Chapter Thirty-Three
Our bus returns us to the hotel after a long, fun day—minus the traffic. Thankfully, tonight we’ll be traveling on foot to the Empire State Building. Mr. Chang spent most of the ride back from the museum preparing us for how cold and windy it will be at the top.
I flop down on my bed while Claire and Maya visit their friends next door. They invited me to join them, but I have to call my parents and fill them in on the day’s activities.
Almost as soon as I end the call, my phone buzzes with a text.
John: Do you have any snacks?
Me: I’ve got pretzels and chocolate almonds.
John: Mind sharing?
Me: You have the pretzels. Chocolate is mine.
John: be right there
John shows up at my door less than two minutes later. I open it and pass him the half-eaten bag of pretzels.
He doesn’t take it. Instead, he looks past my shoulder.
“Where are your roomies?” he asks.
“Next door.”
A grin paints his adorable face.
“What?”
“No teachers in the hall,” he says.
“So?”
He slips inside the room. “Just for a few minutes.”
Before I can stop him, he closes the door behind us and he’s cupping my face, his soft lips on top of mine. I drop the bag of pretzels and wrap my arms around him, allowing my body to fall into his as we kiss.
We pull apart, my heart racing. John’s fingers in my hair. My hands grabbing fistfuls of his shirt.
“Do you know how hard it is to spend the entire day together and not be able to kiss you?” he says.
Before I can reply, or kiss him again, a slight beeping alerts us to the door. Claire and Maya walk in, stopping at the bag of pretzels on the floor.
Claire picks it up and her eyes land on John and me, our backs up against the wall. She straightens and passes the bag back to me. “I assume these are yours?”
“Yeah,” I manage to squeak out as I take it. “John was hungry.”
Maya smirks. “Was he, now?”
Claire glares at me. “We’re not supposed to have boys in our room, Lennon.”
“I know. I was just giving him pretzels.”
“Is there a problem in here?” Mrs. Morales asks from the other side of the half-open door. My eyes widen to Claire’s, begging her telepathically not to say anything.
She squints at me, then John. Her eyes move to the gap in the door. “No, Mrs. Morales. Maya and I were just coming back from Phoebe and Hazel’s room.”
“You know, I don’t love room hopping. It’s harder to keep track of everyone that way.”
“I understand,” Claire says. “It’s just Lennon had a headache, so we thought we’d leave her alone to rest.”
“Is she okay?” Mrs. Morales asks, her voice becoming clearer. Closer.
Claire grips the door handle as John and I exchange fleeting, nervous glances. “She’s fine. Just lying in bed.”
“Okay. We’re leaving in twenty minutes. Remember to dress warmly. And if Lennon needs an Advil, tell her to stop by my room.”
“Got it,” Claire says. She nods and smiles as she closes the door. Then her smile thins into a sharp line as her gaze finds mine.
She shakes her head. “Lennon, do you know that I’m up for valedictorian?”
“No.”
“Well I am, and I’m not about to lose that position because I covered for some eleventh-grader who can’t control her hormones.”
John steps up to Claire. “Don’t talk to her like that.”
Claire rolls her eyes at John before focusing back on me. “The two of you? Weird.”
“Weren’t you with Theo Petropolis?” Maya asks from the foot of her bed.
My body stiffens at the mention of Theo’s name.
“If it happens again, I’m not covering for you,” Claire warns.
I can tell John wants to say something to defend me, so I grab his wrist tightly. He exhales and we both nod, silently agreeing to let it go. Claire steps out of the way and I open the door to check if the hall is clear. When it is, I give John the okay and he slips out.
I close the door and turn around to find both Claire and Maya looking at me.
“What?” I ask.
“Nothing.” Maya shrugs. “Just surprised you can repeatedly land such hot guys.”
“Thanks,” I say dryly, walking over to my duffle bag by the window.
“John Brody is the kind of guy you mess around with, but Theo is the kind of guy you marry,” Maya goes on. I’m not exactly sure who she’s saying this to, so I ignore her. “Who’s the better lay?”
“Maya.” Claire steps in. “Enough.”
I grab my outfit for tonight and walk past them both on my way to the bathroom. I don’t know why, but I spend the entirety of my five-minute shower crying. I need to do better. I need to be better. I can’t let myself lose control. I can’t let myself get sloppy. Smarten up.
It’s our last day in New York City, and I feel as though I’m carrying a bag of heavy emotions: euphoria, dread, anticipation, anxiety, liberation…each feeling a juxtaposition of the last.
Yesterday was spent at the Museum of the Moving Image, Radio City Music Hall, and Rockefeller Center, where we had a guided and mostly restricted tour of the TV studios.
This morning, we visited the 9/11 Memorial & Museum, and then we took a ferry to the Statue of Liberty. It rained the entire time. We’re all looking a little worse for wear after an activity-packed few days.
I woke up at five again this morning, thoughts racing through my mind.
Mostly contemplating one last rooftop swim watching the sunrise with John.
Time is running out. But after Claire’s reaction to finding John in our room, I figured we’d be wise to play it safe.
Trying to recreate a perfect moment is asking for disappointment anyway.
The good news is we have the entire afternoon free. The only rule is that we travel with a partner or group. And I know exactly what I want to do.
“A picnic in Central Park,” I say to John on our ferry ride back from the Statue of Liberty. “And,” I say, making sure I have his full attention as I get the words out, “a visit to Strawberry Fields.”
“I love it,” he replies. “But I was thinking maybe you’d want to visit Columbia? Just to see it in person.”
“I thought about that, but there isn’t enough time to do both. And I really want to go to Central Park. Besides, Columbia is probably just a bunch of buildings we wouldn’t be allowed in anyway.”
John looks up at the gray-blue sky. “And what do we do if it rains again?”
I hold out my arms. “This is New York. We could visit bookstores. Pretend we’re rich and walk up and down Fifth Avenue.
Eat a decadent lunch, or better yet, find a dive or a deli to eat at.
Maybe take in a matinee of some Broadway show.
Anything. That’s the beauty of being here.
There are more options than there is time. ”
John holds back a laugh. “Breathe, Lennon. You’re young. You have lots of time.”
Mr. Chang and Mrs. Morales repeat their instructions to us once we get off the ferry. Gathered by the pier, they remind us that we are to meet in the hotel lobby at 5:00 p.m. The plan is for one last dinner together before we depart tomorrow morning.
“So there’s just one problem,” John says to me as the group begins to thin out. “Strawberry Fields is at 72nd Street and we’re, well, we haven’t even hit the numbered streets. I’m thinking if we want to be able to have a picnic without rushing, we’ll have to take the subway.”
“Do you know how to take the subway?” I ask.
“No. But we’ll figure it out. Together.” He clasps my hand tightly and we begin to walk. The gray clouds are drifting away, and I wish my doubts could disappear with them.
We make it to the subway station at Wall Street and John asks the employee in the booth for directions.
We pay our fare and walk through the turnstile to wait for the subway to arrive.
My parents would have a heart attack if they knew I was taking the subway here—and with John, of all people.
I haven’t texted since this morning, and if they try to reach me while we’re underground they might not get through.
“Hey,” John says, tilting his head to mine. “Where are you?”
“Just thinking about my parents.”
“Don’t.” He smiles. “You’ll see them tomorrow. Try to stay in the moment. You’re the one who wants to live here one day. This could be part of your daily commute.”
A soft laugh escapes me. “Who am I kidding? My parents are never going to let me come here. And if by some miracle they actually did, how would I figure everything out? I won’t have you or anyone else to depend on.”
He lowers his gaze to meet mine. “When you want something badly enough, you make it happen.”
The lights of the subway glow in our direction, along with a warm gust of wind.
When the train arrives and we squeeze inside, we find two empty seats.
John wraps his arm around me and I lean into him, closing my eyes and resting my head on his shoulder.
I wish I had as much faith in myself as he seems to have in me.
This day, which started out with so much hope, excitement, and anticipation, has taken a somber turn, and I’m not sure why.
“That’s the building,” I say, stopping dead in my tracks on the sidewalk. A few others have stopped to look too. “The Dakota.”
Realization dawns on John’s face and we stand quietly, observing the sandstone building in front of us where John Lennon was shot. A doorman eyes us warily, and John offers him a polite smile while mouthing “We should go” to me.
As we cross the street toward Central Park, a familiar song reaches us.
We exchange looks and smile. The sun has come out now, and we enter the park to find tourists standing around the Imagine mosaic, taking turns posing for photos.
A busker, who must be in his sixties, sits on a bench with his guitar, music stand, and instrument case open to collect donations.
We walk past the crowd toward the park.
“Here?” John asks. He’s chosen a grassy area surrounded by trees, with a view of skyscrapers.
“Perfect.”