“I met a boy at the post office,” I say, “and guess what.”
“You made out behind a mailbox,” says Namrata.
“Uh, no.”
“Inside a mailbox,” Juliet suggests.
“No. No making out. But he has an ex-boyfriend.”
“Oh, so he’s gay.”
“Right, or bi or pan or something. And he’s single, unless he rebounds really quickly. Do New York guys rebound quickly?”
Namrata cuts straight to the point. “How’d you fuck it up?”
“I didn’t get his number.”
“Welp,” Namrata says.
“Can you find him online?” asks Juliet. “You seem . . . good at that.”
“Well, I also didn’t get his name.”
“Oh, sweetie.”
“Well, I did. Sort of. I’m like fifty percent sure his first name is Hudson.”
“You’re fifty percent sure.” Juliet’s mouth quirks.
I shake my head slowly. I mean, I could show them the address label. But I’m not sure they need to know about me scrounging for trash on the floor of the post office. Even Jessie thinks that’s creepy. And this is the girl who once told our entire math class she was related to Beyoncé and showed up the next day with Photoshopped pictures to prove it.
“So all you have on this guy is his first name, which . . . might not even be his first name.”
I nod. “It’s hopeless.”
“Probably,” says Namrata. “But you could put a thing on Craigslist.”
“A thing?”
“A missed connection. You know those posts where it’s like, I saw you on the F train reading Fifty Shades of Grey and eating candy corn.”
“Eww, candy corn?”
“Excuse me, candy corn is a fucking gift,” says Namrata.
“Um—”
“Seriously, Arthur, you should do it,” says Juliet. “Just write a post that describes the moment, like, Hey, we met at the post office and made out inside a mailbox, so on and so forth.”
“Okay, do people make out inside mailboxes here? This is not a thing we do in Georgia.”
“Jules, we should write the post for him.”
“Who even fits inside a mailbox?” I add.
“Yo,” Namrata says. “Fire up your laptop, kid.”
Okay, tiny pet peeve: when the girls call me kid. Like they’re so mature and all-knowing, and I’m some kind of half-formed fetus. Of course, I open my computer anyway.
“Pull up Craigslist.”
“Don’t people get murdered on Craigslist?”
“Nope,” Namrata says. “They get murdered for not getting on Craigslist fast enough and wasting my time.”
So now I’ve got Namrata hovering over me, and Juliet beside me, and a million blue links arranged in narrow columns on my screen. “Um. Okay.”
Namrata taps the screen. “Right here, under community.”
“You seem to know your way around Craigslist,” I say, and she smacks me.
I have to admit I love this. The fact that they’re interested. I’m always vaguely paranoid that Namrata and Juliet are exasperated by me. Like I’m some high school kid they’re forced to babysit when they’d rather be doing important things like consolidating the Shumaker files.
The thing is, they’re the only squad I have in New York. I don’t know how people make friends in the summer. There are a million and a half people in Manhattan, but none of them make eye contact unless you already know them. And I don’t know any of them, except the ones who work in this law office.
Sometimes I miss Ethan and Jessie so much my chest hurts.
Juliet’s taken over my laptop. “Oh god, some of these are really sweet,” she says. “Look.”
She rotates the computer back toward me. The screen says this:
Bleecker Street Starbucks/Not named Ryan—m4m (Greenwich Village)
You: button-down shirt with no tie. Me: polo with popped collar. They wrote Ryan on your drink, and you muttered, “Who the hell is Ryan?” Then you caught my eye and gave a sheepish smile and it was very cute. Wish I’d had the guts to ask for your number.
Fuck. “Ouch. That sucks.”
I click to the next listing.
Equinox 85th Street—m4m (Upper East Side)
Saw u on the treadmill, u look good. Hit me up.
Juliet grimaces. “And they say romance is dead.”
“I love the total lack of specificity,” says Namrata. “He’s like, ‘hey, you look good. Why don’t I give you absolutely no frame of reference for who I am.’”
“Well,” Juliet says, “at least he’s giving it a shot. Arthur, you want to have sex with this guy in a mailbox again, right—”
“That is not a thing. Mailbox sex is not a thing.”
“I’m just saying—”
“Look, he’s blushing!”
“Okay, I’m closing this now.” I slide my laptop into the center of the table, burying my face in my arms. “Let’s do the Shumaker files.”
“And that,” Namrata declares, “is how we get Arthur to do some fucking work.”
Chapter Four
Ben
“I think she died,” Dylan says over FaceTime.
Maybe I shouldn’t have answered Dylan’s call on my way to school. I’m on a Lorde kick this week and could be listening to more of her music before class, but I got my best friend pants on because Dylan is thrown off by Samantha right now. Last night he texted her some YouTube videos of underappreciated Elliott Smith songs and still hasn’t heard back. Dylan’s love for Elliott Smith can go overboard sometimes, like when he gave me shit for a solid week because I once spelled Elliott’s name without the second t.
“I don’t think she’s dead. She probably has a life,” I say.
“Doing what?”
“I don’t know. Slaying vampires?”
“Sun’s up. No vampires out. Try again.”
“I’m sure everything is fine. You talked for two hours yesterday.”
“Two hours and twelve minutes,” Dylan corrects. He refills his mug of coffee. He didn’t get a lot of sleep. I woke up to two middle-of-the-night missed FaceTime calls and ten thousand Samantha-related texts.
I really don’t get the coffee thing and I especially don’t get the coffee thing during the summer and I 100 percent don’t get the coffee thing when you’re already having a hard time sleeping. This math doesn’t add up, but girls have this effect on Dylan.
“She has a last name,” Dylan says.
“Whoa.”
“Samantha O’Malley,” Dylan says. He fills me in on every detail he learned about her yesterday: being a barista makes her way happier than it does her coworkers; her favorite movies are Titanic and The Sandlot; she takes her little sister out for seafood every week; she’s great at video games. “And I thought she liked me.”
I’ve seen Dylan go through a dozen “relationships” since third grade, but he’s never been this insufferable on day two of knowing a girl. Even his crush on Harriett took a month to really take hold, which is years in Dylan Time. Dylan’s heart-eyes for Samantha remind me of how I was with Hudson back when he used to race to find me after school. We know what happens next.
“I’m sure she likes you, dude.”
“Liked. She’s dead. I’ll see you at the next Heartbroken Anonymous meeting.”
I turn the corner and walk to the school’s entrance. Belleza High in Midtown is not where Dylan and I go, but this year they’re hosting a shitload of New York’s summer mourners from other public high schools. I’m about to reassure Dylan that Samantha will reach out when I see Hudson and Harriett sitting on the front steps of the school.
Just like his Instagram picture yesterday, Hudson looks perfectly healthy. He sees me right before he can take another bite from his bacon, egg, and cheese roll, and he just turns to Harriett and busts out laughing. No shade to Harriett, because she’s awesome, but hilarious she is not. Even she’s looking at him like he’s lost his shit.
“Oh,” I say. “D, I got to go.”
“What’s happening?” Dylan asks. I flip the phone around and Dylan is also suddenly staring down Hudson and Harriett. “OH. Hi, guys.”
Harriett shakes her head. “No thanks.”
“Alrighty then,” Dylan says. “Hudson buddy, you have ketchup on your face.”
I shake my head and hang up FaceTime while Hudson wipes his face with a napkin.
“Hey. Hi,” I say to Hudson and Harriett.
“Hi,” Harriett says. But unlike yesterday, she doesn’t give me a hug, because Hudson’s here and she can’t go betraying him. Really sucks since we knew each other before Hudson transferred to our school at the beginning of junior year. I really wish we could all be friends again. That Harriett and I could still talk about our favorite superhero shows. That Dylan and Hudson could still play chess. That Hudson and I could get our friendship back on track. Same for Dylan and Harriett. Maybe one day we can try being a squad again.
“Hey,” Hudson says, not looking at me. No brave Instagram face today. He goes for another bite of his roll but holds out, probably still mortified from having ketchup on his face. Hudson always has been a sloppy eater, but I never called him out on that. Walking to school and eating cheap sandwiches while talking about whatever was a highlight for me. I know it shouldn’t sting to see him having breakfast with Harriett, but it does. Like it’s really that simple for Hudson to write me out of his life.
“You feeling better?” I ask. I’m really trying to make this summer not suck.
“Healthy and happy.” Hudson wraps the aluminum around his sandwich. “And heading up.” He goes up the steps and through the door.
“This is going to be a fun day,” Harriett says.
“I’ll never ask him how he’s doing again, I guess,” I say.
“He’s going to need some time. Bruised ego.”
“He’s the one who made out with another guy,” I say.
“He thought you guys had broken up,” Harriett says.
“He kissed him two days after our fight.”
Harriett raises her hands. “It’s more complicated for him, and I think you know that.”
“That’s not fair. He broke my heart first,” I say. “I don’t get how Hudson gets all the pity points just because I’m the one who broke up with him. I had my reasons. You know all of them.”
“I don’t want to be in the middle any more than I am,” Harriett says. “I’m sorry, Ben.” She heads into the building.
I take a deep breath. I don’t know what twisted world Harriett is living in where she’s in the middle of this—she’s clearly Team Hudson. None of this would be happening if Hudson and I had just stayed friends.
I go up the steps, dreading this class. But I don’t turn back. I’m not repeating junior year because my ex-boyfriend scared me out of summer school.
Our teacher, Mr. Hayes, is outside the classroom flirting with the algebra teacher. Mr. Hayes is pretty young, like maybe midtwenties. He usually does missionary work in other countries during the summer, but in May he twisted his ankle during a Spartan Race, so he’s keeping busy teaching us chemistry. He’s not exactly my type because he’s a little too fit, the kind of guy you see on a package for underwear, but there’s no denying how handsome he is.
I take my seat at the back of the room, as far away from Hudson and Harriett as possible. I just open my notebook and keep to myself.
I’ve always sucked at school. Hudson telling me I didn’t have to study as hard for exams definitely didn’t help, but I’ve always had trouble focusing in class. I spend way too much time daydreaming, for starters. Whenever there’s a test I study at home for twenty minutes and get back to my Sims and stories. Ma was so frustrated with me in my first semester that she confiscated the laptop until my grades improved, which they sort of did because I really needed to get back to my made-up worlds.
But even when I do my best to pay attention in class, I feel so far behind. Like if you miss a lesson because you’re out sick or gazing out thinking about what it would feel like to be really loved back, the teachers don’t stop class to reteach you. They keep it moving. I forget who fought in World War II. I can’t name more than ten presidents. I’m geographically lost. Trivial Pursuit is my nightmare.
I want to know the real world better. Not just the ones I make up or the ones I play with on Sims. But right now I just feel lonely and unwanted in the real world.
Mr. Hayes walks in with a crutch under one armpit and carrying a duffel bag in his other hand, like he’s about to work out instead of talk about chemical properties for the next two hours. “Good morning, friends,” he says. “Let’s roll through attendance.”
Hudson raises his hand. “Hi. I’m Hudson Robinson. I missed yesterday.”
Mr. Hayes nods. “You sure did. Feeling better?”
“One hundred percent.”
“Great. Let’s chat after class. I can walk you through what you missed,” Mr. Hayes says. “Okay, Pete’s here. Scarlett—”
“Wait,” Hudson interrupts. “I’m not staying late. Coming to school during the summer is already over the top, thank you very much.”
Harriett gives Hudson her signature dude-shut-the-hell-up face.
“I’m not the one who failed you. It’s my job to make sure you don’t fail again. Just hang back for thirty minutes after class so you don’t have to spend the next year watching your friends get ready for prom and graduation and college while you’re making friends with juniors.” Man, Mr. Hayes knows how to go for the throat without sounding like a total dick.
“I’m not stupid, I know the material,” Hudson says. I’ve never seen him talk to a teacher like this. “That’s not why I’m here. I was just . . .” He doesn’t look at me. “I only missed the first day. I got the basics covered.”
“Cool. Tell us how ionic bonds are formed and you can earn your freedom.”
Hudson doesn’t say anything.
“Alloys are a combination of what?”
Nothing. See? School pauses for no one. Not even confusing ex-boyfriends.
Hudson shrugs and pulls out his phone, and holy shit, I hope he’s going to google these answers and not just text away. This stretch of awkward silence is made even more awkward by how hard Hudson is blushing. I haven’t seen him this quiet since Kim Epstein tried to call him one of the girls as an insult because he’s a little effeminate, and Harriett blasted Kim’s business for trying to swing at her best friend.
I’m killing the awkward silence. “Alloys are a combination of metals.” We relearned that yesterday.
Hudson snaps away from his phone and stares at me. “I don’t need anything from you, okay? Don’t ask me how I’m doing. Don’t help me out.” He’s so red in the face it’s a miracle he doesn’t not-so-spontaneously combust.
I want to prop up my notebook and hide.
No one here knows our history except Harriett.
They must think Hudson is a loose cannon and I’m the summer school know-it-all. I do know one thing: this is going to be a long summer.
Chapter Five
Arthur
On the subway ride home, it hits me: I really, truly, irrevocably messed up. I met the most gorgeous boy with the most sun-kissed cheeks, and the weird part is, I honestly think he was into me. That smile. It wasn’t a solidarity smile. It was a smile like a door opening. But that door is now slammed shut, locked, and dead-bolted. I’ll never see Hudson again. I’ll never kiss him on his Emma Watson mouth. And isn’t that just the story of my life. Relationship status: Forever Alone.
Wish I’d had the guts to ask for your number.
Jessie’s dead wrong about me being a badass. The truth is, I have zero guts and zero game. I’ve never had a boyfriend, never had sex, never kissed anyone, never come close. It hasn’t bothered me until now. It just felt normal. After all, Ethan and Jessie are right there with me in that boat. But now it feels like I’m auditioning for Broadway with no training an
d an empty résumé. Unprepared and unqualified and totally, totally out of my depth.
And all the way home, I feel too big for my skin. I hop off at Seventy-Second Street and step out into a mess of people and taxis and strollers and noise. There are three blocks between the subway station and home. I spend the whole time reading missed connections on my phone.
As soon as I open the door: “Art, is that you?”
I set down my laptop bag on the dining room table, which is also both the living room table and the kitchen table. My great-uncle Milton’s apartment has two bedrooms, and I guess it’s considered big for New York. Even so, it makes me feel like a mummy in a sarcophagus. I definitely get why Uncle Milton’s hanging out in Martha’s Vineyard all summer.
I follow Dad’s voice, and he’s sitting at my desk with a mug of coffee and his laptop.
“Why are you in my room?”
He shakes his head like he’s baffled to find himself here. “I don’t know, change of scenery?”
“You’re scared of the horses.”
“I love horses. I just don’t understand why your uncle Milton needs twenty-two paintings of them,” Dad says. “Their eyes follow you, right? I’m not imagining it?”
“You’re not imagining it.”
“I just want to, like . . . glue sunglasses on them, or something.”
“Good call. Mom would be thrilled.”
For a moment, we just grin at each other. Sometimes with my dad, it’s like we’re two kids in the back of a classroom. Which means there are times we must throw wads of paper at the back of my mother’s head. Metaphorically speaking.
I peek at my dad’s computer. “Is this a freelance thing?”
“Nah, just tinkering.” My dad’s a web developer. In Georgia, he was the kind of web developer who made money, until he got laid off the day before Christmas. So now he’s the kind who tinkers.
And here’s something you learn when you live in a sarcophagus: sound travels through walls. Which means, most nights, I get to hear my mom calling my dad out for half-assing his job search. Which usually gets my dad muttering about how hard it is to job hunt in Georgia while living in New York. Which always ends in my mom reminding him he’s welcome to head back home anytime.
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