You in Five Acts(24)

But that day, you had other plans.

“I promised Joy I’d get coffee,” you said as we spilled out through the heavy front door onto Amsterdam Avenue, the bitter wind whipping your scarf around your face. It was less than two weeks to Valentine’s Day, and all the store windows were plastered with giant hearts and winking Cupids. As if anyone needed the reminder.

“Cool, cool,” I said, shrugging like it didn’t make a difference.

“I feel like I’ve barely seen her,” you said. “She’s been ghosting during lunch lately.”

I nodded, or at least sort of wobbled my chin noncommittally. I liked Joy but hadn’t really spoken to her one-on-one since the party, when she’d saved me from the Drunk Girl Chorus. Selfishly, I mostly wanted to get to know her better so that I could get closer to you.

“Tell her I say hey,” I said. You cocked your head and narrowed your eyes.

“How many Y’s?” you asked.

“What?”

“You know.” Your lips parted slowly in a sly smile. “Just ‘hey,’ or, like—” you wiggled your eyebrows lasciviously “‘—heyyyyyy’?”

“How about just ‘hi,’” I laughed.

“‘Hi’ or ‘hiiiiiiiiiiiiii’?” You were cracking up, but I wasn’t sure what you were doing. You were acting like I was into Joy, which had come out of nowhere. And sure, she was cute and seemed cool, but she wasn’t the one who—as Nana would say—had her hooks in me. The expression always made me think of meat processing, but if you could get past the gross visual it made sense. You’d gotten under my skin, and there wasn’t anything I could do about it. You felt—and I know this is a terrible analogy given what happened but I really don’t know how else to say it—like a drug.

“The first one,” I said.

“Got it,” you said, giving me a little salute before turning south on Broadway, toward Starbucks. “See you tomorrow, Rodolpho.” I watched you walk for a few seconds, shamelessly hoping you’d look back, but you just stomped ahead, your bag bouncing precariously on your shoulder, one strap hanging loose, as if everything could spill out onto the street at any second.

Not knowing where we stood, I felt just as unstable.

? ? ?


I decided on a whim to walk home. It was only a mile or so, and I was in no hurry to get there. Besides, the weather was so beautiful: black ice on the ground, yellow snow frozen in custardy clumps on the curb, the sky a dumpy shade of pigeon gray. Every day in the New York winter felt like an eternity, but I didn’t mind; I would’ve made it stretch on and on to infinity if I could. After graduation (or “commencement,” since teachers were always bending over backward to convince us that this was just the beginning, like that was somehow comforting), my life would become a big, empty nothing, the future greeting me not with an excited heyyyyyyy or even a casual hi but with that terse, punctuated “hey.” people text when they’re mad at you and want to make you guess why.

I doubled back down to Amsterdam, shoving my numb fingers into my pockets. I wasn’t in the mood for the crowds on Broadway. I walked fast, keeping my head low, just like at school, only now there was no one trying to talk to me, only the sharp, apathetic air that slapped at my cheeks, burned in my lungs, and came out of my mouth in short, crystallized puffs. Everything felt shaky, temporary—like Mom, like money, like my so-called career, or even my confidence lately. I thought we had a vibe, but you teasing me about Joy made me think I’d made the whole thing up. Maybe you really were into Ethan. Maybe he wasn’t the delusional one. I was debating exposing my hands to the elements so that I could dig out my headphones when I heard the dull thud of a basketball on pavement and glanced over to see Diego shooting hoops on the 70th Street playground courts.

“Hey!” I called, grateful for an excuse to lengthen my commute. Coming home at five o’clock had turned into five thirty had turned into six. I could always blame rehearsal, not that anyone bothered asking me to explain anymore.

Diego started, scooping the ball under one arm, but then relaxed when he saw it was me.

“Hey, man, sorry,” he said, as I crossed the blacktop. “I’ve gotten chased out of here a few times by bored cops.”

“Really?” I asked, dumping my bag next to his at the base of the hoop.

Diego dribbled the ball back to center court. “Yup,” he said. “Apparently there’s a thin brown line between playing ball—” he feinted back and made a perfect three-point shot “—and loitering,” he finished.

“Well if you’re loitering then I guess I am, too,” I said.

Diego smiled and tossed me the ball. “You don’t want to go home, either, huh?” he asked.

I dribbled ham-handedly, wishing I had spent more time playing sports like a normal kid instead of sitting in casting offices running lines with my mom. “My dad works late,” I lied, making a clumsy attempt at a layup that hit the underside of the hoop with a metallic clang.

“My mom, too,” Diego said. He nodded after the ball, which had rolled meekly off into a corner as if it were embarrassed to be seen with me. “Want to go one-on-one?”

“You need an ego boost?” I laughed.

“Nah,” Diego said. “I want the company. How about HORSE or something? Just for fun?”