City Love Page 6

  “ModCloth.” I fully admit to being a ModCloth addict. You know how some brands are so your style it’s like they’re in your head? That’s how ModCloth is to me. They’re retro in such a cute, fun way. Managing to be trendy and stylish but still unique is not easy to pull off.

  Zander and I get into the kind of heavy discussion about life you can only have over late-night pancakes. Zander is a musician. He’s all about going with the flow.

  “What, I’m supposed to take after my dad?” he’s ranting. “He has a miserable life with my mom in suburbia where the only thing to look forward to is poker night with the boys so he can hide out in his friend’s garage and pretend he’s not married for a few hours. Think I’ll pass on the cookie-cutter lifestyle.”

  “Word. Everyone knows the best part of life is outside the lines.”

  Zander holds his coffee mug up to toast me. “Here’s to living outside the lines.”

  We clunk mugs.

  I already know this date is just for fun. Zander’s fantastic, but no boy can tie me down this summer. Darcy Stewart is a boyfriend-free zone. I have the whole summer ahead of me to have as much fun as I want. As many boy adventures as I want. The possibilities this summer can bring are infinite. New York City is my drug of choice. It’s like I don’t even want to sleep because I might miss something. No matter what time it is, there are people creating and thriving and partying. There are late-night pancakes and making out with boys on subways and that twirly sensation of being dazzled by a million options. I want to do it all.

  “Where to?” Zander says after we split the check. I wanted to pay, but he insisted on covering his half. My first class isn’t until ten tomorrow morning. We could stay up all night. Dragging my tired ass to class on three hours’ sleep is a familiar proclivity from my high school days.

  “Any good raves going down at four?” I inquire.

  “Not on a Wednesday. I mean, Thursday.”

  “So what do you like to do in the middle of the night?”

  “Skydiving is always good. Or shark chasing.”

  “In the Hudson?”

  “You’d be surprised.”

  “Any other suggestions?”

  “That depends. Want to stay up all night?”

  “Absolutely.”

  “I know the best place to watch the sunrise.”

  “Take me there.”

  Zander takes me to the East River Promenade. You can see across the river to whatever borough that is over there. How lame is it that I don’t even know where I’m looking? Studying a map of my new city might be a good idea. It’s weird how you can only go a few blocks in Manhattan and enter a completely different energy zone. The east side and west side aren’t that far apart geographically. But they are vastly distinct. The west side has a hip/celeb/trendy bar/cobblestone street vibe. The east side is more of a classic/old money/ladies in fur coats/elaborately uniformed doormen scene.

  We watch the sky come to life as the city wakes up. Lights snap off. People appear and another day begins.

  “When can I see you again?” Zander asks.

  Never seeing each other again is the best thing for both of us. If I saw him again, things would move forward. Emotions would get complicated. Zander is into me. I can tell. It wouldn’t be fair to string him along, make him hope for something I can never give him. The kindest thing is to say goodbye now. He can remember me whatever way he wants. That’s the beauty of preserving time. I will never become a girl he falls out of love with. And the memory of him will remain like the memory of this night. Perfect.

  I take a deep breath and begin to explain.

  NINE

  ROSANNA

  A GIRL I’VE NEVER SEEN before locks eyes with me the second I enter the packed dorm lounge. She’s over by the punch bowl, shooting me a look so nasty I’m surprised I don’t die right on the spot. I look over my shoulder to see if the person she’s glaring at is standing behind me. But no. She clearly hates me. Or she thinks she does. Because you kind of have to know who someone is before you can choose to hate them.

  If you told me I’d be invited to a party my third day in New York, I would have told you (very politely because it was nice of you to suggest I’m on anyone’s social radar) that you were crazy. People don’t exactly invite the boring girl to parties. But this invitation was by default. A campus activity group is sponsoring my day camp on the Lower East Side and the affiliated camp on the Upper East Side. They’re the group that’s throwing the party. Counselors from both camps are here.

  Parties make me nervous. I never know what to do with myself. Should I mingle? What is mingling, anyway? Going up to a bunch of people you don’t know and engaging them in small talk? How is that fun? I’d much rather chill with people I already know. I recognize counselors from orientation, but most of their names are eluding me. Mentally playing the name game we did at camp this morning isn’t helping me connect people’s faces to their names like it did before. The only person I really know so far is Mica. I don’t see her yet.

  Okay. This is a good chance for me to expand my horizons. College is where I’m planning to reinvent myself. Reinventing yourself isn’t possible in high school. Everyone knows you in high school. They label you and judge you so harshly you’re boxed in until graduation. It’s impossible to change your reputation unless you go to a huge school with thousands of kids, which I unfortunately did not. I spent most of high school wishing I could be a better version of myself. I couldn’t wait for a fresh start in New York where I could be the person I was truly meant to be.

  This is my chance. I take a deep breath. I can do this.

  Right when I’m about to push my way into the crowd, someone bumps into me. She has a cup of red punch in her hand. Except her cup is empty now. I watch in horror as her punch spreads over the front of my shirt. Of course I had to wear my only decent going-out top, which is now completely ruined. Because of course it’s white and this blood-red stain will never entirely come out.

  “Oh, I’m so sorry,” the girl who bumped into me says. She’s the same girl who was giving me the evil eye when I got here. Her tone implies that she’s not sorry at all.

  “Do I know you?” I ask.

  Nasty Girl has fire in her eyes. For a second I think she’s going to hit me. She crumples her cup and drops it at my feet. Then she saunters over to a group of Upper East counselors and starts laughing at the top of her lungs.

  A few people who saw the assault are throwing me pity looks. There’s no way I’m going to stand here with a rude stain on my shirt getting pity looks. I make a hasty escape to the bathroom.

  Luckily the bathroom is empty. Bending over the sink, I pump the soap dispenser and frantically paw at the punch on my shirt. I don’t want anyone walking in on this. The stain is not coming out; it’s only spreading. There aren’t any paper towels. I bunch up some toilet paper, wet it, and wipe at the stain. Now I have a soaking wet shirt to go with my lovely stain, accessorized with toilet paper shreds stuck everywhere.

  I try to swallow the pit in my throat. That girl hates me. And I don’t even know who she is. See, this is why I hate parties. Unforeseen drama. Being the target of Nasty Girl’s evil energy makes me want to leave, but I remind myself why this is good for me. I can ignore her. She made her point. She wants to intimidate me so I run out in tears. Sorry Nasty Girl, you don’t win that easily. Rosanna Tranelli is a fighter. Rosanna Tranelli will not be bested by some punch-chucking lunatic. Do the kids on Glee shrivel up and cry when slushies are thrown in their face? No, they do not. They go and sing some badass mash-up that gives the rest of us chills.

  Mascara is smudged under my eye. I wipe it away, brush myself off, and hold my shirt out under the hand dryer. The stubborn red stain taunts me. I ignore the taunting. When I go back to the party, I don’t look her way. I don’t even look around for Mica. I stalk over to the snack table. Tons of individually bagged chips, pretzels, and cookies are out. I sneak one of each into my bag. These can be lunch and
dinner tomorrow. After everyone takes what they want, I’ll sneak some more on my way out.

  “Party at your place later?” a boy says.

  I glance up at him. He looks a couple years older than me, but his confident vibe makes him seem even older. He’s wearing a black suit, white shirt, and magenta tie. The aura of success surrounding him is unmistakable. What is a guy like him doing at a party like this?

  “Snacks are my friend,” I say. And I thought getting sloshed with punch was embarrassing. This guy saw me sneak food into my bag. What am I, some old lady on a coffee break at her macrame circle?

  “You wouldn’t know it.” He looks me over appreciatively.

  Really? Are lines like that really supposed to work on women?

  “You wouldn’t expect a guy in a suit to show up at a dorm party,” I retaliate.

  “Don’t let the suit fool you. I’ve been known to rock a dorm party up at Columbia. My little sister is the one throwing this party and I’m funding her group. I came straight from my internship at Goldman. Hence the suit and tie.” He smooths his tie down. “But enough about me. Tell me something interesting about yourself.”

  “Like how I’m rocking a punch-stained ensemble this evening?”

  “Keeping it classy.”

  “I try.”

  “Drag about your shirt.”

  “Yeah.”

  “I saw the whole thing. She’s nuts.”

  He saw? So he saw me get sloshed and he saw me sneaking snacks into my bag? I am mortified. Why is he even talking to me? I am a freak of astronomical proportions.

  “She hates me for some reason, which is weird because I have no idea who she is.”

  “How do you know she hates you?”

  “You saw the whole thing, remember?”

  “You’ve never met her before?”

  “No. She wasn’t at the Lower East camp orientation, so I’m assuming she’s a counselor at the Upper East camp. Or she could be someone’s friend.”

  “My sister would know. Want me to ask her?”

  “That’s okay. I don’t want to make things worse. Whatever her problem is, I’m hoping she’ll get over it.”

  “Probably not. People like that don’t change.”

  “Thanks for the support.”

  “Sorry. You’re an optimist. That’s an admirable feature. I’ve been swimming with the Wall Street sharks too long. First, growing up with my investment banker dad, then this internship for the second year. Cynicism rubs off on investment bankers pretty quickly.”

  “You want to be an investment banker?”

  “I do.”

  “What do investment bankers do, exactly?”

  “They manage other people’s money. Help them get rich and stay rich. That’s the basic idea, anyway.”

  Why would Wall Street Guy assume I need a basic explanation? I wanted to learn the details of the job description. Not hear something I’ve known since third grade.

  “How exactly do they do that?” I ask.

  “Oh, you wanted the long and boring story? We’ll have to save that for next time.”

  “There’s another party?”

  “No, I meant . . . if you wanted to see me again.”

  I don’t even know Wall Street Guy’s name and he’s asking me out? How pretentious is that? Like I would ever go out with him. He could never understand my life. He’s an investment banking intern in a suit that probably cost more than my freshman year tuition and I’m a girl with punch spilled all over my only good going-out top. We are worlds apart.

  “Did you want to know my name first?” I say.

  He laughs. “Sorry. I told myself to be smooth when I was psyching myself up to come talk to you. But I might be coming off as less smooth, more creeper. Can we start over?”

  “Totally.”

  Wall Street Guy extends his hand to me. “I’m Donovan. But I go by D.”

  “I’m Rosanna.”

  “Nice to meet you, Rosanna.”

  “Why do you go by D?”

  “The name Donovan never seemed like me. Too formal or uptight or something.”

  “I feel the same way about my hair. That it doesn’t seem like me.”

  “Your hair is gorgeous. Long and wavy. What’s not to like?”

  “Thanks, but I’ve always felt like it should be straight. Straight hair seems more like me.”

  “You probably shouldn’t trust someone who’s known you for five minutes, but I disagree. You are definitely a wavy hair kind of girl. Makes you even more gorgeous.”

  Again with the compliments. Women must fall for his charming ways all the time. His smile is part of the package. He’s actually a really good-looking guy. Sandy blond hair with a bit of a wave to it. Almond-shaped hazel eyes. He even has that classic handsome-man dimpled-chin thing. And I can’t help noticing that he’s taller than me. At five nine, it’s not every day I can literally look up to a guy. He’s about six three.

  “Was I a creeper again?” D asks. “Sorry, I was just being honest.”

  “No, that’s . . . I mean . . . thanks for the compliment,” I sputter.

  D smiles at me warmly. It’s suddenly ten degrees hotter in here.

  “So tell me something interesting about yourself for real,” he says.

  Why can’t I think of anything? And why is he making me so flustered?

  “There’s not much to tell. I just moved here from Chicago two days ago. I’m a counselor at the Lower East Side camp. Which, yeah, I already said that.”

  “Have you been to New York before?”

  I shake my head. “First time.”

  “You’re going to love it here. New York has the best restaurants, museums, indie film festivals, every kind of live music you can imagine . . . and if you’re a masochist like me, lots of bad karaoke.” He smiles at me again. The lounge gets even hotter.

  “What about you?” I say, attempting to divert the attention away from me. I can feel my face heating up. But not because I’m blushing. It’s just so freaking hot in here. “Are you from New York?”

  “Born and raised on the Upper West Side. My parents still live in the brownstone where I grew up.”

  “Do you still live up there?”

  “No, I’m in Tribeca now. My parents bought me a loft last year. Still needs some work, but it’s home.”

  “How old are you?” I blurt.

  “Twenty-one. You?”

  “Eighteen.”

  “So we’re both legal,” he jokes. At least I think he’s joking.

  Nasty Girl passes by. She makes sure I absorb her stink eye. Then she helps herself to some more punch. What is she going to do this time, pour it over my head?

  “Yeah, she really doesn’t like you,” D observes. “Are you sure you don’t know her from somewhere?”

  “I’m telling you. I’ve never seen her before.”

  “What a weirdo. Watch out for weirdos in this city. New York is amazing, but it’s a weirdo magnet.”

  “That’s why I’m here.”

  “You seem kind of normal to me.”

  “Kind of?”

  “Mostly. With a note of mystery.”

  He flashes me that smile again. It gets hot in here again.

  My heart pounds. I hate that he’s making my heart pound. I don’t want to give him the satisfaction of knowing that his charming ways are working on me. Not that they’re even working. I’m fully aware that we’re the worst possible match.

  “I have to go,” I say.

  “Already?”

  “I have . . . stuff to do. For camp.”

  “Well, it was wonderful talking with you, Rosanna.”

  “Same with you.”

  “May I have your number? Just in case you’d give me the pleasure of your company in joining me for dinner.”

  Dammit, Wall Street Guy. Stop being charming. Don’t you realize we could never be together? You are evil. You represent everything that is wrong with this materialistic society. Greed. Corruption. The br
eakdown of our financial infrastructure. We aren’t just on different wavelengths. We’re on opposite ends of the electromagnetic spectrum. I know I shouldn’t give him my number. What would be the point?

  I give it to him anyway.

  TEN

  SADIE

  THE SUMMER SOLSTICE SHOULD BE a happy day for me. What better way to welcome in the light than on the day with the longest daylight time all year? But for me, the summer solstice is an annual reminder of the one thing I never want to think about.

  A large group of people have already gathered in Central Park by the time I arrive at our meeting place. I recognize a lot of the people here. They’re regulars like me. We meet at the same place every year. There’s a hill on the west side of the park near Strawberry Fields called Hernshead. A big weeping willow rests at the bottom of the hill, swooping out over the lake. Whoever decided this would be the best meeting spot for our group definitely understands our pain. Hernshead is a mournful, reflective place.

  There’s a table with a banner hanging from it that says CHECK-IN. Dakota is stationed behind the table. She’s an older lady in her sixties who likes wearing long, flowy things with lots of scarves. There’s a folding chair next to her that she won’t use. Dakota is always too busy hugging people and greeting everyone with gusto to sit down.

  I’ll never forget how kind she was to me the first year I came. I was nervous. My mom had been telling me about this group for a while before I joined. She thought it would help. When I was thirteen, I felt ready to join. But I was still nervous about the group. Did everyone else already know each other? Would a lot of people be crying? Was I supposed to talk about what happened while we were walking? I really, really didn’t want to talk about it. I hoped no one was going to force me to. Dakota smiled at me warmly. She had kind eyes.

  “Welcome to our group,” she had said the first time I came to the walk. “Are you registered to walk with us today?”

  I nodded.

  “What’s your name, hon?”

  “Sadie Hall.”

  Dakota checked her clipboard. Her clipboard had rainbow stickers all over the back.