“Wow, she’s from Arizona?” Arden asks. “Think about how far away New York must seem to her. And you’re being a big baby about going a few minutes up the turnpike.”
“A few minutes? It’s like two hours.”
“But this girl—what’s her name? Sofia?—she has to fly on a plane for, like, what, two days? If she can do it, you can do it.”
“Um, it doesn’t take two days to fly to Arizona,” I correct her.
“I was exaggerating for effect.”
“Why are you being so pushy about this?” I ask. “I thought you’d be on my side.”
“I am on your side. That’s the whole point. I know what’s better for you more than you do,” Arden says. “Even if it’s worse for me.”
“You’re not helping,” I tell her. “Just, never mind. Forget I ever said anything.”
“You have to answer her,” Arden tells me. “You can’t be rude.”
“And say what? That I’m not actually coming on the retreat?”
“I thought you and Celia decided you’d give it a few days,” Arden says.
“But isn’t that worse? To pretend I’m coming and then back out? That seems mean.”
“Meaner than not responding at all? I don’t think so,” Arden says, turning to leave. “Answer the poor girl. I could use a friend in Arizona.”
“You?”
“Sure,” Arden says. “I’d like a friend in every state. It will make my college road trip much easier.”
“You’re in sixth grade,” I remind her.
“Never too early to start planning,” Arden calls as she strolls toward her room. I roll my eyes and bury my face against my pillow. Arden is right—I can’t be rude. So before I can talk myself out of it, I open Sofia’s message again and rapidly type a response:
Hi Sofia,
Wow, your pictures are amazing too! Arizona looks so much more interesting than New Jersey!
To be honest, I’m not sure if I’m attending the retreat yet. I just got off the wait list yesterday, so it’s kind of a new thing. But no matter what, thanks for contacting me. I followed you so I can see all the pictures you post from New York City!
<3, Avalon (@AvalonByTheC)
PS: Oh, and my name is pronounced exactly like it looks, but with a short A sound at the beginning. I was named after a beach town in New Jersey (which is where my PhotoReady name came from, too).
I press send before I can agonize over the response—or my decision about the retreat—any longer.
* * *
Celia is standing at my locker when I reach the seventh-grade hallway, hunched over her phone in concentration.
“Hey,” I greet her.
“Who’s this girl who’s starring all your PhotoReady pictures?” she asks immediately.
“How did you see that already?”
“She also commented on like every single one. It wasn’t hard to notice,” Celia says.
I twist out my locker combination, not making eye contact. “She was assigned as my roommate. For the retreat.” I pull books out of my bag and deposit them on my locker shelf.
“You already have a roommate? Wow, they don’t waste much time.”
“I mean, it’s in less than a week. They sent out the e-mail about roommates late last night. Sofia must have looked up my account,” I explain.
“Sofia is the name of the stalker?”
“She’s not a stalker,” I say. “She seems nice.” I pull out the books I need for first and second periods and begin walking toward our homeroom, Celia following behind me with her nose stuck to her phone screen.
“If you trip and fall walking like that, I’m not going to help you,” I warn her. “Anyway, I already told her that I wasn’t going on the retreat. So you can stop being a Sofia hater.”
“Did she respond?”
“Yes. She wrote ‘No’ with about ninety-seven Os,” I say. “I haven’t replied to that yet.”
Celia and I turn into our homeroom. “You should go,” she tells me. “Really. Then I can live the retreat in your body, or whatever that’s called.”
“Vicariously,” I fill in. “But no, I’m not going without you.”
“But you’ll have Sofia,” Celia says in a singsong voice. “Your new best friend.”
“Quit it,” I say. “Seriously, I’m not going. My parents probably wouldn’t let me go anyway. PhotoReady didn’t exactly give me much notice.”
“Hold on, you didn’t tell your parents yet?”
“No. I’ll tell them tonight. And they’ll say ‘no’ and that will be the end of it.”
Celia steps in front of me to face me head-on. “Listen, if you go, at least I’ll feel like I’m there too. You’ll send me constant updates. You won’t even have to talk to anyone else, you’ll be so busy texting me.”
The bell rings, and Celia and I shuffle to our seats. I pull out my phone and open PhotoReady, Sofia’s Nooooooooooooooooo! flashing across the screen. I type back a fast reply.
What were you doing up so early anyway? Wasn’t it like five a.m. in Arizona?
I close our messages and return to Sofia’s profile, opening one of her selfies. She has midnight-dark hair, with thick bangs parading across her forehead, and her skin looks permanently tanned, which I suppose makes sense for someone who lives in the Arizona sunshine. Before I can look at another shot, a red message balloon pops up on my screen.
I have a seminocturnal dog. At least, she’s nocturnal whenever she wants me to get up and give her a drink in the middle of the night.
What’s this about you not coming on the retreat??? You HAVE to come! You’re clearly not a weirdo—and what if you don’t come and then they stick me with a weirdo????? Really, you’d be doing me a favor—plus, we’d have the BEST time! I’ve never been to New York—have you?
I throw my phone in my bag without answering, organizing my notebooks as the first-period bell rings.
“Who have you been texting? Your stalker?” Celia appears at my desk out of nowhere, and I jump slightly at the sight of her.
“Very funny,” I say, following her out into the hallway. We make our way to Science, Celia scrolling through her phone the whole time.
“Oh, for the love . . .” She raises her voice over the din of the hallway. “Now you tell me this girl isn’t obsessed with you.” Celia shoves her phone in front of my face, so close to my eyes that the image is blurry. I take it from her and Sofia comes into focus. She’s sitting on top of a huge purple plastic suitcase and holding a piece of paper with Less Than One Week Until the PhotoRetreat!!! written in bubble letters. Underneath the picture, Sofia has captioned it: Can’t wait to get to NYC and meet my absolutely nonweirdo roommate, @AvalonByTheC! See, Avalon, now it’s official—you can’t back out now!
Oh, brother.
I thought my parents would shoot down the idea of the PhotoRetreat immediately.
I thought they would say it was too soon, too expensive, too dangerous.
I thought I would be able to blame them for passing up the opportunity, for disappointing Sofia, for having yet another boring spring break.
I thought wrong.
Not only did my parents not say no to the PhotoRetreat, they all but insisted I go.
“We will all be nervous, I’m sure,” Mom had said. “But we would be silly to let you walk away from this, Avalon. It’s a huge honor that you got in.”
“I only got in off the wait list,” I had pointed out. “Probably after someone else backed out.”
“That doesn’t matter. What matters is that you’re in now. And you’re going.” The decision made for me, I could now be found in our living room the night before I was scheduled to leave, surrounded by dozens of bags from Mom’s and my shopping excursion at Knickknacks and Whatnots. PhotoReady is putting all the retreat participants up in college dorm rooms for the five days and four nights we’re there, with all the essentials already provided (a bed, mattress, desk, lamp, trash can, dresser, plus a bathroom inside the room, whic
h Mom said was a real dorm luxury). All we had to bring were sheets, towels, toiletries, clothes (of course), and anything else we needed to make our rooms feel “homey.”
Which to Mom meant half the inventory of Knickknacks and Whatnots.
The doorbell rings, and I scale over the bags to reach our front door. When I open it, I find Celia standing on our porch, the smallest gift bag of all time in her hand.
“Where did you find that, gift wrapping for elves?” I ask when she gives it to me.
“Wouldn’t elves be quite good at gift wrapping?” Celia asks. “What with Santa’s workshop and all?”
“Fine, gift wrapping for gnomes,” I correct myself. “Are gnomes small?”
“Let’s say they are,” Celia agrees. When I hear it out loud, our conversation sounds completely normal—exactly how we always talk. But underneath the surface, there is something else. Something a little bit uncomfortable, or forced. I’ve noticed this ever since the day I told Celia I had, in fact, decided—or really, my parents had decided for me—to go to New York after all. She said she was happy for me. She said how exciting it was. She said she couldn’t wait to hear all about it.
But the pinch in the corners of her eyes said something different.
I tear into the gift bag, and my hand emerges clutching a small key chain. The letter A is on one side, and C is on the other, with beach waves crashing in the background.
“It’s from Atlantic City,” Celia explains. “But I thought it was a good token to represent your PhotoReady trip. Get it—‘Avalon by the C,’ like your username,” she says.
“It’s awesome,” I tell her sincerely. “I’m going to use it for my dorm key. Thank you.”
“Sure,” Celia says. “Just swear that you won’t dump me for that stalker Sofia.”
“She’s not a stalk . . .” I begin to defend her, but Celia’s face tells me that’s not what she needs to hear right now. “I won’t,” I say instead.
“You better not,” Celia says. “It’s not like having a best friend all the way in Arizona would be useful anyway.” She walks to the door. “So you promise?”
“Promise what?”
“Not to replace me,” Celia says. “Or forget about me once you meet all your brand-new NYC besties.”
“I guarantee that won’t happen,” I say. “I’ll be texting you the whole time. You know how much I enjoy talking to new people . . . .” I roll my eyes.
“Good. Keep it that way.” Celia nods with satisfaction. “I mean, have fun or whatever, but not too much. And keep me posted. Like hourly. Minute by minute would be better.”
“I will,” I say. “Literally. I’ll keep you ‘posted.’ Get it? Like PhotoReady posts?”
“Save your puns for Sofia,” Celia tells me. I stand on our porch as she walks away.
“Hey, look,” I call after her, pointing to the sky. One of the last clouds of the day is shaped like something that, if stared at from the right angle, could totally look like a heart. Celia glances up and gives a small smile.
“Cute,” she calls, continuing down the sidewalk.
But I can’t help but notice that she doesn’t snap a photo of it, just like she hasn’t posted a single #CeliaHeartsNYC picture in days.
I twirl my key chain around my finger, worrying. At first, I thought it was only the week ahead of me about which I had to be concerned. I never thought that what I had to return home to might be equally uncertain.
* * *
The following morning, I sit in the backseat with Arden as Dad drives us up the New Jersey Turnpike to Manhattan. The two times we had come to the city when I was younger, we had ridden the train, and Dad’s current tense driving feels as skittish as my jumpy insides. I wonder if it’s too late to make my family take me to Florida with them instead, to turn this whole trip around and head south. As I watch the view out the window shift from the generic greens of the trees along the guardrails, to the low-flying planes descending upon Newark Airport, to the smoky oil refineries of North Jersey, the phantom wiggling worms inside me seem to grow more restless, until any plan other than showing up at the retreat seems like a better one.
“Ugh, this is why everyone thinks New Jersey is ugly,” Arden pipes up next to me. She gestures toward the window, to the power lines and smog that overwhelm the scenery. “You would think they could’ve run the turnpike through a more appealing part of the state.”
“Let them think that—more room for us,” Dad says. But as they speak, my family’s conversation seems to morph into an indecipherable chorus, as if I’ve dived into a pool and the world around me is still there, but suddenly gone, all at the same time.
Because right there, out my window, peeking through the billows of smoke, is New York City. From this distance, it looks almost fake—like something built from LEGOs. Through the foggy air, the skyline rises as if it were within a frame at the art museum, right there but also somehow imaginary. I don’t remember noticing any of this during my previous arrivals—I guess the view from the train never caught my attention in the same way. But as I raise my phone to try to capture the sight with my camera, something—either the bumps in the road or the shake of my own fingers—causes the image to blur. I pull up the “best” of the pictures and type a quick text to Sofia: Look what I found (please don’t hold the photo quality against me).
Arghhh!!!!! Sofia writes back almost immediately. I was JUST going to text you—I landed a few minutes ago! I am sooooooo excited to get to our room . . . and to finally meet YOU!
Me too, I write with a smiley face. Well, I’m excited to meet you. But I’m also really, really nervous. Like, ridiculously.
Don’t be nervous. I promise I’m fun.
Hahaha, I have no doubt. But I still feel jittery.
Keep sending me pictures, Sofia says. Give me the full tour since I’m sure you’ll get there before me. Remember, this is the first time I’m seeing New York!
I’ll try, I tell her. But I’m too shaky to capture anything PhotoReady-worthy right now!
Look at the quote in my profile, Sofia writes back. That’s my motto for the week. I open PhotoReady, tapping on @SofiaNoPH’s profile. There, under her name, is a new quote—one I’ve never seen before: I photograph what scares me. I photograph the things I scare.
Who said that? I type to Sofia.
Me. Does it sound too pretentious?
No, it’s brilliant, I assure her. Give me a second, and then look at my profile. I swipe back to my own PhotoReady account and click to edit my profile. Under my name, I place in quotation marks, I photograph what scares me. I photograph the things I scare. And then I add —@SofiaNoPH. I save it and then wait for Sofia’s reaction.
Hahahahaha, I receive a minute later. You are too kind. I look up and realize we’re on the loop approaching the Lincoln Tunnel, only the Hudson River separating me from New York.
I can see the tunnel. . . . I tell her.
SO CLOSE! Just think—you’re only a few blocks away from the best week of our lives!
“Are you excited, Avalon?” Mom calls from the front.
“I’m not sure,” I say quietly, which immediately causes Arden to smack my arm.
“Get excited!” she yells. “I’m excited, and I’m the one who has to spend the whole week with the Pinochle Posse.” As Dad pulls our car through the tollbooth and into the entrance of the tunnel, my phone vibrates again. I look down, expecting a new text from Sofia. But instead, I find Celia’s name staring up at me, with only two words underneath: Nice quote.
I’m so distracted by Celia’s text that I nearly miss our entrance to the city. Arden hits me on the arm again as Dad pulls our car through the arched opening at the other end of the tunnel, my eyes squinting as they adjust from the dim light to the brightness of . . . New York.
“Do me a favor—look up every once in a while,” Arden says. “You would have missed the big reveal if it weren’t for me!”
“Yeah, thanks,” I say, shielding my eyes to look at my sur
roundings. In all honesty, the area outside the tunnel is less magical-looking than I would have hoped. The car lanes immediately become rough guidelines, as Dad dodges three taxis and an overaggressive minivan in his attempts to merge over to the downtown exit. He jerks us down the street, muttering to himself before smacking his palm against the center of the horn, a loud blare ringing out through the city.
“Dad, really?” Arden calls.
“These people don’t know how to drive,” Dad says.
“And you’re becoming one of them,” Mom tells him.
Might never make it to the dorm, I type to Sofia. My dad is trying to get us all killed.
Yes, well, my taxi driver doesn’t seem to be doing much better! Sofia answers. Also, HOLY TRAFFIC. I can still see the airport over my shoulder. ARGHHH!
“We’re almost there, I think,” Dad tells us, the car’s navigation system directing us through the city streets.
“Sofia requests that she have a roommate with a pulse,” I say. “So no more Mr. Toad’s Wild Ride driving necessary.”
“New York is already making you snarky, I see,” Dad calls back. “And, hey, look who got us here in one piece, despite you three backseat drivers!” He slides our car into a space beside the curb, and I look up to find the sign for Morningview Dormitory outside the window.
And I freeze.
It’s not that the dorm doesn’t look welcoming—okay, actually, it doesn’t. It looks like the outside of a nursing home, but one that was built before the term “nursing home” existed. Its brick façade, which might have been red in the 1800s, has turned a dusty shade of gray, the bricks in need of a good power-washing. And the entrance, well, that’s another issue. The canopy leading to the front door isn’t exactly ripped, but it may or may not have been “stitched” back together with duct tape. And while what’s through the front door isn’t visible from my window, I can tell that it looks like one thing: dark. The kind of dismal dreariness that arrives right before a summer rainstorm, covering the world in a blanket of dingy mist.
Spring Break Mistake Page 2