Chapter 22 #3
“Sure thing. Although fair warning that I might have to take them home to Connecticut with me,” I say quickly.
“No tamales there?” she asks as we resume our path, winding our way through a sidewalk tree seller’s stand, past retailers closed for the storm, and between other brave souls making their way to local bars and delivery guys on bicycles fitted with gloves on the handlebars.
“Ya know, I can’t say I’ve done the research to find out, but if there are, I doubt they’re anything like this.”
“I guess I’ll have to bring them with me when we move, then,” she says. “Luckily they freeze pretty well.”
But it’s my heart that goes cold as her words hit me. Move?
“Wait, what do you mean by move?” I ask, trying not to sound panicked.
“Well, if all goes according to plan, Hugo and I will be Connecticut residents by next Christmas.”
Now my heart really freezes. I try to pick a question, but I have so many, and what comes out is just, “I… That’s… Do you not like it here?”
She stops and runs her hand along a lighted railing in front of a CVS.
“It’s not that. Growing up here was good.
My parents gave us the best childhood. And it works for me.
But for Hugo. He’s, well… He struggles here.
The other kids, the memories…” She trails off.
“So, the plan is to graduate, get out of the city, and start fresh. I did all this research on schools for nonverbal kids, and there are a couple of solid options in Connecticut. Performing arts schools that use theater and music and stuff as therapy.”
It’s another grown-up future that makes my movie obsession seem totally ridiculous. I’m about to ask how her plans for becoming a therapist fit in, but then she adds, “That’s why we took the trip yesterday, because Carlos said maybe he could help get me a job at Cooper.”
“Cooper? My C ooper?”
Eve nods. “I’ll be eighteen next fall, so I could get my own place up there, and Hugo can come live with me and go to school while I work. Nothing says adulting like carving scary faces into overgrown squash, right?” she says. “I mean, I assume that’s what you all do there for fun.”
I don’t even react to the joke, because my snack cake heart is now literally in my soggy Chucks.
Next fall. Next fall, I’ll be gone. I’ll be in Brooklyn.
“That’s kind of wild,” I say. “Because I’m planning to be… here, actually.”
“Here?” She looks around at the CVS.
“Well, not CVS here, but Brooklyn here,” I say, trying to stay cool and keep it light. “Me and Cash and Izaac. We’ve been talking about moving to Brooklyn for basically ever. It’s part of why they wanted to come today.”
For now, I don’t get into my objective to wrangle Diya when she graduates too.
“Wow…,” Eve says. “So, we’ll just be trading places, then?”
Now that my glasses are clean and clear, I’m pretty certain that the look on Eve’s face is disappointed, like mine must be. The recognition that this is a letdown for her too is bittersweet.
“I guess it seems that way,” I say.
“Huh,” she says.
We walk in silence for a moment, and my head is spinning from this plot twist. But before either of us can formulate a thought, we’re interrupted by a group of carolers, burly dude-bros all swaying and singing “Santa Claus Is Coming to Town” at the top of their lungs.
We wait for them to pass, but when it seems like we can pick up our conversation again, a straggler wearing just a Santa suit jacket and boxers and carrying a giant stuffed reindeer in one hand and a poinsettia in the other comes racing up the street, shouting, “Wait up, guys! Santa hit a speed bump!”
Eve and I look at each other and burst into side-clutching laughter. Her eyes brighten, and my shoulders drop, and it breaks the tension at just the right moment.
“Man, I wish you’d caught that on camera,” Eve says, then steadies her breath and tucks her black curls behind her ears in that way I’ve come to know, a way that makes me melt.
“No kidding. Cinematic gold.”?’
“I’m surprised you’re not planning to move to Hollywood.”
“Well, actually, the type of movies I really want to make happen to be set in New York most of the time,” I say.
“And what kinds of movies do you really want to make?” she asks.
“Honestly?” I ask.
“Obviously honestly.”
I pause. “It probably sounds kind of silly,” I say. “But I’ve always really wanted to make Christmas movies. Holiday romantic comedies. Totally queer.”
“Seriously?”
“Obviously seriously,” I say, and nudge her with my shoulder.
“So… the film you’re making today…”
“Is related, actually,” I say. I explain about the applications, the statement, the documentary project.
I leave out the part about wanting it to convince her of Christmas magic.
Then I wait for her response. In such a short time, I’ve come to really respect Eve’s opinion, and I’m suddenly very curious to hear her thoughts on this plan.
“Hmm. I see where you’re going with that, and it’s a cool approach,” she says. “Originality points for sure.”
“Thanks,” I say. “But… I feel a but coming…”
Her mouth twists into a wry smile at being read by me.
“ But … I don’t think you need it, Strudel.
You’re trying to validate your dreams—probably because people have told you they aren’t valid or serious or whatever.
But that’s horseshit. I mean, look, I can’t say I believe in magic, but I do believe that the concept can bring people joy, and hope, and why isn’t that a worthwhile dream? ”
I’m stunned.
“I guess what I’m saying is, those movies obviously mean something to you, and if they mean something to you, they’ll mean something to other people too. You should be confident that that’s a good enough reason, or purpose, or whatever,” she says, then shrugs. “Just my opinion.”
“Huh,” I say, and she holds up a finger.
“Oh, and one more thing,” she says, and she’s fired up. “If they don’t agree, you should just go make the movies yourself. Seriously. Take that boatload of tuition money and use it to fund your own project. You don’t need permission, Strudel!”
“That’s… not a crazy thought,” I say.
“I know,” she says confidently.
“It’s funny, though,” I start. “I’ve been saying my whole life I want to make Christmas movies, but then I start this documentary thing this weekend, and it’s, like, really cool.”
“That’s great!”
“Yeah, but it makes me a little nervous, you know? Like, what else is out there that I haven’t tried, or that I don’t know about? And if I commit to this one thing, will I be missing something else? I feel like I want to do it all!”
“So do it all, Strudel,” she says as a mischievous grin spreads across her face. “Take your time and try some stuff. You don’t have to rush into something just ’cause society says it’s what you’re supposed to do next. Follow your heart! Trust yourself.”
“My god, and you really still think I’m the romantic?” I ask her.
“Tragically romantic,” she says.
“Actually,” I start, but then pause for a deep, cold breath. I exhale the cleansing little cloud into the glittering night air. “Maybe I’m a humanist,” I finish the thought, echoing her words from the field.
“Oh, really?” she asks with a slow nod.
“Yeah, really.” I grin. “?’Cause this very smart, beautiful girl told me once that humans are capable of creating their own magic, and it made a lot of sense.”
“I did say that, huh?” she asks. “Smart. And have you found evidence to support this brilliant theory?”
“I did,” I say, and lower my voice. “And if you are willing to believe me, I can show you proof.”
She looks intrigued, so I lean in close to her, like I’m going to tell her a secret. Then I look down, and she follows my gaze.
“I’m holding it,” I whisper, and nod to the tray of tamales in my hands.
“Psh, you’re crazy,” she says, now at full volume, and gives me a playful little shove. But then she doesn’t let go of my arm. Instead, she loops hers through it and pulls me closer. “But at least I know what to get you for Christmas.”
“Oh, jackpot,” I say, and the crosswalk we’ve just arrived at gives me an excuse to slow this down.
“And what about you?” I ask. “What do you want for Christmas?”
“Hmm,” she says, and looks up like she’s searching the stars for her one perfect wish. Then she lets out a small gasp, takes a step back, and—still looking at the sky—puts her hand on my forearm. “Wait, Strudel. Am I crazy?”
I force myself to turn my gaze to where she’s pointing, although I don’t want to take my eyes off her. And there, through the falling snow, I see it. A soft white halo around the moon.
“You’re not crazy,” I say as my breath becomes a quiet, reverent fog between us.
“It’s our moon,” she says.
“But there’s no snow in the forecast for tomorrow, is there?” she asks.
“Not that I know of…,” I say, but the word our is still reverberating in my brain. Our moon. What a thing to share custody of…
“Well, looks like we may be in for a surprise white Christmas Eve. That would be pretty cool,” she says.
“No,” I say, as our eyes lock, “it would be magic.”
There’s another beat and then only snow and cold breath between us. Everything around us melts away. It’s like when I focus the camera lens to blur out the background and make the subject clearer. She’s all I can see.
And this time I don’t have to wonder. I know. This is it.
And right as I lift my chin and my hesitation slowly evaporates and I think maybe—just maybe—I can kiss her, Eve’s phone buzzes.
“Shoot,” she says, reaching for it, then looking at the screen. “It’s Carlos. They’re all headed out. We gotta move.”