You'll Find Me in Manhattan

by Jill Knapp

  During the daytime, it’s not so bad. There have been many bars, restaurants and tourist attractions added to make the neighborhood safer. Not to mention the prestigious Columbia University on West 116th street. However, there is still a pretty high crime rate around the area. Fortunately, the party was located not too far from Columbia’s campus, so I figured we would be safe.

  Alex was grabbing lunch with Michael so I had the whole place to myself. I had to admit I was driving myself crazy wondering if Michael was really his lunch date. After seeing that unknown red-head girl in the park, I had been thinking of ways to ask Alex about it. The timing just never seemed right.

  I slowly walked around my and Alex’s apartment, idly running my fingers over everything in my path. The kitchen counters, the high back stools, the sofa in the sitting area. I made my way into the bedroom. Even though this was my new home, the entire apartment still felt like Alex’s. We were waiting for the lease to be up before putting the apartment in both of our names. Hopefully Alex wouldn’t change his mind about our upcoming nuptials and kick me out, leaving me essentially homeless. Kind of like how Amalia was last year before moving to Murray Hill.

  Right down to the closets, which held meticulously pressed button-down shirts, and a suit in every color imaginable, the bedroom felt like him. I looked down at my own outfit, skinny jeans and an over-sized fair-isle sweater from the Gap. Not exactly couture. I sighed and crossed over to the bed. The sheets were incredibly soft, at least 800 thread count. I ran my fingers over the burgundy-colored duvet and pillowcases, both equally as soft as the sheets.

  Sitting on the edge of the bed, I glanced out of the window, which offered me a stunning panoramic view of the Manhattan skyline. I smiled in awe of the city. I never got tired of that view.

  Looking down at my ring, I watched as light danced off the diamond, making it sparkle in a way I had never noticed before. It was truly beautiful, and in moments like this I couldn’t believe it was mine. I thought about how chaotic everything had been in Rhode Island. My parents’ constant arguing would send me running. I would often drive to an empty spot by one of the marinas and sit on the dock, dreaming of the day I would be able to run away from that life. To escape.

  And praying that my life never included the sadness that had beset them.

  Looking out at the city now, I realized I had gotten exactly that. I had been given a whole new life, and next year I would be married. Married, living on Roosevelt Island, and hopefully enrolled in a doctoral program. If I was really lucky, Alex and I would be accepted on the same program and we would be able to attend school together again. But I knew that was improbable. All of the programs were small, the largest of them accepted twenty students. I knew I had a better shot at NYU than anywhere else, if only because I would have already obtained my Master’s there. Not to mention the weekly boredom that came from working with Dr. Greenfield. The work-study program had better provide me with a glowing letter of recommendation.

  I looked at my ring one more time, holding my hand up to the sunlight. It was a little hard to believe that in May I’d be wearing a graduation cap and gown, and in July I’d be in a wedding dress. A smile tugged at my lips as I slowly laid my head on the softest pillow I had ever felt.

  Thirteen – Amalia

  The day before Halloween I sat on a comfortable, oversized chair, twirling my frizzy curls as a doctoral student sat in a less-than-comfortable-looking chair directly across from me. As I played with the strands of my blonde hair, the first thought that came to mind was how overdue I was for some highlights. Already bored, one minute into therapy (only thirty-nine more minutes to go), I turned my eyes onto the girl-playing-therapist. She had naturally red hair, not the kind that came in a bottle you’d see on sale at Target for ten bucks. Her skin was fair, even more pale then my own. She was dressed in a form-fitting pencil skirt, a flowing ivory-colored blouse, and kitten heels. As I studied the person who would be in turn studying me for the remainder of my tenure at NYU, I concluded that she was around twenty-nine years old. Initially, her appearance reminded me of the old Dolly Parton song, “Jolene.”

  Feeling both annoyed and impatient, I leaned back in my chair a bit and folded my arms. I was still reeling from the fact that Dr. Greenfield was making me do this. I asked Olivia and August about it, and neither of them was being forced to talk to a stranger. My eyes fixed on the clipboard she clutched in her hands, undoubtedly to be used to write down my every thought. At the ripe old age of twenty-nine, how much more about life could she possible know than me? Her chocolate- brown eyes were somehow warm and challenging at the same time. I couldn’t tell how tall she was from sitting down, but I could tell that she was quite thin. About five to ten pounds thinner than me, at least. Finally, after a good five more minutes of us looking at one another, she wrote something down on her clipboard and smiled.

  “So, Amelia,” she began, uncrossing and then recrossing her thin legs.

  “Amalia,” I corrected her, my arms still folded in front of my chest.

  “That’s right,” she nodded, her expression remaining the same. “ ‘Amalia Danette Hastings’,” she overly enunciated my name before offering me another smile. “I apologize.”

  She sure didn’t look sorry. In fact, she looked smug. Even a tad elitist.

  “It’s cool,” I shrugged, resolving not to let her get to me. “You can just call me Amalia, though. It sounds like I have a fancy title when you say my entire name out loud like that.” I lowered my eyes to the ground, but my attention was grabbed by her footwear. Before now I hadn’t noticed the red soles brightly displayed on the bottom of her kitten heels. Louboutins, just like Cassandra always wore. I felt a wave of bitter resentment flow through me, starting at my own shoes that I had gotten on sale at Macy’s. The counselor’s shoes easily cost nine times what I paid for mine. Frustrated already, hot tears threatened to come out through my eyes, which were undoubtedly markedly glassy and red.

  I did not want to be here.

  It was bad enough I was forced into this arrangement by Dr. Greenfield, but did he really need to sit me across from some type-A super-model? Were there no nice guys in the program I could have been paired with? This girl obviously came from, or made, a great deal of money. How could she possibly relate to my life in any real way?

  “Amalia,” she started again, leaning in a little closer to me this time. “What brings you here today?”

  “Well-” I started. “I’m sorry but I didn’t catch your name. That’s probably an important thing to tell your clients. No?” I smirked and finally unfolded my arms, letting them relax onto my lap.

  For a slight moment, her tight smile twitched. Her eyes darted to the floor and then back up to me so fast you’d have missed it if you’d blinked. Checkmate. I wasn’t the only one to sit there being uncomfortable for the next few months.

  “My name is Autumn Mercer,” she replied, and then took the opportunity to jot something down on her clipboard.

  “Your first name is Autumn?” I shifted in my chair. The sheer size of the thing felt as if it was swallowing me whole. I kicked my legs up and decided to sit cross-legged. I didn’t care that I had put my shoes on it – maybe a few stains would help convince the faculty to chuck it for a new one.

  “It’s my middle name,” Autumn shrugged. My first name is Lauren, but a teacher read my middle name out loud during attendance one day in high school and it just kind of stuck.” As if realizing she had offered up too much information, she straightened her posture and lifted her chin a bit. “Now you officially know more about me than I do about you, Amalia.”

  I glared back at her. “What do you want to know, Autumn?”

  “Let’s start with you telling me a little bit about yourself.” She placed the clipboard and held her hands open, a gesture for me to feel free to talk. “Where did you grow up? What kind of person are you?”

  “Don’t you already have that information from the form I filled out?”

 
“I’d prefer to hear you tell me about it,” she pressed on.

  Exasperated by this conversation, I rubbed my tired eyes. I still couldn’t believe I was going to be going to therapy once a week until April. That seemed like decades from now.

  “Well I guess I am a pretty normal person,” I offered.

  “What do you think makes someone normal?” she quickly replied.

  Taken aback by the question, I involuntarily scrunched my face. I thought about it for a second. What was a good answer I could give this girl so she’d get off my case and move on to something else?

  “I believe what makes someone normal is the absence of any diagnostic criteria that would categorize them as having a developmental or mental disorder. Someone who is not in the clinical population,” I spat out, sounding like an intro-to-psychology textbook.

  Autumn didn’t answer me. Instead, she sat still for a moment before scribbling something onto her paper. When she was finished she folded her hands and placed them on her lap. She was so reserved, I immediately found it bothersome.

  “Is something wrong?” I uttered.

  “I’m just thinking about your answer,” she touched her hand to her chin and grimaced. “There is certain so-called diagnostic criteria that anyone can relate to.

  “Such as?” I challenged.

  “Anxiety, for one,” she uncrossed her legs and leaned forward. “Tell me, Amalia, do you ever experience any anxiety?”

  “Of course,” I shrugged. There was a slight edge to my voice, but I didn’t care.

  “But wouldn’t that be a deciding factor in diagnosing a disorder?” she inquired. She ran her fingers through her red hair and pulled it all over to one side of her shoulder. She seemed like an overly confident person and I smiled to myself as I realized I was probably analyzing her more than she was me.

  “I’m not in school to become a psychologist,” I muttered, in a recalcitrant tone.

  “Humor me,” she said in a low voice.

  I shook my head but still played along. “Everyone experiences anxiety,” I said plainly. A satisfied smile spread across her pore-less face. “However, if I were studying to become a psychologist, I would know that there is a difference between a casual case of the jitters and the pervasive oppression of living with an anxiety disorder.”

  Autumn kept her smug smile pinned to her face. “You’re very clever, aren’t you?”

  “Am I?” I asked. “Or do I just not like someone suggesting I may not be normal.”

  “That’s not what I did.”

  I rolled my eyes and looked past Autumn to the digital clock she had sitting on her desk. Our time was almost up. I took a deep breath and slowly let it out.

  “To answer your other question,” I looked her straight in the eyes, I wanted to show her she wasn’t as intimidating as she liked to think she was. “I grew up in Staten Island. I’m a native New Yorker, and my parents are native New Yorkers too. They’re from Queens.”

  “I didn’t ask about your parents,” she pursed her lips.

  “No,” I answered. “Not yet.”

  Autumn let out a defeatist sigh and leaned back into her chair. “You’re not going to get anything out of being here if you don’t at least try to participate.”

  “The only reason I am here is because Dr. Greenfield told me my placement in the work-study program was contingent upon me coming to analysis,” I said emphatically. “I don’t want to be here. This isn’t a personal attack on you.” I pointed at her for emphasis. “I need to remain in the program or I won’t have any money to pay for, well, anything.”

  She tucked her hair behind her ears and raised an eyebrow, obviously not used to having such a difficult client. “Regardless of the reasons that brought you here, it will go by a lot faster if you stop fighting me. I’m not your enemy.”

  “Is this the part where you ask me if I think people are plotting against me?” I scrunched my eyebrows.

  Autumn let out a small laugh and sighed. “No, I wasn’t going to ask that. But you did bring up something I’d like to talk about.”

  “What’s that?”

  “You mentioned you weren’t in school for psychology,” she said.

  “That’s true,” I said. “I’m not.”

  “There are a few paths to follow with the degree you’re going for. In fact, it’s pretty broad.”

  I nodded in agreement, unsure of where this conversation was heading.

  “So, that in mind,” she stood up and walked over to her desk, “And the fact that you’re graduating in May, shouldn’t you know by now what you want to do in terms of a career?”

  I felt a spike in my blood pressure so palpable, for a moment I thought I was surely going into coronary arrest. This uptight bitch presumed to know so much about me. In any other situation, I would curse her out, but not this time. I was powerless, controlled by the threat of getting kicked out of my program. Controlled by Dr. Greenfield and his red-headed puppet.

  Only I was the one attached to the strings.

  “Thank you for bringing that to my attention. I’ll be sure to think about what we discussed here before our next session.” I spoke softly and measured, positive little Miss Mercer was trying to get a reaction out of me.

  Unflappable, Autumn simply nodded before saying, “Our time is up.”

  I stood up, gathering my jacket and handbag in the process. I turned on my heel and reached for the doorknob, but before I could exit, she had to make one last remark.

  “Ms. Hastings,” she called.

  “Yes, Ms. Mercer?” I said in a saccharine-sweet voice, not bothering to turn around.

  “Have a safe and happy Halloween.” I could hear the smirk on her face.

  Without another word I walked out of her office, deliberately leaving the door open so she’d have to get up to close it.

  Fourteen – Olivia

  “Ouch!” I tripped over my heels for the third time. It was hard enough to walk in these shoes, not to mention it was pitch black out and freezing. There really was no such thing as autumn in New York.

  “Why on earth did you pick those shoes?” Amalia asked, as she and I quickly headed further downtown than either of us wanted to go. “You usually wear flats or ankle boots. I didn’t even know you owned strappy sandals. And gold ones on top of that!”

  She made a good point. Why was I wearing these shoes? Oh, right. The same reason I was currently donning a platinum-blonde wig and carrying around a stuffed dragon in my purse.

  Halloween really brought out the crazy in all of us.

  We dragged ourselves all the way uptown, passing a few sketchy areas on the way to our destination. Distracted by my aching feet, I was completely thrown off balance when Amalia yanked on my arm, pulling me out of the way of a subway grate in the middle of the sidewalk. One wrong step in these heels and I’d twist my ankle before this party even started. I looked at her again and studied her choice of costume. Alex and I were going as characters from Game of Thrones, but Amalia didn’t say anything about Michael and her coordinating outfits.

  Michael and Alex were meeting us at the club, the name of which I still couldn’t remember, because they said they had to do something beforehand. I assumed it was bachelor-party planning. Amalia and I walked downtown together to keep each other company, and possibly, safe.

  “Who are you supposed to be, again?” I asked, dodging her shiny black wings as she strutted down the avenue. A group of teenagers trotted by us, covered in shaving cream and silly string. One of them was smoking. I felt every muscle in my body ache as my brain screamed at me to ask him to bum one. I shook my head and whispered “no” to myself.

  “I’m a dark fairy,” she said, as if it were obvious. Bright-pink fake eyelashes adhered to her eyelids like tiny flower petals. As she spoke, the moonlight hit her mouth just right and I could see how shiny her blood-red lip-gloss was. It reminded me of how she was dressed at the museum. She was trying too hard.

  Her usual curls were flat-ironed i
nto a pin-straight sheet of blonde. She was wearing a black and purple dress that frayed out at the hem, sort of like a gothic version of Tinkerbelle’s. To pull it together she wore a heavy dose of kohl eyeliner, black tights, and shiny black boots that laced up to her knee. Not to mention the broad wings, which appeared to be sown into the back of her dress.

  “Amalia, are you wearing those wings all night?” I fiddled with my wig, already feeling itchy.

  “Of course,” she bounced along the sidewalk, oblivious to groups of people, who were ducking out of her way. I wondered how she would fit through the doorway.

  “You’re going to take an eye out,” I chuckled.

  “Yes, your grace,” she muttered.

  “What is Michael wearing tonight?” I asked softly, hoping not to cause an emotional eruption.

  “I don’t know,” she said in a quiet, monotone voice. She didn’t offer up any other information. I pressed my lips into a flat line, searching for the right words to say.

  “Are the two of you in a fight?”

  “No,” she uttered

  She wasn’t looking at me, and upon closer examination she didn’t look sad. She was eerily calm, a blank stare in her blue eyes. I let out a sigh and decided not to ask her any more questions about Michael tonight.

  We turned the corner on 117th street and finally saw our destination. Although I didn’t know the name of the club, it was the only building on the block with a line halfway around the corner. Alex had picked this venue and apparently shelled out some cash and got us on the guest list so the four of us wouldn’t have to wait in line. As we made our way up to the bouncer, Amalia stopped walking and looked right at me. She had a sullen look on her face but her posture was still straight and strong.

  “I hung out with Hayden the other day,” she said in a flat, emotionless voice. “Michael still hasn’t asked me to be exclusive, and I hung out with my ex-boyfriend the other day.”