Chapter Thirty-Two June 10
Chapter Thirty-two
We spend the day exploring New York City, following the teachers’ perfectly planned itinerary to a tee.
“We’ll arrive at the Met in about twenty minutes,” the bus driver says, his thick New York accent punchy and raw. “Fucking traffic.”
Mrs. Morales clears her throat disapprovingly.
“What’s been your favorite part of the day?” I ask John, shifting to face him in my seat.
His mouth tilts up and his eyes shine. “I think you know.”
I grin. “Okay, not including this morning.”
John’s smile, our eyes, the way our bodies move in sync—it all shouts in a whisper that we’re keeping a secret.
He presses a finger to my lips and exaggerates a shushing sound.
I grab his finger, twisting it, and he tickles my side with his other hand.
I squeal, and both John and I cover my mouth with our hands before breaking into a laugh.
Maya and Claire raise their brows then whisper to one another. Good. Let them. I want everyone to know John and I are…?
“Question,” I say, leaning in slightly. “Are we…you know…together?”
John takes my hand, interlacing his fingers with mine. “Do you want to be?”
I shrug slightly, a bit taken aback by his indecisive answer. “I kind of feel like we are. At least in the sense that I don’t want to be with anyone else.”
He smiles sweetly.
“But…” I begin.
“But…” he repeats, waiting for me to continue.
“It wouldn’t be easy.” I don’t have to go on. He knows what I mean.
“But it would be worth it,” he says, squeezing my hand. “If that’s what you want. And hey,” he says, tipping his head to mine, “we don’t need to decide anything right now. We’ve got four days left. Let’s leave all that back home and enjoy this time while we can.”
I nod before leaning my head on his shoulder. While we can. My eyes squeeze shut, and I take in a deep breath, exhaling slowly. No matter how hard I try to be in the moment, my mind betrays me by taking me places I don’t want to go.
I want to be carefree. I want to explore the world and John and myself. But every time I let go of the girl I think I’m supposed to be, the girl my parents expect me to be, in search of the girl I really am, I hear my dad’s voice.
I feel his presence.
I see his eyes.
And dread fills my beating heart, pumping out shame, guilt, and years of rage.
At the Metropolitan Museum of Art, we’re on a guided tour given by a woman named Elizabeth, who has white hair and kind, blue eyes.
We follow Elizabeth through the museum, listening as she tells us about the different wings and the current exhibitions.
She shares, in passing, that the Met houses five thousand years’ worth of art.
Five thousand years of history.
Five thousand years of people using art to express themselves, their cultures, the times they lived in, through painting, sculptures, drawings, photographs, carvings.
Visiting the Met is like being able to travel through time, but only as a visitor on a quickly expiring visa and with limited sensory details. We can look, but we can’t touch.
As much as I’m enjoying being here with John, learning the history behind certain pieces and the vastness and impressiveness of the collections, part of me thinks about what it would be like to explore it alone.
I picture myself two years from now, riding the subway to the Met on a rainy Sunday with my headphones on and a stomach full of New York City bagels and coffee.
I’d walk through every room, slowly, taking my time, examining the pieces that speak to me and skipping the ones that don’t.
I’ve overheard a few conversations from my peers who say New York is overrated and they can’t wait to get back home to their spacious bedrooms. They miss being able to hop in a car and the quiet of our suburban streets.
But I disagree. I love it here, and I’ve barely scraped the surface of everything this city has to offer.
I could probably live here for a decade and say the same thing.
I want to study in New York City more than I think I want anything else in life.
I don’t only want it, I need it.
“Everything okay?” John whispers.
I nod, my eyes on Elizabeth. She’s telling us now about how the Modern and Contemporary Art collection has become a lot more diverse since 2012, including art from all over the world.
I think about how art has probably always been ahead of the times, but it’s really something we can see only with the benefit of hindsight.
“It’s interesting, isn’t it?” I ask.
“What’s that?” John responds.
Elizabeth tells us we have fifteen minutes to explore before moving on to the next exhibit.
“How every piece in this wing is so vastly different from every other. Like, when we were viewing the Medieval collection, or the Greek and Roman art, it was all pretty much cohesive. But here,” I say, as I start to walk toward a wall of paintings, each one distinctive, “it’s like they don’t belong.
It’s kind of like the drawer where you put all your mismatched socks. ”
John sidles up next to me. “Maybe that’s it, though. The pieces are so unique, they actually make sense. You couldn’t put this,” he points to the vibrant painting in front of us, “in the Egyptian section. But next to this,” he says, pointing to a more minimalist piece, “it works. Kind of like—”
“New York City.”
He smiles, but it’s a little strained, as if I’ve given him the wrong answer.
I face him, feeling my emotions bubble over in excitement. “It’s the most cliché thing to say, but I love New York! Being here makes me want to be creative. To make something timeless.”
“You do have a certain glow here that I haven’t seen before.”
I study John’s face and how it falls slowly at my excitement. “You don’t like it here?”
He swallows, looking around us before responding. “I love it. I do. I just might not love it as much as you do.”
“You can’t see yourself living here?” I ask, but it comes out more like a statement.
“Not really, no. Which is fine because I’d never be able to afford this city.” His eyes fall to the ground and a familiar wall forms between us. Me on one side, with riches in abundance but no freedom; John on the other, with all the freedom but no riches.
“Maybe I’m a little jealous.”
“Of what?” I ask, my chest tight.
“The way you light up when you talk about a future here.”
“Lucky for you my father will never let me come here for school anyway.”
“I hope you don’t let that stop you,” John says, his voice low. “If you want to live in New York City, or study here, or whatever it is you want, you shouldn’t let him stop you. You shouldn’t let anyone stop you. It’s your life, Lennon.”
A familiar line. One that’s easy for people to say. They like to remind me that it’s my life. My one life. But it’s just not that simple.
“Right, but he controls my life. All parts of it. I don’t have a penny to my name.
I need my parents’ financial support. If it weren’t for the way I grew up, I probably would never even let myself think about studying in another country.
In one of the most expensive cities.” I bite down on my lip, in shame.
“I never realized what a spoiled princess I sound like sometimes.”
“No.” John shakes his head, his tone stern but loving. “You’re not. You’re someone who has big dreams. But if we’re being honest, sometimes I’m not sure how I fit into your life and the big dreams you have for it.”
I release a long breath and walk toward another wall. John follows. We study the colorful piece in front of us for a few minutes.
“Doesn’t it seem like, in the past, everyone belonged in the same book, maybe different chapters, but the same book?
” I say. “Now it’s like every person is their own country.
Their own era. We live in such a progressive time, and we’re learning to celebrate our differences, and because of that, things move at a faster pace than they did before.
It’s ever-changing. What we’ve been conditioned in the past to believe about love, it’s been challenged.
Everything is a spectrum of faith and sex and identity, the way our brains work.
But then, at the root of it all, we’re the same. It’s kind of like…”
“Art.” I turn at his response and find him smiling.
“It makes me feel so small.” I twist my foot into the floor, staring down at my phone, waiting for a reply from my mom. Her midday check in. “All these people, out in the world doing great, amazing, important things. And I’m just me.”
“You are amazing and important, but I also think you’re scared, and sometimes you use your parents’ restrictions as an excuse not to push yourself outside your comfort zone.”
His sharp words hit a nerve, deep inside. Because they’re true. I’m nothing more than a spoiled, Canadian-born girl whining about my diasporic identity and parents who have seen and done more in their lives than I ever will.
And that’s exactly what my parents want.
They want to keep me safe because they’ve seen how the world can really be.
They’ve experienced enough to believe that what I have should satisfy me.
Maybe it is satisfying for some people. But not me.
I see maroon, burgundy, cherry, rose, ruby, and scarlet.
They only see red. They see blood. They smell fear.
I don’t say much else as we make our way quickly through the rest of the wings.
It’s late now, almost five. We’re all hungry and cranky and tired as Elizabeth leads us to the Egyptian wing.
She says a scene from When Harry Met Sally…
was filmed here, and my ears perk up. I look across the room to find John standing in front of the huge windows.
Elizabeth nods to him and says that’s exactly where the scene in question took place.
My heart thumps out of my chest as my gaze meets his. He doesn’t smile. He barely even flinches as our eyes remain locked on each other. Multiple sunrays surround him like he’s the centerpiece, the focal point, the priceless piece of art.
I want a big life.
I want an intense love.
I want to make my parents happy.
I want to make a difference in this world and leave my mark.
I want it all.
But even I’m not pie in the sky, lost in the stars, naive enough to believe it will ever happen. Not all at once anyway.
With change comes discomfort. Upsetting the status quo. Disappointment. Making others disappointed in you. But on the path to love, success, serenity, one must walk on shards of broken glass. That is, if they’re willing to.
I walk to John, my determined feet stepping on the shiny museum floor tiles and my insides both twist and burn with the speed of light. I know what I want. Now I just need to figure out how to get it.