So Much Closer Page 2

  I couldn’t remember the last time I talked to Mom without feeling all tense. Ever since Dad left, it’s like we can’t even watch TV together without Tension cramming in between us like an unwanted guest who says they’ll only be staying for a little while and then never leaves.

  “If you don’t feel like talking ...” I said. Not that she ever felt like talking anymore. But I should have known better than to try talking to her when she got home from work. She hates her job. Personally, I don’t think there’s any job she would like. Mom didn’t work when Dad was here. She was a much happier person. Then he left and she turned all bitter and miserable.

  “Now’s fine,” she said.

  “Because we could talk later.”

  “Brooke.” Mom rubbed her temple. “What is it?”

  The grandfather clock in the corner ticked. The ticks sounded louder than usual.

  “Okay, there’s this thing I want to do and I’ve already planned it out so you don’t even have to do anything. All I need from you is permission.”

  “For what?”

  There are two topics that infuriate Mom: school and my dad. I avoid these topics as much as possible. But if I wanted to make this happen, I had to bring up both of them.

  “It’s nothing bad. I um ... I want to live with Dad for a while, is all. Just for senior year.”

  Mom barked out a laugh. “Why would you want to do that after everything he did to us?”

  “Basically? I’m not challenged enough at school. And you’re always saying how I need to apply myself more and how I’m not working to my full potential and everything. But I can’t work harder unless I’m motivated. My school sucks. The school in Dad’s neighborhood is excellent.”

  “How do you know?”

  “I researched it. There’s a lot of money in that area. More money means better schools.”

  “Is that really why you want to live with him? To go to a better school?”

  “Yes.” I was totally lying again, but I didn’t care. There’s no way she’d let me move to the city and live with Dad just to follow some boy. “I have to show colleges I’m serious about improving my grades. Plus, I can write about my transfer for application essays.”

  Mom was skeptical.

  “He said I could live with him if I wanted to—”

  “I know. What he said.”

  “So ... can I?”

  “Absolutely not.”

  “Why not?”

  “Is living with me so bad that you have to go running off to that manipulative bastard?”

  Didn’t Mom realize that anger was destroying her life? The Mom I used to know was so different. She used to plant flowers in the front yard every spring and play cards with the neighbors and volunteer at the senior center. She would even surprise me after school sometimes with fresh-baked peanut butter cookies. Those were always my favorite afternoons, sitting in the kitchen doing my homework at the table while she started dinner. It felt really safe, like nothing would ever have to change.

  I was so naive back then.

  Over the last few years, Mom gradually stopped doing those things. Sometimes I don’t even recognize her.

  My leg banged against the coffee table, as if suddenly my brain couldn’t control it anymore. The remote control jumped. I wished it had a button for RESET CONVERSATION.

  “He’s not—”

  “You only have one more year left. Then you can go anywhere for college.”

  “Well, I can’t exactly get in anywhere, but—”

  “Why are you doing this to me?”

  So irritating. It’s always about her.

  “This isn’t about you, Mom. It’s about me.”

  “Well, you can forget it,” she retaliated.

  “I don’t think so.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “I’m not trying to be confrontational. You always think that, but I don’t want to fight with you. I just want to go to a better school.”

  “It sounds like you’ve already made up your mind,” she said. “It’s not like I can force you to stay. So if that’s what you want, fine. Let him deal with raising his daughter for a change.”

  “I just want to do what’s best for my future,” I said quietly.

  “I don’t like this.”

  “You don’t have to.”

  So now I’m here. Staying with my dad. Going to a new school that starts in two days. All so I can be closer to Scott Abrams.

  “My interior designer did a fantastic job,” Dad says. “I can’t believe this was my home office.”

  “She worked really quickly.”

  “That’s what you get when you pay for the best.”

  I nod as if I can relate.

  “My file cabinet used to be here.” Dad gestures at a big dresser. It has that new-wood smell.

  “I love it!”

  “She thought you would. It’s from Crate and Barrel.”

  “It’s awesome. I totally needed more drawers.”

  Dad and I are off to a good start considering this is the first time I’ve seen him in six years. I think we’re both trying to make things work. The way I see it, there’s no reason for unnecessary drama after all this time. Which is probably why we’re being extra polite to each other. And why my dad is giving me this incredible room.

  He explains the other changes his interior designer made. I have a new desk and bookcase and night table, all in matching glossy white. The closet was redone so there’s a section to hang clothes and another section that’s all drawers and shelves and shoe cubbies. Light pours in from the two big, south-facing windows, a breeze puffing against the white cotton curtains. My bed is also from Crate and Barrel. It’s way higher than my bed at home, with drawers underneath.

  Obviously, I love my new room. I keep noticing more details. A round rug with bright stripes in the middle of the hardwood floor. Pillows on the window bench in colors that match the stripes. An apple-green beanbag chair. A shiny red stapler on the glossy white desk. A magnetic strip by the door with cool glitter magnets.

  “I’m glad you like it,” Dad says.

  “Thanks for letting me stay.”

  “This is your home, too. It’s great having you here, kiddo.”

  Kiddo punches me in the gut. That’s what he used to call me. Back when he was a real dad.

  Not that there’s any point in getting angry about things that can’t be undone.

  I can’t believe I’m actually here. After all that time wishing I could live here one day, this is suddenly real. Excitement fizzes through me, making me feel alive in a way I never have before.

  It doesn’t take long to unpack. I left a lot of my stuff back home. I mainly just brought clothes and books. And my wish box.

  My wish box is the most secret thing about me. No one knows it exists. Not even April. I would feel like a huge dork explaining what it’s all about. The box works like this: I put notes with my wishes in it. Then I hope. It’s the only thing that keeps me sane, keeps me believing in the possibility of things that probably won’t come true. But I have to hold on to that hope anyway. Hope is what keeps me going.

  Three

  I moved here for a boy I don’t know how to find.

  At least we live in the same neighborhood. That’s what I heard from Chad when I ran into him at the Gas ’n’ Sip right before I moved. So you’d think finding Scott wouldn’t be that hard. Only, this is New York. There are like a zillion people on every block. We could live here our whole lives and never see each other.

  My stomach is churning. I’m so afflicted that I can’t even tell if I’m just nervous or also hungry. Before Dad left for work, he gave me money for the week. Then he told me where to get the best bagel and coffee—the most important survival tip, according to him. It was weird how he assumed I drink coffee instead of saying I wasn’t allowed, like Mom. The stomach churn prevented me from eating before school. Now I wish I’d had something anyway.

  I sneak another glance around the auditorium. T
his is the senior assembly, so if Scott goes to this school he has to be somewhere in here right now. Every time I look around, kids stare back at me. I force myself to quit looking. I don’t want to get an instant reputation as a staring freak.

  I took a risk by bringing my phone. If it gets confiscated, I can always say I didn’t know the rules. I reach into my bag and check my messages. Still nothing from Candice.

  In a lot of ways, it seems like every other first day of school. Everyone’s wearing their best new clothes. Students are nervous. Teachers are handing out class contracts that will soon be forgotten. It’s all new pencils and telling how your summer was and mourning the kind of freedom you won’t have again until June. But in other ways, it’s seriously different. The classrooms are relatively pristine. The teachers look and sound more professional. There’s even a real discipline code. I was shocked to discover that there are actually consequences for not following the rules. My old school was huge, so you could totally get away with anything because no one even knew who you were. I get the feeling things don’t work that way here.

  By fifth period, I still haven’t seen Scott anywhere. I’m beginning to think he doesn’t go here. It’s the only high school for kids who live in this school zone, but schools work differently here. You don’t have to go to the school closest to where you live. Scott could go to some random school in Brooklyn for all I know.

  Finding him is the only thing I care about. I didn’t come here to make new friends. I already have April and Candice. Leaving them was really hard, but we’ll talk all the time. And visiting will be easy—the train runs all day between here and there. Who needs more than two good friends? And what’s the point of making new friends anyway? We’re all going our separate ways at the end of the year. Eventually, everyone leaves. The closer you get to someone, the more it hurts after they’re gone.

  So yeah. I’m not exactly joining the pep squad.

  Right before eighth period when I’m assuming that I’ll never see Scott again for the rest of my life, I careen around a corner desperately searching for a room that apparently doesn’t exist. The bell rings. I search my bag for my schedule to double-check the room number.

  “Lost?” someone says.

  “Sort of. Well, yeah, I can’t find room two thirty-eight. Do you—”

  I look up.

  And there he is.

  Scott Abrams.

  “Hey,” he goes. “I know you.”

  “Hilarious,” I say. Because of course he knows me. He said we should have talked more. He said he loves my origami.

  Except he’s not smiling or anything.

  Then Scott says, “How do I know you?”

  World.

  Shattering.

  Apart.

  “Um. I’m Brooke Greene. We went to—”

  “Right! Sorry, I’m spaced. Trying to find two thirty-eight.”

  “Same here.”

  “Do you think it’s a conspiracy?”

  “All I know is, two thirty-eight should be somewhere between two thirty-six and two forty and it’s not.”

  Note to self: do not burst into tears.

  I would put this in the Of Course file if it weren’t so tragic. My mental Of Course file is jammed full of stuff like this. As in, Of course I moved all the way to New York for a boy who doesn’t know I exist.

  But then there’s The Knowing. I know that I belong with Scott. I know that I belong here.

  “Should we ask in the main office?” I suggest.

  “Good idea.”

  We get halfway down the hall before Scott goes, “Wait. Why are you here?”

  “I go here.”

  “That’s so weird!”

  “I know.”

  “When did you move?”

  “A few days ago.”

  “Why?”

  There’s no way I’m going to admit why. At least, not yet.

  “Oh, because ...”

  Then again, if I just come right out and tell him he’ll finally know. Isn’t that why I came here? To make him understand that we belong together? The problem is, I might be the only one who can see the potential of us right now. If I scare him off, we might never be together.

  I decide to go for the truth with a side of omission.

  “... I’m living with my dad now.”

  “Is that cool?”

  “Yeah, it’s awesome. I love it here.”

  “Tell me about it. Any place you can get a sandwich at three in the morning is my kind of town.”

  We get to the main office. The secretary is on the phone.

  We wait.

  When Scott leans against the counter, his arm brushes up against my arm.

  Our arms are totally touching.

  And he’s not moving his arm away.

  “Where’s your dad’s place?” Scott says.

  “Perry Street.”

  “We’re on West 11th.”

  “Aren’t they near each other?”

  Scott smiles. “Hey, neighbor.”

  When I answer the phone after school, April doesn’t even wait for me to say hello. She goes, “Oh my god you found Scott?!”

  “Yes! How’d you know?”

  “Chad told me.”

  “Since when do you talk to Chad?”

  “Since today. We both stayed after and he came up to me.”

  “But how does Chad know I found Scott?”

  “Scott told him.”

  “What?!”

  “I know!”

  “When?”

  “Scott called him right after school.”

  “What did he say?”

  “Just that you have a class together. And he was really surprised to see you.”

  “He was?”

  “Of course!”

  “Like, surprised in a good way?”

  “For sure.”

  Things are definitely working out. Scott and I live right next to each other. We go to the same school. We have a class together. We even get to sit together. By the time we found room 238, there were only two seats left in the front. My aversion to the front row was nothing compared to my desire to sit next to him.

  Scott Abrams told his best friend about me.

  It’s a relief that April is excited about this. When I told her I was moving here, she wasn’t exactly thrilled. April still thought telling Scott how I felt was a bad idea. She thought following him here was an even worse one. Even though she knew how I’d wanted to live in New York for a long time so it wouldn’t be like I was just following some boy here, we both knew that I totally was. She didn’t want me to get hurt any more than I’d already been. But by the end of summer, she was in my corner. She saw how miserable I was. She knew I had to do this.

  I tell April every single detail about what happened with Scott today.

  “I can’t believe you got seats together in class,” she says. “How perfect is that?”

  “Seriously. Now I don’t have to track him down like a creeper.”

  “So ... when are you going to tell him?”

  “I’m not sure. Maybe it’s better to wait a while. I mean, I’ll get to see him every day. Maybe I should give him some time to get used to me being here.”

  “That sounds good.”

  “It’s really bad that he didn’t recognize me, right?”

  “Well, it’s not the best. But it was his first day at a new school, too. You were both kind of out of it. I wouldn’t worry—he told Chad about you and everything. I doubt he’d do that if he wasn’t happy you’re there.”

  That makes sense. We could dissect the situation forever, but the only way to know what Scott thinks for sure is to ask him.

  April and I compare our first days. I always knew my old school sucked, but now I have confirmation that it sucked way worse than I thought.

  Then I say, “What’s up with Candice? She hasn’t responded to my last two texts and she’s not calling me back.”

  “I don’t know. Do you want me to ask?”

>   “Yeah. It’s weird that we haven’t talked for two days.”

  “I’ll tell her to call you.”

  “Call me tomorrow.”

  “Of course. Good luck with Scott.”

  Luck isn’t what I need. What I need is to know that I haven’t disrupted my entire life for nothing.

  Four

  Scott could be in his room behind any one of these windows. He could be watching me right now.

  I can’t believe he lives one street over from me. That’s one for the Of Course file. Of course we live closer to each other now than we did back home. The thing is, he could live anywhere on West 11th Street. It’s several blocks long.

  I’ve been walking up and down his street for over an hour. Just walking and wanting to find him. I love exploring my new neighborhood like this. I’m so used to riding in cars. No one walked anywhere back home. But New Yorkers walk everywhere, and now I’m one of them. My legs are already complaining about the difference.

  I stop. I want to be still for a minute and absorb the energy, feel how incredible it is to be in this place that’s been calling to me for so long. It’s like I already know it here so well, like these streets have somehow always been mine. Just being out on this warm night under the streetlights and neon, the excitement of finally being surrounded by everything I’ve imagined is exhilarating.

  “Nice night,” an old lady says, leaning out of her first-floor brownstone window. The window is wide open and she’s watering the flowers in her window box.

  “Yeah,” I say. “I love your flowers.” They’re small ones in all different colors. They look happy.

  “Thanks, I try. It’s not always easy.”

  I nod without understanding what she means. Is it not always easy to keep flowers alive? Or not always easy to remember to water them? Or maybe it’s a general statement about life. When is life ever easy? It’s usually one problem after another. Like the problem of living with my dad.

  It doesn’t look like there’s a problem from the outside. From the outside, it probably looks like a happy father-and-daughter reunion. The truth is that the past three days have been really stressful. Our conversations still have that polite tone. But underneath all that polite is a world of hurt. We both know it’s lurking there. Except we’re pretending it’s not. All topics of conversation are kept on the safe side, like school (which I’m getting used to) and the city (Dad’s planning for us to do some touristy things together) and college (I have no idea where I want to go). Dad hasn’t asked me anything about Mom. I haven’t asked him why he left us. What’s the point of digging up a lot of stuff that’s better off staying buried?