by Adi Alsaid
Sadly, Pete has zero facial hair. He’s also freakishly adverse to hand gestures, so even if he had a long white beard, he probably wouldn’t be the type to stroke it.
I waited for him to unload his speech, all insight and logic and moustache stroking. Honesty and tactlessness.
“Yeah,” he said, after a long pause. “That’d be nice of you.”
BRIEF CHRONICLE OF ANOTHER STUPID HEART
On Becoming Uncrushed
By Lu Charles
September 5
For the first time in my life, I have wriggled out from beneath the weight of a crush unscathed. More than that: I have escaped triumphant. I’m sure someone smarter than me has already waxed poetic on our dubious word choice for the act of becoming romantically interested in someone, so I’ll skip the diatribe.
The important part is this: I’m out. Relationships, dating, kissing, those are real things that exist in our world. I can confirm. That door has been pushed open, and I’ve been allowed inside. I know I’ve been writing about all the aforementioned things with an air of authority for a few months now, but you guys haven’t been coming to me for advice, right? God, I hope you haven’t been coming to me for advice. I’ve mostly relied on the testimony and wisdom of others. No longer.
“How?” is the big question, of course. Aside from “Why are we here?” and “Why is the Midwest always covered in mayo?” Truth be told, I’m not quite sure how it happened. My memories of the transformation are shrouded in mystery, still. I’d run you through the course of events but I just tried that and immediately deleted them because they were trite and uninteresting.
All my previous crushes have ended in disappointment. Not quite rejection, because I never pushed myself to try and get to the next step. Disappointment in myself, mostly. Occasionally in the other person, who proved themselves not to be worthy of my interest. Often, these crushes ended in disappointment in the way love refused to enter my life (regardless of what I did to make it feel welcome). I’ve had the thought that maybe love is not for me, not at this stage of my life anyway. Maybe I was just meant to chronicle what others experienced, examine life as others lived it. Not the ideal fate, but there have been worse.
It’s weird to be on this side of things now. Through a three-week span of escalations, I now find myself seeing someone regularly. Kissing someone regularly. We text each other throughout the night without the eternal question of whether or not something will happen hanging over the conversation.
I don’t mean to gloat, readers. I mean to marvel. I have been granted a thing I’ve wished for. Not the only thing I’ve wished for, and not the only thing worth wishing for. But a thing that brings me joy. A thing for the first time. That’s something.
Who knows for how long I’ll be granted this joy, for how long I’ve left unrequited crushes behind. I’m stepping into new territory, territory I’m not entirely sure I’m good at yet.
I wasn’t quite good at crushes either, I think. I enjoyed the way they cast their spells on me and then moved on, like passing thunderstorms, or gross smells wafting by. But if the point of a crush is to lead to a relationship (or a kiss or sex or whatever), then I failed them the way they failed me.
Until now. So for those of you who have been allowed through the door and into this room: let me know what I can do to be better at this new, scary, wonderful thing. And for those still unsure that real people actually kiss and stuff, I will do my best to describe my experiences. We’re on this journey together.
3
WHERE WE'D GONE WRONG
By the time I got home that night, there was an email from Hafsah waiting in my inbox.
My mom was on the phone speaking in Tagalog, probably with my grandma, who we call Lola. Jase was on the couch, playing video games like I knew he would be, barking insults into his headset. It sounded like explosions were going off in every corner of the apartment. I figured I’d go into my room and blast some music and try to force some writing.
But as soon as I tried to cross the living room, my mom yelled for me to eat some leftovers. I could still smell the basil in the air. Mom only ever cooks Italian food. Every night. We’re not Italian, we’re Filipino. But I guess the heart wants what it wants, even if it’s spaghetti Bolognese five nights a week.
I sat down next to Jase on the couch with a plate of reheated pasta, watching him murder perfectly nice-seeming animated dudes with guns. My notebook was by my side, but I knew any attempts to pick it up would bring a tirade from my mother about how she wouldn’t let her child starve under her watch, so I put the pen down and finished my food.
“How was your day, Jase?”
“Awesome,” he answered, before calling his friend a “cheese dick,” which I seriously hope is not a real thing.
“You just did this all day, didn’t you?”
“I love summer.” He smashed on his controller then shouted some more incomprehensible curse words, prompting my mom to yell at him about watching his language.
“Aren’t you old enough to start working?” I asked between forkfuls of pasta. “You should really start getting a résumé together. You’re almost fourteen. I think child labor laws are about to get reformed. It can only help the economy. Plus you’re the only male in the house. Isn’t the patriarchy teaching you to be ashamed of not being a breadwinner like Mom and I are?”
Jase gave me a puzzled look, then turned back to murdering people virtually. “My sister is so weird,” he mumbled into the mic.
I slurped up some more spaghetti and continued to take in the cacophony of my apartment. Mom was complaining again about Dad traveling so much and not hosting us every other weekend like he was supposed to, the pub down the street was having a busy night, the voices carrying through our window and somehow making themselves heard over video game explosions. For some reason it made me feel lonely, hearing people out there, carefree, laughing together.
As soon as I was done eating I went to my room and lay on my bed with my laptop and my notebook nearby, my crappy little fan blowing and ruffling the sheets of paper. I could see the first line from Hafsah’s email in the preview: Look, Lu, I’m sorry but if we don’t have...
I clicked over to Facebook. Cal’s wallet was next to me, and on a whim I typed his name into the search bar. There were about a dozen results, most of them locked accounts with profile pics that looked nothing like him or were too vague to make out.
The sticky note and the receipt that were in the wallet were laid out next to my notebook, as if they were evidence of something I understood. I read the address on the raffle ticket, and though I felt like a creep doing it, I typed it into Google.
Iris lived on the Upper West Side, near Morningside Heights. A nice building with a golden awning, balconies rich with plants and wicker patio furniture. I’d already made up my mind about going the next day, since I didn’t have to be at work until the afternoon shift. I had no specific plan, per se, but I figured worst-case scenario I could give the wallet to the doorman.
I clicked over to Tumblr, scrolled through mindlessly for a while, doing my best to avoid Hafsah’s email.
When I’d had my fill of that, I started transcribing Cal and Iris’s breakup. Not breakup; fight. After rereading it a few times, I had to agree with Pete that it seemed pretty obvious they had split. But something in me fought against that conclusion.
Finally, I could no longer ignore the nagging presence of Hafsah’s email.
Look, Lu, I’m sorry but if we don’t have something from you soon, we’ll have to terminate your contract. I hate to get all ultimatum on you, but the longer you go without a column, the more your readers forget about you and the less it matters when another column comes out. It’s been a few weeks already, and I’m worried that if you don’t send something in soon, we’ll lose all the momentum we’ve built up for you. People forget easily these days. I’m guessing things were a l
ittle crazy with the end of school, and I don’t want you to lose your scholarship, so I’ll give you until the end of the month. Any longer than that and I’ll have pressure to fill your space with another regular contributor.
Hope all is well,
Hafsah
I looked back to my notebook, flipped through the pages of hastily scrawled handwriting trying to capture others’ words. My job at the magazine was tied to a scholarship for young women working in journalism, and without it, I wouldn’t be able to afford going to NYU in the fall. So, poor timing there, writer’s block.
I reread Cal and Iris’s fight, wishing I had the same play-by-play from when Leo and I had broken up, though I wasn’t sure what good that would do. Maybe I could use their story to figure out where exactly Leo and I had gone wrong. Maybe reading about their heartbreak could mend my heartbreak. Maybe there was a cure for my writer’s block in them, somehow. After all, when I was walking behind them, I’d felt the urge to write for the first time in weeks.
I relived their breakup, and mine. I opened up a Word document on my computer, my fingers resting idly on the keyboard for a few minutes before I added my column’s usual header. I gave it a title: On Heartbreak.
Then I shut my computer and went to sleep.
* * *
The next morning, Mom was at work, Jase was back in front of his screen, and I was on my way out the door to return Cal’s wallet to Iris.
There are very few reasons why I would subject myself to the New York City subway on a summer day. The suffocating heat turning each platform into a sauna, everyone’s sweat glands working overdrive. It brought out the worst in men, leering at any girl in a sundress or shorts, as if we didn’t equally deserve to contribute to the sauna by freely sweating into the atmosphere without being stared at for it.
That day, though, the stops zoomed past without me noticing. A wallet should not have been reason enough, but I was inexplicably driven to return it.
I got off the train and walked the six blocks to Iris’s building in a daze. Part of me knew that whatever I was doing was not entirely reasonable, I should have been working on a column, I should have just called the number on the raffle ticket and have them come pick it up. But most of me didn’t really care. I felt like I was on a mission, even if I didn’t yet know what that mission was.
Before I knew it, I was in front of the address written on the ticket. I looked up as best I could at the tenth floor, almost hoping to see Iris in the window, but there was nothing to be seen except the city reflected in the glass.
I texted Pete.
LU
I’m outside Crying Girl’s building.
PETE
Returning the wallet?
LU
In theory.
PETE
Um...what could possibly be theoretical about it?
I didn’t respond. I wasn’t even sure what I had meant by that.
I wasn’t sure what my plan here was either. The easy answer was to just go buzz her apartment and return the wallet. But that’s not what I did. I took a lap around the block, holding the wallet in my hands, going through its contents, imagining Iris in her room feeling post-breakup blues. I pictured Cal on the bench where we met, thinking up paintball metaphors that only slightly made sense and wanting to help strange French couples. I pictured myself sitting right there with him, waiting on Leo, both of us feeling the same thing in different ways.
When I finally hit the buzzer, I was met with silence. I sighed with relief, then noticed that there was someone behind me. A girl with a skateboard tucked under her arm was crossing from the elevator to the entrance. She had comically large and bright pads on her knees and elbows, and a matching neon green helmet, her long curly hair unfurling in uncontainable waves from beneath. A green backpack hung over her shoulder.
“Hi,” she said, her voice as bright as her skating accoutrements. “Are you new here?”
“Um,” I said, because conversations with people were hard. Even if they were young, adorable people who knew how to be friendly. “I’m, uh...looking for a friend. Iris?”
“Iris Castillo? She’s awesome. She babysits me sometimes. Lets me eat whatever I want and then we sing Broadway hits.” She shifted her skateboard and looked over her shoulder. “Don’t tell my mom I said that.”
I chuckled. “Yeah, I won’t. I just came by to give Iris this wallet. I don’t think she’s home though.” I looked over at the intercom to show I’d tried.
“I can get it to her if you want. I live down the hall from her.”
“Um,” I said, this time because I didn’t want to part with the wallet. It felt too soon, like the coincidence of Iris and Cal and me and Leo and the wallet falling into my hands was too meaningful to easily let go of, especially without seeing one of them again.
“My name is Grace, if you wanna text her and check that I live here or something,” she said with a smile. I was a little intimidated by the fact that she was better at conversations than me. Grace smiled again, then dropped her skateboard and started rummaging through her backpack.
At the same time, I held out the wallet for her. But she was busy jingling things around, and before she noticed me offering it, I pulled back my hand. I tried to access that part of me that I use when I’m interviewing people.
I’m not sure what happens during those situations. The strange shell I present to the world falls away in favor of my true self, which is a lot like my everyday self, but more comfortable with who I am. Like when I interviewed with Hafsah for the Misnomer job, or that time I approached half the sophomore class at my school to ask them about masturbation habits. For a column, not just my own curiosities, of course. People I couldn’t ask to borrow pens from, I was suddenly inquiring about their most intimate, private moments.
In those scenarios, I kind of felt the way I did with Leo. Things were easy. Like those mornings when we would meet up before school. He’d greet me with a coffee, slip his fingers between mine, kiss me on the cheek. We’d walk to school together, and for blocks, for months, I didn’t have to actively think of what to say. I didn’t have to juggle the thoughts at the surface of my brain and those lurking beneath. I could make my dumb jokes without hesitation, without that damn thought that came before I otherwise opened my mouth, the thought that said don’t do it, the thought that said you are not valuable to others. I was fully present, fully myself, and Leo loved me for it.
“You know what, I think I can maybe meet up with her later,” I said, stepping away from the door.
“Cool,” Grace responded, still searching. “See ya!”
“Bye,” I said, and turned away, my cheeks starting to flush. I turned down the street and back toward the subway, the wallet still in my hand.
4
THE ATTEMPT TO UNDERSTAND
I shoveled another scoop of overbuttered popcorn into a bucket, unsuccessfully offered the customer the chance to upgrade to a mega-large, and took their money. I was stuck at concessions, which was a strict no-phone zone. That meant I was cut off from the wider world, stuck in this sixteen-theater microcosm of the city, with no idea what was happening outside my scope of vision. It was crazy to me that humans used to live like that, completely separate from the rest of the planet, knowing only what was in front of them. Not that my phone could really tell me much about the things I kept churning over in my mind: Iris and Cal, whether or not they’d broken up, why the hell I hadn’t returned the wallet, Leo’s back while he slept.
In front of me, lines formed for the latest summer blockbuster. Brad the manager was tearing tickets up front, two kids were killing time by playing one of the three barely functioning arcade games in the lobby. Popcorn spills and lost napkins were starting to pile up, the way they always did when it started getting busy.
“Hey, Lu.”
Pulled away from my thoughts, I looked up at my next cus
tomer and was greeted by Leo’s stupid, beautiful face. Dark eyes highlighted by lashes that looked Photoshopped, unblemished brown skin that was a shade darker than mine and so soft I always wanted to just press myself against his cheek. Behind him, his friends Miguel and Karl were trying to hide their snickering, giving each other looks and then smacking each other on the shoulder.
“I didn’t know you’d be working today,” Leo said, running a hand through his hair, which he was wearing down, instead of in the samurai-esque topknot he usually sported. “Sorry I bailed yesterday. I thought it’d be a little weird.”
You know how sometimes your thoughts fill up so quickly that your mind might as well be blank for all the noise it’s causing? I stared at the boy I had loved and wondered if he was suffering at all. I didn’t say anything. This boy used to do everything for me, once upon a time. He’d offer to write essays for me so that I could get an extra hour of sleep, watch movies I knew he had no interest in seeing, just for me. He even walked forty blocks once to see me because his MetroCard was empty.
It must have been October, judging from the length I remembered his hair being, and the layers of clothes he’d been wearing. He’d arrived at my door ruddy-cheeked and slightly sweaty, a cup of tea in hand. “Don’t you have a huge math test tomorrow?”
“It’s a regular-sized test,” he’d said, his smile lighting up the hallway.
“I meant the degree of difficulty.”
“It was harder not to come here.”
“Eww but also aww.” I’d let him in, accepting the kind of deep kiss that now made me angry to remember.
“Also, I studied while walking. Did you know they made calculus podcasts?”
