by Alyson Noel
Followed by: clap—clap-clap—clap clap clap clap clap clap!
Oh. My. God.
Those are my words!
My clap sequence!
And my cheer!
And they stole it!
I stand there in shock, suddenly realizing the major role I inadvertently played in their social elevation. I mean, don’t get me wrong, it’s not like I think it’s Pulitzer prize—winning material, but still, obviously it worked.
Then Jaci makes this high-pitched happy sound as she jumps up and down and hugs Sloane.
And Sloane hugs her back while staring at me from over her shoulder.
And me? Well, I just slam out of the bathroom and head home.
That’s right, I just bail right out of there, and walk off campus, as though I don’t have three more classes ahead of me. And when I get home, I head straight for my room, throw myself on my bed, and totally lose it for much longer than I care to admit.
And when I finally roll over to reach for the box of tissues my mom always puts on the table between our beds, I see the plane tickets.
And that’s when I decide to go to New York.
Eight
I didn’t leave a note for my mom. And I didn’t call my dad. I figured I’d contact my mom once I’d safely arrived in Manhattan (so that she can cancel the Amber Alert). And my dad? Well, since I already knew how to get to both his apartment and art gallery, I figured I’d just show up at his doorstep and surprise him. And even though I realize how easy it is for a plan like that to backfire, ensuring that I’m the one who ends up getting the big surprise, the fact is, I just can’t trust that he won’t suddenly get all parental and tip off my mom. So you can see how I might be more than a little reluctant to RSVP.
And since I packed pretty light, have been to the city a few times before, and was unwilling to blow my admittedly meager funds on a cab ride, I bought myself a one-way Metro card and hopped on the subway, riding it all the way into SoHo, where I disembarked at the Broadway and Lafayette stop and adjusted my eyes to the darkness as I climbed the stairs into the night.
Then I trekked the few blocks to my dad’s apartment, pushed the buzzer, held my breath, and hoped for the best.
But instead of saying, “Who is it?” like a normal person does when they get on the intercom, my dad goes, “Winter?”
And just like that, I know I’m in trouble.
“I think you better come up,” he says, right before buzzing me in.
And by the time I get my bag and myself safely inside the vestibule, he’s already on his way down to get me.
“What the hell?” he says, grabbing my stuff and shaking his head at me. I swear that’s how he talks, like he’s still in high school or something.
“Who told you?” I ask, following behind, unable to gauge just how much trouble I might be in.
“Autumn eventually noticed the missing ticket,” he tells me, opening the door and motioning me inside. “And by the way, in case you were wondering, your mom is blaming me.”
I watch as he sets my bag on the hardwood floor, then I take off my jacket and drop onto his comfortable leather couch, realizing I was so hyped-up about getting here, that I never really thought past the landing at JFK part. “Sorry,” I say, gazing into his brown eyes that are just like mine, while trying to remember why I even decided to come here in the first place.
He hands me a bottle of water from the fridge behind the bar. “Does this have something to do with the tryouts?” he asks, sitting down beside me.
Oh, yeah, that. And then, like the completely uncool, total loser, retard, lame dork that I am, I drop my head in my hands and start bawling my freaking eyes out.
And when I finally calm down, having reached the point of involuntary shoulder-shaking aftershocks, he goes, “I gotta tell ya, hon, I’m a little surprised by all this. That pom-pom pep rally stuff really doesn’t seem like your scene.”
And when I look at him, I think, Maybe he’s right.
I mean, even though I’d somehow convinced myself that I really did want all that, and spent countless nights lying in bed, imagining myself all glammed out in my cheerleading garb, flirting with Cash Davis (who of course would fall madly in love with me just seconds after I’d made the squad), I’m now starting to wonder if maybe, what I actually wanted to be, was someone else.
Anyone else.
As long as I didn’t have to be me.
But I don’t tell him that. I just shrug and take a sip of my water.
“I should call your mom,” he says, reaching for the phone. “So she’ll know you got here safely. Or maybe you feel like telling her that yourself?” He looks at me, holding the receiver and waiting.
But I just shake my head, curl up on my side, and after that, I can’t remember.
The next morning I wake to the sound of the front door opening, and the sight of my dad struggling with two large coffees, a bagful of bagels, and a copy of The New York Times for him and the New York Post for me.
“Here, let me help,” I say, grabbing the coffees, and helping him get the table all set, smearing cream cheese across my bagel, and sipping my coffee, like this is our completely normal, everyday routine, and that I’m not really his firstborn daughter who’s currently on the lam from school, not to mention life.
“So,” he says, removing his black framed reading glasses, and peering at me. “What do you want to do today?”
I peek at him cautiously, wondering if this is actually for real, and if he’s truly more interested in entertaining than punishing. But unable to draw any kind of conclusion, I just shrug and wait to see what he offers.
He gazes at me for a moment, then runs his hand through his longish hair. “Well, I need to stop by the gallery for a little while, so why don’t you come by around twelve, twelve-thirty? I’ll show you this great installation before I take you to lunch.”
Then he gets up, grabs his coffee, tosses me an extra set of keys, and heads out the door.
The second I step outside I’m glad I at least had the good sense to wear my Rock & Republic jeans. I mean, everyone around me looks so amazing and hip, and it just feels better to be wearing something that’s considered universally cool.
I wander around the cobblestoned streets, looking in trendy shopwindows, and wondering if anyone other than my mom, my sister, and a few of my teachers will even notice my absence. But then I shake my head and evict that thought from my mind, remembering that phrase my mom’s always going on about, “Be Here Now.”
Well, I’m Here Now—in New York City. And even though I have no idea how long it’ll last, I’m determined to make the most of each and every second.
By the time I make it to my dad’s gallery, he’s busy talking to a potential buyer. And I can tell it’s a potential buyer from the way my dad is acting—displaying straight-up posture instead of his usual hipster slouch, and the way he’s ditched the street slang for more proper, businesslike vernacular. Not wanting to interrupt a possible money transaction, I stroll right past him and head into the back room, looking forward to seeing his assistant, Sarah, who’s been working for him for the last two years.
Only instead of Sarah, there’s this drop-dead cute guy with dark curly hair, and eyes so blue I can’t help but stare. Then finally I stammer, “Oh, um, I thought you were Sar— well anyway, I’ll just go, and-” Omigod! I think, still gawking at him.
But he just smiles. “Winter, right?” He motions for me to take the seat across from his, as though it’s actually his office and not my dad’s.
“But, how’d you-” I start, but apparently unable to finish my sentences now, I just follow directions and take a seat in a chair that’s long on style, yet painfully short on comfort.
“Your dad told me you were stopping by. I’m Easton,” he says, placing his feet on the desk, and leaving me to wonder if he’s just trying to get comfortable, or if I’m supposed to comment on his new, custom Converses.
“Um, who are you?” I ask.
He folds his hands behind his head and smiles. “I’m the intern. I get school credit for working here a couple hours a week.”
“Serious?” I say, thinking how I’d love to enroll in a cool school like that.
“I go to one of those art schools, you know, for actors and musicians and stuff.”
“Like the Fame school?” I ask, not that I’ve actually seen Fame, but I know that’s what everyone calls those kinds of schools.
He smiles, which gets me feeling so nervous again my eyes dart around the office in order to avoid his.
And just as I’m racking my brain, trying to think of something to say that won’t sound totally stupid and out me as the consummate geek that I truly am, my dad pokes his head in and goes, “Ready?”
So I reach for my purse and head for the door, and just as I turn back toward Easton, he smiles and winks.
And that gets me so off-balance I walk smack into the doorjamb. The toe of my boot crashing into it so hard it makes this awful loud thud, as the rest of my body moves forward, stopping only when the tip of my nose is all out of give and smashed down to the bone. Like an anxious pug, straining against a car window. Only not near as cute.
But even though I’m totally and completely humiliated, not to mention how my nose really does kind of hurt, I still force myself to laugh and say, “I’m okay, I’m okay.” Long before anyone can ask.
Then I follow my dad out of the gallery and onto the street, tenderly touching the bridge of my nose, checking for swelling and hoping it’s not broken.
Somewhere between the french fries and the French onion soup, my dad looks at me and goes, “So, what exactly are we doing here?”
And I think, here it is, the moment of truth. I mean, I knew it would come sooner or later, but excuse me for hoping for later.
I just shrug, and dip a frite into my soup, determined not to make this any easier for him.
He rests his forearms on the table, leans toward me, and says, “The way I see it, you got two choices.”
Oh, great. I gaze up at him.
“One, you go back tomorrow, confront your demons, and get on with your life.” He looks right at me.
“And two?” I ask, hoping for a better option, but fearing it could be even worse.
“Two, you finish out the week with me, and head back this weekend, well rested and ready to confront your demons on Monday.”
I let out a deep breath and smile. “You know, I haven’t actually told you this, but my demon has a name,” I say, looking right at him.
But he just laughs. “Let me guess, Sloane?” He sips his wine and raises his eyebrows.
“How’d you know?” I ask, my eyes going wide, wondering for a fleeting moment if maybe he’s psychic.
But he just shrugs. “Lucky guess.”
After just a few days in the city, I was so entrenched in my new life of leisure, no responsibility, and zero peer pressure, that I was starting to fantasize about making it permanent. I mean, if you think about it, why couldn’t it work? I loved my dad, he loved me, and it’s not like I had anything to miss back home. Okay, maybe I’d miss my mom, and maybe even Autumn if I were gone long enough. But since I hadn’t been gone long enough yet, it was kind of hard to imagine.
It’s like, I was spending my days strolling through Central Park, going to museums and galleries with my dad, eating at some of the hippest restaurants in town, and had even done some mad shopping with a wad of cash he’d given me.
“Go crazy,” he’d said, and believe me, I did. Buying up all kinds of cool stuff, like dark denim stovepipe jeans, this amazing black bubble hem dress, a black leather purse with fringe and silver studs stuck all over it, leggings, tunics, ankle boots, and all kinds of other hip stuff that, believe me, Sloane and her pastel posse would never go near. But now that I wasn’t going to be one of them, I was thinking that maybe I could just try to be me. Or at least the me that I wanted to be.
Not to mention how despite the whole nose-smacking incident, I seemed to have this growing (and very promising) flirtation with Easton. I mean, I’d started dropping by the gallery whenever I knew he’d be there, and we’d hang out in the back office and laugh and talk and drink strong, bitter coffee out of those little blue paper cups with the Greek key design that just scream New York! And it is so cool to hang with him, and not just because he’s so amazingly cute (which he is!), but also because he’s just so much smarter and so much more interesting than all the guys who go to my school put together. Seriously. It’s like, he actually knows stuff about art, and literature, and theater, and film, and restaurants, and clubs, and world travel, not to mention how he’s been a working actor ever since he was a little kid and scored his first diaper commercial.
I mean, even though I know most kids think Laguna Beach is like the coolest place on the planet because of that MTV show and all, trust me, I’ve lived there my whole entire life, and the world they depict on that show has nothing to do with mine.
So on Friday, I was on my way to the gallery for this bigdeal reception my dad was throwing for a “very promising young artist.” Some grad-school chick named Angley Hayes, who did a group of self-portraits that apparently people are already buzzing about. And even though I can’t really vouch for how “promising” she might be, I will say this: there’s nothing quite like staring at a row of wall-sized, full frontal, awkwardly posed, anatomically correct nudes with your dad on one side and the artist on the other.
But by the time I get there, I can hardly believe how packed this place is. I mean, I wasn’t really sure what an art reception would actually be like, but it’s more like a party than I thought. There’s like a huge crowd of superhip, artsy-looking people, standing around with drinks and little plates of hors d’oeuvres, while some really great, yet unidentifiable (at least to me) music pumps in the background.
So I’m walking around, scanning the room for my dad and Easton (though not necessarily in that order), and just as I spot my dad across the room talking to some disturbingly pretty model type, I hear someone say, “Hey.”
And I turn and look right into those amazing blue eyes. “Hey,” I say, taking the glass that Easton’s offering and trying to act all cool and casual, even though my knees are about to buckle and my heart is pumping like crazy. I mean, he’s wearing a white T-shirt, a suede blazer, designer jeans, cool shoes, and with his hair kind of wild and curly around his face, he looks totally and completely irresistible.
“It’s just club soda.” He shrugs, taking a sip of his. “I’ll try to score something better when your dad gets too busy to notice.” He smiles.
And even though I’m not quite sure how I feel about his plan to take advantage of my dad’s inattention, I just nod and smile, too.
“Listen, I’m planning to cut out pretty soon, and meet up with some people, and I was wondering if maybe you’d want to come along?” he asks, peering at me from over the top of his cup, waiting for a response.
Do I wanna come along? Is he kidding? But then I gaze across the room at my dad, my shoulders sinking when I realize I’ll have to clear it with him first.
“Go ahead, ask your old man.” Easton nods. “I’m sure he won’t mind.”
Then he smiles at me, and I smile at him, and when I gaze at my dad, I hope that it’s true.
“So, where we going?” I ask, walking beside him, and wondering if this could actually be considered a date. I mean, not that I’ve ever been on one before, but it seems like all of the symptoms are present and accounted for. Like, I’m going to a party with this amazingly cute guy, who, believe it or not, actually wants to be with me. So it seems like that should definitely count, right?
“Friend of mine’s having a little gathering, I thought we’d stop by and check it out,” he says, before leading me into this really modern-looking building that houses the most amazing loft I’ve ever seen (and that includes TV, movies, and pictures in magazines).
I gaze around at the floor-to-ceiling windows, the
walls covered in large, abstract, original works of art, and a roomful of kids so cool and beautiful I feel like I’ve stepped into a Teen Vogue photo shoot. Then I gaze down at my new, black, bubble hem dress and hope that it’s really as cool as I think.
”Come on,” Easton says, grabbing my hand and leading me into the designated den area. “Let me introduce you around.”
Okay, so here’s the short list of things I’ve never done before:
1. Gone to a party with a hot guy.
2. Gone to a party where there were no adult chaper-ones.
3. Sipped anything stronger than a double espresso.
4. Kissed a guy as cute as Easton. (Or any guy for that matter.)
And if things went well, I was hoping tonight I could start a new list.
So, I’m sitting on this really low, supermodern, circular sofa, and Easton is so close to me that his leg is actually overlapping on mine (which, believe me, is pretty much all I can think about). And I’m just sitting there like Switzerland (you know, all neutral), while Easton gets in this heated debate with some guy called Gin (though I’m not sure why, since Gin is actually drinking a beer) about some book that I’ve never even read, much less heard of. Which is pretty amazing when I think about all the books I’ve devoured. And as I listen to them argue back and forth, I’m starting to realize that not only are these kids cooler than me, richer than me, more beautiful than me, more informed than me, but apparently, they’re also way smarter than me.
“Anyway, books are irrelevant. The twenty-first century is all about blogging,” Gin says, shaking his head and sipping Pilsner Urquell straight from the bottle.
But apparently, Easton’s not buying it, since he rolls his eyes, and goes, “Bullshit. Blogging’s just a bunch of assholes with a keyboard and an opinion. Hyped-up fare that works hard at blurring the boundaries between actual news and completely biased perspective. And, at its very worst, it’s just more rumor-mongering tabloid crap.” He shakes his head and sips from his red plastic party cup.