The Assistants(42)

Kevin unfolded the two plastic satchels he’d bought when we arrived. “Let’s hit the trees,” he said with such gusto I feared that at any moment he might embark on a monologue from Dr. Seuss’s The Lorax.

“So all of these trees have the same kind of apple?” I asked.

“McIntosh,” he said.

Right, right, the quintessential New York apple, I remembered. So, basically, I could fill this bag in about two minutes and be done with it, head home with a satchel full of McIntoshes, and cue up Netflix, but I observed that’s not how it worked.

Kevin inched toward one tree like he was sneaking up on it. He felt and rejected two or three identical McIntoshes before plucking one from its branch.

I did as he did. The subtle, almost meditative nature of this process reminded me a little bit of how people talked about yoga. Yoga is pretty much just a lot of standing around in dumb poses if you’re not focused on your form, right? The nearly imperceptible details? Apple picking contained the same mystery for me.

“Look at this one.” Kevin held what he considered to be the perfect specimen in the palm of his hand.

“That’s a good apple,” I said.

“I want you to have it.” He held it out to me with both hands.

This must have been what Adam felt like in Eden.

“Thank you. I’ll cherish it,” I said, adding it to the pile in my bag.

“Hey.” Kevin got a funny look on his face. “Let’s go sit on that wooden bench over there.”

I followed him toward the bench, diminutive and rickety-looking as it was, like something a gnome might have built in woodworking class—but before we could reach it, a small herd of screaming kids piled onto it like it was a jungle gym.

“On second thought,” I said, turning around, “let’s continue standing.”

Kevin set his plastic satchel down carefully at his feet and wiped the dust off his hands. He was still wearing his funny face, and for a split second I was overcome by a wave of panic. Was he going to drop onto a knee and propose to me right here in the apple orchard? I hadn’t even put on eyeliner today.

“Don’t be mad,” he said. “I know you hate surprises, but I sort of have a surprise for you.”

“Okay.” I fully prepared to become enraged at whatever this surprise was. I figured if it were an engagement ring, he wouldn’t have prefaced the moment with a request for me not to get angry, so I really had no idea what was coming.

“Last week,” he said, “when I was hanging out with my friend Tim, I mentioned your project. And he totally flipped out over the idea.”

Tim was an editor at BuzzFeed.

“He just so happened to be working on this list of young New Yorkers who are trying to make the world better, and he was short on names and running out of time, so when I told him about you and your website . . .”

I couldn’t move and it wasn’t because the bag of apples in my left hand was cutting off the circulation to my fingers. That pain was far more manageable than the horror that was now running through my mind.

“You look mad,” Kevin said. “I didn’t mean to do it. But I was bragging about you, and then it just slipped out. I know how private you are about it, but I just couldn’t help it—I knew you’d be perfect for Tim’s list.”

“You shouldn’t have said anything.” I let my bag of apples drop to the ground.

Kevin’s eyes shot to where they fell, seemingly concerned for their structural dignity.

“You’ll have to tell Tim to forget it,” I said. “I can’t be a part of any buzz list.”

“Tina.” Kevin reached for me. “Don’t you think you’re overreacting just a bit?”

“No, I don’t.” I pulled back to avoid Kevin’s touch, just as my phone got a text.

“I’m really sorry you feel that way.” Kevin searched his pockets for his phone.

I immediately got another text, which apparently Kevin thought was his phone going off, because he was still searching for his phone, which made the same text sound as mine, neither of us willing to be the one to change what was obviously the most appropriate sound to indicate a text message.

“It’s fine,” I said, retrieving my phone from my pocket. “Just undo it.”

“No, I mean I’m really sorry Tina, but Tim already—”

Another text.

“Jesus, what the hell?” I looked at my phone. I had three messages from Emily, two from Wendi, and one from Ginger.

Kevin was thumbing furiously at his phone and then turned it around to show me its face. “You should read this,” he said.

“Twenty-Five Dog Selfies That Changed the World? Why are you showing this to me?”

“Oh wait, hang on.” Kevin thumbed at his phone some more and then turned it around again.

The headline read: Twenty-Five New Yorkers Who Are Doing Something About It.

Ohmygod.

Kevin kicked at a rotten apple at his feet. “I thought you’d be happy, once you saw it.”

Ohmygod. I frantically scrolled down the list to number twenty-five, “Tina Fontana’s New Nonprofit Will Take on Student Debt,” hardly able to believe what I was reading. The short paragraph referred to a “rumored, yet-to-launch website” and employed the terms inequality and consciousness raising, which tipped me off that Kevin must have had a hand in writing some of the content himself. It didn’t contain much detail because how could it? It was framed more like a leak—a sort of we heard about this cool thing before anyone else and even though we don’t know anything useful about it, here we are with the scoop! But it did state in no uncertain terms that my mission was to help underpaid women pay off their student-loan debt.