Watch Us Rise(63)

“What if I don’t want to go yet?” he says, leaning in. “I want to stay . . .” He bends his head toward me, and even though I want to kiss him so much, feel his mouth on mine, because it seems like that’s what he’s about to do, I pull back—and hate myself, because I really want this moment, but I jerk back anyway.

“What are you doing?” I ask, stepping away from him. I stumble back and drop my cone. Crap, I think, and bend down to pick it up.

“Hey, lemme help you.”

“No, stop,” I yell, a little too loudly. Jasmine and Isaac look in our direction. “I’m not . . . I’m not into this.”

“Into what?” he asks, acting so innocent all of a sudden.

“You have a girlfriend,” I say, looking him dead in the eyes.

“Hey, it’s not that serious, okay. We’re not together in that way . . .”

“Yeah, well, it’s serious to me. If I were Meg, I’d be pissed right now, and I’m not gonna be your girl on the side. That’s not me,” I finish.

I grab my book bag, wave at Jasmine and Isaac, and walk right out of the park. I start crying as soon as I hit Fort Washington. I speed-walk home, pissed at James for making me want him so much, and embarrassed at myself for letting it make me cry out loud in front of everyone. This is what I both love and hate about living in New York City. Everything you feel is out in the open—everyone can see when you’re in pain and be witness.





As soon as I walk in the front door, my mom and Mia are walking out. It’s clear to both of them that I’ve been basically acting like a baby.

“What happened to you?” Mia asks, opening the door to let me in.

“Crap boy problems,” I say, and my mom pulls me in for a hug. “Where are you going?”

“Saggio’s,” my mom answers. “We’re craving Italian, and your father wants to stay home and watch bad TV. We’ve decided to go out! I thought you were going to Jasmine’s for dinner.”

“Plans changed. Can I go with you?”

“Of course, my dear. And no crap boy problems are worth crying over, you understand?” my mom asks, pulling me in again. It’s true that sometimes my mom gets it.

We walk down the street to our favorite Italian spot, run by an older couple who came over from Florence when they were much younger. They love our family—mostly because my parents celebrate every big anniversary or birthday there. Mia and I have been coming here since we were little, always ordering the spaghetti al limone and rigatoni with meatballs and hot sausage. As soon as we sit down, the waiter brings a pile of crusty bread and olive oil loaded with sweet pepper flakes and olives. Mia and I sop our bread into the oil immediately. We have always been girls who love to eat.

“Could you two please slow down?” my mother asks, plucking an olive from the plate and effortlessly loosening the pit.

“Ma, I had a two-hour practice where I basically sprinted from one end of the gym to the other the whole time. I’m starving,” Mia says, and orders a kale Caesar salad on the side. She is never satisfied. “So, spill it, Chelsea. What happened?”

“Mia, give her a second, and also, Chelsea, you don’t have to tell us if you don’t want to.” She takes a sip of her wine. I stay silent, testing her. She takes another drink, sighs, and says, “Well, just tell us what happened.”

I start from the beginning with James, trying to fill in all the details. It feels good to let it all out, and I can see my mom’s mind spinning as she digs in to her plate. The waiter keeps coming over to check on us, and my mom keeps shooing him away. I can tell she already has advice, but she’s letting me finish, and it turns out I have a lot to say.

“So, pretty much, that’s the story . . . ?oh, and he has a girlfriend,” I finish, sliding that last part in at the end and hoping they don’t notice.

“A what?” My mother nearly shouts at me, putting her fork down and looking me right in the eyes. “A girlfriend?”

“Yes, a girlfriend.”

“Chelsea, you know this is wrong, right?” I nod my head. Of course I know it’s wrong. That’s why I feel like such an idiot. “And you know that you need to find someone who cares about and respects who you are, and is not trying to play both sides, and that sounds like exactly what James is doing. I should call his mother.”

“Mom, please, no! Do not call his mother. Jeez!”

“Well, then you need to handle it yourself. You need to stand up to him. He can’t treat you like you’re disposable, Chelsea. He can’t have it both ways. This isn’t a fast-food restaurant, you know?” my mom says, and goes right into more advice—she’s definitely on a roll. “And another thing is this. You need a partner who has a focus on you, and not you and . . . ?you and some other girl. I chose your father because he cared about me, he made me laugh, we could talk about anything, and he didn’t have his focus anywhere other than me, and his whole life he has focused on pleasing me and making me feel loved. That’s what you want in a partner. Someone who will please you,” she finishes. The waiter walks by at that very moment and tops her glass off with a little more wine.

“I don’t think she needs anymore,” Mia says, and starts to laugh. “But I do think Mom’s right—who knew?”