City Love(18)

We watch the sky come to life as the city wakes up. Lights snap off. People appear and another day begins.

“When can I see you again?” Zander asks.

Never seeing each other again is the best thing for both of us. If I saw him again, things would move forward. Emotions would get complicated. Zander is into me. I can tell. It wouldn’t be fair to string him along, make him hope for something I can never give him. The kindest thing is to say goodbye now. He can remember me whatever way he wants. That’s the beauty of preserving time. I will never become a girl he falls out of love with. And the memory of him will remain like the memory of this night. Perfect.

I take a deep breath and begin to explain.





NINE

ROSANNA


A GIRL I’VE NEVER SEEN before locks eyes with me the second I enter the packed dorm lounge. She’s over by the punch bowl, shooting me a look so nasty I’m surprised I don’t die right on the spot. I look over my shoulder to see if the person she’s glaring at is standing behind me. But no. She clearly hates me. Or she thinks she does. Because you kind of have to know who someone is before you can choose to hate them.

If you told me I’d be invited to a party my third day in New York, I would have told you (very politely because it was nice of you to suggest I’m on anyone’s social radar) that you were crazy. People don’t exactly invite the boring girl to parties. But this invitation was by default. A campus activity group is sponsoring my day camp on the Lower East Side and the affiliated camp on the Upper East Side. They’re the group that’s throwing the party. Counselors from both camps are here.

Parties make me nervous. I never know what to do with myself. Should I mingle? What is mingling, anyway? Going up to a bunch of people you don’t know and engaging them in small talk? How is that fun? I’d much rather chill with people I already know. I recognize counselors from orientation, but most of their names are eluding me. Mentally playing the name game we did at camp this morning isn’t helping me connect people’s faces to their names like it did before. The only person I really know so far is Mica. I don’t see her yet.

Okay. This is a good chance for me to expand my horizons. College is where I’m planning to reinvent myself. Reinventing yourself isn’t possible in high school. Everyone knows you in high school. They label you and judge you so harshly you’re boxed in until graduation. It’s impossible to change your reputation unless you go to a huge school with thousands of kids, which I unfortunately did not. I spent most of high school wishing I could be a better version of myself. I couldn’t wait for a fresh start in New York where I could be the person I was truly meant to be.

This is my chance. I take a deep breath. I can do this.

Right when I’m about to push my way into the crowd, someone bumps into me. She has a cup of red punch in her hand. Except her cup is empty now. I watch in horror as her punch spreads over the front of my shirt. Of course I had to wear my only decent going-out top, which is now completely ruined. Because of course it’s white and this blood-red stain will never entirely come out.

“Oh, I’m so sorry,” the girl who bumped into me says. She’s the same girl who was giving me the evil eye when I got here. Her tone implies that she’s not sorry at all.

“Do I know you?” I ask.

Nasty Girl has fire in her eyes. For a second I think she’s going to hit me. She crumples her cup and drops it at my feet. Then she saunters over to a group of Upper East counselors and starts laughing at the top of her lungs.

A few people who saw the assault are throwing me pity looks. There’s no way I’m going to stand here with a rude stain on my shirt getting pity looks. I make a hasty escape to the bathroom.

Luckily the bathroom is empty. Bending over the sink, I pump the soap dispenser and frantically paw at the punch on my shirt. I don’t want anyone walking in on this. The stain is not coming out; it’s only spreading. There aren’t any paper towels. I bunch up some toilet paper, wet it, and wipe at the stain. Now I have a soaking wet shirt to go with my lovely stain, accessorized with toilet paper shreds stuck everywhere.

I try to swallow the pit in my throat. That girl hates me. And I don’t even know who she is. See, this is why I hate parties. Unforeseen drama. Being the target of Nasty Girl’s evil energy makes me want to leave, but I remind myself why this is good for me. I can ignore her. She made her point. She wants to intimidate me so I run out in tears. Sorry Nasty Girl, you don’t win that easily. Rosanna Tranelli is a fighter. Rosanna Tranelli will not be bested by some punch-chucking lunatic. Do the kids on Glee shrivel up and cry when slushies are thrown in their face? No, they do not. They go and sing some badass mash-up that gives the rest of us chills.

Mascara is smudged under my eye. I wipe it away, brush myself off, and hold my shirt out under the hand dryer. The stubborn red stain taunts me. I ignore the taunting. When I go back to the party, I don’t look her way. I don’t even look around for Mica. I stalk over to the snack table. Tons of individually bagged chips, pretzels, and cookies are out. I sneak one of each into my bag. These can be lunch and dinner tomorrow. After everyone takes what they want, I’ll sneak some more on my way out.

“Party at your place later?” a boy says.

I glance up at him. He looks a couple years older than me, but his confident vibe makes him seem even older. He’s wearing a black suit, white shirt, and magenta tie. The aura of success surrounding him is unmistakable. What is a guy like him doing at a party like this?