Love, Jacaranda

by Alex Flinn

  “We should decorate our suite!” I said. “We can even take the stuff we’re making now.”

  Phoebe laughed. “You think I’m bringing 8,000 sticks on an airplane?”

  But still, she proceeded to gather them. Then we stopped in the flower district and bought pinecones and florist tape and big glass vases.

  Then we went back to Phoebe’s apartment and spent the rest of the afternoon spray-painting sticks. Even Mrs. Hodgkins helped, after she supervised the building staff putting up six trees and all the lights.

  We had to let the spray paint dry, so we left it all on the patio. Mrs. Hodgkins seemed pleased, and then Phoebe told me we were invited to a party tonight.

  I assumed we meant just her, but I guess I was going as her houseguest.

  If the girls I met the other day were examples of Phoebe’s New York friends, I’d much rather sit home, literally watching paint dry. But I wouldn’t want to upset our newfound bond.

  So, I’m going to my first New York party!

  I hope it’s short.

  Love, Jacaranda

  To: Johnsmith247@dll.com

  Date: December 23, 9:44 a.m. Eastern Standard Time

  Subject: It was not short!

  Dear Mr. Smith,

  I made it back . . . finally. For a while there, I wasn’t sure.

  I’d like to say my first New York party was epic, but the only epic thing about it was how we left, and who I left with.

  When Phoebe and I arrived, we pushed through the crowd in the living room to a wrap-around balcony full of more people, people drinking, people making out. A guy Phoebe seemed to know thrust a drink into her hand and one into mine.

  “What is it?” I asked, eyeing it suspiciously.

  “It’s good,” he said as Phoebe told me not to be paranoid. This wasn’t Miami.

  “No, it’s New York City,” I said, but she gulped down hers before I could stop her, then reached for mine. She switched her empty cup for my full one and went back to talking to the guy, whose name was Darcy or Dolby, something like that. I walked to the balcony railing and looked over, overwhelmed by the dark and the music. Phoebe had insisted I wear an outfit of hers, a short black suede skirt and a lace top that didn’t provide much coverage, much less warmth.

  I don’t know how long I stood, watching the street below, random people walking by and one trash panda ransacking a dumpster. I wished Jarvis was there. I was dimly aware that Phoebe was now making out with Dolby or Dobby and the balcony was filling with more and more pressing bodies. Could it hold all of us? At least it was warmer now. Then I felt someone beside me.

  “Stargazing?” he said.

  I started to say no but then realized he was joking. There were no stars visible in Manhattan. I pointed to the trash panda instead. “Nature.”

  Laughing, he introduced himself as Preston and asked if I went to school with Emma (whose apartment it was). I said I went to boarding school for theater. He started yakking about his dad being an agent, but not the type who represents actors, the kind who represents books. Or “properties,” as he called them. He was handsome, tall with dark hair, and not visibly drunk, which put him in the minority there. Tbh, I wasn’t paying much attention, because I was looking for Jarvis. I hoped he’d walk through the door, sweep me away, and take me out for a gyro.

  No such luck. Preston offered to refill my drink. I said okay. I didn’t plan to drink it. Maybe this makes me a huge nerd, but I don’t like drinking. I’ve been in too many rooms where I was the only sober person. Still, I watched Preston fill my cup with ice, then vodka.

  “Straight vodka?” I said.

  He laughed and asked if he should make me a cosmopolitan, or maybe a Moscow mule.

  He was making fun of me. I took a tiny sip. It tasted bad.

  He started talking about, well, himself, how he was going to Harvard next year, blahblahblah, obviously trying to impress me. I did look quite hot in Phoebe’s skirt. I watched the ice melt. Preston moved closer.

  Too close. It seemed like the balcony started to tilt. Probably my imagination. I said I was cold, and I wanted to go inside. He agreed, a bit too readily, and steered me into the living room. I dumped the rest of my drink over the railing. Probably, people down there thought it was raining. I hope that raccoon didn’t get wet. Or drunk. Once inside, he maneuvered me to a spot on the sofa that was only big enough for one of us and pulled me down with him. He leaned into me, sliding his hand onto my bare leg.

  I stood up. “I have to find my friend.”

  He stood, too, open-mouthed. Apparently, people didn’t usually avoid kissing Preston.

  “My friend Phoebe?” I said. “She’s tall, blond, really pretty.” I glanced around. This described about half the girls in the room. Where was she?

  I texted her, then called. Straight to voice mail.

  I pushed past Preston and searched for Phoebe, elbowing through crowds, glancing from one unfamiliar face to another. It wasn’t like Phoebe to disappear with some random guy. Maybe her drink actually was drugged. I didn’t know what to do or even, really, where I was. She hadn’t been on the patio, so I pushed in the other direction, past a big line for the bathroom (still no Phoebe). I made another round. Maybe this was like Phoebe. How well did I really know her?

  I checked my phone again. Nothing. Not knowing what to do, I texted Jarvis.

  Me: At party. Lost Phoebe.

  Jarvis: Where?

  I sent my location. Then I wandered around for 20 minutes. She. Was. Nowhere.

  Just as I was about to give up, the conversation near the door crescendoed. Jarvis! Someone said it. Then, again. Everyone stopped to herald his arrival. I pushed through the pressing bodies. I heard people offering him drinks, congratulating him, on what, I didn’t know, saw hands reaching out to him. Everyone wanted a part of him. I finally caught his eye.

  “Jackie!” His smile was the North Star. He reached for me.

  “I haven’t seen her in an hour, and she was drinking a lot.” I didn’t know if that was even true, but she’d had two drinks that I’d seen, so probably. I added that I knew I sounded paranoid.

  He assured me I didn’t. I was being a good friend. He took my hand. “I’ll help you find her, and if she left, I’ll get you home.”

  Home. Such a funny word. Because what does it actually mean? I’ve had so many homes, or maybe I haven’t had any. Maybe my little room at MAA is the only real home I’ve ever had, the only one that’s mine. At least, that’s what my mind flashed to when Jarvis said the word. My lavender-and-white bed.

  People still kept coming up to him, congratulating him, talking to him. Each time, he asked if they’d seen Phoebe. “My cousin, Phoebe Pendleton-Hodgkins!”

  Finally, someone said she’d gone into a room down the hall. Jarvis pulled me toward it and opened the door.

  It was a study, and sure enough, Phoebe was in there, making out with the guy from before. Well, probably more than making out but less than . . . well, you know. I looked away, so I’m not sure. Jarvis yelled Phoebe’s name and said, “Time to go!” The guy cursed at us to leave. Jarvis said, “Gladly, Duncan.”

  Duncan! That was his name!

  “I’ll take my cousin.” Jarvis tugged her arm and asked if she had a coat. She looked red-eyed and kind of out of it and said she didn’t know where it was.

  God, her coat was gorgeous. It was a Canada Goose parka, which several girls at MAA have, but it probably cost as much as some of my Miami friends’ cars. I looked around, but it was gone, and Jarvis had given her his. Phoebe was fighting Jarvis off, saying she wasn’t a baby. He said, “Maybe not, but you’re too drunk to consent to what you were about to do.”

  True. She was having trouble putting one foot in front of the other. Also, sober Phoebe would have stopped making out with the guy the second he took off his coat. He was wearing a Clemson football sweatshirt. Phoebe scorns both state schools and organized sports.

  In the hall, there was another bottleneck of pe
ople, all wanting Jarvis to stay and party. One girl grabbed his arm. I told him I could probably get Phoebe into a car myself if he wanted to stay. I’ve had a certain amount of experience maneuvering drunk people, but I didn’t mention that. He said, “Yes. Yes, I’m absolutely going to send my petite girlfriend down to put my drunk cousin into a car while I party. That sounds like me.” He looked insulted.

  And all I was thinking was that he said “my girlfriend.”

  “Hey, I’m from the 305. Don’t worry. I’m tough,” I said.

  He laughed. “And I’m from the 212, and the last of the gentlemen here.” He launched Phoebe into the elevator and pulled me in after them.

  Somehow, we got Phoebe into a car. By then, she was coherent enough that when I told her about Harvard-boy Preston touching my leg, she cackled, so I guess she wasn’t drugged.

  “Preston Stack isn’t going to Harvard or anyplace else with standards. Maybe he could get into a trade school if he promised not to break anything there.” Same old Phoebe.

  Then she fell asleep on Jarvis’s shoulder. He told me to take a picture and send it to her.

  So that is how my first New York party went. Not that you asked.

  We got Phoebe past the doorman, reasonably upright, and up to the 21st floor. By then she was complaining about her lost coat. Mr. and Mrs. Hodgkins were out, so Jarvis put Phoebe to bed without incident. Then I gave him a little tour of all the decorations we’d made, ending in the family room. He seemed impressed. “I wish I was coming.”

  I said I wished that too. But he’s leaving today, going to some party in Westchester and spending Christmas Day with his father’s girlfriend. He’d asked if he could stay in the city and go to Phoebe’s. “But apparently, Dad said, I’m being a moody teenager.”

  He promised he’d be back the day after Christmas and had gotten us theater tickets. Then he rummaged in the pocket of his coat that he’d taken off Phoebe and said he got me something.

  I didn’t see what it was, but it was small enough for him to hide behind his back. He walked to the tree and nestled it among the mounds of Hodgkins presents. He sat on the sofa, which was the only thing in the room not covered in painted sticks, and motioned for me to sit beside him. I did, even though I WANTED TO KNOW WHAT WAS IN THAT PACKAGE!

  So I’ll have three gifts under the tree this year, yours and Daisy’s and now, Jarvis’s.

  I got him something too—I made him something. I didn’t know if it was too cheesy. I asked him why people had been congratulating him at the party.

  “I got into MIT,” he said. When I said that was incredible, he said, “I guess.”

  “Aren’t you happy?” I asked.

  He shrugged. “I don’t know if I want to go there.”

  Because people just turn down MIT. “But I thought it was your top choice.”

  He said it was. But now that he’d actually gotten in, he wondered if he was smart enough. “I mean, you know half the people congratulating me think I got in because my dad could donate a building to the school. And who’s to say they aren’t right?”

  “I say they aren’t right,” I said.

  Have I mentioned that Jarvis is ridiculously smart? But now he was doubting himself, just like I doubt myself.

  “Everything in my life is inevitable,” he said. “I do well in school, I’ll get into every college I apply to.”

  I said that was because he was smart.

  But he kept going. “Lots of people are smart. But they don’t all get in wherever they want. I will. I’ll go to a good school, take the right classes, join the right clubs, get the right internships, probably go to law school. All because I’m Jarvis Pendleton, who gets what he wants.”

  Then he said, “Do you know that first night, when you stepped back and didn’t let me kiss you? You were the first girl to do that since I started to look at girls.”

  I kind of smiled at that, since it was mostly the garlic butter that had kept me away that day. Also, how many girls has he kissed?

  But I laughed. “I wouldn’t mind a little inevitability in life.”

  “But it’s so unfair. I could be taking a spot from someone more deserving.”

  “Life’s not fair,” I said, knowing the truth of that.

  “And you’re okay with that?” he asked.

  “It evens out,” I said. “People like you and Phoebe have the advantages of money. The rest of us have great life-learning experiences. You’re a nice person, at least.”

  His face lightened, and he said, “I am nice, aren’t I?”

  I laughed. “So nice! You came to get me and drunk Phoebe tonight. And you do other nice things too.”

  “I know it’s silly—a rich boy whining about his privileges. But I’m not sure I want to go to Boston. It’s so far away.”

  I was thinking Boston wasn’t exactly Montana. Far from what, I wanted to ask him? Far from his father, who could get on a plane at a moment’s notice? Or from his friends, half of whom would probably also go to Boston schools?

  “Maybe I’d rather go to Michigan, if I get in,” he said, and I remembered that’s where he was visiting when we met. “Or Carnegie Mellon—it’s one of the top computer science programs in the country. It’s in Pittsburgh. Or NYU.”

  The schools he was mentioning were all top schools for theater too, the ones my friends wanted to attend. So I wondered if he meant closer to me. Because I was going to major in theater. And, even though I’ve only known him a few months, that didn’t seem unreasonable to me. I wanted to be close to him too.

  I thought about him calling me his girlfriend.

  But he couldn’t have meant that, could he? Jarvis Pendleton couldn’t be throwing away MIT for some Publix bag girl he barely knew.

  Barely knew and texted at midnight.

  “When do you have to decide?” I asked.

  He said he had until May. Then he took me in his arms. We sat there, quiet, until we heard the little ding of the elevator. The Hodgkinses were home. It was after one.

  “Oh, no,” I whispered. They’d think I snuck Jarvis in. Or, if we told the truth, they’d know how drunk Phoebe got. Neither good.

  Seeing my distress, Jarvis reached over and switched off the light on the end table. He held his finger to his lips. I heard the elevator door open and close, Mr. and Mrs. Hodgkins talking in the living room. I held my breath. What if they came in here and found me sitting with their nephew in the dark, our clothes in a bit of disarray?

  (Note: Just a bit of a disarray. I don’t want to give the wrong impression.)

  I heard them go into their bedroom and shut the door.

  In the light from the city, Jarvis made an exaggerated gesture of relief, hand across forehead. Then he whispered, “The only question is, how do I leave? They’ll hear the ding when the elevator comes.”

  We decided he had to stay the night. We’d wake up early and sneak him out then.

  You see how very clandestine it all was.

  “Can you stay here with me?” Jarvis whispered. It seemed risky, but probably not any riskier than just him staying there alone, so I agreed. But I went to put on something more comfortable than Phoebe’s leather skirt and lace top.

  When I returned, wearing yoga pants and an NYU sweatshirt and carrying a blanket from my bed, he’d already fallen asleep. He looked so sweet, like a baby. I watched him for a moment then covered him with the blanket. His eyes fluttered open. “I was hoping to see you in your jammies.” He patted the space in front of him on the sofa. “Spoon with me.”

  I just fit. I could feel him behind me, kissing my hair as I fell asleep, and it was the nicest, safest feeling I’ve ever had in my life. I never wanted the night to end. I fell asleep in his arms.

  We woke at 6:00. We were able to sneak out to the elevator while everyone else was still asleep. I went with him downstairs, past the doorman and out to the street. It was freezing, and I only had on the sweatshirt, but it was a nice, bracing feeling. I held him close and kissed him goodbye
with all the sidewalk people trying to get around us, carrying briefcases and Christmas-wrapped packages, and the cold wind in my hair. He whispered that he’d see me on the 26th.

  Then he stopped. “I want to say something to you, but I don’t know if it’s too soon.”

  I knew what he wanted to say. I wanted to say it too. I’ve felt it for weeks, since the night I was freaking about juries and Jarvis called and calmed me down. I lied when I told Phoebe I liked him. The truth is, I’m falling in love with him. And yet, it seems too scary to admit. Maybe I only feel that way because I have no one else. Or I’m starstruck. Or a silly girl.

  But it isn’t that. It’s not his money or being starstruck that makes me feel this way. It’s how I feel about myself when I’m with him. He makes me feel special the same way you choosing to send me to school made me feel special. I’ve never felt that way before.

  But I’ve kept so much from him. He doesn’t even know my full name! Probably he wouldn’t love me if he knew where I came from. But maybe he would. He’s so sweet and understanding. Phoebe says he’s a socialist—maybe he wouldn’t mind being with a member of the proletariat.

  I put my arms around him and said, “I think I feel the same way. But let’s not say it yet.”

  And then he kissed me again. He said, “I love . . . kissing you. I loved holding you all night.”

  “Same.” Then I ran my hand through his hair so he’d know there was a lot more in that “same” than just the one word. “Merry Christmas.”

  I turned and walked back inside, feeling like I was leaving my heart right there on West 54th Street. When I got into the lobby, I saw him, still standing there, like he’d been watching me walk away. I waved. Then I texted him from my phone. His Christmas gift, an audio file I made him, called Jarvis’s Christmas Gift from Jackie.

  Me, singing, “I’ve Got a Crush on You” by my old friend Gershwin. The Gershwins really get me. Part of the lyrics, by George’s brother, Ira, go, “I never had the least notion that I could fall with so much emotion.”