“Now it pains me to say this,” Sofia tells her. “But perhaps you really are a genius.”
“Guilty as charged,” Kensington states. “Now move it or lose it. Or more aptly, lose him.” We shuffle back down the stairs to the subway, and I open PhotoReady as we wait for the train to arrive. I’ve gotten a few stars on my #iCnyc pictures, but not one of them is from Celia.
“You know what they say about watched pots,” Kensington says, and I look up to see her, arms crossed, watching me scroll through my notifications. “And there’s another C. You should be paying attention to your surroundings.” Kensington is pointing to a poster for the ballet, the dancer’s leg curved around behind her so that her heel is almost touching the top of her head. Kensington is right—if looked at correctly, it forms a perfect C.
“This is why we keep you around,” I tell her, snapping the photo as Kensington smirks. “So I hate to point this out, but have we taken a picture of a single shadow today?”
“Oh, right, I almost forgot about that,” Sofia says, twirling around and searching for one.
“Please, I thought that was a dumb assignment anyway,” Kensington says. “And plus, what’s the worst Roberto can do to us at this point? Not show our pictures during class? Oops, he already does that. Duct-tape us in our rooms? That’s covered too. Send us home? We leave Friday anyway—seems like it would be a waste of his resources at this point.”
“Maybe we should make a big show of at least taking a couple,” I suggest. “If only so Nina doesn’t get too suspicious about why we’re darting around town.”
“Fine,” Kensington sighs, looking toward the tracks. “Ooh, look at that ray of light shining through the ceiling.” She says this part loudly for Nina’s benefit. “I bet it’s creating a shadow.” She turns and gives Sofia and me a mischievous look as she takes the photo, and I have to bite the insides of my mouth to keep from laughing.
And even though not much has changed since this morning—we’re still the enemies of the PhotoRetreat, Tate’s cursed scarf is still in my possession, and Celia is still not speaking to me—the day feels like it has shifted dramatically. Out of the shadows, and finally, back to the sunshine.
As we had feared, at almost the exact second we reach the boats of South Street Seaport, Tate posts a new picture—this one in a location that even Kensington doesn’t recognize. At this news, I bury the scarf in the deepest corner of my bag, resigned to push it out of my mind, curse and all. “Maybe Roberto will give me Tate’s home address,” I suggest. “That way, I can make sure the scarf gets returned. And we can stop this wild-goose chase.”
“But this wild-goose chase is fun,” Sofia protests. “And wouldn’t you like a chance to say good-bye?”
“Why are you making this all about me?” I ask. “You two spent just as much time with Tate as I did.”
“Yeah, but he liked you more,” Sofia says.
“He didn’t like—” I try to object, but Sofia cuts me off.
“Don’t get antsy—I’m not saying you two are getting married or anything,” she says. “But it was obvious that he made it a point to talk to you. So I think it would be nice if you—if we all—got to say good-bye.”
“I’m begging you,” I begin. “Can we not do this? There’s so much of New York we haven’t seen yet—let’s forget about Tate.” Kensington and Sofia glance at each other.
“Okay, fine,” Kensington relents. “But what about the curse?” She twists her fingers into claw shapes and cackles like a witch, mocking us.
“Very funny,” I say. “Let’s hope it doesn’t have an effect when the scarf is out of sight. Plus, we survived the whole morning without incident.”
“Save for your little SoHo meltdown,” Kensington says. “Not to mention the dog poop. But okay. Do you want to wander around here for a bit? It’s full of tourists—right up your alley.” And so, we spend the remainder of the afternoon frolicking around the Seaport before making the long trek back to our dorm by foot, this time being sure to get there in plenty of time for dinner. And that night, for the first time all week, I am so utterly exhausted from our day—and from the previous nights of restlessness—that I fall asleep as soon as my head hits the pillow. And I stay asleep until the morning sun is bursting through our window, making the glow of the twinkle lights all but irrelevant.
When I sit up on my bunk, crouching slightly so that my head doesn’t hit the ceiling, I’m temporarily convinced that I must still be asleep. I rub the sides of my hands against my eyes as if to clear my vision, and then I stare again.
Across the room, above Kensington’s sleeping form, Sofia’s and my mural of pictures seems to have quadrupled overnight. Images of our week, ones I recognize from all three of our PhotoReady accounts, rise from every angle, colliding together to form a patchwork of our time together. I laugh out loud in delight before clapping my hands over my mouth, but it’s too late. I hear Sofia turning in the bed beneath me, and Kensington flips onto her back.
“I take it you like it?” she asks in her groggy sleep voice.
“I don’t even know what to say,” I tell her, climbing down the ladder to the floor and shaking Sofia fully awake.
Sofia looks grumpy as she rises into a seated position, but the grimace on her face disappears the second she turns to Kensington’s side of the room. “Arghhhhhh,” she screams. “What did you do? That is crazy amazing!”
“Good thing you two sleep like the dead,” Kensington says. “I thought for sure that your nineteenth-century printer was going to wake you as I worked, but you were both snoring away.”
“Hey, I don’t snore,” I say. “But whatever—really, you outdid yourself.” I crawl onto Kensington’s bed so I can get a better look at the images. “Wait, I didn’t post this one on PhotoReady. Or this one either.”
“I stole your phones, duh,” Kensington says. “There were some real gems in there, let me tell you.”
“Oh, I almost forgot about this,” Sofia says, pointing to the photo I had accidentally snapped of her bursting through the door of our room. “Too bad we didn’t capture the same kind of picture of your arrival.” She says this to Kensington.
“You mean when we hated one another?” Kensington asks. “Yes, that definitely should have been preserved in print.”
We scan the rest of the pictures, laughing and reminiscing over the shots. “Hey, where did you stash our phones?” Sofia asks.
“On the desk. I even charged them for you,” Kensington says. “I’m a full-service operation.”
“After you stole them, it’s probably the least you could do,” I say as Sofia fetches hers and then scrolls down her screen. “Did Celia star any of my photos yet?” I ask her.
“Will you stop worrying about her?” Kensington says. “While you’re here, you still have us. And once you’re home, she’s going to have to get that bug out of her butt eventually.” And while I realize Kensington is most likely right, it doesn’t stop me from taking a picture out our dorm room window of the last traces of the moon in the far corner of the sky. It is, after all, in its crescent form, and shaped just like a C.
* * *
Once again, none of our shadow pictures were featured during the morning discussion—the price we pay, I suppose, for spending more time concentrating on finding Cs. And on trying to locate the owner of a possibly unlucky green scarf.
“So should we see where Tate has headed today?” Kensington asks, pulling out her phone as we head outside.
“No,” I stop her. “I think we should try to focus on the assignment. It’s our last full day in New York together. We should spend it doing what we actually came here to do.”
“Look at you getting all sentimental,” Kensington says.
“Yes,” I say with a grin. “But also, I left the scarf in our room—on purpose—so we wouldn’t get distracted. So now, no reason to even consider it. Or its possible curse.”
“Sneaky, sneaky,” Sofia says. “So what is our assignment for today
? I swear, Roberto’s voice is like the teacher in Charlie Brown to me—whomp whomp whomp.”
“Motion,” I say. “Whatever that means. Isn’t it hard to capture motion with only our phones? I feel like those pictures always turn out blurry.”
“We don’t necessarily have to be literal about it,” Kensington says. “Now, any special requests for today?”
“I propose that we let Sofia choose at least one place,” I suggest. “It’s still her first time in New York, so if she wants us to tourist it up, let’s go for it.”
“Fine,” Kensington drags out the word like it’s a big sacrifice. “What’ll it be, Arizona?”
“How about . . . ,” Sofia begins.
“Please don’t say Times Square, please don’t say Times Square, please don’t say Times Square,” Kensington begins murmuring, loudly enough that I know we’re supposed to hear.
“Central Park?” Sofia suggests.
“Perfect,” Kensington says, and I look over my shoulder.
“I think you mean ‘perfecto,’ ” I say, pointing to the counselor who has been assigned to us today: none other than Ella.
“Now it’s more important than ever that we keep our distance,” Kensington says seriously. “I don’t mean, like, run away again or anything. But we do not engage her. Got it?”
“She hasn’t been nearly as friendly since the whole duct tape incident anyway,” I point out. “I bet she leaves us alone. So . . . Central Park?”
“Yeah, come on,” Kensington says. “But I’m warning you that we’re not starting at the castle or the zoo or the reservoir—nothing from the top-five section of a guidebook.”
“So where are we headed?” I ask.
“Haven’t you learned to trust my judgment by now?” Kensington asks. So as usual, Sofia and I fall in step behind her, following her blindly into our day.
* * *
It turns out Kensington’s plan is to take us to the north end of Central Park to a place called the Conservatory Garden, which lies behind a giant black gate off of Fifth Avenue. Unlike most other areas of the park, this section looks like a palace estate, so pristine in its layout that a castle would not seem out of place. Sofia, Kensington, and I skip around like little kids, snapping photos of the bubbling fountain (motion) or a flower with half its petals missing (C), or simply one another, enjoying our time. It is one of the most relaxing, and most fun, experiences I’ve had all week, and I make a point to take a moment to sit on one of the garden’s benches to appreciate it. All at once, I am nostalgic for this retreat, even though it’s not over yet. Not that I won’t be okay with going home—pleased, even—but it turns out that those who convinced me to come to New York were right: This was an opportunity I couldn’t pass up, one that may never come again. No matter what the problems from the past couple of days, I was truly happy I had come.
“Are you ready, Thoreau, or are you going to sit there all day?” Kensington calls from across the garden, breaking my personal reverie. I hop up and begin to head toward her, but the arm rest of the bench catches my eye.
“Be right there!” I call, and I take a photo of the curved iron, which, when I tilt the camera just so, looks exactly like a C. I post the picture on PhotoReady as I walk to join my roommates. Celia still hadn’t contacted me—or starred a single photo in the series—which bothered me, though I tried not to let it.
But then a new fear crosses my mind: Maybe Celia doesn’t realize the series is for her. Maybe she thinks it’s some kind of retreat inside joke, and it’s making the problems between us worse. I should have told her about the Cs right after I posted the first picture. I should have explained, even if I wasn’t sure she was listening.
I open our silent text chain and write, #iCnyc. C for Celia. C for @AvalonByTheC. And then, I have a brilliant idea—something that I would call Kensington a genius over, if she had come up with it. I know precisely which item I need to use to finish my #iCnyc project.
I pull out my Room 609 key with the key chain from Celia attached: the key chain with the A and C in its design. Celia had said the two letters were based on my PhotoReady name, but they also represented Avalon and Celia, A and C, together. Always.
I hadn’t thought of the connection until now, but it was perfect. Maybe even meant to be.
Maybe even perfecto.
It seems that the trip to the Conservatory Garden had put Kensington in a good mood, since she then allowed us to stroll (not even run-walk, but truly stroll) blocks upon blocks of Fifth Avenue. We walked past the Museum of the City of New York, past the Smithsonian Design Museum, and past the Guggenheim. We photographed the rushing taxis on the street, the rushing people on the sidewalks, and the rushing bicyclists on the sidewalk who were supposed to be on the street. We sauntered all the way to the Metropolitan Museum of Art, where, instead of passing by, Kensington led us up the grand steps to the front doors and brought us inside.
“We’re having lunch,” she said matter-of-factly. “We have a family membership here, so I can get you two in for free.” After we had been given our admittance stickers, Kensington had led us through the museum, past hundreds of classic pieces of art, all the way to a hidden back elevator, which dropped us off on the fourth floor. This is where the Met’s Members Dining Room is—the place that you’re only able to eat in if you’re a member.
We had been seated against the window, a gorgeous view of Central Park right at our fingertips. And though Kensington had deigned to ask Ella if she wanted to join us, we can’t say we were unhappy when she said she would walk around the museum and to text her when we were finished (she did cap off these instructions with “And no funny business this time,” which I thought was unnecessary). Never before in my life had I felt more grown-up, more sophisticated, more like someone who of course has lunch at the Metropolitan Museum of Art’s exclusive dining room.
And more like a New Yorker.
* * *
“Are we boring you, Short Stack?” Kensington asks Sofia as she obsessively scrolls through her phone, ignoring the scene around her.
“I’m so behind on my PhotoReady feed,” Sofia complains. “The three of us took some amazing shots today, by the way. We should print them for our mural.”
“For the one night we have left?” I ask.
“Why not?” Sofia says. “Hey, wait a minute.” She pauses, staring steadily at her screen. “Have you heard from Celia yet?”
“No,” I answer. “I texted her and explained the #iCnyc project, since I was afraid she didn’t understand that it was for her. But still nothing.”
“Well, it appears she finally got it,” Sofia says, holding up her phone for Kensington and me to see. There on PhotoReady, I find a photo of a picture frame, one I recognize from Celia’s room. Inside the frame is the very first picture Celia and I took together in elementary school after we had become friends. On the corner of the frame, Celia has pasted a bright red construction paper heart, and she has captioned the shot, Thank you @AvalonByTheC for being the best #BigAppleBFF ever. Can’t wait to C you so soon! #iCnyc #CeliaHeartsNYC
“Happy now, Avalon Kelly?” Kensington asks. “It seems the squabble heard around the world is over.”
“Hold on,” I say, whipping out my own phone. “I need to be the first to star it.”
“Oh, brother,” Kensington says, dropping her head back dramatically and groaning toward the ceiling.
“Thank you both for helping me,” I tell them as I post a quick comment on Celia’s page. “I know it sounds silly to you, but it was important to me. So thank you.”
“Anytime,” Sofia says.
“Now can we please wrap up this enterprise so we can enjoy our lunch in peace?” Kensington asks. With that, Sofia and I deposit our phones in our bags, and we resume our conversation, falling into the comfortable chatter of three New Yorkers out on the town.
* * *
Once we finish our meal, Sofia obediently texts Ella to tell her that we’re ready to leave, and we meet her
on the front steps of the Met. Ella offers to take photos of us standing on the steps together—at perhaps more flattering angles than our three-person selfies tend to turn out. Sofia hands Ella her phone, and the three of us pose in various contortions. Much as I try to smile my normal way, with the braces hidden behind my lips, we’re making each other laugh so much that I almost forget to care. “You need to send those to us,” I tell Sofia. “Don’t be hoarding them all for yourself.”
“I have to inspect them first and make sure I look cute,” Sofia says, and Kensington and I smack her on her arms simultaneously. “Stop, I’m kidding!”
“You’re not kidding, though, is the thing,” Kensington says. “So listen, Vanity Queen of the Universe, are you ready to have your day made?”
“I was born ready,” Sofia says.
“I propose that we go full-throttle tourist right now, and—”
“Times Square?!” Sofia asks.
“Absolutely not,” Kensington says. “But Central Park does have a carousel, and it’s pretty much the most vile, touristy thing you can do in the place.”
“Let’s go,” I say. “I love a carousel.”
“Who loves a carousel over the age of eight?” Kensington asks as we begin our descent.
“Everyone who wasn’t born a crotchety old woman!” Sofia answers, linking her arm through mine and then Kensington’s and dragging us along as she skips down the sidewalk.
“I don’t skip!” Kensington calls.
“You do now!” Sofia tells her, and we do—all the way down a winding path leading into the heart of Central Park. We unlink ourselves only when we want to stop to take photos—motion-related or not—which happens approximately every five steps (followed by needing to immediately post our favorites on PhotoReady, which slows things down even more). Walking with Sofia through Central Park is like escorting a hyperactive puppy—everything excites her; everything, she swears, was once in a movie; and everything would make such a good picture. Her enthusiasm is contagious, even to Kensington, which means that it takes us at least three times longer to get around the park than it should.
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