standing next to the lake, and I was tired, when I saw this wild-looking woman—not a homeless woman, just one of New York’s eccentrics—covered in pigeons. I totally freaked out. I started to cry and cry. And my mother leant down and said, “She’s just doing her own thing, Coco. If she’s not scared of the pigeons, you don’t need to be scared for her.”

  Relief courses through me. I remember now.

  My mother’s voice was warm and reassuring and calm. It was like buttery toast. It was honey-colored. It was Mom.

  I stare at the lake until I remember what I’m supposed to be doing today. Then I gather myself together and head to lunch.

  An hour later, when I get to the bistro, I take a seat in the far corner and order a sparkling water while I wait for Julia and Dad to arrive. It’s weird how I often think about my mom on the days when I know I’m going to see my dad. They still go hand in hand in my brain.

  Where the hell is my dad already?

  “Coco Russotti?” asks a voice, and I look up to see a vaguely familiar, extremely handsome face that I can’t quite place. “Coco, is that you?”

  “Yes? I mean … hi!” I’m drawing a total blank. Who the hell is this guy?

  “It’s me!”

  The guy, the giant, gives me a big perfect shiny-teeth smile, all chiseled jaw and brown eyes and perfect dark skin, and I get the strangest flashback to seeing him in a football uniform. Huh?

  “Topher Amies. I went to high school with you. In Rochester?”

  I must still be staring at him blankly because he’s starting to look confused.

  “Um, I was a friend of Julia’s? I mean, I’m still her friend, I just never see her anymore, she’s like, socially elusive since she became the next big thing in banking…”

  Suddenly I remember. Topher Amies! He was one of Julia’s jock friends. He was part of the cool crowd. He dated a succession of pretty, toothy girls with long legs and bubble gum voices. His dad was a pro football player. He was en route to being a pro football player too until he broke his leg in a dramatic injury that left most of the cheerleaders in hysterical tears. He was scouted to be an Abercrombie and Fitch model, though it didn’t happen, it totally could have. He was, in other words, a high school hero.

  I can’t believe he remembers me. I was nothing in high school. I mean, not nothing, but—never mind. Whatever. Julia wasn’t in the so-called cool crowd either, exactly, but she was captain of the soccer team and everyone liked her, so she was accepted across different cliques. Anyway. Back to Topher. Who is standing right in front of me, waiting for me to speak.

  “Hi!” My voice cracks. Oh, Coco, you are so lame. “I mean, hey. What a weird coincidence! I’m just about to meet Julia and my dad for lunch.”

  “No, I’m meeting your dad too,” he says, taking a seat at the table.

  “You’re what? I mean, sorry?”

  “My dad and your dad are golf buddies. And my dad wants me to get an internship with your dad’s company, so he set this meeting up. Personally, I don’t think I want to be a banker. But hey, that’s my burden.” Topher flashes a perfect smile, and I blink a few times. My God, he’s so pretty.

  I’m not exaggerating. He really is that pretty. The girls at school called him Hot Topher. Girls like me, who hung out on the edges of the cafeteria watching the cool people interact. Eric, that guy I had my stupid crush on for so many years, was in the cool clique too, but a much lower echelon, reserved for the guys who were friends with the cool guys back when they were all thirteen. Looking back, I think Eric had that tinge of desperation that the truly cool can sniff out a mile off. But I didn’t mind: I crushed on Eric anyway. I would never have a crush on someone like Topher; he was too unattainable to even be an unattainable crush. I aimed lower.

  Get back to the damn present, Coco.

  “So … you live in New York now?” Urgh, stupid question. Obviously he lives here.

  “Yup, I just finished freshman year at NYU,” Topher says. “I know. A freshman at twenty-three. It’s pretty … pathetic.” His laugh is so open and infectious that I find myself laughing too. His teeth are so white. His eyelashes are so long. His lips are so pouty. “After high school I went to Duke for about four months, and I just, uh, hated it.” He cracks up again. “So I took a few years off and went traveling around the world.”

  “Wow,” I say. “That’s so cool.”

  “Oh, no,” Topher says. “Most of the time I was just broke and lonely. It was kind of tragic.”

  “Tragic is cool…” My voice trails off. Oh, man. That was a stupid thing to say.

  “Now I live in a studio apartment uptown that my aunt owns. It’s tiny, but it’s free. And I’m taking some extra classes this summer, you know, for credit.”

  “That sounds … fun.”

  “Does it?” Topher grins at me. “It’s not. It’s pretty boring.”

  He’s so confident. So easygoing. No wonder everyone loved him so much in high school.

  The waitress comes over. “Are you ready to order?”

  Topher looks up at her and grins apologetically. “We’re still waiting for two people
,” he says.

  “No problem.” She winks at him and walks away. Told you he was hot.

  “I need the extra summer classes to help me graduate early,” he continues. “For the next few weeks, my life is comparative literature.”

  “Cool!” I say. “It must be so much fun to just sit around and talk about books all day. I always thought that, anyway. Uh…” I pause, wondering if I sound like a total dick. “Sorry. I’m such a geek. I spent all morning reading Anna Karenina, and it was pretty much the best morning I’ve had in weeks.”

  Topher’s eyes light up. “Anna Karenina? Are you kidding? That’s such a coincidence! I—”

  But before we can start talking about books, I glance up and see my dad and Julia walking into the café together. They must have arranged to meet up before coming here. They always do things like that: a united force.

  I quickly stand up. “Hi, Daddy!”

  “Little Coco!” exclaims my dad.

  My dad looks just like Julia, if you can imagine Julia as a fifty-something guy with a slight bald patch and wire-rimmed glasses wearing a gray pin-striped suit.

  He envelops me in one of his big rocking hugs, then leans back, looking at me. “Is that red lipstick? Wipe that off, sweetie. You look like a clown.”

  I frown, pick up a paper napkin, and quickly wipe off my red lipstick, feeling my skin prickle with embarrassment. I totally forgot I was even wearing it. Luckily, Topher didn’t notice; he’s too busy hugging Julia.

  We all sit down. My dad doesn’t even look at the menu, he never does, he always knows what he wants.

  “Does everyone just want the roast chicken? That’s what this place is famous for, right?” Dad waves over the waitress. “We’ll take four roast chickens, please. What does everyone want to drink?”

  “I already ordered a sparkling water,” I say.

  “Bad for your digestion,” say my dad and Julia simultaneously, then grin at each other. “Jinx!”

  Topher catches my eye and winks. I’m so surprised I don’t even think to wink back, and by the time I’ve recovered myself enough to even consider winking back, the conversation has moved on and Topher isn’t even looking at me anymore.

  “I’ve been working so hard,” says Julia. “That I realized the other day that I have more makeup in my desk drawer at the office than at home, and all my toothbrushes somehow ended up there too.”

  “That’s my girl!” says Dad. “So, Coco. Quitting your job. Walk me through it.”

  “Um…” I look at Julia for help, but she’s just smiling at me in this weird parental way she does when we’re with Dad. I look back at Dad. He’s going to grill me right here in front of Topher, a virtual stranger?

  He looks back at me expectantly. Yes, yes he is.

  So I tell him all about how I didn’t like working at the preschool, how it wasn’t what I wanted to do anymore, how I felt unfulfilled and depressed. Only I don’t use the word “depressed,” of course, it’s not something we say in our house, I just say “down.”

  My dad nods the whole time and slowly eats three pieces of bread with butter.

  As I finish my story, there’s silence. I feel like I’m in trouble. But I’m twenty-one. If I hate my job, I should be allowed to quit, right? Why can’t I just say that?

  “Well, honey, we don’t want you to not enjoy your work, of course,” says Dad. “So let’s figure out how we can make you happy.”

  “I think I just want to work at Potstill for a while,” I say. “It’s this really fun bar, and the manager is really cool. Plus, I can just work there at night and read during the day and figure out, um, figure out … stuff.”

  Total silence. Topher is concentrating on chewing his chicken, eyes on his plate.

  “Figure out stuff?” Dad sighs. “Honey, a bar job is not a viable long-term career.”

  “I know,” I say, though I’m thinking, Why not? Some people work in bars for their entire lives.

  “I don’t think it’ll suit you,” says Julia. “You know, rough patrons, drunk people, and you’d have to be on your feet all night.”

  “Little kids are way more intense and annoying than drunk people,” I say. “And I was on my feet a lot in the preschool too.”

  “Coco, it’s just not a job for a nice girl like you,” says my father. “I think Rochester is a better place for you. You can live at home and work in one of the local preschools. They’re great.”

  I nod, not trusting myself to speak without crying. He’s going to force me to move back to Rochester?

  My dad notices and puts his hand on mine. “You know I’d be happy for you to do a secretarial course, if you like. Or you could take a cooking course. You love to bake.”

  I look down at my plate. I don’t want to be a secretary or a baker. I just … I know I don’t. But if I say something right now, I’m pretty sure I’ll burst into noisy sobs, and then Topher will think I’m even more of a loser than he probably already does.

  “Don’t stress, Cuckoo,” says Julia. “We’ll find you a job that you’ll love.”

  Who is “we”? I suddenly wonder. Is she even including me in that “we”? Or does she just mean that she and Dad will decide?

  She reaches over to grab my other hand. “Don’t worry, okay?”

  I hope that Topher can’t see the tears filling my eyes. My dad and Julia are pinning my hands to the table, literally trapping me with their support.

  The conversation tumbles on, but now I’m stuck inside my head. I can barely even eat. My dad and Julia think I’m incapable of determining my own path in life. They think I’m a loser. That I can’t do anything by myself. And they know me better than anyone. So they’re probably right.

  My dad and Topher are talking about internships when Julia looks at her watch and jumps up so fast her chair falls over.

  “Shi—I mean, yikes! I have to get back to the office.”

  “You just love saying ‘I have to get back to the office,’ don’t you?” says Topher, laughing.

  I crack up at this too. He’s right. She does love it.

  “Very funny,” says Julia, hugging everyone good-bye. “See you at home tonight, Coco!”

  “My flight back to Rochester is at four, so I better get going too,” says Dad. “Coco, think about moving home. I’ll start looking around for local jobs. It’s really a good option for you.”

  He pays the bill, and no one objects. I wonder at what point you start paying for lunch instead of your parents. If I tried, my father would probably laugh at me.

  Dad gets a taxi the moment we get outside, and I’m trying to think how to get away from Topher before he has to get away from me, a sort of preemptive good-bye, when he turns to me.

  “Are you busy this afternoon? Come with me to my class. It’s Russian Literature. You said you were reading Anna Karenina, right? You’ll love it! And no one would even notice since it’s a summer course for extra credit. You could just come and sit in—wait, why are you giving me that look?”

  “I would love that!” I squeak. Oh, God, Coco, be cool. “I mean, that sounds great. Thanks!”

  Topher smiles. “It’s a date.”

  CHAPTER 15

  “It took me awhile to get through War and Peace, but it was worth it,” says Topher as we take the subway down to NYU. “We’re also reading Pushkin, Gogol, Herzen, Gorky, Turgenev, Dostoevsky…”

  I’ve never heard of any of those writers, except maybe Dostoevsky, but I’m not even sure I could pronounce his name if I tried, let alone spell it.

  I am so sick of not knowing anything.

  I never knew Topher was so chatty … like seriously, he never shuts up. He talks about classes he took last year, the problems he had, his apartment, his brothers, and even how much he’s looking forward to working with my dad’s company (though he hopes he doesn’t have to just get everyone coffee all day).

  It’s kind of nice. Topher’s monologuing means I don’t have to stress about what I should say. I don’t have to say anythi
ng at all: I just try to laugh at the right parts. Every time I look at him, I feel like my stomach is twisting into a tightrope. Wow, I must really like this guy.

  Eventually, we get down to NYU. His Russian Literature class is in a big building just across from Washington Square Park. We take our seats—in the middle, to the side, the don’t-look-at-me seats. I glance around the room. It’s only about twenty percent full, I guess because it’s just a summer class, and to my intense surprise, the other students all look extremely normal. They aren’t at all the intimidatingly intellectual, cooler-than-cool types I had expected NYU students to be. And they aren’t sitting in cliques like high school. Instead, everyone sits alone quietly, with laptops or notebooks, looking like they’re just here to listen and think. They’re dressed kind of dorky.

  They’re kind of like me.

  But there is something unique about them, and it takes me a moment to figure out what it is.

  They all seem very independent.

  Then again, I guess they’re living and studying in the middle of New York goddamn City. They are self-sufficient and independent. My roommates have that look too. I don’t think I do.

  My phone buzzes. Joe: Can you pick up a dozen limes on your way in, sweetcheeks? We’re out.

  I reply quickly: You got it.

  Topher glances over. “That your boyfriend?”

  “What? Oh! No! Joe. My boss.”

  My boss with whom I had casual no-strings-attached sex the other night, in a totally wild and out-of-character move. Just like coming to a college literature class that I’m not even enrolled in, with the most popular guy from my high school. Wow. New Coco has so much more fun.

  I glance at Topher. He has a perfect profile. Like, just perfect.

  He turns and meets my eyes. And gives me a smile of such easy reassurance that I nearly melt and explode at the same time. And then I realize that I am basically, in fact, entirely, probably, crushing on Topher Amies harder than anyone has crushed on anyone in the history of the earth.

  “Good morning, everyone!” a voice booms.

  An older woman with short black hair is standing at the podium, her deep voice carried throughout the room by the microphone. (Though really, I’m not sure it’d make much difference if it were turned off.)