“She’s wonderful,” Gerri says as she hands them both a towel.
“May I have two?” Dad asks.
“Of course!” Gerri passes him a second towel.
Looking at Gerri, you would have no idea about her towel woes or that she knows of Byron’s arrest.
As I swipe my parents’ IDs, I say, “Welcome, Phyllis and Mike.”
“Perfect,” Gerri says, nodding.
Dad takes a picture of me, and Mom leans in and kisses my forehead. I smile back at them. Maybe whole fakeness is okay every now and then.
As soon as I finish my shift, I dodge into a bathroom, stuff my shorts and Whole Fitness shirt into my bag, pull on a sundress, and then walk to the downtown train. I transfer to the R at Times Square and take it to Canal Street. I told Sebastian to meet me on the corner of Canal and Mulberry. I’m going to show him Chinatown.
I climb the crowded stairs from the subway, my stomach churning. What if yesterday was a fluke? What if Sebastian sees me again and he’s no longer interested?
But then I see him. He’s wearing sunglasses and a straw hat, and he’s reading a subway map, all huge and unfolded. I didn’t even know they made paper subway maps anymore.
“Leela!” he says, smiling as he sees me. He attempts to fold the map, but it’s not cooperating, so he crumples it messily and stuffs it in his pocket.
“Hey,” I say, grinning at him. “Are you trying to look like a tourist with that map?”
He takes off his sunglasses and hooks them over the collar of his shirt. “I’d like to see you get around Saskatchewan without a map.”
“There are these things called phones,” I say. “They actually have subway maps in them.”
“Snob.” He lifts my chin up with his hand, leans down, and kisses me.
I kiss him back. Cars are honking and people and bikes are streaming by us. I think about that German couple from the High Line yesterday. If they saw us now, they’d definitely think we are a couple.
Sebastian takes my hand, and we start walking. We cross over Canal Street, and I lead him down Mulberry. I point out windows with pinkish-brownish duck carcasses hanging suspended from the ceiling and trinket shops with cheap fidget spinners and plastic frogs swimming in tubs of water.
“It’s like going to another country,” he says in awe.
“I know. That’s what I love about Chinatown.”
We stop in a candy store, and I buy some chewy ginger candies and Sour Patch Kids. I’ve decided that my next care package for Shannon will be sweets instead of bathroom-themed items. Sebastian gets a bag of cola gummies that we share on the walk over to Tasty Dumpling. When we get to the counter, I order us fried pork dumplings and scallion pancakes.
“Okay, these are incredible,” he says as he plunges his second dumpling in soy sauce. “And I’d say these scallion pancakes are the best ever, but I’ve never had them before so I have nothing to compare them to.”
“You’ve never had scallion pancakes?” I ask incredulously. Scallion pancakes are one of life’s great indulgences, and it’s a tragedy to go eighteen years without ever having them.
I tell him this.
“Seventeen,” he says. “I turn eighteen in September. What about you?”
“I’m sixteen,” I say. “March.”
“Barely legal,” he says jokingly.
We both freeze. I hug my arms around my middle. Definite conversation minefield for us.
As he pops another dumpling in his mouth, I dip a triangle of scallion pancake into soy sauce. While part of my brain is here with Sebastian, another part is thinking about rule number 2.5 from the list I made up called How to Make Sure Skinny Girls Aren’t the Only Ones Who Have Boyfriends. Sebastian isn’t my boyfriend and I’m not his girlfriend, but kissing means we’re something. And my rule number 2.5 was that I’m not supposed to eat in front of a guy I’m having something with. But as I’m simultaneously enjoying the Chinese food and being here with Sebastian, I’m also creating a new version of rule number 2.5 in my head.
WHY RULE NUMBER 2.5 SUCKS AND SHOULD BE IGNORED AND I SHOULDN’T STARVE MYSELF (EVEN IF THE BOY IS REALLY CUTE AND A GOOD KISSER):
I’m hungry. I’ve been up since 5:20 this morning and just had a banana and I need to eat.
Torture = watching someone else eat scallion pancakes at Tasty Dumpling and not having one. Or three.
I’m sick of pretending to be someone I’m not (i.e., a person who doesn’t eat). I want to be myself (i.e., a person who eats) around Sebastian.
I wrote How to Make Sure Skinny Girls Aren’t the Only Ones Who Have Boyfriends so I can edit it. Better yet, I can delete the whole thing. Fuck How to Make Sure Skinny Girls Aren’t the Only Ones Who Have Boyfriends. And while I’m at it, I’m sick of thinking in terms of skinny and fat. What about being a curvaceous chick? Much better. Sexier. More luscious.
When we leave Tasty Dumplings, we cross into the park. The old Chinese women are line dancing. A boom box is plugged into speakers and blasting disco music. The women are holding colorful fans, and it looks like they’re doing the electric slide.
“What’s up with the dancing ladies?” Sebastian asks.
I shrug. “They’re always here. I don’t think it’s a class. I think they just meet up and dance.”
We watch them for a few minutes. They must be seventy or eighty years old, with short hair, no-nonsense T-shirts, and sweatpants. None of them are smiling as they step from side to side, swiveling their fans in the air.
“Are they even having fun?” Sebastian asks.
“I think so. I think it’s a cultural thing. Americans feel like they always have to smile to show they’re happy or even when they’re not happy to show that they’re pretending to be happy. Down here, it’s different. That’s why I like it.”
I tell him my Chinatown theory, about how I feel more comfortable here where I’m obviously different than uptown in the elite private-school culture where I’m supposed to fit in but totally don’t.
“Why don’t you fit in up there?”
“Isn’t it obvious?” I say. Yes, there’s the purple-and-green hair and the eyebrow ring. But that’s not the big reason. Emphasis on “big.”
He watches me, waiting for an answer.
I cross my arms and quickly say, “I don’t exactly have the ideal body type.”
“Is there an ideal type? And who’s making that decision?”
I don’t answer. It’s not like I’m going to spell it out for him, how Brie routinely mocks my body, how Cole could only be attracted to me if he’s a chubby chaser, how Mom wants me to eat salad for every meal, how Dad only compliments skinny women’s bodies.
“I think you’re awesome,” Sebastian says. He takes my arms and unwraps them, placing my hands on his shoulders. “When I first saw you I thought you looked like a superhero. I still do. Besides, you’re talking to a Canadian who thinks winter sports are Horrible Things. Talk about not fitting in.”
“But that’s hardly—”
“No buts.” He leans over and plants a soft kiss on my lips. As he does, he slides his hand along the back of my dress, lower and lower. “Actually this butt. I’ll take this butt.”
I tighten my arms around his neck and kiss him back, hard and deep.
When I get out of work on Wednesday, we decide to meet in Brooklyn Heights and walk across the Brooklyn Bridge to Manhattan. Sebastian is wearing his straw hat again. He told me he bought it from a street vendor yesterday morning. He seemed proud about that fact, like he’s a real New Yorker. As we’re walking, I tell him how when the bridge opened to the public in 1883, it was the longest-ever suspension bridge and the first bridge to connect Brooklyn to Manhattan. Back in elementary school, teachers devoted half of every year to the history of New York City. Back then, it felt tedious, but it’s actually fun to be a tour guide. I can tell Sebastian is impressed.
Partway across the bridge, he whips out his phone and starts taking pictures of the Empire State Building.
I take his elbow so he doesn’t trip while he’s walking and shooting. “What’s with you and the Empire State Building?” I ask.
He laughs. “Total tourist moment?”
“Sort of.”
“Here’s the thing. My whole life I’ve seen the Empire State Building as this symbol of New York City, and now I’m here looking at it.” He takes another picture. “Remember that children’s book Olivia?”
“I think so,” I say.
“Remember how Olivia’s mom takes her to the beach and she sculpts her sand castle into the Empire State Building? And remember how King Kong climbs the Empire State Building? And Spider-Man, too. And even Futurama! They call it the Vampire State Building, but it’s obvious that’s what it is.”
I touch a padlock clipped to a gate on the side on the bridge. “What’s with you and children’s books? Like Olivia? And you mentioned Willy Wonka before and Winnie-the-Pooh and A Wrinkle in Time.”
He tucks his phone back in his pocket and takes my hand. “I’m obsessed with all children’s books but mostly picture books. I think they’re the perfect art form. The good ones, that is. I love the way the words complement the illustrations and the illustrations complement the words.”
“I never thought of it that way,” I say. “Almost like a movie.”
Sebastian nods. “I’d love to illustrate picture books someday. Maybe write my own. That’s one of the reasons I want to go to Columbia. There’s a fine arts professor there who’s also a children’s book illustrator. He’s seen my portfolio. He thinks I have potential.”
“Seriously?” I ask. That has to be the coolest thing in the world. And to think that he drew me! I have proof on my phone. “That’s amazing.”
“Yeah. Well.” He frowns and squints into the sunlight. “It may not happen, though. Columbia.”
“Oh. Right.”
We walk quietly for a bit. We’re halfway across the bridge, with Brooklyn behind us, Manhattan in front of us, airplanes above us, and boats in the East River below us. It’s pretty extraordinary to take in all at once.
After a few minutes, I say, “I think I want to be a writer. I’m not sure what kind, like fiction or nonfiction. Honestly I’ve never said it out loud before, so if I become an accountant or a dentist don’t hold it against me.”
“No, that’s awesome. Do you write stuff now?”
“A little. Lists mostly. Rants.” I tell him about the blog I started with Alyssa over the winter. That’s where I used to write some of my lists. I haven’t written any down since we put the blog on hold to focus on schoolwork. Now I just think the lists in my head. I don’t mention that Froggy was the graphic designer for the blog. It’s not a secret, but I don’t feel the need to bring Froggy into the conversation. Sebastian still hasn’t talked about his ex-girlfriend, so I haven’t asked.
“More than anything,” I say, “I’m happiest when I’m reading. And maybe it sounds random, but I feel like I have stories to tell.”
I can’t believe I’m sharing this. It’s been in my head for so long, these vague shadowy thoughts that I’ve never exposed to daylight.
“I can totally see that,” Sebastian says. He takes his ChapStick out of his pocket and slides it across his lips. I’m starting to think he’s addicted. Not that I mind. Anything having to do with his lips is fine with me. “You’re an introvert. You could be like Virginia Woolf, just without the depression.”
I giggle. “No stones in the pockets.”
“No wading into rivers.” Sebastian tips his hat forward so it’s shading his eyes. “Speaking of children’s books, you know what this reminds me of?”
I shake my head. I have a sudden urge to grab on to Sebastian, to kiss those ChapSticked lips, to press my body into him. Just thinking about it gives me a pulsing feeling between my legs.
“You’re going to think this sounds random,” Sebastian continues, oblivious that I’m mentally undressing him, “but remember The Very Hungry Caterpillar?”
I force myself back to reality. “Like where the caterpillar crawls around and eats something every day?”
Sebastian nods. “Yeah. Like on Monday we went to the High Line. That was our apple. On Tuesday we went to Chinatown. That was two pears.”
“What did the caterpillar eat on Wednesday?”
Sebastian scratches his chin. “Today was three plums, I think.”
“How do you remember that?”
“I told you. This is my thing.” Sebastian fixes his eyes on me and takes both of my hands in his. When he speaks, his voice is low and sexy. “Remember how every day, after his meal, he was still hungry? That’s how I feel every time we say good-bye.”
We smile at each other. Maybe he did know I was mentally undressing him, because he’s running his fingers across my shoulders, down my bare arms, up my sides toward my breasts. I can see he’s looking at my cleavage, so I press my chest into him. As I do, he takes me in his arms and kisses me.
When we finally come up for air, I say, “Didn’t the hungry caterpillar go into a cocoon after all that eating?”
“Yep,” he says.
I stand up on my tiptoes, and we start kissing again. It would be nice to go into a cocoon with Sebastian. No Byron, no Annie. Not my parents or his parents or the lawyer Mark Levy or the district attorney or any of the reasons we should have no contact with each other. Not even Shannon, who’d probably say it’s stupid I’m hooking up with Sebastian, or Alyssa, who’d tell me to call Froggy and see if he’ll take me back.
As we continue walking, I steal Sebastian’s straw hat and wear it the rest of the way across the Brooklyn Bridge.
On Thursday morning, as I’m swiping IDs and greeting members by name, I attempt to count the towels that I hand out. Gerri is right. There’s a definite hemorrhaging of fluffy white towels. Some members ask for two or even three. When I see them exit the gym ninety minutes later, all shiny cheeked and showered, they rarely toss a towel into the bins outside the locker rooms. Of course a lot of people are putting wet towels in the bins stationed near the showers, but they could also be adding them to their fluffy white towel collection at home.
Gerri sighs heavily as a bald guy wearing a pinstriped suit walks out of the gym.
“He took two towels when he came in,” she says grumpily.
I watch him go. His name is Richard. He comes in every morning in track pants and leaves in a suit. “Don’t you think he put them in the laundry bin?”
“Probably, but who knows?” Gerri pumps fast at her hand weights. “It’s not like he even has any hair to dry that would justify the two towels.”
I start to laugh but then cover my mouth with my hand. This towel thing is really irking her.
As soon as I get off work, I walk down to Fairway and buy a baguette, a block of cheddar cheese, and some hard salami. Before I left the apartment this morning, I smuggled a cutting board, a knife wrapped in a dish towel, and a picnic blanket into my backpack. Sebastian is bringing fruit, drinks, and dessert and we’re going to meet at the Botanical Garden and have a picnic.
When Sebastian proposed the idea of a picnic it sounded like something out of a fairy tale in the English countryside. He told how he read about the Botanical Garden, and thought it would be a good place to hang out, sketch, and be anonymous.
It’s a forever train ride up to the Bronx, and then I take a city bus to the garden. When I mapped it out last night I was tempted to suggest we meet at the subway station and travel there together. But then I heard Mom and Dad in the living room having a conversation about Byron’s legal woes and I decided no. I have to keep these worlds apart.
Even though Byron has been in Connecticut all week, it hasn’t taken the problem away. When my parents were talking last night, Dad was telling Mom that he talked to Mark Levy. Mark told him that the district attorney still hasn’t responded to our lawyer’s request to settle out of court. If they don’t work out a plea bargain, Byron will go to trial for sexual assault.
&nb
sp; Then I heard Dad say that Mark Levy told him that the Mills family could also pursue a civil suit against Byron. If he’s found guilty in a civil suit, we’d have to pay them a large financial sum to cover damages.
I put my knuckle in my mouth and tried not to listen to the part about the Mills family. They were talking loudly, though. It was hard to tune it out.
“What kind of damages?” Mom asked nervously. “Do you think she’s doing this because she wants our money? Can Mark figure out what her parents do for a living?”
She. Sebastian’s sister. Her parents. Sebastian’s parents.
It’s weird how I know that his parents are teachers. It’s weird how I know they’re in New York City for the summer.
When I took my hand out of my mouth, I had bite marks on my knuckles. I reached for my headphones, slid them on, and blasted the music.
“My sister is getting home from Africa tomorrow,” I tell Sebastian. “Well, officially from London, but before that she was in Burkina Faso for two years. We’re picking her up from the airport in the morning.”
We’ve finished eating the bread and cheese and salami and drinking the bottles of iced tea. Now we’re resting on the picnic blanket on a sloping hill above the rose garden. The sweet scent of lilac is in the air. I swear, I could close my eyes and be in the English countryside. Not that I’ve ever been to the English countryside, but I could easily picture it to be like this, complete with a beautiful guy wearing a straw hat.
“Anaïs, right?” he asks.
I nod. “As in Anaïs Nin, the French poet. My mom is a literature snob. And a francophone snob, too.”
“Another snob,” Sebastian says, laughing. “Like mother, like daughter.”
I swat his arm with my hand. “Don’t even say that! My mom and I are polar opposites.”
Seriously. If there were geographic locations farther apart than the North and South Pole, that would be Mom and me.
Sebastian rolls over on his side so he’s facing me. His hair is hanging over his face. I reach up and tuck it behind his ear and then touch the scar on his cheek. He told me the other day that he got it during a snowboarding wipeout and had to be taken down the hill on a stretcher.
The Universe Is Expanding and So Am I Page 13