Watch Us Rise(13)

“But no one expects y’all to look like that. It’s just . . . ?it’s . . .”

“It’s just wrong,” I say, looking around for more examples. I see them right away when I glance at the magazine stand. “Look at this.” He follows behind me, and I can smell him, a mix of cologne and sweat. Why does he have to smell so good? How does his sweat even smell good? “Cosmopolitan magazine. This is a magazine for women. For women,” I stress, “and look at what the cover says: ‘10 Things Guys Crave in Bed,’ and ‘Inhaled the Whole Pizza?—How to Not Gain Pounds After a Pig-Out.’ I mean, what is that? And all these magazines are supposed to be created FOR WOMEN.”

“Just looks like sound advice to me,” James says, and starts to laugh.

I give him a look.

“No, I’m just messing with you. ‘40 Girlie Moves That Make Guys Melt,’ ” he reads out loud, “ ‘The New Feminism: Would You Go Topless to Get a Pay Raise,’ ‘Mind Tricks That Melt Pounds.’ Is that real? What does that even mean?”

“What does any of it mean? It’s all about getting super skinny, or lean, working out, and then doing whatever it takes to please men. It’s a setup! And Cosmo is not the only magazine trying to get into our heads.” We scan the others. Most of them have super-skinny white women on the cover with some type of headline that suggests that women aren’t enough. “I mean, how about some covers that read: ‘Food Is Delicious—Ways to Love It’—or oh, oh, ‘Ways to Have a Healthy Relationship with Cheeseburgers,’ or ‘Your Body = Perfection,’ or ‘Sex—The Way YOU Like It.’ ” I pause. I can’t believe I said that last one out loud.

James smiles. “Those are good lines.”

“Yeah, they are,” I say, feeling confident. “Maybe I just need to start my own magazine, or club, or whatever, because this is the kind of stuff I really wanna be talking about—the kinds of issues that are the most important—to me, at least,” I say, and I start to really think about it. Maybe other girls are feeling the same way as me and hate getting all the mixed messages from the media. Maybe I need to figure out a way to be talking about these issues more, and create a space where learning and talking about women is normal and doesn’t get shut down right away.

“I’d read it,” James says. “And maybe you can make one for guys too.”

“What? It’s totally not the same for guys. You all get all the positive messages—you’re always celebrated and . . .”

“What? No, the same is totally true for men. You’re just not looking out for it.” He leans over his legs to catch his breath. “Come on, I’ll show you.” He runs ahead of me to 175th Street. We weave between people, dodging bicycles, babies in strollers, and old folks taking their sweet time. I smell coffee brewing at Floridita and pass the elderly man who sits in a wheelchair outside the restaurant wearing an old captain’s outfit. He salutes me, same as he does every morning on my way to school. The city feels alive to me in a new way this afternoon, and I can’t tell if it’s because I’m running with my crush, or if it’s because my heart feels like it’s beating somewhere else outside my chest.

“Here,” James says, pointing to the window of the Vitamin Shoppe. “Check this guy out,” he says, looking up. “Six-pack abs, insane muscles—I mean, you gotta work for that.”

“And maybe take steroids, right?” I ask.

“Yeah, or spend all your time in the gym. All I’m saying is that it’s the same thing for guys. We got that pressure too.” I give him another look. “Okay, maybe it’s not exactly the same.” We look in the window at the cover of a Men’s Health magazine. It reads: “6 Moves for Six-Pack Abs” and “Make Good Sex Great.” “I mean, that’s a lot.” He looks at me, glances at his watch. “Come on, we gotta go if we’re gonna get back on time. So just, ya know, think about it—writing some stuff for us.”

“Yeah, yeah, I’ll think about it,” I say, pushing past him to take the lead. We run down Broadway all the way to 170th Street, then take a detour to J. Hood Wright Park to look at the GW Bridge on the first landing. We decide that as long as we get back by 3:05, then it doesn’t really matter where we go. The bridge looks massive from our landing, and the Hudson rough and wild below. We talk about our classes—the ones that we actually like, and the ones we’re just suffering through. We both agree that calculus can suck it. And we talk about the neighborhood and how we both landed in it.

“I love the Heights. Can’t imagine growing up anywhere else,” James starts. We’re on the way back to school on Amsterdam Avenue, having crossed over for the famous coco helado. “It’s home. My grandfather came here from the Dominican Republic, and just stayed. He was a mechanic, and he made enough to send my dad to college and business school, so when my dad made enough money, he bought the shop, and now he runs it. It’s home,” he says again.

“What about your mom? What does she do?” I ask.

“She’s an artist—sculpture mostly and some painting. And she lives upstate—Hudson Valley. My folks aren’t together anymore—I’m their only one, so I live with my dad during the week and try to spend weekends with my mom.”