Tangled (17 page)

Her hand was so close. Holy shit. I could reach over and hold it. Holy shit. But how exactly do you hold someone’s hand without making it seem like you’re grabbing
it, stealing it away from them? And why was my hand suddenly so sticky? Holy shit.

“What is it with you and quotes?” I asked, wiping my palm on my jeans. “You know so many of them.”

“I used to think I collected quotes because I had no life, so I had to feed off other people’s,” Jena said. “But now I’ve realized I like them because they make me feel less alone. Like we’re all going through stuff and we can share our wisdom with each other. I don’t know. I guess quotes make me feel more connected.”

“Like we’re all in this together?” I asked.

“Exactly,” Jena said.

Maybe it was the warm night. Or maybe I was emboldened by the darkness. Whatever it was, I reached over and took Jena’s hand. Her fingers felt slender and soft. We stayed that way for the rest of the concert. When the music was over, there were fireworks over the stage, massive explosions of blue and white and orange. Everyone else clapped, but Jena and I didn’t let go of each other.

When the concert was over, Jena and I followed the herd of people out of Central Park. It was too crowded to hold hands, but whenever I thought about how it had felt, I got this goofy smile on my face. But it was okay because a few times I looked over at Jena and she was smiling, too.

Jena mentioned that the apartment where we were staying was on Central Park West, about ten or fifteen blocks down. We could either walk or catch a cab. The sidewalks were flooded with people scrambling for cabs, so we crossed the street and began walking.

“It’s weird to have keys to someone’s apartment,” Jena said as we waited for the light to change.

“You said something about saving the daughter’s life?” I asked.

“It’s a sad story,” Jena said, sighing heavily. “Do you really want to hear it?”

I shrugged. “We’ve got a ways to walk. And my bag is crazy heavy. May as well distract me while I’m carrying it.”

“I thought you said the bag wasn’t so bad,” Jena said.

The walk sign flashed and we stepped into the street.

I cleared my throat. “I was trying to impress you, I guess.”

“It worked,” Jena said, grinning.

“So tell me how you were a superhero.”

“Not a superhero really.” Jena stepped up on the curb. “Do you remember Skye? That girl I went to Paradise with?”

I nodded. It’d be hard not to remember Skye. She was superskinny and overly put together, like she was obsessed with her appearance. Maybe it’s just me, but I’m not attracted to girls who look like they’re anorexic. Even if I did recognize her from some TV commercials and everyone at the resort was whispering about how she was famous. Naturally, Dakota found a way to meet her. One evening, when my mom told me that the movie-star girl was coming with us to
see a phosphorescent bay, I faked a stomachache. Or maybe the stomachache was real because as soon as I considered the prospect of being in a car with her, I thought I might puke.

What I later learned, from Jena, is that Skye was the one my brother ditched her for. Which seems like a bad call on Dakota’s part. But I guess a good thing in the end because otherwise I probably wouldn’t be here.

“We’re staying at Skye’s apartment,” Jena said.

My cheek twitched nervously. “She’s not going to be there, right?”

“No…why?”

“She’s just kind of scary.”

“She’s actually not so bad,” Jena said. And then she went on to tell me this story about how she had discovered a note Skye had written about wanting to kill herself. It was at Paradise, the night Jena met my brother. She didn’t recognize the handwriting, though, until a few weeks ago when Skye gave her a letter. Jena freaked out and texted Skye, who didn’t deny the suicide note. After agonizing about it all night, Jena told her mom, in case Skye was a threat to herself. Jena’s mom told Skye’s mom, who sort of knew Skye was depressed but wasn’t willing to admit it. But upon
hearing the suicide stuff, she rushed Skye to a therapist and got her on medication and supposedly she’s already doing better.

“Basically,” Jena said, “Skye’s mom is forever grateful to me. She gave me a copy of their keys and said I could crash at their apartment during my lunch break if I wanted. But then Skye separately told me I should come here when they’re in Brazil.”

“What are they doing in Brazil again?” I asked. “I thought she was in the middle of a breakdown.”

“Skye’s dad was Brazilian,” Jena said. “He died before she was born. They’re down there meeting his family this week. Skye said it’s part of her healing process.”

Just then, Jena stopped in front of a broad building with a forest-green awning that stretched over the sidewalk. “Here we are,” she sang.

I stared up at the imposing facade, my feet unable to move.

“Coming in?” Jena asked.

“Oh, you know,” I said, my tongue growing drier by the second. “Maybe I’ll stay out for a little while and sleep on one of those benches over there.” I gestured across the street toward Central Park.

Jena laughed. “That’s called homeless, Owen.”

“I’m not the most…” I paused, wiping my palms on my jeans. It felt like every droplet of saliva in my mouth was leaking out through my hands. “I’m not the most, you know, experienced person in the world.”

“Like I am,” Jena said. “I have an idea. How about we agree to leave the lights off when we get upstairs? It’ll be just like Central Park. Except there won’t be fifty thousand people with us.”

“Can we at least invite two or three?”

“Come on.” Jena grabbed my hand and dragged me into the marble lobby. She waved at the doorman, who greeted her back. She stepped into the elevator, pushing the button for the eleventh floor. I shuffled in after her.

It was the longest elevator ride in the history of the universe. Both of us stared up at the display, watching the floors slowly go by.

We finally arrived on eleven. Jena unlocked the door, swung it open, and we stepped into the foyer. It was relatively dark, but I could see the outline of a large painting hanging on the far wall. It was this scary-looking face, frowning and haunted, with a nose protruding from the picture. I shivered briefly and then glanced into the shadowy living room, where there was a grand piano, white sectional couches, and delicate glass vases on every surface.

“People actually live here?” I whispered to Jena.

“Let’s go to Skye’s room,” she said. “It’s a little more normal in there.”

We tiptoed down a hallway and into a room on the left. There were windows overlooking Central Park and the New York skyline. As Jena disappeared into the bathroom, I did a quick visual inventory. Fluffy double bed. Desk. Two wide dressers. Definitely more normal. Then again, Skye lives here, which makes it slightly intimidating. But she’s in Brazil, I told myself, nearly five thousand miles from here.

Jena emerged from the bathroom, slid her feet out of her sandals, and climbed up on the edge of the bed, looking out the window. I wriggled out of my sneakers and sat next to her.

“Can you believe this view?” she asked.

I shook my head. “I want to live in New York City someday. Maybe I’ll apply to college here.”

“I’ve been thinking the same thing,” Jena said.

Jena looked over at me and smiled. I smiled back at her, my hands trembling, my teeth chattering. I swear, there must have been a fault line inside my body.

“I’m glad the lights are out,” Jena said.

“It reminds me of this study I once read at the library.”

“Where you work?”

I nodded and told her about how these psychologists studied a bunch of college students who didn’t know each other. They put some of them in a lighted room and some in a dark room, and then watched to see what would happen. The people in the room with the lights on made small talk and acted uptight, but the people in the dark were, basically, all over each other.

“Like how?” Jena asked.

“Everything,” I said. “They were hugging and laying in each other’s laps and some were even, you know, kissing. The researchers concluded that people feel less inhibited in the dark.”

“That’s so amazing,” Jena said.

“What? That I’m a dork who recites studies from old psychology textbooks?”

Jena giggled and shook her head. “No, about the dark. It reminds me of blogging, like how you feel comfortable revealing personal stuff when you don’t have to see the people who are reading it, when it’s more anonymous. That’s definitely how I feel.”

“I guess you’re right,” I said.

“Then again,” Jena said, “with blogging you can’t do this.”

Before I knew what was happening, Jena pulled my face toward her and kissed me. We kept our lips pressed together for the longest time, just breathing each other in.

“Uh, Owen?” Jena finally asked.

“Yeah?”

“Do you think we should, uh, take our retainers out?”

I had to smile. “What would your orthodontist say?”

“Definitely not.”

“Mine too.”

We chucked our retainers onto the bedside table and began kissing again, with our tongues this time. Jena moved closer to me. As I felt her breasts against my chest, I immediately started getting a boner. I wondered if I should do geometry equations or whether I should just let things happen. I traced my hand down Jena’s body, feeling her amazing curves, and thought,
Screw the Pythagorean theorem
.

After a few minutes, Jena whispered, “What are you thinking?”

“I’m just really liking this.”

“Me too.” Jena paused before adding, “Can I ask you something?”

“Yeah, of course.”

“Is it okay if we take things slow? Maybe save some stuff for next time?”

“Uh, yeah. Definitely.”

“Good.”

Jena rested her head on my shoulder and I put my arm around her.

“Owen?”

“Yeah?”

“Thanks for coming. It’s the most romantic thing anyone has ever done for me.”

I squeezed her even closer. I wanted to thank her also, but I could barely speak. My eyes were stinging because all I could think about was that Jena said she wanted to save stuff for next time.
Next time.
She’d met me. She’d spent a whole evening with me. And she still wanted a next time.

When I woke up the next morning, my left arm was tingling. I could barely feel my fingers. Jena was asleep next to me, her cheeks flushed, her lips turned up in a sleepy smile. The sun was coming over the buildings, a fresh golden light glinting across Central Park.

I slid my arm out from under Jena’s neck. As I shook my hand around, I thought about how you haven’t really lived until you’ve woken up in a strange bed at sunrise with your arm around a beautiful girl. In a few hours, this bubble will inevitably burst. I will take a cab to Port Authority and suck on my inhaler as I wait for the bus to Rochester. Jena will go to the Children’s Museum and stack blocks and hand out tissues and try to find peace among the chaos. I’ll call Dakota from the bus station. Maybe he’ll tell me that my mom
got wind of my wanderings and is flying back from Florida ready to chew me to shreds. Maybe I want that to happen. Maybe it’s time for me to stand up to my mom, for her to see me as something other than her premature baby who needs to be protected, needs to be saved.

Maybe when I board the bus, I’ll decide not to put my duffel on the neighboring seat. Maybe I’ll tuck it up above instead so that someone can sit next to me. When the person begins telling me their life story, maybe I won’t reach for my iPod. Maybe I’ll decide I have a life story, too, and I’ll reveal some of it.

But for now, nothing has to happen. For now, I can just be here in this strange bed at sunrise. And so I slipped my arm under Jena’s neck again and fell back to sleep.

Jacket art © 2010 by Howard Huang

Jacket design by Ray Shappell