“I want you to take the afternoon off to think about this and come up with some ideas for how you’ll pull the team together. I’m serious, Carlyle.” Coach stood up, clearly indicating their meeting was over. Owen wordlessly walked into the locker room and changed in one of the lone bathroom stalls in the corner. Normally, the only people who changed in the stalls were the JV guys who were terrified of the random hazing carried out by Hugh, usually involving permanent markers. Owen just didn’t want to run into any of his teammates.
He slid his iPhone from his maroon St. Jude’s swim team bag. Three missed calls. All from Kelsey. Just thinking of her coral lips made him feel okay. He heard Coach’s voice ringing in his ears. He knew that being with Kelsey was hurting his relationship with his teammates. But… fuck it. It was like Romeo and Juliet. They would be together, even if no one else wanted them to be.
Galvanized, he hailed a cab outside the Ninety-second Street Y. Kelsey only lived on Seventy-seventh, but he wanted to see her now.
Coming over, miss you, he texted, and leaned back in the cab. He wished he could whisk Kelsey away to an uninhabited island. He’d swim every morning and then they’d go foraging for food and fall asleep, intertwined on the beach.
Okay, Mr. Lost.
Finally, the cab swept up to Kelsey’s green-awninged building. A doorman stood at rapt attention and the doorway was flanked by two stone lion sculptures that seemed to be glaring at Owen. He walked inside the building and paused at the reception desk.
“Um, I’m here to see Kat—Kelsey Talmadge,” he corrected himself.
“I’ll call her,” the doorman said, picking up an old phone and dialing. “Go on up, she’s expecting you.”
Owen rode the elevator and made his way to the end of the hallway. Suddenly the door to her apartment opened and Kelsey burst out, wearing her plaid Seaton Arms skirt and a black cashmere sweater.
“You’re here!” she exclaimed, as if she hadn’t seen Owen in weeks, rather than hours. Owen let his fingers play against her smooth shoulders, but then he pulled away.
“Are you okay?” Kelsey bit her pink lip suggestively. She pulled her strawberry blond hair up, into a ponytail, then dropped it around her face and smiled. “I know how to make you feel better,” she added coyly, wrapping her fingers around Owen’s wrist and pulling him inside her apartment, which was decorated in slate grays and blacks. It was so neutral it was hard to imagine anyone really living here. There were no bookshelves or artwork or sculpture collections. He paced back and forth awkwardly, finally perching on the edge of an overstuffed gray sofa. Kelsey followed him and sat down in his lap.
“No, wait!” Owen pushed her delicate hip off his lap so they were seated side by side. He needed to know if this was for real. And to do that, they couldn’t just hook up right away.
“What?” Kelsey’s blue eyes widened in confusion. Her eyes reminded Owen of the ocean—wide and deep, and difficult to know what was going on below the surface.
Is anything going on below the surface?
“Yeah, I just had a crappy swim practice,” Owen said. He looked around. He didn’t even know who Kelsey lived with. Did she have any brothers or sisters? Pets?
Aren’t they a little beyond these questions?
“How long have you lived here?” Owen asked lamely. It was too quiet in here.
“Two years. Before that I lived in Brooklyn. This is my step-dad’s place.” Kelsey smiled a half smile, as if Owen was trying to play a game and she didn’t know the rules yet.
“Are we done with twenty questions?” she asked teasingly. Owen jammed his hands in his tracksuit pocket, feeling incredibly frustrated. He was so confused right now. He wanted Kelsey. But he also wanted to get to know Kelsey.
Aren’t boys supposed to be simple?
“Let’s go to my room. I can try to make you feel better.” Kelsey grabbed the crook of Owen’s elbow and yanked him down a long hallway that was covered with artsy black-and-white prints of the city. “No one’s home, it’s fine,” she explained, as if that was why Owen was hesitating. She opened the fourth door on the hallway and pulled him inside.
“Kiss me!” she demanded, resting her hands against the back of the door as if she wanted Owen to trap her.
“This is nice.” Owen desperately tried to ignore Kelsey’s devour-me attitude. He pretended to study a charcoal drawing hanging on the wall. It was of a group of kids sitting on the steps of a brownstone, and was actually pretty good. One of the girls sort of looked like Kelsey, complete with her crooked incisor and wispy hair around her ears. “That looks like you,” he continued.
“That’s because it is me,” Kelsey explained. She shrugged off her sweater to expose her creamy white shoulders, and lay down on the bed. “You can get a better view of it over here,” Kelsey called to Owen, pulling on his arm.
“Wait, no!” Owen yanked his wrist away from her thin fingers. He saw an expression of hurt cross her face and instantly felt bad. “I just want to get to know you!” He sat down next to her and held her hand with his.
“I think we know each other pretty well.” Kelsey took the hand that Owen was playing with and stroked his cheek.
“Let’s play a game, okay. No touching until we’ve learned five things about each other,” he invented, pulling Kelsey’s hand away. “First, what’s the story with that drawing?”
Kelsey glanced at her gray walls. “I drew it a couple years ago. It’s all right.” She shrugged. Owen glanced up at it again. She did? He didn’t know she was an artist. Owen looked more closely at the pictures of what seemed to be a Brooklyn streetscape, complete with brownstones and tree-lined streets. “Is that where you lived?”
“Why do you care?” Kelsey giggled. “Okay, if we’re playing your game, I guess it’s your turn. Go.” She rolled her eyes.
“Thanks.” Owen dredged his memory for something. “When I was little, you know how most kids have stuffed animals? I had a pet rock. It was a wish rock—one of those ones that has a band of sand around it that’s a different color. This one was brown and white, and you’re supposed to throw them in the ocean and make a wish, but I used to sleep with it. Except I lost it when I was ten. I know it sounds crazy, but I still miss it. I sometimes used to walk on the beach, looking for one like it,” Owen blathered, stopping abruptly. An awkward silence filled the room.
“That’s… cute,” Kelsey said finally, looking at him strangely. “But I know what’s better than a pet rock…” she suggested, nuzzling her pert, freckly nose against Owen’s chisled chin. Owen halfheartedly kissed her back. This wasn’t working.
“You know, I’m not feeling too well,” Owen said lamely. “I’ll call you,” he promised, springing up from her bed and practically running to the elevator. He ignored the raised eyebrows of the doorman and burst out the door, only feeling free as he jogged next to the elm tree–lined path by Central Park. He dodged strollers and dog walkers and only stopped running once he saw his building. He breathed a deep sigh of relief. It was good to be home.
b makes a sartorial statement
Baby nervously adjusted Avery’s Hermès scarf that she used as a headband and surveyed the other Thursday afternoon patrons of the Hungarian Pastry Shop. She’d spent the last two days reading Sydney’s mom’s book. She’d thought it would be lame and self-help-y, but it actually made sense. Basically, all Lynn advocated was militant and consistent cleaning and purging stuff, to make sure your past selves and goals wouldn’t invade your future plans. As soon as she’d finished, she’d begged Sydney to set up a meeting, just so she could pick Lynn’s brain about what she could possibly do to fulfill her therapy requirement. She’d canceled her chakra-balancing life coach hippie appointment, so, really, Lynn was her last hope. The coffee shop was a popular Columbia hangout, filled with students and professors, all enjoying caffeine and late-afternoon sunshine. She shivered in the outdoor seating area and shifted her uneven wooden chair back and forth on the cement.
“Baby?”
“I’m telling you, Baby, I need a good cup of oolong. Ever have that feeling?” Lynn asked, settling on the rickety wooden chair. Baby nodded happily. Her mom always used to make oolong for the triplets on snow days.
“Good.” Lynn nodded. “Some oolong!” she bellowed, even though it didn’t seem like a server was anywhere nearby. “And some cookies or something. Carbs!” she commanded. “So, what can I do for you?” She widened her large, brown eyes. They were the same caramel color as Sydney’s.
“It’s just…” Baby began, feeling surprisingly shy. She gazed across the street. Leaves were starting to turn on the small, spindly trees on the sidewalk, and people were hurrying by with their heads down. Baby shivered slightly, pulling her sweatshirt closer to her. “I think I’m unfocused,” Baby said finally. That sounded much better than saying she was addicted to men.
“How so?”
The server put down a pot of tea, two mugs, and a plate of assorted cookies. The mugs were mismatched and chipped, and Baby’s said World’s Greatest Grandma on the side. Lynn expertly took the pot and splashed tea into the mugs.
“Well, I was seeing this guy back in Nantucket, and I thought we were in love, but then I moved here and started hanging out with this really nice, really sweet guy who was just way too different from me, so we broke up, and then I ended up following another guy to Barcelona and he wasn’t even there. That’s why I have to be in therapy. I kind of skipped a week of school,” Baby admitted ruefully. She hoped her romantic history didn’t sound too slutty for Lynn. It was like a Clockwork Orange cycle of dating and ditching guys.
“Mrs. McLean gave you mandatory therapy. Interesting,” Lynn mused, leaning back and appraising Baby.
“Yeah, but I haven’t found anyone who can help me. I mean, I’m not against therapy—it’s just that I don’t think anyone can figure out what’s wrong with me. Do you think maybe you could?” Baby asked, nervously chewing the frayed sleeve of her sweatshirt.
“How long have you had that sweatshirt?” Lynn asked randomly, ignoring Baby’s question.
“It used to be my ex’s. It’s warm,” Baby said coldly. What did that have to do with anything? She took another sip of oolong.
“Get rid of it.” Lynn nodded definitively. Baby narrowed her eyes. What? She reached down to pull a few dollars out of her bag for the tea. She didn’t want to sit here and listen to this. Of course this was just another waste of time.
“Sydney said you read my book,” Lynn said, looking amused at Baby’s rising anger. “It’s all in chapter three. I don’t think there’s anything wrong with you, but I do think you have some things holding you back. What you need to do is embrace your life now. Love who you are! What does that sweatshirt symbolize?”
Baby glanced down at the ragged sleeve edge. Her ex-boyfriend, Tom, also used to chew on it, usually before he told a lie. Looking back, the habit was gross, not endearing at all.
“I guess it symbolizes Nantucket. Having a boyfriend. Being accepted for who I was.” Baby shrugged. She’d never really thought about it. She’d never been one for material possessions. “Is this really why I’m not finding myself?” Baby asked suddenly.
“Well, honey, that shirt’s not doing you any favors!” Lynn bellowed. Several people at the next table looked over to stare. “Tell you what, sweetie. Go home and clean out your closet. Get rid of anything that doesn’t make you feel like you.” Lynn nodded thoughtfully.
Let-go-of-retail therapy?
“Do you think it’ll really work?” Baby asked in a small voice. Suddenly, she wished she could take her question back. She didn’t want Lynn to think she was being rude—it was just that her solution seemed so… obvious. Simple.
“I’m the expert, Baby. But don’t be so serious—just have fun! And here’s the other thing,” Lynn went on. “Once you begin tossing stuff, you need to begin organizing. Pastel with pastel. Black with black. Jeans with jeans. Short sleeves, long sleeves.” Lynn looked up sharply, as if to make sure Baby was paying attention. Baby nodded vigorously.
“A little categorization never hurt anyone,” she added as she bit into a cookie. Baby noticed she chewed with her mouth open, just like Sydney.
“I don’t own any pastels,” Baby admitted.
“More power to you!” Lynn cocked her mug at Baby as if she were toasting her. “Now, down to what you were talking about before. That Spanish guy?” Lynn asked, shoving an entire chocolate chip cookie in her mouth.
“Mateo,” Baby said. It was funny. She barely remembered what he looked like now. Did he have brown hair? Black? She couldn’t quite get a mental image of him. Instead, on the screen in her mind, she just saw herself: crazily riding a Vespa through the Gaudí park in Barcelona with a bunch of off-duty waiters she’d met on the beach. Streaking through fountains with Sydney on one of their Underground Response events. Running along a dark and turbulent ocean, looking out into the endless horizon and imagining a whole world of adventure. “I think I liked the idea of him more,” Baby added, suddenly feeling weird about discussing her love life with her friend’s mom.
“Well, see what you think of him after you do some clutter control.” Lynn nodded sagely. “Now, I’m sure you have better things to do than hang out with me all afternoon.” Lynn rummaged through her bag and pulled out a copy of the New Yorker. Obviously, the meeting was over.
“Thank you!” Baby said. Lynn nodded, grabbing Baby’s practically untouched teacup.
“No problem!” Lynn waved her away, drinking the rest of Baby’s tea. Baby turned the corner onto 110th Street. She was cold, but she yanked off her sweatshirt anyway and threw it in a trash can.
Hallelujah!
come one, come all, to a stoned-soul picnic
Rhys awkwardly puffed from the joint he’d tried to roll in his room. He wasn’t sure if it was working, and the paper kept sticking to his chapped lips. He sighed in frustration. At least his parents had left for the wedding in England this morning. He’d skipped school and was just waiting for his new friends to come over.
The doorbell rang. Finally. Rhys inspected himself in the mirror. He hadn’t bothered to take a shower today, so his dark brown hair was spiky and unkempt, he was still wearing a pair of old Patagonia athletic shorts and a gray Nike shirt he usually only ran in, and his eyes were all bloodshot.
At least this time it’s not from crying.
He paused. The old Rhys would have taken a shower and pulled on a Ralph Lauren sweater. But this was the new Rhys. His friends accepted him for who he was. He bounded down the stairs and opened the heavy oak door in the foyer. Standing there were Lucas, Malia, and Vince, trailed by a crew of other unshowered, unshaven kids Rhys had never met.
“Come on in,” Rhys said enthusiastically, flinging the door open.
“Thanks, man!” Lucas said eagerly, pumping Rhys’s hand up and down. He was wearing a kid-size green T-shirt that said DON’T MESS WITH TEXAS and grass-stained khakis, and smelled like a mix of patchouli, pot, and Gorgonzola cheese. Lucas reverentially took off his shoes and placed them next to an antique grandfather clock.
“Word,” he said, as if addressing the clock. “So, this is the casa? Nice, man!”
The kids behind him murmured appreciatively as they wandered in.
“Are more people coming?” Rhys asked nervously. He’d expected four or five kids, but now there were at least ten scattering throughout the town house. Lucas nodded distractedly, entranced by the small marble Italian greyhound sculpture housed in an eave under the stairs. “Hey, little buddy!” Lucas said, enthusiastically rubbing the sculpture’s head.
Okay. Rhys needed pot, stat. “Hey, um, guys?” he called hesitantly, hoping they’d all come back. “I thought we
could hang out up on the roof,” he began awkwardly. He figured they could smoke up there. Besides, they couldn’t make too much of a mess if they were all in one spot.
“Look at this!” Vince exclaimed, running back to the foyer holding a gold-topped cane that he’d obviously found in Lord Sterling’s study. He was shoeless and was enjoying skidding on the buff-polished floors on his socks.
“Put that back!” Rhys called frantically, pulling it out of Vince’s hand. “I mean, actually, I’ll take it. Guys, let’s just go upstairs to the greenhouse.” A note of panic rose in his voice.
“Follow me,” he commanded, leading the motley group over to the stairs. The greenhouse was a small construction Lady Sterling insisted on installing on the roof. Not only did she use it for her own personal gardening, she occasionally used it as a location for her show. Right now, she was growing heirloom tomatoes for “Terrific Tomatoes,” an annual fall segment.
“Here we are,” Rhys finally said as they reached the enclosed terrace. It was private, which was key, and also had heat lamps, so there was no need for any of them to go downstairs even when it got colder out.
“Nice!” Lucas cried, immediately flinging open the greenhouse door.
“Don’t!” Rhys called. He could see his mother’s rows and rows of tomatoes, stretching up toward the hydroponic lights she’d had installed.
“Oh my God, they’re tomatoes!” Malia called, enthralled.
“Yeah, but it’s kind of hot in there. Come over here!” Rhys called, trying to entice them to the other side of the terrace, which had comfy lounge chairs and big planters full of mums.
“No, man, here’s where the magic is,” Lucas countered, pulling out a joint. “You want?”
Rhys hesitantly walked over. As long as he was watching them, how much harm could they do? All they needed to do was smoke up so they could chill out. He took the joint from Lucas’s outstretched hand and took a long drag. There, that was so much better. “You want?” he asked Lisa, holding the joint out to her. Lisa wore a threadbare skirt that showed her unshaven legs. She giggled as she took it.
Take a Chance on Me Page 14