“You know what it means,” I reply.
“Maybe,” Sam says.
I look up at Sam. His hair has grown a little in the few weeks since I met him. It seems funny now that when I first saw him, I didn’t think he was especially hot. I mean, I liked his green eyes and his cute ski-jump nose, but he’s not like Noah with everything all styled and perfect. But now, the more I’m around him, the more handsome I think he is. Like a camera coming into focus on something you didn’t see before.
“Why are you looking at me like that?” Sam asks.
“I have to confess something,” I blurt. “I found Mandy on Facebook.”
He stops and stares at me.
He blinks. And then says, “What? How?”
“Are you mad?” I ask.
“No, not at all. But how? You don’t even know her last name,” he says.
“I’m a pro. Trust me,” I say. “Amanda Muller, right?”
“Wow. I’m impressed,” he says.
“She’s pretty,” I say tentatively.
Sam elbows my side. “What’s with you and pretty? You’re always pointing out that things are pretty.”
“No I’m not,” I protest.
“Yes you are,” he says.
“I’m a visual person,” I say. “Besides. Don’t you think she’s pretty?”
“I mean, yeah, of course I do,” he says. “She’s beautiful.”
The word choice surprises me and it makes something turn over inside of me.
“What about you? Who was this guy who didn’t want to be your boyfriend?” Sam asks.
“Noah Bearman,” I say. “He went to my school but he graduated last year. Do you know him? He’s around.”
Sam shakes his head no. “What happened with you two?”
“It was nothing. I mean, it was something. We hooked up at a party. And it wouldn’t have been a big deal but it was like . . .” I stop walking. I don’t know if I can finish my sentence.
“Like what?” he asks.
“Like. My first. My first everything,” I say.
Understanding spreads through Sam’s eyes. “Oh. Oh.”
“Yeah,” I say. “And he was just really popular, and he was about to leave for college at the end of the year so he probably didn’t want to be in a relationship. So it never happened again.”
Sam looks away from me, shakes his head. “Fuck that. What a jerk.”
“He’s not that bad,” I say meekly. And then I ask, “Did you and Amanda . . . ?”
He looks at me crookedly. “Did we what?”
I look at him, like you know what.
“Yeah,” he says.
“So you were each others’ firsts?” I ask.
He smiles a little sadly. “No. Actually. Neither of us.”
“What? How old were you when you . . . ?” I ask.
“Fourteen,” he says. When I glance up at him that solemn expression has returned to his face. The one that ends conversations.
—
After a few minutes, we reach Randall’s Island. It’s sleepy and quiet. We walk down a dirt path, trees and green lawns spreading around us. Trees canopy overhead and small diamonds of light and shadow swarm the world.
A mosquito buzzes in front of my face and I swat at it lamely.
“Yuck,” I say, wincing.
“What?” Sam glances at me.
“Just a gross bug,” I say.
“It won’t hurt you,” he says.
I roll my eyes, “Oh what, so now I’m a prissy city girl?”
“What did I say?” he laughs, surprised.
“I know what you’re thinking,” I say. “And you know what? I think this whole hike is pretty rugged of me.”
“I didn’t say anything,” he says.
And then he pauses, turns to me, and flicks my arm with his thumb and forefinger.
“What?” I ask.
“Hike,” he says. “Pshh.”
He tries not to smile, but he can’t help it.
—
We arrive at a patch of matted grass on the bank of the East River and Sam sits down and wraps his arms around his knees. I sit down carefully next to him.
We have an unobstructed view of East Harlem. The redbrick projects we were standing in front of a few minutes ago stare back at us, shrunk down to toy size by the distance.
There are a few other people, families sitting nearby with picnic blankets and sandwiches and sodas. I finished my roll of film on the bridge, so now we have nothing to do besides just sit here. A breeze passes over us and then the air grows still again. Across the river, Manhattan is silent.
A few summers ago, my mom and I went to her friend’s house in Connecticut for the weekend. My mom rented a car and drove, which was already strange because I didn’t even think she knew how to drive, and once we were on the road, I realized she barely knew how. Then, on the way there, we got a flat tire and pulled over on the side of the highway and got out of the car.
When we were in our car zooming along just like everyone else, the road felt quiet and even. But standing on the side of the highway everything changed. The cars were deafeningly loud and fast, all jangling parts. And the street was wider than I realized. The signpost we were underneath was massive and damaged. From the road, the signs looked small and neat. But up close, it towered over the road. Looking at the Manhattan skyline, dwarfed by distance, it feels so different than when you’re in it.
“Hey.”
I look at Sam. I was so lost in thought I almost forgot he was there.
“This is nice,” I say.
He nods.
And then he says, “Philosophy.”
“Excuse me?” I say.
“That’s what I want to do,” he says. “Study how people see things. Or whatever.”
I look at Sam and he’s blushing harder than I’ve seen him.
“You have no idea how hard my dad would laugh at me if he heard me say that,” Sam says. “I can already hear him—what are you going to do with a degree in philosophy?”
I say, “I thought you don’t care what your dad thinks.”
“I don’t,” he says.
“I know you don’t,” I reply, but he knows I know he’s lying.
Sam yanks a fingerful of grass out of the ground and tosses it in my direction, but the wind carries it away before it reaches me.
He lies down on his back and I lie down beside him.
And then, Sam picks up my hand and my breathing stops. He holds my hand carefully, moving his thumb rhythmically across my palm. I wonder if he can feel me coming apart. He isn’t looking at me, but he doesn’t let go.
“I can’t believe I’m your first guy friend,” he says.
“I like it,” I say, because that’s all I can manage.
“You like what?” he asks.
I want to say, I like you. I like everything about you. I like how it feels when you touch me and say my name, or even when you just look in my direction. I like you as more than a friend. Instead, I say, “I like that you’re my friend.”
After an uncountable number of seconds that feel infinite with longing, Sam lets go of my hand. He sits up.
I sit up, too. He looks at me and lets his knee knock against mine.
“Hey,” he says.
“Hey,” I reply.
I stare at the collar of his shirt. I’m burning up and I’m afraid if I look into his eyes I’ll burst into flames.
Sam bites his lip so hard it grows red. He reaches out and brushes a strand of hair behind my ear. And then he leans in and kisses me.
Sam’s lips are salty and crazy soft. His nose presses into my cheek, his hands hold my head like if he let go I’d crumble, and I might. His hands might be the only thing holding me together. Sam is making me go
blindingly white-hot.
Then he stops, slowly letting go of me and pulling away.
I wonder if anyone in the history of the world has ever felt anything like that. I stare at him. What just happened?
Sam lies down and closes his eyes.
“Sam?” I say.
He doesn’t open his eyes.
“What does this mean?” I ask.
“I don’t know,” he says.
“I mean . . . are we like . . . ?” I ask.
“Sadie,” he says, flicking my upper arm.
“What?” I ask.
Sam is looking at me like he wants to kiss me again.
I hope he does.
But then he says, “You’re great. I like being friends with you.”
The word friend stings. Maybe the kiss disappointed him. Maybe I momentarily slipped out of the friend category and now he’s pushing me back into it.
Staring at Sam’s unreadable profile and those closed-camera-lens eyes, I know I’m not gonna get answers to any of my questions from him right now.
So all I say is, “I like being friends with you, too.”
—
Sam and I don’t talk about anything on the walk back across the bridge. When we get to the subway, he says, “Today was fun.”
I say, “Yeah.”
He says, “Have fun with your dad tomorrow.”
“I’ll try,” I reply.
And then I leave. We don’t talk about the kiss or when we are going to see each other again. We don’t even hug.
—
When I get home, my mom is sitting at the kitchen table eating leftovers. There are books and file folders piled up on the table. Of course she still files her paperwork in cabinets instead of just doing everything electronically like the rest of the world.
“What are you doing?” I ask, slipping into the table across from her and taking a bite of her half-eaten samosa.
“Satya and I have been talking,” she begins carefully.
Satya is her best friend and fellow teacher at the Yoga Center.
“Okay,” I say. “About what?”
“She wants to go to India next fall. For three months,” she says. “And she wants me to go with her. This is all the information on the residency she wants to do. There’s a Yoga institute in Pune where we can live.”
“That’s incredible,” I say.
“It might be good for me,” my mom says, almost shyly. “Since, you know, you’ll be off at college.”
It’s the first time I’ve ever thought about what my mom’s life is going to be like when I’ve gone to college. I’ll be living in a dorm with other students and probably a roommate. She’ll be alone. The thought singes my heart.
“That sounds amazing,” I say. “I hope you go.”
—
After dinner, my mom takes a bath while I make dessert tea. We call it dessert tea but it’s just coconut milk and honey, and sometimes a chamomile or ginger tea bag, too.
I sip my tea leaning against our small gas stove. The yellow overhead lamp casts long leaves of light around our two-by-six-foot kitchen. It’s a dinky kitchen, with its worn wood cabinets and mismatched tiles, but I feel, suddenly, for the first time since we’ve moved into this apartment two years ago, that it’s actually my home.
I wonder what Sam’s apartment looks like. And what did his house in New Hampshire look like? Every thought leads back to him.
I always thought there were two categories of liking people: being attracted to them, or liking them as a friend. But now, Sam has shaken that whole paradigm. I know I’m attracted to him, but it runs so deep it doesn’t even seem like it has to do with his appearance. It’s like the invisible part of me is attracted to the invisible part of him.
I remember his kiss and my legs grow weak. If just kissing Sam felt that intense, what would it feel like if we went further? I try to fuse my memories of the things I did with Noah with my image of Sam. I want to picture Sam lying on top of me, holding my shoulders, pressing his forehead against mine. The idea of touching Sam like that makes me ache in a good way. I bite my lip to fight the feeling.
I steady myself on the counter and squeeze my eyes shut. And then a thought hits me like a splash of cold water and I stand up straight: what if Sam doesn’t want me in that way?
My mom opens her creaky bedroom door and the sound shakes me out of my daze. I hear her walk into the bathroom and turn on the faucet to fill the bath. It’s crazy that a year from now, I’ll be preparing to go to college. And five years from now, I’ll be done with college altogether. Is it really possible that I’ll ever be twenty? Thirty? Forty? That mom will be sixty, seventy, eighty? Will there ever be a better day than today? This is perfect: I’m seventeen and my mom is down the hall taking a bath, and I just kissed a boy with green eyes. There are still so many things that I don’t have and that I want, but I have the weirdest feeling that even if I got all the things I’ve ever wanted, I’d still choose this moment, right now, to be the one that lasts forever.
Chapter 29
I’m meeting Allan on the steps of the Metropolitan Museum of Art at noon. I climb the wide, bright stairs, passing a group of tourists taking selfies, their maps waving wildly in the wind like flags. Overhead, the sky is a shining blue dome.
When I spot him, I wave, and a gust of wind whips my hair across my face and in my eyes. I push it off, and see him smiling at me. I feel like the girl on the bow of a ship coming home at the end of a movie. I’m the star of that movie, I can just feel it.
As Allan walks toward me, I wish I could tell all the people around us who he is. That man, my father, is a famous artist, I want to shout. This very museum that you have traveled around the world to visit owns two artworks that he’s made.
“Nice day,” Allan says, his hands shoved into the pockets of his khakis. Without even trying, he looks smarter than everyone else in the world. “I like your dress. Your mom also looks good in red.”
—
I’ve been to the Met a million times, so I know the rooms well. My teachers have been taking my classes here for field trips since kindergarten. Art teachers and history teachers and even math teachers can find a reason to visit the Met.
Allan doesn’t talk to me while he looks. The only way you could tell that he is a real artist, and that the other people in the exhibit are just tourists, is that he never shows any signs of approval. Some people elbow their friends and point to things they admire. Others wear the audio guide and keep stopping in front of certain paintings to listen. Not Allan.
When we reach the modern wing, I see a sign that reads HENRI CARTIER-BRESSON: ROMANIA 1975 with an arrow pointing down the hall.
“Oh, can we go see that show?” I ask Allan. “That’s one of the photographers my teacher had us study this summer. This girl in my class, Alexis, did a whole project on him.”
Allan shrugs. “Sure.”
—
In the photo gallery, I set the pace. I can feel him behind me, letting me decide how much time to spend in front of each picture. He gets it, I think. He knows I’m a real artist, too.
The pictures are all street scenes from a city I’ve never been to, from a time before I was born. But it feels as familiar as the world outside right now.
Some of these are photographs that I’ve seen in books, but they look different in person. The blacks are richer, but there’s also some other harder to name quality that makes my heart flutter. I’m so used to seeing photographs on screens, unless they’re mine or my classmates, and it’s always magic to see the actual thing and to know that the artist touched it himself.
The last photograph in the gallery is one I’ve never seen before. In it, a man and two teenagers are sleeping on a train, and their bodies are intertwined. Even in 1979, there were teenagers like me and Sam, sneaking out, finding places to be al
one together.
—
Allan doesn’t want to eat lunch at the museum café so we walk together to a French restaurant on Madison Avenue that his friend told him was good. It’s dark inside. An old man at the table in the front is drinking red wine and eating a steak. This is different from anywhere my mom and I would ever eat, especially for lunch.
While we read the menu, which is spare and expensive, Allan asks me what I thought of the museum. I want to impress him, and I grope for the right words.
“I loved the photo show,” I say.
“Yeah.” Allan shrugs. “That work holds up I guess.”
“I love going to museums with you,” I gush. “I wish you lived here and we could do it more often.”
Allan scans the restaurant. He raises his arm in a kind of command as a busboy shuffles by.
Then he looks back at me.
“I could never live in New York again,” he says, only responding to half of my comment.
“Well, at least I have your camera,” I say, trying a different tactic. “So it’s kind of like you’re always here.”
“I’m so glad you’re using that thing,” Allan says. “It cost a fortune and I felt so guilty I never used it. Do you have it with you today?”
“No, because remember, we’re going to go from here to my friend Phaedra’s mom’s party after this,” I say.
He looks at me blankly. “Who?”
“My friend Phaedra? You met her at your opening?” I say, trying to jog his memory. “And I e-mailed you that invitation from her mom, it’s a fund-raiser for this art program. So I thought we could just go there from here.”
Allan is about to respond, but the waiter is walking by again and Allan’s attention jumps away from me. He waves his arm over his head. “Waiter? Who is our waiter?”
“I’ll be right with you,” the waiter says, shuffling by holding a tray of plates.
“The service here is terrible,” Allan says, looking back at me. “But the food looks great. Did you see that steak?”
“Right, yeah,” I say. “Anyway, the party starts at four—”
“Yes. What can I get you?” The waiter appears next to our table.
Allan orders a steak and I get the French Onion Soup.
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