Chapter Fourteen
Beads of sweat roll down the side of my face as I wrestle with my window air conditioner. June is here in all her glory and July is coming fast, threatening to swallow the city whole. It’s not just the sun, it’s the pavement, it’s body heat, it’s energy used to power the behemoth of a city. Everything is hot.
I balance the AC unit on my thigh and inch it closer and closer to the sill. I heave it into the opening and slam the window down on it, securing it in place. Turning it on, I feel relief for the first time since spring officially turned to summer. I let the air lap my face for a full ten minutes before I move a muscle.
I step over a pile of clothes and trip on an empty tissue box hidden underneath it, rolling my ankle and nearly falling on my face. I can’t live like this anymore. Enough is enough. I pull the clothes onto my bed and sort them into piles. I strip the bed and throw the sheets and duvet cover in with the dirty laundry and take them to the basement to wash. I bring every glass to the kitchen, and wash and dry them by hand. I scrub every surface until it shines, wiping away caked-on dust and dead bugs. I take out the trash and vacuum everywhere, even under the bed. But I’m not done.
I wipe the countertop in the kitchen, return all the clutter to its designated places, and organize the drawers. I fold the throw blanket and dust the coffee table. I clean the fridge next, scrubbing at sticky juice stains and tossing out rotten vegetables. I fold the clean clothes and return the warm duvet to my bed. When I’m done, I collapse on the futon, the wooden feet wobbling under my weight. I’m sweaty and tired, but I feel good. I feel light.
I want to be this Bennet, the clean one, because the more trash you accept in your life, the more you feel like you deserve it. I don’t want to feel like I deserve it anymore. This feels like Before-Sam Bennet, the girl who did her laundry every week and turned in assignments early. I can feel her close to me for the first time in a while. But then, as soon as she comes, she’s gone. Clouds come back, as they always do, and I let them in. Welcome them, even.
Still, I have plans. I pull on a T-shirt, denim shorts, and white sneakers, and go to meet up with Henry all the way in Flatbush. He is waiting for me at the entrance of the Brooklyn College campus.
Together, we stroll through the campus, and it feels like we’ve walked into a bubble—bright green grass, red-brick buildings, students with backpacks. We’re suddenly not in New York anymore, we’re in a pocket of academia, tucked away from the rest of the city.
We stop in front of a brick building and Henry gestures to it and says, “Voilà! The Murray Koppelman School of Business!”
“ Business? ” I say to him as I scan the building. “How very traditional of you.”
“It’ll be good for us.” He rests his hands on his hips, squinting through the sun.
“Good how?”
“As I found out recently,” he says, shrugging, “neither of us finished college.”
“Henry, I don’t do math.”
“I think there’s more to it than math.”
I cross my arms and pout. “Can’t we do something fun?”
“Nope. They can’t all be fun.”
“I reserve the right to walk out the door if things get too boring.”
“Martin would be so disappointed,” he says.
Wait. “ Martin? From the park?”
As if on cue, Martin from the park emerges from the glossy doors wearing another bright plaid shirt and khakis. Henry greets him by shaking his hand.
“Bennet, hi,” he says as he notices me. “Henry tells me you’re interested in studying business.”
“Oh, does he?” I say between gritted teeth.
He smiles, revealing small, perfect teeth. “I’ve arranged for you to audit my summer class today. Follow me.”
Martin opens one of the doors for us and we follow him inside. He leads us down an open staircase past water fountains and locked doors.
“Don’t sulk,” Henry whispers as we walk.
“I can sulk all I want. I was getting used to playing with puppies and learning to tattoo.”
“Plenty of people are passionate about boring stuff. Who knows what doors it can open? And this will be good if I ever want to start a real business or something.”
“Oh, so this one is for you,” I tease.
“Give it a chance.” He flashes me fake puppy-dog eyes, which just makes me think of the puppies I’m not going to be hanging out with today. “Pleeease?” he pleads.
“You can’t sway me like that.” I make my face as blank as possible. “I have a heart of stone.”
“I don’t believe that for a second.”
I scowl. “Fine. But only because I want to see your pictures one day.”
“Anytime you want.” He nudges me on the shoulder, and then he forges ahead into the hallway. I pick up my pace to catch up.
Martin leads us into a small room full of kids who seem so much younger than we are. Henry and I spot two open seats in the back. We step over backpacks and textbooks and I try not to notice the students staring as we walk by. In here I feel ancient. I remember being them, feeling like the world is full of possibility as long as you do everything you’re told, take every step laid out for you. Being resistant to learning, yet craving knowledge.
Martin stands at the front of the room and begins his class. Econ 101. I don’t judge people for finding this kind of thing exhilarating, but to me it’s about as interesting as a saltine cracker. My eyes glaze over as Martin drones on and on about GDP until I can’t handle it anymore. I grab a piece of notebook paper on a nearby desk as discreetly as possible. I tear off a corner and write I hate you on it and fold it as small as I can. I tap Henry on the shoulder and pass the note under our desks.
He opens it and smiles as he reads, but he immediately hides it under his hand and continues to watch the lecture.
Embarrassment fizzles through my body. Maybe he actually likes this and I’m totally raining on his parade.
My anxiety dissipates when Henry taps on my desk. He mouths the word pen .
I pass a pen under the desk and wait for his response. I feel giddy, passing notes like a kid in high school. When he hands it back to me, I don’t even wait a second to unfold the note.
I don’t believe you.
I scribble on the other side:
I don’t think I’m meant to be a #girlboss
Henry taps his pen to his chin for a second and then writes his response.
Pay attention or I’ll tell the teacher you have a theory you’d like to share with the class.
I hit him back.
You wouldn’t dare.
He takes the note from my hand and looks at me devilishly. He raises his hand in slow motion. Oh no. Do not draw attention to us, Henry, or I will kill you.
“Yes, Henry?” Martin pauses the lecture.
Henry glances at me, an expression of demonic satisfaction across his face.
There’s a big pause before he finally speaks. “Could you go back and explain scarcity again? I got a little…distracted.” And then Henry flashes me the least subtle smirk I’ve ever seen.
Martin answers Henry’s question and my heart slowly returns to a normal BPM. Henry passes the slip of paper back to me.
Next time you’re toast.
Martin goes on for another mind-numbing hour.
After class, Henry and I sit down at a frothy pink boba spot across the street and order donuts and bubble tea. I take a bite out of a mochi donut adorably frosted to look like a kitten, and the spongy coconutty texture fills my mouth. Henry’s panda donut is nearly gone already, with only one tiny ear remaining.
“Did you at least learn something?” I ask, licking my fingers. “Because I hated that.”
“I did, thank you very much.” He pops the last donut bite into his mouth and covers it with his hand while he talks. “And how was I supposed to know you’d hate it? You don’t exactly reveal that much about yourself to me. I’m going off vibes alone.”
“I have to work on the vibes I’m giving off, then.”
He laughs, crumpling the donut paper. “You pick next week, then. By all means, knock my socks off.”
“You know what? I will.”
“All right. Ball’s in your court. Next week it’s all up to you.”
I bring the boba straw to my mouth, chewing on the end. “It’s gonna be amazing,” I mumble before I slurp up some boba.
Henry raises an eyebrow. “I can see you panicking right now.”
“No, you can’t,” I say, squinting at him.
“All the little factory workers in your brain are working overtime, I can tell.”
I cross my arms and lean back in my chair. “Is there something wrong with my face?”
He shrugs. “Definitely nothing wrong with your face.”
My cheeks get hot and I have to look away. I press my cold fingers to my neck to cool myself down. “Then how do you know what I’m thinking?”
“You scrunch your face when you’re thinking too hard. Like this.” He scrunches his face to mimic me.
I rub my chin, giving it a good thought. No one’s ever told me that before, but—
“Like that!” he says, lighting up. “That’s the face.”
“Oh shut up,” I say, relaxing my clenched jaw. “You have a face too, you know. It’s like a smirky smarmy thing.”
“Smarmy? Bennet, I’m flattered. Makes me sound like a pirate. And—oh wow, look!” he says pointing to my face with glee. “There’s the face again!”
“If you don’t stop teasing me, I’m going to take you to Times Square for the next outing,” I say, a deadly threat.
“No!” he says, hand over his chest.
“I’m going to make you take photos with Elmo and the Cookie Monster.”
“Agh!” he exclaims, sinking down in his chair.
“And then I’m going to make you wear one of those green foam Statue of Liberty hats. And when you’re good and tortured,” I say, bringing my voice low as a whisper. “I’m going to take you to the Times Square Olive Garden.”
He gasps, eyes wide. “I think that might actually kill me.”
I chuckle as I chew on the end of my straw. I won’t bring him to Times Square, that’s for sure. But I kind of feel like even if we did go there, maybe we’d have fun.
I stand still, balancing a tray of mimosas, but my mind is racing. Almost a whole week has passed and I haven’t had a single good idea for the Passion Project. How can I pick an adventure for me and Henry when I haven’t been able to do that for myself since moving here? The only places I know in New York are here at NYAC, the library, my apartment, and the places Henry has taken me.
My stomach grumbles at the smell of crispy bacon, scrambled eggs, and buttermilk pancakes. Would it be so bad to sneak a tiny piece of sausage? I banish the thought from my head as Mr. Kirk zooms in on me with those mean eyes. I make a note to steal a mini-box of Cheerios later just to piss him off.
At least I’m working the rooftop patio today, my very favorite of the NYAC event spaces.
The bartender places a final mimosa on my tray and I head back out onto the patio to unload them for the guests. Shortly after my tray is emptied, a man begins to give a speech. This is my chance to disappear for a minute.
I sneak away to the rooftop ledge. NYAC is at the very top of Central Park—from where I stand, it looks like someone took a scoop out of New York, and what lies beneath is a runway of greenery. Beyond the park, I can see the city’s beauty, its intricate detail. From up here you can admire it without getting your hands dirty. I feel the warm breeze against my face and I inhale the fresh morning air. I find myself wishing I could get even higher—I wish I could fly over the city like a bird.
I want the city to give me some direction, some inspiration, some something , but it’s quiet now. Or at least, it’s quiet to me. I want to feel the connection I felt in the library, some tug in my soul that says I’m in the right place. “Come on,” I whisper under my breath, watching cars move through the streets like Hot Wheels on a track. But it gives me no answers.
My moment of introspection is interrupted by a table that needs coffee refills. I make a fresh pot and fill everyone’s cup to the brim.
···
When I get home, Sonya is on the couch splayed out like a starfish. She’s wearing a tank top and tiny shorts and has an ice pack lying on her chest. She glistens with sweat.
“It’s. So. Hot,” she slurs when I come inside. Our apartment is like an Easy-Bake Oven, trapping the heat from outside into our living room.
“Why don’t you go to your room? Did you set up your AC?” I open the freezer and bury my face in the cold.
“Because I wanted to make sure you’re coming tomorrow.” She sits up and grins.
I pluck an ice pack from the freezer and hold it to my neck. “Tomorrow?”
The happiness melts off her face like pancake batter. “I texted you.”
I think hard. A text. What text? I bite my lip and divert eye contact.
“My party, Bennet. Because Harper & Jane is going to sell my earrings? I texted you, I sent you a calendar invite, and I told you about it at the movies. Ring a bell?”
I have no memory of this. None. I plaster a smile on my face. “That’s incredible!”
“Yeah.” She clears her throat.
“I’m sorry, Sonya,” I concede. “I must’ve missed your text.”
“Or ignored it,” she says under her breath. Her eyes shoot bullets at me, which is really something coming from someone whose natural state of existence is “perky” and “chipper.”
I’ve dropped the ball so many times with Sonya and I can’t do it again. I want to turn her eyeball bullets back to eyeball rainbows. “I’ve been distracted. I’m sorry. I will be at your party. I’m excited!”
“Since I know you don’t remember, it’s tomorrow at three.” She shifts her ice pack to her armpit. “The Frying Pan downtown.”
“I’ll be there. I promise.”
She nods and shuffles into her room.
Tomorrow. Saturday. My Henry day. Maybe we can wait until next week. Can I wait until next week?
I shoot off a text.
Something came up. Can we postpone our passion project to next weekend?
He responds:
You just don’t want to pick a place.
I type out:
I did pick a place, but I devastatingly have to cancel our reservation at Bubba Gump Shrimp Co. I have *gasp* plans.
Henry replies:
You have plans?? I feel like I barely know you.
I send:
News flash, you do barely know me.
He volleys back quickly:
I know you well enough to know you’re joking about Bubba Gump.
He adds a winky face.
BTW we are totally calling it our Passion Project from now on.
I smile at my phone like an idiot.
Corny.
He zips back with the corn-on-the-cob emoji.
I place my phone face down on the countertop.
It’s fine. I can wait another week. It’s for the best.
I don’t let myself acknowledge the feeling of disappointment. Or the realization that without seeing him for a whole two weeks…I’m going to miss him.