“Me, too,” I say, blushing. I never blush. That’s how much power he has over me.
“Transferring to a new school senior year sucks. Why couldn’t my dad have waited until I was in college?”
“I thought you said he had to move for his job.”
“Yeah, but I think he had a choice when to do it. He thought now would be better for everyone.”
“Except you.”
“Exactly.”
Should I tell him? It’s the first time we’ve ever been alone like this. I may not get another chance. Leslie could dig her claws in even deeper and then it would be hopeless. But what if he totally freaks out that I moved here for him? I mean, who does that? Telling him would be a huge risk. It feels like we’ve been getting closer. If I scare him off, I could ruin my chances forever.
We talk into the night. I dreamed about being with Scott like this so many times, writing notes about him for my wish box, thinking up ways to get him to notice me. Now this night is here. It’s real. And I have a feeling it’s just the beginning.
Eleven
“Let’s go to the High Line!” John says with way more excitement than I can take right now. The combination of attempting to navigate my way through the social structure of a new school, actually being required to get work done, and staying up too late has resulted in a catastrophic energy crash. After my sandwich shop interlude with Scott last night, so much adrenaline was zinging through my body that it took forever to fall asleep. I barely had the strength to drag myself to tutoring today. I desperately wanted to go home and take a nap after school, but there’s no way Sadie would have let me get away with that.
“It’s tutoring time,” I remind John. “As in time for you to be tutored. Did you get that trig test back?”
“Dude. It’s precisely because it’s tutoring time that we have to get out of here! What’s the first rule of tutoring again?”
“Throw out all previous rules.”
“Yes! Who says we have to stay in here all the time?”
“Mr. Peterson.”
“Mr. Peterson also said we could relocate if we were so inclined.”
“Really? He didn’t tell me that.”
“Go ask if you don’t believe me.” John leans back in his chair, putting in one earbud and firing up his music. His expression says, I’ll wait.
I go find Mr. Peterson. He confirms that we can have tutoring somewhere else as long as actual work is getting done. He’s counting on me to make that happen.
“We can go,” I report back to John.
“Like I said. Why would we even want to stay inside? Soon it’ll be way too cold to go out and what kind of absurd waste of a perfectly good High Line would that be?”
“Just one question.”
“Hit me.”
“What’s the High Line?”
John slams back against his chair so hard I think it’s going to tip over. He drops his iPod, yanking the earbud out of his ear.
“‘What’s the High Line?’” he breathes, all incredulous.
“I’m new, remember?”
John puts his hand up like, Give me a minute. He struggles for composure.
“I’ll tell you on the way,” he says.
As we walk northwest (or “up and over,” as John described), he tells me all about the High Line. It’s a park, but it used to be an old branch of elevated train tracks that hadn’t been used in a long time. The train tracks are still there, except now trees and flowers are growing all around them. They put in wooden lounge chairs that roll along the tracks and an area with bleachers where you can watch the street below through a glass wall. John even knows that the type of wood they used is called ipe, which was sustainably harvested from a managed forest.
“It sounds incredible,” I say.
“Look up,” John says.
There’s an industrial metal structure elevated a few stories above Gansevoort Street. It’s already impressive from over here. I’m also impressed by this triangular intersection we’re crossing.
“Wait,” I say. “I recognize this place.” I look down Gansevoort Street at the cobblestones extending into the distance. The river glints against the horizon. We’re right by a storefront that for some reason I think might have once been a flower shop. Lewis King of Plants, 12½ Gansevoort Street. Everything’s coming back to me now. A scene from Bed of Roses was filmed here. It’s this nineties movie where two typical New Yorkers (i.e. lonely people with baggage) find each other. Which I saw a long time ago, but of course I remember all sorts of details from it.
John goes, “How?”
“This was a flower shop in a movie. I can’t believe it.”
“Yeah. Lots of movies are filmed around here.”
“That’s so cool.”
“I know! Dude, I love how you’re stoked about this! Everyone else is so jaded. They’re all been-there-done-that by the time they’re seven. You tell them about the High Line and they’re like, ‘Who cares about some old train tracks?’ It’s tragic.”
We climb the stairs up to the High Line. It’s such an incredible space that it literally takes my breath away. It’s like this whole other world up here, this secret level to the city you could just walk right by and never notice. As far as you can see, it’s train tracks and all different flowers and trees and it’s just ... unreal.
John shows me all sorts of interesting things. I totally forget that I’m supposed to be tutoring him. He points out how all the energy-efficient lighting is at waist level or lower to cut down on light pollution. He explains that the vegetation is indigenous to the area, cultivated from locally grown plants. He shows me the red lights on top of some streetlights that used to be signals for firefighters back in the day.
“How do you know all this?” I ask.
“Research. Isn’t it the best?”
I agree that it is the best.
What’s also blowing my mind are all the upscale apartments right next to the High Line. Some windows even look directly out at us. That must be weird, having your private space being so public. When I first moved here, I couldn’t believe how people left their curtains open at night. Now I totally get it. If I lived in one of these places, I wouldn’t want anything blocking my view. Especially if I were on a high floor. Those views must be incredible.
It’s seriously magical up here. The air is crisp. Tree leaves rustle in the breeze. My heart is happy.
We score an enormous bench made of gorgeous wood. John takes out his work. We manage to concentrate for approximately twenty-three seconds. Then John’s like, “Check out that water tower!”
I’ve always had a thing for rooftops. I’ve just never really noticed water towers before. I guess New York has way more water towers than New Jersey, because suddenly they’re everywhere.
“Which one?” I ask.
“That one right there.”
“You mean the skinny one?”
“No, the fat one.”
“The fat one’s huge. He’s hogging the whole roof.”
“That’s his prerogative. Look how commanding he is.”
“I like the skinny one better. He has fringy edges. And a cool triangular top.”
John squints at the skinny one. “Oh, yeah. That is cool. But not as cool as the fat one.”
“Is too.”
“You know I’m right. You’re on my side.”
“Am not.”
“Are too.”
“Not.”
Silence from John. Then: “So are.”
We really have to get to work. Except first we must take an inventory of all visible water towers. From this vantage point, you can see everything. I can see farther into New Jersey than ever. But I still can’t tell exactly where I’m from.
To prevent Mr. Peterson from killing me, we stay late to get through everything we need to do. By the time we’re ready to go, the sun is setting behind the river. It hasn’t even occurred to me to watch sunsets since I moved here. The horizon is always blocked by
buildings. But not up here. Up here is a whole other dimension.
“Aha!” John points to the fat water tower. “See why the fat one rules?”
He has a point. It’s reflecting the sunset, glowing red and pink.
“It’s amazing what you see when you look up,” he says. “Always look up.”
“Always look up. I love that.” How many buildings have I passed without noticing their decorative details or rooftop gardens or penthouse apartments where you can totally see in? It’s like I’ve only been focusing on half of what’s here. I promise myself I’ll look up more.
“Let’s make an autumnal equinox resolution,” John says.
“What’s that?”
“This thing I made up just now.”
“Nice.”
“Yeah, so, what we do is ... okay, here’s how it goes. Tomorrow’s the first day of fall. There’s a different kind of energy when a new season starts, you know? So we’re going to tap into some of that energy to sort of, like, renew ourselves.”
I didn’t realize boys could be like John. I mean, maybe in books and movies, but not in real life.
“We’re making a resolution,” he announces to the sunset. “Why should we have to wait for a new year to make resolutions? We can improve things any time we want. An autumnal equinox resolution—that’s the best one! Okay, what do you want to happen this fall?”
What I want to happen is obvious. Except it’s not something I can share with John. If he ever found out I followed a boy here, he would think I was ridiculous. Not that I’m not ridiculous. I just don’t want John to know it.
“Um ... you go first.”
John closes his eyes. He sits really still. I didn’t know he was capable of sitting still.
“Your turn,” he says.
“We’re not saying them out loud?”
“We can next time, if you want.”
It’s a bit presumptuous for him to assume there will be a next time, but I guess it makes sense. I’m supposed to tutor John twice a week for the rest of the year.
I close my eyes and focus all of my energy on making Scott Abrams realize that we belong together. I resolve to take more chances with him.
Right when I open my eyes, the sun fades below the horizon.
“Which way are you walking?” I ask.
“About ten feet that way.”
“You’re staying?”
“Sort of. I live right there.” John points to an apartment about five floors above us with huge windows overlooking everything.
“No way.”
“Yup.”
“I was just thinking how cool it would be to live in one of these places.”
“I guarantee that it’s infinitely cooler without your mother and little sister living with you.”
“Where’s your dad?”
“In Maine with his new wife.”
“Ooh, sorry.”
“Do you have any idea how cold Maine gets in the winter? And my sister Hailey is a pain to travel with. We have to divide holiday time between the parents now. Christmas is insane up there. You feel like a wild animal, all scavenging in the frozen tundra. No I mean, they feed us, it’s just like your survival instincts kick in when it’s that desolate.”
Does anybody have a normal family anymore? Apparently, it used to be extremely common for families to have two parents. They stayed together because that’s what all the other parents did. Now there are so many options, so many different ways to be a family. So many ways to rip a family apart.
“So I hear you guys went to the High Line yesterday,” Sadie says.
“It’s amazing.”
“I know.” She zigzags on the sidewalk around an old lady who’s shuffling along with a walker.
“Do you ever go anywhere for tutoring?”
“No, I like to stay inside. We get more done that way.” Sadie randomly darts across the street. I run to catch up with her.
“Why did you cross? I thought Rite Aid was on that side.”
“Oh, it is. I just always walk on this side of Charles Street.”
“Why?”
“It’s nicer.”
I’m confused. Charles Street is one of the prettiest streets in the whole city. What does it matter which side you’re on?
“I know it’s weird,” she admits. “I’m so used to my way of walking, I don’t even realize what I’m doing anymore. Sorry for being such a spaz.”
“That’s okay.” Walking with Sadie might not be the easiest thing, but it makes me feel less lonely. It still hurts that Candice is mad at me. Even April is acting strange. Yesterday was the first day since I moved that we didn’t talk. At least things are improving around here. Sadie’s not as annoying as I initially assumed. I think she’s even someone I might want to be friends with. Which is why I agreed to walk home with her.
But first we have to go to Rite Aid. Sadie’s out of tampons and I don’t have any in my bag. I couldn’t believe she didn’t have any in her bag, either. Sadie’s bag is massive. It’s always loaded with supplies—lotion, mirror, sparkly lip gloss, gum, mints, nail files, assorted hair clips. You need it, she has it. Today is an anomaly.
In Rite Aid, I check out the magazine rack. John Krasinski is on one of the covers. I have to remember to tell Scott.
We get in line. Sadie takes out a small tube of Bliss Body Butter. I’ve noticed her use it a bunch of times in class.
“I like that body butter,” I say. “It smells so good.”
“My mom brings it home from work. She’s a concierge at the W Hotel in Times Square—she gets tons of free samples. I’ll bring you some.”
“Thanks.”
“Are you a Beatles fan?”
“Not really. Why?”
“There’s this place in Central Park where people get together and play Beatles songs. It’s called Strawberry Fields. Get it?”
“Um ...”
“Like the song?”
“Oh.” I probably should have known that. I do like some vintage music. Paul Simon rocks my world. His songs have such an amazing New York City feel to them. If there were a place in Central Park called “Train in the Distance,” I would get it.
There are only two people ahead of us in line, but Sadie is all fidgety and flustered. I feel her pain. When I get my period, the last place I want to be is trapped in some line.
One of the cashiers shouts, “Next!” We’re the ones who are next. But Sadie steps aside and lets the guy behind us go.
“Why didn’t you go?” I ask.
Sadie is fascinated by a display of trail mix. “So how was the High Line?” she changes the subject. “Did you get any work done?”
“Eventually. I was pretty much blown away at first.”
“Next!”
We’re next again. Sadie smiles at the mother behind us who’s pushing a stroller containing an unhappy baby. “You can go,” Sadie tells her.
I’m like, “What’s going on?”
Sadie turns away from the cashiers, studying the trail mix display again. Maybe she’s embarrassed about buying tampons. I used to be like that.
“It’s okay,” I tell her. “I’ll get them for you.”
“Really? Oh my god, thank you.” Sadie presses some money into my hand. Then she darts out of the store with her head down.
When I find her outside, she’s leaning against the side of the store, all flushed. I hand her the bag and her change. “I used to hate buying tampons, too.”
“That’s not it.”
“Then what’s wrong?”
“Nothing. Can we just go?”
“Why—”
“I really don’t feel like talking about it.”
“Okay.”
We walk for half a block in silence.
Then Sadie’s like, “Whatever, it’s just ... I was trying to time it so we’d get the other cashier.”
“That’s why you let those people go ahead?”
“Sort of. Yeah.”
“I thought you
were embarrassed about buying tampons.”
“If I had to buy them from Carlos, I’d be mortified.”
Of course that’s why she was all jittery and flushed. She likes the cute cashier.
“He’s cute,” I say.
“He’s beyond cute.”
“If you didn’t want him to see you, why didn’t we just go to Walgreens or something?”
“He wasn’t supposed to be there. He must have switched shifts with someone.”
“You know his schedule?”
“No. I’ve just never seen him in the afternoons. Except on weekends.”
“Have you ever talked to him?”
“Just the typical how-are-you-I’m-good stuff. But I swear he looks at me differently. As soon as he sees me, he gets all happy. I’ve watched him with other customers and he’s never psyched to see them. I could just be imagining things, though. I probably am.”
I’m sure Sadie’s right about the way Carlos is with her. Why wouldn’t he like her? She’s totally cute and sweet. She’s exactly the kind of girl he would like. Doesn’t she know that?
“Whatever,” she goes. “He probably has a girlfriend.”
“You don’t know that. Why don’t you ask him out?”
“Oh yeah, right! Like he’d go out with me!”
“Why not? You’re cute.”
Sadie scoffs.
“You are. If you asked Carlos out, he’d be crazy excited.”
“Then why doesn’t he just ask me out?”
“You can’t ask out customers. That’s against the rules.”
“So ... what, I’m supposed to go up to him and ask him out?”
“Pretty much, yeah.”
“I don’t have that kind of confidence.”
“Since when? You’re totally confident.”
“I lack boy confidence.”
Do I have boy confidence? I think so. I’ve never been shy around them. Back home, people used to say that I came off as tough. Which is so weird because I don’t feel tough at all. I feel broken. But now that I’m surrounded by possibility, it finally feels like I can put the pieces of me back together.
Twelve
Scott is having a bad day.
He would get like this back home sometimes. I remember those days watching him from two rows back, how he’d be all slumped down in his chair. He was like a different person on his bad days. He’d completely shut down. I always wanted to ask him what was wrong and see if there was anything I could do. But I never found the courage.
So Much Closer Page 7
