“So today,” he starts, “we’re going to be focusing on contrasts—old versus new, nature versus man-made, dark versus light, et cetera. You and your groups have the entire rest of the day to head out anywhere you like within city limits, and concentrate on all the contrasting elements you see. Specifically, of course, those you can capture in a photograph. All pictures you post today should be labeled #PhotoRetreatContrast, and tomorrow morning, we’ll gather again to discuss your work. Any questions?”
A few people raise their hands as Sofia leans across and asks Kensington and me, “We’re going together again, right?”
“Definitely,” I agree.
“You only keep me around for my navigational prowess,” Kensington says.
“Definitely,” I say again, which causes Kensington to shove my elbow off the armrest.
“You’ll all meet back here by five p.m. tonight for a group dinner, but lunch will be your choice.” Roberto is speaking again. “Once you have your group—two to five people would be best—head into the hallway, and we’ll assign a counselor to chaperone you.”
“Hurry, let’s try to manipulate the line to make sure we don’t end up with Perfecto,” Sofia says, and we all gather our bags and head for the door. As we maneuver our way out of the room, I look down and see a new text from Celia: See? You forgot about me. Again.
Today, we don’t question Kensington when she tells us—just tells us, without asking—that we’re going to the High Line. Her work as a tour guide yesterday has convinced us that we should trust her, whether or not we’ve ever heard of the place she’s taking us.
“Wait, is the High Line the old train tracks which they converted into a park?” I ask as we walk across the city, Sofia and I once again practically skipping to keep up with her.
“Yes,” Kensington calls as she darts across Seventh Avenue, Sofia and me running in order to not be hit by a taxi. “It’s a tad cliché at this point, but it will do.”
“Why cliché?” Sofia asks.
“It’s on the touristy side,” Kensington explains. “Not too bad—at least not yet—but it’s definitely become an attraction. The fact that New Jersey over here has heard of it speaks volumes.”
“Thanks a lot,” I say. “Can you slow down? We do have all day, you know.”
“I’m not one to mosey,” Kensington says, but she slows her pace anyway. I stop to take a photo, bending down on the sidewalk where I’ve spotted a single dandelion growing between the bricks.
“See, it’s life growing, no matter what the odds,” I say.
“That’s because it’s a weed,” Kensington retorts. “Weeds are like the most irritating people in your life—they pop up when you least want to see them.”
“You should put that on a cocktail napkin,” Sofia says, and then she laughs at her own joke. Once I’m satisfied with the shot, I stand and gesture for Kensington to continue.
“I’m going to load this while we walk, so don’t let me trip,” I say.
“Wow, you’re loading a picture already?” Sofia asks. “Trying to please Roberto?”
“More like trying to please @TaterTotter,” Kensington pipes up. “Now that she knows he’s stalking her page, she wants to give Mister Emerald Eyes something to star.”
“Will you stop it with that?” I ask. “I just like the picture.”
“Sure you do,” Sofia says. “He’s cute. Admit it.”
“Kensington is the one who’s calling him Mister Emerald Eyes,” I point out. “Why don’t you ask her what she thinks about him?”
“Because I’m not the one who turned sunburn pink the second he opened his mouth to speak to me,” Kensington says. “Plus, with that green scarf constantly wrapped around his neck, you’d have to be blind to not notice that his eyes match it almost exactly.”
“Where are we, anyway?” I ignore her commentary, desperate to change the subject.
“West Village,” Kensington answers, thankfully dropping the Tate teasing. “It’s like the most confusing neighborhood in all of Manhattan, so unless you want to wind up in the New York Lost and Found, I suggest you keep up.”
Sofia and I fall in line obediently as Kensington weaves—truly weaves, since the streets jut off in all directions—her way toward what I can only assume is the High Line. We pass blocks upon blocks of some of the most gorgeous houses I’ve ever seen—red and brown and tan brownstones with wide stoops, trees lining the curbs, and ivy crawling up many of their façades. I snap as many photos as I can, whether or not I think they show contrast, all without breaking stride too much on Kensington’s speed.
“Oh, you know what? Wait a minute,” Kensington says. “We should backtrack.” She turns around and we slump along after her.
“It will be amazing if I still have feet by the time this week is over,” Sofia says.
“Yes, I should have listened to my mom when she recommended I bring more comfortable shoes,” I say. Mom—I almost forgot to check in with my family today. I’m surprised my phone isn’t blowing up with a flurry of proof-of-life requests. I choose one of the best brownstone pictures I’ve taken and text it to my parents and Arden, captioning it, Current status, before coming one step away from plowing into Kensington as she grinds to a sudden halt.
“You’ve seen the smallest park in the city—now feast your eyes on the narrowest house,” she says, pointing to the brick building in front of us. “Actually, it’s probably better from across the street.” She darts between two parked cars and only hastily looks both ways before continuing to the opposite sidewalk. Sofia and I follow her much more carefully before turning to examine the building.
“That’s insane,” Sofia says. “How wide is it?”
“Do I look like a guidebook?” Kensington asks. “I only know its location—and that it doesn’t even have a full address. It’s, like, seventy-five and a half, or something.” Sofia and I both take a bunch of photos, each trying to beat the other to the punch of loading one on PhotoReady first. I make sure to capture the full width of the brownstone next to the house, which is more than double its size, so that the picture shows some degree of contrast. Then I label the photo Small packages, continued, and give it the correct #PhotoRetreatContrast label.
“Done!” I announce triumphantly.
“Arghhh, no!” Sofia calls out, stomping her foot. “Now if I post it, I’ll look like a poseur.”
“That’s the price you pay for being a slowpoke!” I tell her, placing my arm around her slight shoulders and turning to Kensington. “Now, where to, oh captain?”
* * *
After some more West Village wandering (probably too much for Kensington’s tastes), we eventually reach the southernmost entrance to the High Line. We climb a flight of stairs to the top of the platform, and immediately, I can tell why Kensington brought us here, touristy or not. At first glance, the place is little more than an aboveground park, but the closer you look, the more you notice the small details of what it once was, specifically the outlines from the old railroad tracks. The High Line is more like an art exhibit, with benches rising directly from its pavement and sculptures and murals sprinkled along its route. On our right, the city spreads out before us, but on our left, only a few blocks over, sits the Hudson River, and right across that, New Jersey. I’m happy to see it again, but I’m even more excited to see what the High Line has to offer, especially in terms of photos.
As we walk along, contrasts pop out at me everywhere I look: the greenery against the train tracks, the spherical sculpture next to the rectangular steps, the lounging sunbather lying in front of the harried businessman. I capture as many of them as I can, pointing my camera all around me and sporadically dropping down to my knees, or raising the lens above my head, in order to find the right angle. Kensington, Sofia, and I spread out to explore in our own ways, and within moments, I am lost in concentration. So lost that when a figure approaches and asks me what time it is, it’s all I can do not to jump five feet in the air. I whirl around, only t
o find myself face-to-face with none other than @TaterTotter himself.
“What—are—oh—you need the time?” I stammer, sounding like a surefire idiot.
Tate laughs, but there’s something kind about it. And outside, in the bright light of midday, I can’t help noticing that Sofia is right: Tate is cute.
“Just wanted to surprise you,” he says.
“Did you, um, did you follow us here?” I ask. Maybe this guy really was a stalker. And, cute or not, I’m not sure having a strange boy secretly following us around the city would be something that would make my parents comfortable.
Or make me comfortable, for that matter.
“You think I’d be that creepy?” he asks. “I promise this is nothing but a pleasant coincidence.”
“Where’s your group?” I ask, looking around for Sofia and Kensington. Where, exactly, was my group?
“Don’t have one,” he says. “I sort of pretended to be with two different groups, so the counselors could assume I went with the other one, and then I could sneak off on my own.” He shrugs. “My roommates are obnoxious. It’s like they both think they’re the next Ansel Adams or something.” I must look at him quizzically, because he follows up with, “Sorry, I guess that sounds obnoxious too. He’s some old photographer, though honestly, that’s the only fact I know. I’ve never seen one of his pictures.”
“Thanks, but I was more surprised that you ignored Roberto’s warnings,” I tell him. “You’re not afraid you’ll get caught?”
“Nah, that’s what makes it exciting,” Tate says, a devious grin spreading across his face.
“You better watch out before Lulu—she was the counselor assigned to us today—sees you,” I warn him.
“I’m pretty good at blending in with the crowd,” he says, pushing his sunglasses up on top of his head, revealing his eyes, which are as Emerald City green as Kensington had hinted. His hair, which looked light brown in the dimness of the fake classroom, has the faintest streaks of blond sprinkled through it, the kind of natural highlights no hairstylist could replicate. And then, of course, there’s that smile.
Kensington appears over my shoulder, snapping me back to the present. “Well, well, well, look what the wind blew in,” she says. “Did you follow us here?”
“Boy, you two really don’t think much of me, do you?” Tate answers. “@AvalonByTheC asked the same thing.”
“Smart girl,” Kensington says. “And you didn’t answer my question.”
“He came on his own,” I explain. “Or so he says.”
“Thanks a lot,” Tate responds as Sofia joins us.
“What are you doing here?” she asks him immediately. “And where’s your group?”
“Would you care to explain?” Tate asks me.
“He pretended to be with two different groups when we were leaving the classroom,” I say. “So that both groups figured that he headed out with the other one, but really, he escaped.”
“Impressive work,” Kensington tells him. “I wouldn’t expect such creative thinking from the likes of Boston.”
“You really know how to hurt a guy,” Tate answers her, feigning being stabbed in the heart. “I was about to go grab some lunch, if you guys want to join me.”
“There’s food up here too?” I ask.
“Not exactly, but it’s attached to Chelsea Market,” Tate says, pointing. “You can get anything you could imagine in there—I previewed it on my way over.”
“I’m obviously in,” Sofia says. “I’m starving, and plus, it will be nice to have someone besides Kensington bossing us around for once.”
“Rude,” Kensington says. “Go ahead, Boston. Show us what you’ve got.” Tate heads down a long stretch of the High Line, and within a few steps, Kensington has overtaken him.
“I can’t possibly walk that slow,” she says. “I’ll meet you guys in there.” Sofia and I stroll on either side of Tate, down a flight of stairs and into a building that looks more like a factory than a place to grab lunch.
“It used to be the old Nabisco factory,” Tate explains, as if reading my mind. The building is shaped like a tunnel, with small specialty stores dotting each side. We pass a bakery known for cupcakes, then a bakery known for brownies, then a bakery known for bread. A fish shop and a milk shop and a sandwich shop, and then a whole room filled with vendors selling olive oil or cheese or doughnuts or tacos.
“I’m never going to be able to decide,” I tell them. “And did we lose Kensington?”
“Here I am,” Kensington appears from behind a shaved-ice stand. “I haven’t been to this place in a while—it’s gotten a lot more overwhelming.”
“Yes, way too many options,” Sofia agrees. “I want to try everything.”
“Here’s an idea,” Tate says. “We each go and pick two things that we’d like to eat—but we buy enough for all four of us. Then we meet again and have a smorgasbord.”
“I like the way you think,” Sofia says. “Should we have a time limit?”
“Twenty minutes,” Tate answers. “Then meet outside the back door of the market, and we’ll head onto the High Line to find a table.”
“Deal,” I say. The four of us scatter in opposite directions, and I try to concentrate on choosing the best two items for our potluck. But despite the never-ending sights and the wafts of salt and sugar and spice that assault my senses from every angle, another image keeps overtaking all of them in my mind: Tate.
By the time we finish our mishmash of a lunch, I am so full that I’m certain I’m going to have to be physically rolled to our next destination. By some miracle, the four of us managed to choose a somehow balanced and completely delicious meal. After snapping some photos of our most “contrasting” concoctions (a red velvet cupcake next to a red beet salad, for instance), it was all we could do not to lick each and every takeout container clean.
“I so want to go lie down on that bench and take a nap,” Sofia moans, sleepily resting her head against her palm.
“Agreed,” I tell her. “I don’t think I’ve ever been fuller in my life.”
“Nope, up and at ’em,” Tate says, rising to his feet. “You can’t give in to the tiredness, or you’ll never get out of it. What we need now is a walk. A Kenz-style walk.”
“You mean walking a nontortoise pace?” Kensington asks, joining Tate. “I’m not even sure I’m up for the task, but I’ll try.” Sofia and I both struggle to stand as we clean up our accumulated trash. Tate and Kensington discuss where to go next—for someone who’s not a native, he sure seems to know a lot about the city—and they lead us down the stairs and off the High Line, heading in the direction of the water.
“You haven’t seen the Hudson River walk yet, right?” Tate asks Sofia and me, the four of us—even Kensington—meandering in a row down the sidewalk.
“Only from a distance,” I tell him. “Kensington showed us last night.”
“Oh, so you actually showed them something besides the Honey, I Shrunk New York City attractions?” he teases her. “Tiniest garden, tiniest house . . .”
Kensington smacks him on his arm as we merge past bicyclists to cross onto the path, only a metal fence separating us from the shores of the Hudson River. Tate points us right, and we begin our stroll, the midday sun bouncing off the water, trying its best to combat the harsh wind gusts. I cross my arms against my chest and try to rub the goose bumps off my arms, chilled despite the sunlight.
“You cold?” Tate asks.
“Not too much,” I answer. “But it got awfully windy all of a sudden, right?”
“You look cold,” Sofia says. “Which is ridiculous, since I’m the one used to a desert climate. I should be shivering right now.”
“You’re such a martyr,” Kensington tells her sarcastically. “And it’s always extra windy by the river. New York’s version of a sea breeze.”
“Here, take this,” Tate says, beginning to uncoil the green scarf from around his neck. “You look like you’re about to turn into a pop
sicle.” He hands the scarf to me.
“Oh no, it’s not that bad, really,” I protest.
“I insist,” Tate says, tossing the scarf around the back of my neck before jamming his hands in his pockets, now looking cold himself.
“I’m surprised that came off so easily,” Kensington says. “The way you always have it wrapped around you, I assumed it must be holding your head on straight.” Tate wobbles his head back and forth dramatically, as if testing Kensington’s theory.
I arrange the scarf around my shoulders like a shawl, grateful for the burst of warmth. “Thank you,” I tell him. “You promise to take it back when you get cold?”
Tate holds up his palm as if taking an oath. “Scout’s honor,” he promises.
“So do we have a destination in mind, or are we just wandering?” Sofia asks.
“Are you up for a long haul?” Tate replies. “Because if so, I have an idea.”
“What’s ‘long’?” Sofia asks. “I have short legs.”
“Forty blocks, give or take,” Tate answers. “Peanuts, really.”
“What’s forty blocks from here?” I ask.
“Only the smallest subway door in all of New York City,” Tate answers grandly. “Bet you didn’t know about that one, did you, Kenz?”
“Where? The Columbus Circle stop?” she asks.
“Yes. There’s a door there built for a wizard. A very short wizard.”
“Let’s do it,” Sofia says. “We might as well keep up our Shrinking New York City tradition.”
“I bet our chaperones talk about us,” I say. “We have to be the group that goes to the weirdest places.”
“Hey, speaking of . . . ,” Sofia begins, glancing over her shoulder. “Where is Lulu?”
Kensington also turns. “I never paid attention to what she looks like.”
“Do you think we should text her?” Sofia asks.
“She never gave us her number,” I point out. “And she never took ours, either.”
“I have it,” Tate says. “She was our chaperone last night. And I already texted her while we were buying lunch. I told her we had teamed up with another group, with a different counselor, and that she was off the hook with us.”
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