“But they can chaperone you,” Cheese protested. “They’ll probably want to chaperone you, anyway, right? They already think I’m the Bad Kid.”
1 finally managed to smile back at him. “Is that how you came up with that alias?”
Cheese shrugged. “I don’t know. The Bad Dude, the Bad Son, the Bad Kid—it’s all real. You know what I’m saying?”
“No, Cheese. I don’t. You sound like an idiot.”
He stared at me.
Then he laughed.
I laughed, too. And I kept laughing. I couldn’t stop. Neither could, he. We stood there on the street corner, cracking up like two jackasses. I really hoped Mom and Aunt Ruth wouldn’t come looking for me. This was not something they needed to see.
In true Cheese form, though, his freakish dialect had also inadvertently reminded me of something serious and profound—something that required my immediate attention. There was somebody else I needed to talk to, somebody else who was as “real” (and incomprehensible) as he was. And I needed to talk to her now, while I still had a chance, before I was grounded for the rest of my natural life and perhaps beyond.
“Look, I got an errand to run,” I said.”A couple, actually. By way of Mott Street and a bookstore.”
“Right on,” Cheese said.
He hesitated. Then he extended a hand, overhand style.
I shook it.
He pulled me in for a hug.
“Hey, if you can’t make it to my party, at least make sure Naomi comes,” he joked quietly, clapping me on the back. “It’ll be good for the Gravy Incident’s image if we have hot chicks at our parties. You know? Real hot chicks I mean. Not just weird dudes who pretend to be chicks for the sake of secretly writing each other notes.”
“I hear you, son,” I replied. “I’ll see what I can do. I’ll see what I can do.”
* * *
This time, there was no hassle at St. Vincent’s: no questions, no accusing glares. I knew the routine. I handed over my ID to the security guard—another grandmotherly woman—and told her I was visiting Mr. Al-Saif, a patient on the sixth floor.
She slid the book across the desk.
I signed my name and headed to the elevator.
I was legit.
I had a plan this time, too. I had gifts—by way of introduction. Not to pat myself on the back or anything, but this was a pretty classy move. Dignitaries gave gifts. Ambassadors. Diplomats. Which made sense, seeing as Hospital Girl and I were from different countries.
Clutched tightly in both my hands was a plastic bag filled with the spoils of the errands I’d run over the past hour: a spanking-new copy of The Sneetches and Other Stories, by Dr. Seuss, and two compilation cassette tapes I’d found in a two-dollar bin on Mott Street, The Best of Yo!! MTV Raps and an old Jimi Hendrix Greatest Hits collection.
I would celebrate our common bonds, and I would pay tribute to her taste.
And then I would turn her on to mine.
I would make friends. I would make peace. (I admit: mostly with myself.) It wasn’t just classy; it was smooth.
The elevator doors opened. I stepped out onto the sixth floor—
Hospital Girl’s couch was deserted.
Huh. I don’t know why I’d assumed she would be curled up there again, listening to her Walkman. I hurried to the nurses’ station. That same sour old security guard was working the desk—the one who’d watched me as I’d bolted the last time.
“Hi,” I said to him as politely as possible. “Can you tell me which room Mr. AI-Saif is staying in, please?”
He glanced down at a clipboard.
“Al-Saif checked out yesterday,” he said.
“Excuse me?”
“He checked out.”
“I … uh … Why?“
“I don’t know,” the guard said.
My grip tightened on the plastic bag.”I … Uh, do you know where he went?”
He shook his head. “No. And even if I did, I couldn’t tell you. It just says here that he’s ended his stay.”
I felt a sinking sensation in my gut. “That’s it?”
“Well, no.” He laughed gruffly and glanced up.”His daughter is coming by sometime to settle the bill. But I’m not holding my breath. She told me she was leaving New York in the next few days—she said something about going to live with her mother in France. At least, that’s what I think she told me. She was a chatty one, but I never understood half of what she was saying.”
My hopes rose. “Did she say when she was coming back here?”
“No. Your guess is as good as mine.”
“I …”
I turned to the clock above the elevator. It was already 5:15. Not good. I’d been suspended. I was supposed to be home. Mom and Aunt Ruth had probably already notified the police that I was missing. Either that or they’d given up and put a contract out on my life with a professional killer.
“You can leave a note for her,” the guard offered. “I’ll make sure she gets it if she ever shows up.”
“Really?” I turned back around. A note seemed sort of impersonal, but at this point, I didn’t have a choice. I had to do something. I thought of the words I’d written to Hospital Girl: There are no simple solutions. I’d never imagined those words would come back to bite me in the butt, but here I was.
Still, on one level, I’d been right … hadn’t I? Or was I just rationalizing, making an excuse for not being able to talk to her in person? Maybe it was a combination of both. Maybe that sort of feeble advice, as in ‘You always have to make the best of a crummy situation”—especially when you give it to yourself—is the only way you can deal with a crummy situation. Sometimes it’s the only way you can survive. It’s the only way you can keep from going bonkers.
“You know, thanks—I think I will leave a note,” I said.
The security guard tore a blank page from his clipboard and shoved it across the desk, along with a chewed-up ballpoint.
Dear Hospital Girl,
I came here to say hi in person, and I guess to say goodbye, too, but it didn’t quite work out. Sorry about that. From what I hear, though, it sounds like you’re going back home to be with your Mom, and that’s a good thing.
I’m used to writing on the keyboard, where I can erase everything and go back and make myself sound smart and witty, but here I just have to write whatever comes to my mind and make sure it counts. I’m pressed for time. I could have learned something from you because everything you wrote counted. You kept it real because you were nobody but yourself, as you said. And that is cool, Hospital Girl. It is cooler than I can tell you, and I can’t think of another word besides cool because I am lame and distracted and corny and about to be in serious trouble. The slang for it, I believe, is “royally screwed.”
So I won’t try to write any more. Here are some things I wanted to give you as parting gifts. I think they are all self-explanatory (that is a big term, you might need to look it up ) except the Hendrix tape. I love Hendrix. That is why I am giving it to you. I want to share something of me with you. I told you I was corny. I fear that makes not sense?
Ha, ha.
You won’t be able to write to me anymore at the old e-mail address, but you can write to me at [email protected]. PLEASE write. Tell me what you thing of Dr. Seuss and Hendrix. Tell me about Papa, too.
We can talk about that stuff now.
And good luck.
Naomi
P.S. My real name is Dave.
I hesitated for a moment, debating whether to read it over, and then glanced back at the clock. It was 5:25. Mom and Aunt Ruth had definitely hired a hit squad by now. Screw it. When had I ever second guessed myself? I folded the paper and handed to the guard—and tossed him the plastic shopping bag, too.
“Thanks again,” I said. “You’ll make sure she gets all this?”
He shrugged. “If she ever shows,” he said.
“She’ll show. She’s honest.”
“Oh, she is, huh? What makes you
so sure?”
“I know her,” I said.
He sniffed. “All right.”
“Please make sure—”
“She’ll get it,” he interrupted. “You said she’s honest, right?”
“Yeah. Thanks.”
I turned and dashed back to the elevator.
As I waited for the doors to open, I thought about how funny it was that I’d used the word honest. Not “ha-ha” funny but funny in the sense that it reminded me for certain that I was a dead man. Because I still had one more crucial errand to run if I was to be honest (true to Principal Fairfax’s request)—which meant I wouldn’t get home until eight o’clock or so … which, in turn, meant that Mom and Aunt Ruth wouldn’t just kill me; they’d embark on a crosscountry tour with my carcass as a warning to all kids who had the gall to come home past dinnertime after they’d just been suspended for four days.
But it was best not to overanalyze these sorts of things.
Besides, I didn’t have any rational guidance to offer myself. My career as an advice columnist was over.
“Yes? Who is it?”
I shoved my face into the buzzer speaker. “It’s Dave Rosen. A friend of Celeste’s from school.”
There was a pause.
Even through a crappy intercom—and after only four words—I could tell that Celeste’s father was a conservative research scientist. I almost smiled in appreciation, except for the fact that I was out of my mind.
“One moment,” Dr. Fanucci replied.
Celeste lived in a brownstone on Eighteenth Street. It hadn’t been hard to find her. I knew she lived near Union Square, and there were only four Fanuccis in Manhattan. All it took was one 411 call. And now—
The buzzer crackled with static.
“Yeah?”
It was her voice.
“It’s Dave, Celeste!” I yelled.
“I know,” she replied.
The words were garbled. They sounded more like “Eye Oh—KKCCH.
“Hey … um, can you come down here?” I yelled. I smiled, even though she couldn’t see me. “I feel like we’re on the train to DeKalb Avenue.”
There was no answer. .
I squeezed my eyes shut.
Why did I have to bring up DeKaIb Avenue? That was beyond corny. It was beyond cheesy It was the lamest possible attempt to reestablish our nonexistent relationship—
The lock clicked.
Celeste opened the front door. She wasn’t wearing her green polka-dotted dress anymore. She’d changed into sweats. Her blond curls were stuffed under a wool cap.
“Hi,” I said.
“Zeke dumped me,” she said.
“Oh.” If this was a test, I’d failed. I knew she wanted me to react in a certain way, but I was too dense. “I . .
“He was cheating on me the whole time. It was with some chick he met at the Spiral Lounge the very first time he played there.”
I laughed.
“I’m glad you find this funny.” she said.
“No. I’m sorry. It’s just … the way you said chick. It reminded me—”
“It was a word I got from Naomi,” Celeste interrupted.
I looked at her.
She shook her head. Her lips quivered.
“Celeste, I—”
“Naomi was my best friend, you know that?” she said in a strained voice. “Naomi was my best friend. And I’m gonna miss her so much, because now I don’t have a best friend. I don’t have a boyfriend, either. I don’t have a damn thing.”
I stared down at my sneakers.
“You know what’s funny, Dave?” she whispered. “I used to think that when you say something—I mean, when you really spell it out—it stops being true. The truest things are always the things that are never said. They’re the things that can’t be said. Because when you say them … it’s like, you put a piece of yourself into them. You take them out of a pure realm—a realm that exists outside yourself, that exists outside of everyone. And that’s how the real truth starts getting chipped away. See, I never told Naomi she was my best friend. I just knew she was. And when I finally decided to tell her … well, we all know what happened, right? I found out she never existed at all.”
“But she did exist,” I said, my voice thick.”She does.”
Celeste laughed sadly. “She does? Where?”
I looked up again. “Do you know why I decided to start writing an advice column?” I asked.
“I don’t have the slightest idea,” she said.
“It was because of you. It was because I had a crush on you. I knew I would never able to be talk to you, because you’re … well, you’re you—and so I had to figure out a way to get to you. And then when I did, when I talked to you—I mean, I stopped having a crush on you. I started having a crush on FONY. I felt like: this is the girl. And when you said that you were a freshman, I—”
“I never said I was a freshman,” Celeste countered.
“You made it seem like you were,” I said.
“How?”
“You know, I don’t even remember. The point is … all right. I know I lied. But you weren’t totally honest, either. Because the Celeste Fanucci who went out with Zeke Beck is not the Celeste Fanucci who wrote to Naomi.”
Celeste rubbed her eyes. “How many other girls did you have crushes on, Dave?” she asked sadly.
“What?”
“Oh, come on!” she said. “It’s like you wrote in your column. Crushes are fleeting. Dave … I know what guys think. I also know I’m lucky to look the way I look. I know I’m so much better off than so many girls because I don’t have to worry about so much stuff that other girls worry about. I was an advice columnist, too, remember?”
“So why don’t you act like one?” I cried.
She dropped her hands. “Excuse me?”
“You act like a ditz, Celeste! When I found out you were FONY, I couldn’t believe it. Up until then, I seriously wondered if you’d gotten somebody to ghostwrite your columns.
She laughed. “You don’t know me, Dave.”
“Yeah, I do. And you know me.”
“I … I don’t even know why I’m talking to you. Forget it.” She turned and opened the door. “I gotta go upstairs.”
“Is that it?” I asked.
She nodded.
I shook my head. “You’re wrong. I know why you’re talking to me. Its because you miss Naomi. But you don’t have to. She didn’t go anywhere. Naomi is me. You still have that friendship. And no matter what, that friendship is real. No matter how much you dissect it, or talk about it, or analyze it, it’ll always be real.”
Celeste glanced over her shoulder.”So what are you saying? That we should pretend nothing happened? Crab some falafel and just start over?”
“Not start over,” I said. “We should just take a different route.” I hesitated, realizing that the streetlamps had just flickered on. I took a deep breath. Mom and Aunt Ruth were waiting. Four days of suspension were waiting.
“What?” Celeste asked.
“Nothing. I was just thinking we’ll probably have to wait a little to start over, seeing as I probably won’t be allowed out of my house for the next forty years…
For the first time all night, she smiled. “Well, we can always e-mail each other. Right?”
I smiled back. “Right,” I said.
“Goodnight, Dave.”
“Goodnight, Celeste.”
“I …”
“Yes?”
Daniel Ehrenhaft has written numerous novels, often under the name Daniel Parker, and is the recipient of the 2003 Edgar Allan Poe Award for Best Young Adult Novel for The Wessex Papers, Volumes 1 through 3. He lives with his wife, Jessica, in New York and would never, ever give her advice unless she wanted him to.
Tell It to Naomi Page 18
