The Assistants(45)

“Can you spell it?” one of the blond Zaras asked.

“The Assistance,” Accent repeated, annoyed now. “A-s-s-i-s-t-a-n-c-e. As in, the act of assisting.”

I formed an expression that said, Duh, that’s what I said.

Wendi gave me a nod of her pink horns and pulled out her phone, presumably to buy the domain name immediately.

“All right, everyone,” Carolyn called to us from the auditorium doors. “Finish up. Have you all had a chance to relax a little bit?”

Not a moment too soon, we were directed back into the seminar.





19




IN THE HOURS that passed between the haywire harassment seminar and my and Kevin’s after-work fall-foliage stroll through Central Park, my plan solidified.

I would make good on this. I would make like the purpose-seeking millennial I almost was by transforming this obstacle into opportunity. If life gives you lemons . . . What would Robert say? Make a lemon cake? A lemon-drop martini?

This wasn’t the worst thing that could have happened. The worst thing that could have happened was the truth being outed—not this nonsense about a crowdfunded nonprofit. But now that a crowdfunded nonprofit was what we were dealing with, well, lemon-meringue pie, anyone?

Kevin and I entered the park near Columbus Circle, drifting past a pickup string band and multiple dudes trying to sell us a rickshaw ride.

“I’m sorry I had such a strong reaction yesterday,” I said, “to you leaking the info about the site. I just got scared.” I paused momentarily in front of a pop-up shop hawking Banksy spray-paint-art knockoffs (or were they?).

Kevin nudged us along. “You were right, I should have asked you first. Though I did have Tim specifically say it was ‘rumored’ and ‘yet to launch,’ just to be safe. Did you catch that?”

I had. But rumors spread way faster than fact. Everyone knows that.

“How about you buy me a hot dog,” I said as we conveniently confronted a street truck, “and we kiss and make up?”

He kissed me first, and then bought us dogs with mustard and sauerkraut. We ate them while we ambled farther into the park.

The funny thing was, this whole mess was sort of turning into Wendi’s original plan—a pay-it-forward network. Taking money from the haves and distributing it to the have-nots. Except without our stealing to fund it. (An essential distinction.) It really wasn’t such a bad plan after all.

“We’re going to have a big fancy party,” I said. “To launch the site. Will you be my date?”

Kevin stopped in his tracks and wiped his mouth with his mustardy napkin. “Do you even have to ask?”

“But I’m going to be the host,” I said. “So you can’t get mad if I don’t pay enough attention to you.”

“I’ll make sure you pay attention to me.” He wrapped his free arm around my torso and pulled me in closer.

We kept walking that way even though it was totally awkward and uncomfortable and kind of lame.

At this point, I will make like Zack Morris from Saved by the Bell and call a time-out, because I noticed something about this little scene in the park as it was happening. How I took the initiative in asking Kevin to be my date. How I was being uncharacteristically playful and flirtatious by not shrugging out of his affectionate-while-walking hold. In fact, I noticed that nothing about this scene said Tina Fontana.

Was I actually becoming a girl who threw parties? A woman in charge of a real thing? What could be next—would I start accessorizing?

“You look happy,” Kevin said. He took a prideful bite of his hot dog.

Happy, not so much. Determined, yes. Because the best way to get away with a lie was to convince yourself of its truth.

“I like seeing you this happy.” Kevin rubbed his hand in gentle circles over the small of my back, finally convinced he had in fact done the right thing by outing my project, just like he thought.

The truth, I told myself, was that (maybe) I could actually do something with the site once it was out there. (Maybe) I could really help people. Like the forearm tattoo of that girl Brutus from the NYU Women’s Center said, maybe I could be the change I wanted to see in the world.

I laughed at myself, and then groaned.

Kevin crumpled the checkered cardboard boat that had previously housed his hot dog into a ball and tossed it into a trash can. “Aren’t you hungry?” He pointed at my dog with only one measly nibble missing. “Usually with you and me it’s a race to the finish.”

“I’m fine.” I smiled and sunk my teeth in for a hearty portion to prove it.

I guess the new Tina Fontana had less of an appetite than the old one.

“Coming up behind you, coming up behind you!”

A red Adidas tracksuit on Rollerblades sped past us, knocking me into Kevin and my hot dog onto the ground.

“Oh, hey.” Margie Fischer spun around to face us, surprisingly adept on wheels.

Her tracksuit was just like the one Run DMC used to wear, except she paired it with a protective skating helmet, knee and elbow guards, and fingerless racing gloves.

“Are you two an item?” she asked, wagging her half-gloved finger between us.

“No,” I said, as Kevin said, “Yes.”

Margie laughed with gusto. “Sounds like you need to get your story straight.”