The baby crying in the distance is screaming now.
“My work schedule is crazy,” she says, unfazed by the screaming baby. “That’s why I haven’t had a chance to call Frank back. Didn’t think he’d send someone in person.”
“He didn’t send me.” Great. Compromise myself more, why don’t I. Now I’m some stalker freak. So much for playing this off as official camp business.
“Then why are you here?”
“Um, well—”
“Is she acting up again?”
“What do you mean?”
“She likes to talk back. Has she been giving you sass?”
“Oh, no! Momo is wonderful. She’s very sweet.”
“Then what’s the problem?”
“She seems . . . kind of nervous. Jumpy. Loud noises scare her. And today she was afraid to play hide-and-seek. I was wondering if you knew what might be causing her behavior.”
“She’s always been a jittery little girl. Nothing to worry about.”
Momo’s mom hasn’t invited me in. We’re still standing in her doorway with the door halfway open. I was hoping to see Momo’s room. Maybe get a chance to look around a little. That’s what a good social worker would do while making a house call. Inspect the premises.
Momo’s mom gives me a brief, tight smile. “It was nice of you to come all this way. Tell Frank I’ll call him soon?”
“Okay. Thanks for speaking with me.”
She closes the door softly.
I linger at the door. The conversation feels unfinished. There is so much more I want to say.
I’m in a foul mood on the way home. Momo’s mom was nice enough, but I still feel like something is off. My gut says there is more to the story than what she told me. Which was essentially nothing.
Something is wrong, but I don’t know the right questions to ask. How can I uncover the truth when Momo’s mom is hiding it? I have no clue where to go from here.
There’s a note on my pillow from Sadie when I get home. She said to call her when I get in to meet up with her and Darcy. But I feel gross. I don’t want to infect Sadie and Darcy with my foul mood. All I want to do is crawl into bed. After I call D.
I stayed out on the roofdeck Sunday after D left to take Shayla to the clinic. By the time he came back two hours later, my jealousy had already taken control of my emotions again. It wasn’t enough to tell myself to stop being so insane. Trusting that D and Shayla were just friends was going to take a lot more than simply wanting to trust him. D was all smiling and kissing me and pretending like he didn’t just leave me for her. Was he trying to be extra nice because he knew he messed up? Or was he just being a clueless boy?
I can’t wait to tell D about going to Momo’s apartment. He thinks I am someone who takes action, who isn’t afraid to make a difference in the world as much as I want to in my heart. D will let me see the experience of talking to Momo’s mom through his eyes. He will snap me out of my foul mood. And he will know what I should do next.
Except D doesn’t pick up when I call.
I don’t leave a message.
We didn’t make plans to see each other again when I left his place on Sunday. D said he would call me. That was two days ago. I haven’t heard from him since. And now he’s not picking up.
My gut is clamoring for attention. It’s telling me something is off with us, too. D and I should be getting closer. This weird radio silence where I don’t even know if it’s okay to call him should not be happening.
I know my gut is not wrong. Not about D. And not about Momo.
THIRTY-ONE
SADIE
WHEN I UNDERSTOOD THE RELEVANCE of that big yellow umbrella on How I Met Your Mother, I had to get a big yellow umbrella just like it. I always take my How I Met Your Mother umbrella out with me when it’s supposed to storm. Searching for an umbrella exactly like the one on the show wasn’t easy. But I finally found one. My philosophy was that if I carried the same umbrella around in the same city where the show took place, the same soul mate magic that found Ted Mosby would find me.
I grabbed that umbrella on the way out the door tonight.
That guy Danny who plays guitar at Strawberry Fields said he’s there on Wednesday nights. The way he said it, it was like he wanted me to come by. Going to see Danny play was not something I had planned. But I felt like going out after I got home from my internship, and Rosanna and Darcy were both out and it happened to be a Wednesday. Swinging by to see Danny does not count as a disruption of my boy break. It’s just something fun to do on a summer night.
Strawberry Fields is a part of Central Park that’s near Hernshead, the hilly section where my annual Remembrance Walk meets. I walk through Strawberry Fields on my way to Hernshead for that event every year, since it’s a day of remembrance. Strawberry Fields was created as a memorial to John Lennon. It’s across from the Dakota, where John lived before he got shot. Beatles fans, musicians, and tourists flock to Strawberry Fields as a way to be close to him. People sit around the Imagine mosaic on the ground or play Beatles songs on their guitars like Danny. So I’m not going to Strawberry Fields specifically to see Danny. I’m going for the whole experience.
Music drifts over to me as I cross Central Park West toward the park. I twist around to look up at the Dakota. John Lennon would probably still be living there today if he hadn’t been shot right outside his front door. He was coming home on December 8, 1980. He got out of a limo by the entrance of the Dakota. He was walking toward the front door when he was shot by a lunatic who was waiting for him to come home. He was rushed to the hospital, but was dead on arrival. John Lennon was murdered by a random act of anger that could not be prevented by his thousands of acts of kindness.
This is not the world I want to live in. People shooting people on the street. People killing people on the subway. Including people who aren’t even born yet. The limitations of positive energy are infuriating. Lunatics are everywhere. Enraged Guy at the deli, the dimwits who pushed my mom on the subway, the deranged guy who shot John Lennon . . . Nothing could stop them from unleashing their rage. I want to believe that positive energy makes people more aware of how their negative choices impact the world. I know it does. But damn . . . John Lennon died because some lowlife shot him right outside his home. What’s the point of anything when tragedy can happen anywhere, anytime, to anyone?
Danny is perched on top of a backrest of one of the benches that circle the Imagine mosaic. He’s jamming on his guitar with three other guys playing “Things We Said Today.” The other guys are old, like in their thirties and forties. One of them is sitting on the ground playing an acoustic guitar that looks so beat up it might crumble to bits any second. The other two guys are sitting on the bench Danny is perched on. One of them is playing a flute. The other is singing.
The bench on the opposite side of the mosaic is empty. I sit down and watch Danny play. He has this intensity you don’t usually see in guys. You can tell he loves being here. The way he closes his eyes while he plays his guitar, slowly shaking his head. How he watches the mosaic reflectively. He even turns to look up at the Dakota at one point. I feel this sense of connection to him even though I don’t really know him. The vibe he gives off as he strums his guitar to “The Night Before” is familiar. I recognize emotional turmoil. Danny is another broken soul who comes here trying to heal, just like so many others do. Just like I do.
Eventually Danny sees me. At first I can’t tell if he recognizes me. He gazes over the mosaic and catches my eye. His gaze is dreamy at first, then sharpens into focus. He smiles and kind of bows his head at me. I smile back.
The jam session ends after a few more songs. Tourists take pictures around the Imagine mosaic. The musicians stick around to talk to people. Danny packs up his guitar and crosses over to me.
“Hey,” he says. “Thanks for coming.”
“You were awesome.”
Danny sits down next to me. He leans back on the bench, stretching his legs out in front of hi
m. “Trying to be awesome, anyway.”
“No, you’re officially awesome.”
“Possibly remotely awesome.”
“How did you meet those other guys?”
“They’ve been coming here for years. They were down with letting me join in when I started playing guitar about a year ago. I’m hoping they’ll still let me jam with them after my grown-up job starts. Don’t want them thinking I sold out.”
“You’re like the opposite of selling out.”
“Aw.” Danny nudges his shoulder against mine. “Go on.”
“You’re a genuine person. I hardly know you and I can tell you’re the real deal.”
“How much am I paying you for the compliments again?”
I laugh. Danny is helping me remember how mellow summer nights like this can get heavy and introspective, but can also make me so happy. Instead of worrying about one of the many Austin mines buried around this city, ready to explode, I finally feel like I’m reclaiming my city. Like I’m remembering who I really am. Reconnecting with the heart of me.
Tree leaves rustle. The comforting smell of warm pretzels from the cart outside Strawberry Fields wafts over. With the cool summer breeze, I remember the essence of those epic feelings I had before I met Austin. I knew my soul mate was here somewhere. I knew we would meet someday soon. Despite the devastation with Austin, deep down I can never give up hope of finding the person I’m meant to be with. I can’t let negative experiences prevent me from living the life I want to live.
“So what’s your story, Sadie?” Danny asks. “You into the Beatles?”
“Who isn’t?”
“You’d be surprised. This world is filled with an abundance of ignorance.”
“Tell me about it. I was thinking about John Lennon before. How he was killed right outside his building.”
“Unreal, right?”
“I hate that something so tragic can happen anytime. It shouldn’t be allowed.”
“By who?”
“By anyone. The world just shouldn’t work like that. We should be better than this.” Rosanna is always saying how people could be better versions of themselves by caring more about the world around them. And I know how powerful kindness can be. Why don’t people care more about how they’re affecting others?
“That was John’s message,” Danny said. “‘Give peace a chance.’”
A wave of sorrow hits me. Danny feels it, too. I don’t have to tell him about my personal grief for him to get me. We can just sit here like this, on a contemplative summer night, sharing the loss.
One second we are staring in silence at the Imagine mosaic.
The next we are nearly drenched in a sudden downpour.
Girls shriek. Guys yell. Everyone makes a run for it.
Danny springs up from the bench, grabbing his guitar case. “Come on!” he yells. He wants to make a run for it, too. But I pop open my big yellow umbrella and shelter him. It’s a big enough umbrella for both of us.
We walk calmly out of Strawberry Fields as people race past us. Car tires make slick fizzing sounds on the wet street as they roll by. I can’t wait until after the rain. I love it when the air is fresh and everything shines in the city lights. That’s when New York feels the most glamorous to me. The classic city of Tiffany’s and FAO Schwarz, high tea at the Plaza and drinks at the Rainbow Room, the Empire State Building and Rockefeller Center. The contemporary city of Soho galleries, green architecture, and infinite possibility around every corner. My beloved New York City, then and now.
“Which way are you going?” I ask as we cross Central Park West.
“One train.”
“Same here.”
“Yes. I don’t care if I get soaked, but my baby is another story.” Danny pats his guitar case.
“Don’t worry. I would walk you wherever you had to go. I wouldn’t let either of you get soaked.”
Danny gets a twinkle in his eye. I get a twinge of wanting to break my boy break. But tonight isn’t about Danny. Danny is a symbol. He’s a sign from the Universe, telling me that more soul mates are here. The key is to never give up. If you never stop believing the love of your life is out there, if you know in your heart that true love is your destiny, you will find the love you want.
People aren’t perfect. Neither is love. Soul mates aren’t always people you can, or even should, be with. But now that I know how it feels to be with a soul mate, I refuse to settle for anything less.
THIRTY-TWO
DARCY
WHY HELLO, DOLCE FAUX-ALLIGATOR STRUCTURED tote winking at me in the boutique window. I think I’ll come on in and snatch you up.
I stride into the boutique, making a beeline for the Dolce totes display. This was not a chance occurrence. The instant I flipped through the pages of Vogue and saw this exquisite bag, I knew I must possess it. The way the bag is flirting is further proof that it was made for me. Darcy Stewart knows what she likes and she knows how to get it.
The cashier takes my credit card. And the world as I know it starts to crumble.
“I’m sorry,” he says. “Your card has been declined.”
“What?”
“Yeah, it’s . . .” He tries running it again. “The same alert keeps coming up.”
This is exactly what happened to Logan’s cards at the Standard. Did my card get switched with one of his? I was crushing so hard on this tote I didn’t even look at my card when I took it out of my wallet.
“Can I see it?” I put my hand out for him to give me the card back. But he doesn’t hand it over. He holds the card up in front of me so I can see it. My name, my card. “Oh. That’s my card.”
“I’m sorry about this.” The cashier presses his lips together, giving me a sympathetic look. “The bank is saying I have to confiscate your card.”
My heart hammers. This is the only credit card I have. I use it every day.
“There must be a mistake,” I say. “It was working fine yesterday.”
He shakes his head, looking at the screen again. The screen that’s telling him to confiscate my credit card like I’m some kind of criminal.
“Is there someone I can call?” I try. “This is the only credit card I have. It’s basically what I use for everything.”
“The only thing you can do is call the credit card company and have them send you a new one. If there really was a mistake, they should be able to get a new card out to you tomorrow.”
How weird is this? First Logan’s cards are all denied. And now mine? What the hell?
“Would it be okay to take my card back? Just until I find out what’s going on?”
He throws me another pity look. “I’m supposed to cut it up.”
Slow your roll, Cashier Boy. No one’s destroying my credit card.
“Wait, let me just . . .” I take my phone out and call Daddy. It goes to voice mail. “My dad’s not answering. He would know if there was a problem.”
“There is a problem. I’m sorry, but—”
“It’s okay. I know you’re just doing your job. I’ll call him later and have a new card sent out. This one probably died from overuse.”
The cashier smiles, relieved I’m not diving over the counter and tackling him for the card. “That has been known to happen.” He takes a thick pair of scissors out of a drawer. I watch him cut my credit card in half. Then in quarters. And then he throws the pieces away.
I try calling Daddy again as I leave the shop. My mom isn’t going to know anything about this. Still no answer. He’s probably in a meeting. I’ll keep trying him until he picks up. I start walking home, telling myself to keep calm and rock on. There’s always the ATM if I’m desperate for cash.
When my phone rings a few minutes later, I’m expecting it to be Daddy. It’s Logan. My first instinct is to tell him about my card being confiscated. But then I remember that none of the cards he tried at the Standard were confiscated. They were denied, but he got them all back. The thing with my card was probably a glitch on Daddy’s e
nd. Maybe the card reached its limit or something. Unless . . . Daddy didn’t cut me off, did he? The deal was that I get good grades and he covers the credit card bills. My art history grade is questionable, but grades aren’t out yet. What if he saw the Standard charge, flipped out, and canceled my card? How am I going to explain why I stayed at a swanky hotel?
“Hey, Gorgeous,” Logan drawls when I pick up.
A tight hi is all I give him back. I’m super tense about the credit card annihilation. And I’m still pissed that he forgot my birthday. Three days later and he still hasn’t mentioned it. There’s been no “I am so sorry I forgot your birthday! I’m such an idiot. But you already knew that,” or “Will you ever forgive me for forgetting your birthday? Let me spend every single day making it up to you,” or “I’m taking you out for the birthday dinner that should have happened on your birthday. Prepare to be spoiled like you’ve never been spoiled before.” Logan has said none of those things. He hasn’t even cared that I’ve been blowing him off. For a boy who supposedly came here to win me back, his attempts aren’t exactly dazzling.
“What are you up to tonight?” Logan drawls some more.
“I don’t know yet. Maybe going out and getting wasted.”
“Want to get wasted with me?”
It’s Friday night. I tackled three major exams this week. There’s a massive paper due on Monday that I do not even want to think about. Daddy’s threat to cut me off if my grades suck looms over the rest of the summer like a dark storm cloud. And that was before the possibility that he went ballistic over the Standard charge. Oh yeah, and Logan’s hot for me one minute, cold the next. All I want to do tonight is go out, find where the party’s at, and forget about everything else.
A ridiculously gorgeous guy coming my way locks eyes with me. He doesn’t drop the eye lock as we pass each other. I could have talked to him if I wanted. I could have hooked up with him. The control I potentially have over him brings a whoosh of endorphins, making me feel insanely powerful. Boys are like the only thing I consistently have control over.