Love, Jacaranda

by Alex Flinn

  Subject: The Thursdays—on Saturday

  Dear Mr. Smith,

  Jarvis wasn’t wrong. Five girls, three named Emma, and two with names that sound like a bank or a law firm. They all look exactly like Phoebe, all skinny, all with perfect teeth, all with highlights that look like they were done at the same salon. It was like having brunch with the Rockettes. They greeted Phoebe like she was their long-lost sister, then their moms asked Phoebe vaguely condescending questions (“Sooooooo, you want to be a movie star?”), while the girls whispered to one another. Sometimes they glanced toward me as if I were a colorful species of iguana that had perched, unbidden, at their table. Then, when they figured out I wasn’t anyone important, they ignored me. Which was fine. Brunch was delicious.

  What wasn’t fine was how miserable Phoebe looked. I tried to get her to eat some of her bacon ($9 for a side!). I mean, who can resist bacon?

  She pushed it away and said, “Stop it!”

  So I stole her bacon.

  Then one of the Emmas turned to Phoebe and started chatting.

  Emma #1: How’s your cousin?

  Phoebe (tries to look nonchalant): Which cousin?

  Emma #2: You know which one.

  Phoebe: My cousin Kenzie? She started horseback lessons.

  Wells Fargo*: No one cares about your horse-faced cousin Kenzie in Westchester.

  Phoebe: Well, I do. She’s the cutest little thing.

  Morgan Stanley*: She has buck teeth.

  Phoebe: She does not . . . well, maybe a little, but she’s 9. She’ll get braces.

  Emma #1: Your cousin Jarvis.

  Phoebe (coyly): Jacob? Kenzie’s brother? He’s prepping for high school . . .

  Emma #1 (interrupts): Jarvis! Jarvis!

  Phoebe: Ohhhhhhhh, Jarvis. He’s fine, I guess. We saw him at Thanksgiving.

  Wells Fargo*: Does he have a girlfriend? Did he break up with that girl he was dating?

  At that point, they all started chattering, asking questions. One of the Emmas (#3, I think) goes to school with Jarvis, so she had some intel about his girlfriend (ex-girlfriend?) Chaya, who, according to her, has cankles. Another said she heard he got in trouble for an Instagram post. A third said he’d taken some girl to the theater over Thanksgiving break.

  “He took me to the theater over Thanksgiving break,” Phoebe said. They all looked relieved about that.

  I’ll admit I listened a little more intently than I had been (especially to the part about the girlfriend and her cankles) and stopped eating, even though my French toast was incredible, with caramelized apples and whipped cream. And then I looked up and noticed a sandy-haired head outside the window, tall enough to see from a distance. Jarvis?

  It was Jarvis! He was at the restaurant!

  I texted him (no one was paying attention to me anyway), RUN! Run while you can! Will text when coast clear.

  I saw the sandy head tilt down, like someone looking at his cell phone. A minute later, he strolled into the restaurant. He walked straight up to Phoebe’s mom, saying, “Aunt Caroline! Am I early? I came to pick up Phoebe and her friend.”

  We had NO SUCH PLANS. But I wasn’t about to say that.

  All of Aunt Caroline’s friends perked up and started asking Jarvis the usual questions about where he’s applying to college, and how his father is, while I sat there and thought about what a nice face he had. Even his eyebrows were just . . . perfect, especially the way they knitted together when he was thinking. Is that too much to say to you? The Rockettes all tried to get his attention too. Emma #3 waved at him. Jarvis nodded and smiled back and was very polite. He finally turned to Phoebe and said, “If you’re not ready, I could come back later.”

  “NO!” Phoebe almost shouted, yanking me from my seat.

  Bye-bye, French toast. Not that I’m complaining.

  As we left, two Emmas and one of the banks (Morgan Stanley, I think) suddenly decided to invite Phoebe and me (and JARVIS) to parties they were having.

  “Text me,” Phoebe said as we sailed out onto Malcolm X Boulevard. I asked Phoebe if we were really going to their parties. She said, “It could be fun. They won’t be the only ones there.” The way she said it, I’m guessing there’s some guy she wants to run into.

  Jarvis wanted to show me around Harlem, since I’d never been. We walked a little, and at least I got to see the Apollo Theater, where lots of legends got their start (I’m sure you’re familiar), but Phoebe kept looking behind us, worried the group would catch back up. So finally, Jarvis said, “Why don’t we go to Rockefeller Center, to go ice-skating?”

  Which was one of the 25 things he said we’d do together over break.

  Surprisingly, Phoebe said yes. I told them that Miami girls can’t ice-skate, but Jarvis said it was like roller-skating, and he’d hold my hand to help me.

  I know you live here, so you’re probably used to how magical it is, but this is the New York City that’s in Christmas carols like “Silver Bells.” Everything’s covered in snow and hung with greenery and red ribbons. Jarvis stopped to give money to three separate bell-ringing Santas, until Phoebe finally made him stop. At Rockefeller Center, the giant Christmas tree was perched behind a gold statue of some kind of god! I asked Jarvis who it was, and he said Prometheus, the Titan who stole fire from the sun to bring it to mankind. I thought that was nice of him but also ironic to have a fire god at the ice-skating rink.

  Jarvis was right. It was a lot like roller-skating. Still, he held my hand long after I stopped stumbling. It was very innocent, since Phoebe was there like a chaperone. Jarvis had gotten some special pass that allowed us to skip the lines. Halfway through, they told us all to clear the ice until only one couple was left. Then, the man knelt down on the ice.

  “So romantic!” I said. My cheeks were cold, so that’s probably why I felt a little weepy. I’m not that sentimental.

  “Kind of cheesy,” Phoebe said. “Proposing at an ice-skating rink? I’d want to go to Paris or something.”

  “Maybe they’re from Iowa, and this is her dream,” I said.

  “You always have the nicest way of thinking about things,” Jarvis said.

  Phoebe said she thought the girl should get a worthier dream. Jarvis laughed and said he would tell Phoebe’s future husband not to propose anyplace cheesy.

  “Anyone I’d marry would know that,” Phoebe said. “But I’m never getting married anyway.”

  I started to ask her why, but they were letting us back on the ice, and she skated off.

  I wanted to stay forever, but soon, the session ended, and by that time, Jarvis was hungry.

  “We had a big brunch,” Phoebe protested.

  “Which you didn’t eat,” I reminded her.

  “Yeah, those girls always make me lose my appetite,” she admitted, which I thought was funny since Phoebe never eats. She added that she was so glad she wasn’t going to school with them anymore, and that people were so much more REAL at MAA. She smiled at me when she said that, and I felt bad for not liking her before. I sort of wanted to hug her. Then I remembered how mean she’d been that first day and I settled for smiling back.

  Jarvis took us to the same diner, and there was the same love-fest at the door, especially when Jarvis introduced his cousin. We sat next to each other, with Phoebe on the other side. Jarvis ordered the meatloaf again, and I gave in to his pressure this time and got the gyro. Phoebe got a salad, but when my gyro got there, she picked at my French fries. I told her to help herself. The gyro was huge!

  What Phoebe didn’t see was, while I held my gyro in my right hand, Jarvis was holding my left hand. So I didn’t have a hand for eating French fries (not that I’m complaining).

  Our waitress that day was named Nikki, though her name tag said Grace. But halfway through the meal, Allison/Ellen from last time came in. When she saw Jarvis, she rushed to our table to show him Nicholas’s school picture. “See his brace-face!”

  Jarvis extricated his hand from mine to pick it up, which gave me a ch
ance to eat a few fries. Ellen told him to keep the photo, and he pocketed it.

  After she left, Phoebe said, “Jarvis, why does the waitress think you’d be so interested in her kid’s braces? And want his school picture?”

  I remembered her talking about the braces last time, too, come to think of it. But Jarvis shrugged and shook his head. He went back to his meat loaf.

  “Did you buy her kid braces?” Phoebe asked.

  Jarvis kept chewing. He took another bite of potatoes and ignored her.

  “Jarvis, did you pay for the waitress’s kid’s braces?” Phoebe repeated, louder this time.

  Jarvis stopped chewing long enough to shush her and say, “Okay, I may have heard her complaining about the cost and given her a good tip.”

  Phoebe laughed and said to me, “My cousin is a sucker for a sob story.”

  He said, “I eat here every day. They’re like my family. And not everybody has what we have. Can you stop?”

  I remembered what Phoebe had said about how Jarvis would give all his money to charity if he could. “I think that’s nice,” I said.

  Jarvis grinned and said, “See, Phoebe. I’m nice. Don’t know where that leaves you.” He speared a forkful of meat loaf, and the conversation was over.

  Phoebe didn’t notice, but he leaned toward me when he said it, his leg pressing against mine. It was probably an accident on his part, but I swear, every muscle in my body tightened and the hairs on my arms stood up on end. Other girls might think he’s handsome or like him because he has money. To me, paying for the waitress’s kid’s braces is . . . hot.

  If you can work into conversation that you pay for my schooling, you’ll probably have tons of girlfriends. JK—I’m sure you’re married or, at least, too old to date.

  Jarvis excused himself then, which gave me a chance to dig in to my gyro and fries while Phoebe tutted about Jarvis’s foolishness (but I could tell she enjoyed bragging on him). Just then, I got a text. From Jarvis.

  Jarvis: I want to see you WITHOUT Phoebe.

  Jarvis: Ideas?

  I texted him back a .

  When Jarvis returned, he said he thought we should go to see the Statue of Liberty, since I’d never been. Phoebe looked at him as if he’d suggested a Star Trek convention. A boat tour? In December? And with a million tourists? No thanks!

  Phoebe said maybe Monday would be better than the weekend, but she wanted no part of it.

  So Jarvis and I have a date for Monday!

  Also, the gyro was excellent. If you’re ever near the Paramount Diner, you should get it.

  Maybe we can even meet there.

  Love, Jacaranda

  To: Johnsmith247@dll.com

  Date: December 20, 11:30 p.m. Eastern Standard Time

  Subject: Are you awake, I wonder

  Dear Mr. Smith,

  Are you awake, I wonder? I wish I could talk to you.

  Today, because Phoebe had “suffered” through brunch with the Thursdays, we had a salon day. I said I couldn’t afford it, but Phoebe’s mom insisted that it was her treat. As she said it, her eyes swept over me in a way that took me back to my Goodwill store days, so I said okay.

  I’m going to have to get famous someday, so I can pay back all the people who did nice things for me, including you. Especially you.

  We got haircuts, conditioning treatments, facials, eyebrow waxing, and mani-pedis. I resisted Phoebe’s invitation to highlight my hair and become an Emma.

  I’ve never understood the whole idea of pedicures. Like, why would anyone pay a lot of money to get someone else to put on toenail polish, when they can do it themselves with a $5 bottle from CVS? Also, it’s December, and nobody sees my toes. But after immersing my feet in bubbling, mint-scented happiness, I’m a convert.

  While we were sitting there, Phoebe said, “If you could go back in time and tell your old self something, what would you tell her?”

  A bit philosophical for Phoebe, with whom I’ve seldom had a conversation that wasn’t about drama class or how much longer would I be in the shower. And, of course, it’s an especially weird question for me. My younger self is a little girl, lying in bed listening to noises I’m trying to drown out.

  But I guess “girl time” made Phoebe introspective.

  “I know it’s a cliché,” I said, “but I guess I’d tell her it will get better, and the world is a beautiful place.” I thought of MAA in the fall with all the orange and red leaves.

  Phoebe gave me a weird look. She said, “I don’t know. You seem like someone who’s never had any problems.”

  This was obviously completely off base, and I guess my face showed it. “You’re so confident,” she said. “Like that first day, when I asked you to switch rooms with me, you just said ‘no’ like there was no other possible answer. You didn’t hesitate, you didn’t apologize. You weren’t worried that I’d hate your guts.”

  “Are you kidding?” I said. “I was terrified.”

  “You didn’t show it. I thought you were such a badass. You wouldn’t let anyone push you around.”

  And by “anyone” she meant her. But with Phoebe, you take your compliments where you can get them. I asked her what she’d tell her younger self. She got very quiet, and finally, she said, “I’d tell her it’s okay if not everyone likes her.”

  We were silent a moment. She looked at her phone and laughed, then held it up. “Look.”

  The lock screen displayed multiple texts from the Emmas, Wells Fargo (whose real name, I guess, is Wellesley) and Morgan Stanley (Morgan). All the texts mentioned Jarvis or “your cousin.” They all wanted Phoebe and Jarvis to come to a party they were having.

  “What will you tell them?” I asked.

  She thought about it, then said, “I’ll say I’m coming and bringing him. That way, they’ll get all excited, and then I can text and say we aren’t coming after all.”

  “Stone cold,” I said.

  “Hmm, you’re right. I just won’t answer.” She side-eyed me. “You like him, don’t you?”

  I said he seemed nice, and she scoffed. “No, you like him. When he was helping you skate yesterday, you looked like a twelve-year-old with a crush.” She made her eyes big and batted her eyelashes. I wondered if I really looked that way and if he noticed.

  She continued. “The thing is, everyone likes Jarvis. I mean, he’s practically Prince Harry, only without the wife—handsome, rich, charming, if he’s not your cousin.” She gestured to the phone, where yet another text was coming in. “But don’t get your hopes up. He’s taking you out, and idk, I guess he likes you. Maybe he’ll try to get you into bed, but the girls he dates are, like, supermodels.”

  I’ve googled Jarvis a few—okay, a lot of—times, and Phoebe isn’t wrong. Am I naive to think he’d be into someone like me?

  I asked if he was really like that, the part about trying to get me into bed.

  Phoebe shrugged. “All guys are like that. I mean, my cousin’s ridiculously nice. But that doesn’t make him the pope.”

  Then she looked in the mirror across from us and asked me if I thought they’d cut her hair too short.

  So now I’m worried. Jarvis said he wants to spend time with me. WITHOUT Phoebe. Does that mean he expects something? Do rich boys always expect something? I figure you were a rich boy when you were Jarvis’s age so maybe you know.

  I know you won’t answer this. Maybe that’s why I feel so comfortable writing it. I’d be embarrassed to ask Vanessa. Do girls with mothers talk about this stuff with them?

  Phoebe’s right. I really like him. But I’m not ready yet.

  Love, Jacaranda

  To: Johnsmith247@dll.com

  Date: December 21, 9:03 p.m. Eastern Standard Time

  Subject: I had the loveliest day . . . mostly

  Dear Mr. Smith,

  The Statue of Liberty was closed. The ferry wasn’t running due to morning fog. So, instead, Jarvis took me to brunch (people in New York seem to LOVE brunch) all the way across town in Centra
l Park.

  That’s a big park! And a lovely restaurant, that looks like an old boathouse! Over brunch, we talked about our dreams. Jarvis talked about computer science, which I don’t understand, but it sounds fascinating. Or maybe I just like watching his mouth move.

  We discussed theater, and music too. Jarvis has seen or read every play ever written. He said that he thought that the characters’ optimism was what made a tragedy tragic, whether it was Romeo and Juliet thinking they could make a life together or the mother in The Glass Menagerie thinking her awkward daughter might find a husband. I mentioned Willy Loman in Death of a Salesman, and how he was sure his screwup son, Biff, was one stroke of luck away from being the success Willy never was. Jarvis said, “Exactly!” I loved that he thought I was smart even though he’s the smartest person I’ve ever met.

  The weird thing about being with Jarvis is that people stare at him like he’s part of the New York sights. I saw one girl take a selfie as she passed our table, angling her camera to get Jarvis in the background. He held his orange juice up in front of his face in a salute, right before the snap.

  After brunch, we strolled down the walking path, looking at statues. There’s one of Alice in Wonderland, another of Mother Goose. I commented that there were statues of pretend women like Alice, but all the statues of real people were men. He said he’d noticed that too! We came to this gazebo with benches all around. I said it looked like it was out of The Sound of Music, and he started to whistle “Sixteen Going On Seventeen.”

  “Yes!” I shouted, and I grabbed his hand. The second I did, my body went from freezing to burning. I paused for just an instant. Then I turned and ran to the gazebo, pulling him along after me, the way Liesl and Rolf did in the movie. Jarvis was laughing, and I said it was perfect for us because I’m sixteen going on seventeen, and he’s seventeen going on eighteen. I took both his hands and spun him around, laughing.

  He said, “We used to watch that every Christmas.”

  I wondered if “we” was him and his mother. But he changed the subject by putting his hand on my waist. “Jump up!” When I did, he lifted me up onto the bench, just like Liesl in the movie. He said he’d always wanted to do that, but the girls he knew would be embarrassed. “But you’re not like that,” he added.