So Much Closer (13 page)

“So,” I say. “What else is going on with you?”

“You know, same old around here. Everyone’s totally over school and it’s not even October. I don’t know how we’re going to survive until June.”

“It’s like that here, too.”

“Is it? I thought your new school was so much better.”

“It is. But the kids act pretty much the same.”

“What happened today? You said some teacher made you stay after ... ?”

“Oh, yeah. Mr. Peterson.” I tell April what happened. “Can you believe he’s making me do actual work?”

“He’s not making you. You could always quit tutoring, right?”

“Yeah. I’m considering it. But then Sadie would get on my case again and I really don’t need the stress.”

“Why do you care if some girl is bothering you about tutoring? Just say you don’t want to do it.”

“I tried that. She’s relentless. And Sadie’s not just some girl. She’s my friend.”

More silence.

“You still there?” I ask.

“This might be a good thing. Doing work, I mean.”

“Why? You know I don’t agree with the system.”

“Yeah, but why does that mean you can’t take advantage of it?”

“Like how?”

“Like rocking your transcript so you can go to a good college.”

“I think it’s too late for that. We have to start applying soon.”

“Too bad you wasted all those years,” she says. “You could have gone to Harvard or Yale.”

“What for? I don’t even know what I want to do with my life.”

“No offense? But maybe it’s time you started figuring that out.”

“You know it’s not that simple.”

“You want to hear something simple? You could have had straight As with like no effort. You could have been valedictorian. But you threw it all away, and for what? To make some kind of radical statement no one’s listening to? To prove some point no one’s benefiting from? Wake up, Brooke. No one cares.”

April’s never been like this. I don’t know what’s going on, but I don’t like it.

“Where’s all this coming from?” I ask.

“Do you have any idea how hard it is for the rest of us? Every college I’m interested in wants me to be smarter or more involved in activities or more unique or just ...
more
. If I had what you have, any one of them would take me with no problem. You have this amazing gift and you’re totally wasting it.”

I’ve heard this countless times before. From my mom, from teachers, from guidance counselors, from pretty much every adult who feels like they have a say in the kind of person they think I should be. But coming from April, the message has a whole new meaning.

Unbelievable. April is one of them and I didn’t even know it.

Or maybe she only started feeling this way after I left. People can get a little crazy when someone they care about leaves. Even if she’s been feeling this way for a long time, keeping it bottled up inside, there’s a reason it’s coming out now. She doesn’t seem worried that what she’s saying is hurtful. Which concerns me. Because what if the distance between us is bigger than our friendship?

How do you stay best friends with someone when you’re living in two different worlds?

The small group
that Sadie tutors in English just received a fresh batch of warm fuzzies. Sadie was working on them while we were on the phone last night. She called me for help with a calc problem and then we just kept talking. Sadie said how she wants everyone she tutors to be encouraged (if they’re struggling) or rewarded (if they’re improving) by a sparkly, personalized warm fuzzy. Watching Sadie hand them out, it’s obvious that everyone thinks they’re the cutest things ever.

John and I are at our usual table. Since it’s raining, there’s no High Line for us today. John threw a minor tantrum over it. He hates when we have to stay in. Even his shirt is angry. It has a stick figure throwing a tizzy fit and underneath it says: IT’S ALWAYS SOMETHING.

“Why does it have to rain today?” he complains. “Out of all the possible non-tutoring days to rain. It’s so
unfair
.”

“The High Line will still be there,” I assure him.

“That’s what’s so frustrating. It’s out there taunting us with its existence.”

One of the girls in Sadie’s group squeals. She gets up and hugs Sadie.

John glances at them. “Wonder what that’s about.”

“Sadie’s giving out warm fuzzies.”

“Warm what now?”

“They’re these little notes that are supposed to make you happy. Sadie’s giving them to everyone in her group.”

John’s mouth falls open. “How come you never give me any warm fuzzies?”

“I didn’t know you wanted any.”

“Consider yourself notified.”

“Well then, I promise to deliver.”

As usual, it’s a challenge keeping John focused on work. I can tell that he really wants to improve, it’s just hard for him to concentrate on any one thing for more than a few minutes. Especially when we’re working inside. Out on the High Line, the buzzing city energy seems to soothe him. Which I totally understand because I’m the same way.

“How can you be so extraordinary in every single subject?” John wants to know.

“Trust me, I’m not.”

“Uh, yeah you are. You’re like the academic polar opposite of me.” He picks up his history test again, miserably shaking his head at it. The red
61
scrawled on top glares back at him. “I’m sure you’ve never gotten a D in your life. Or even a B.”

“Actually, I’ve gotten lots of them. Even zeroes.”

“Seriously?”

“Yep.”

“But ... why?”

“You got a D, too. Ds happen.”

“But they shouldn’t happen to you. You can ace anything you want.”

“Key word being
want
. I don’t want to live in some bubble, doing homework and studying and caring about classes. It’s not my style.”

John is agog.

“What?” I go.

He doesn’t say anything, just miserably shakes his head some more. It’s so weird. First Mr. Peterson, then April, and now John. Did they somehow plan to gang up on me?

After we do some trig, John’s like, “What do you want to be when you grow up?”

“I don’t know.”

More miserable head shaking.

“Why?” I ask. “Do you?”

“Of course,” he informs me in a duh tone. “I’m going to be a social worker so I can help kids like me.”

John is the last person I expected to have such conviction about his career path. I assumed he’d slack off at some community college for a while, if that. Now I’m embarrassed that I judged him so harshly.

I’m actually kind of jealous. I’d love to have that same certainty, that same “I’m going to be,” which is even more solid than the typical “I want to be.” I hate not knowing what I want to do.

I want to know. I just don’t know how to know.

Ways to tell Scott why I’m here constantly invade my brain. They keep me up at night. They won’t shut up until he knows the truth about us.

It’s time.

Ever since our sandwich-shop interlude, it’s been obvious that Scott and I have a connection. He must feel it, too. Because if two people have a real connection, how can it only be apparent to one of them? Another thing is that Leslie might be out of the picture. I saw them together after school the other day and she did not look happy. More important, neither did he.

After tutoring, Sadie asked me to go with her to Strawberry Fields tonight, that place in Central Park she was telling me about. It sounds very New York, so of course I told her I’d go. John overheard and said he wanted to come, too. I love how kids are so spontaneous here. Back home, everyone planned stuff way in advance. Here, the city is our playground and we can play whenever we want.

Okay, maybe not
whenever
we want. Other people’s parents don’t always let them go out. My dad hasn’t said no to anything yet, though. He’s usually not even home when I want to go somewhere, so I just leave him a note and go. Since he doesn’t know how to do the parent thing, he’s kind of treating me like an adult. Which I know I shouldn’t complain about. But even though I’d never admit this to anyone, it’s comforting to have rules sometimes.

I walk home down Scott’s street, the way I usually go if I’m not doing something with Sadie after school. Every time I pass his building I look up and wonder which window is his.

This time he’s sitting on the stoop, eating pretzels.

My heart slams against my chest.

“Hey, you,” he says.

“Hey,” I say.

“What’s up?”

“Not much. We’re going to Central Park later.”

“Who’s we?”

“Me and Sadie and John from tutoring. Do you want to come?”

“You’re just going to hang out, or ... ?”

“There’s this place where people get together and play Beatles songs. It’s right across from where John Lennon lived.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah. It sounds cool.”

“It does sound cool. I’m in.”

“Sweet,” I say, hoping that I’m acting casual. This is huge. Scott’s coming with me. We can walk home together after. Then I’ll finally tell him.

If I can avoid throwing up.

At six, Sadie and John are already waiting at the subway stop.

“Scott’s coming with us,” I tell them.

“Scott who?” John says.

“Scott Abrams. You probably don’t know him—he’s new.”

“I know who he is. Isn’t he from New Jersey?”

“Yeah.”

“Isn’t he from the same town you’re from?”

“Um. Yeah.”

“Hey, guys,” Scott says, crossing the street. “Sorry I’m late.”

“You’re not,” I tell him.

John stares at us.

“Let’s go!” Sadie says, pulling on John’s arm.

Strawberry Fields is too awesome for words. It’s this little clearing surrounded by trees and benches. At the center there’s a tile mosaic on the ground that says IMAGINE. Bunches of flowers are scattered around it. People are everywhere—singing along with some guys playing “Hey Jude” on their guitars, posing next to the Imagine mosaic while their friends take pictures, or just passing through, absorbing the scene.

There’s only one free bench. As we’re going for it, I notice some girls coming at it from the opposite direction. I grab Sadie’s arm and we run, hurling ourselves over the bench to save room for the boys. John comes crashing in next, forcing himself between us.

“Ow!” Sadie yells.

“Sorry!” John apologizes, bouncing back up.

Scott sits down where John just was. Since I’m smooshed up against this hippie dude on the next bench, the only space left for John is on the other side of Sadie.

Sadie wanted to come here today because it’s John Lennon’s birthday. Which is probably why it’s so crowded. The biggest bunch of flowers has a giant card that says, “Happy Birthday, John. You will live forever in our hearts.” I wonder if someone comes by at night to take the cards and flowers away.

None of us really know any Beatles songs except for Sadie, but John and I sing along with some of the choruses. Scott doesn’t sing at all.

“You don’t know any of their songs?” I ask him.

“I know some. I just don’t sing.”

“Ever?”

“Never.”

“Because ... you don’t like your voice?”

“It’s more of a tone-deaf issue.”

“That might improve with practice.”

“Oh, I’m beyond hope.”

John is belting out the chorus to “Let It Be” at the top of his lungs.

I move closer to Scott. Nothing is remotely as intense as being this close to him. “John doesn’t let that stop him,” I whisper.

Scott laughs. I love that he thinks I’m funny. I didn’t even know anyone thought I was funny until Scott told me one time walking home. So of course now I’m always trying to think of ways to make him laugh.

“I’m having a Look Up moment,” John broadcasts.

I see where he’s looking. It’s this amazing rooftop garden with trees and tall grasses like the kind in the Zen garden. He’s waiting for confirmation that the rooftop is, in fact, amazing.

I’m still pressed up against Scott. It’s impossible to focus on anything else.

The energy of this space is incredible. All of these people are gathered here for a common purpose: to worship at the altar of their musical religion. It’s like we’re sharing this secret realm for a while and then we’ll return to our normal, less spectacular lives. You could totally walk by on the other side of the trees along Central Park West and not even notice this place. I’m realizing that New York is filled with all sorts of secluded enclaves where people get together to celebrate what makes them feel alive. These kinds of things didn’t exist back home. Here, excitement never fades. It’s like a drug.