Tangled (15 page)

At ten thirty, the bus rolled out of the Syracuse station. I settled into a window seat near the middle, far enough from the bulk of people in the front, but not too close to the reeking toilet. I set my bag on the neighboring seat, mainly to detract anyone from plopping down next to me and telling me their life story for five hours. I put on my iPod, circled through until I found my mellowest playlist, and attempted to relax.

That lasted exactly four minutes.

As we accelerated along the highway, I could feel tightness creeping into my chest. Had I really just said good-bye to my brother and boarded a bus to New York City? I can chat online until the cows jump over the moon, but when it comes to actually
talking
to a girl, I can barely string together a pronoun and a verb.

I reached into my bag and pulled out that ReaLife to a Real Life folder. On the right, Abby stuck in today’s agenda. On the other side of the folder, there was a worksheet labeled
Conversation Starters: Tips and Topics
. I quickly scanned the page, which included pointers like “Try to discover things you have in common.” Below that, they had sample icebreakers.

• Can you recommend a great pizza place?
  
• What’s the last movie you saw?
  
• If you could time travel, what era would you go back to?
  

When I got to the time-travel question, I shoved the worksheet into the mesh holder behind the seat in front of me. Like I was about to tell a girl that I wanted to drift down the Mississippi River with Huck Finn or see a play performed at an amphitheater in ancient Rome.
Right.
That’d do wonders for me.

Full admission here. Miz J’s real name is Jena Gornik and she once hooked up with my brother. She revealed that in one of her first IMs. She started it just that way.

In the interest of full admission,
she wrote,
there’s
something relatively huge I’ve got to tell you.

I assumed she was going to say her real name was Jim and she was a middle-aged pedophile.

I’m bracing myself,
I wrote back to her.

That’s when she told me she’d seen me in real life before.

When she said that, I was shocked and slightly terrified. What if she went to Alty? If that was the case, I’d never set foot in my school again.

What???
I nervously typed.
Where?

She went on to tell me that she saw me at Paradise, the vacation-from-hell my mom took my brother and me on over spring break. It was a few months after Dakota’s girlfriend died, so you couldn’t say anything to him without him snapping at you. He and my mom fought all the time. The first day, when I pulled on my khaki shorts, Dakota suggested taking me over to the health club and getting my skeleton legs started on the five-pound weights. After that, I spent the week in jeans. I mostly slept and posted on my blog and tried to steer clear of his path of destruction.

Deep sigh,
Jena wrote before admitting that, while at Paradise, she’d fooled around with my brother.

I didn’t say anything for the longest time. I just sat there, hunched over my keyboard, feeling like a big
loser for assuming she’d found my blog randomly and had connected with my words. Because that’s what the past few weeks had felt like, ever since her first comment. Especially since we’d started IMing the day before, it was like we understood each other on some deeper level. But no. It was about Dakota. Of course it was about Dakota. Even when he’s at his worst, he manages to charm the ladies. Seriously. Wherever we go, girls are flirting with him, or trying to chat me up so they can gain access to my brother.

Will you still talk to me?
Jena finally asked.

Sure, whatever,
I wrote. I wasn’t about to tell her I was crushed or anything. Just to drive home the point, I added,
So I guess you want info on Dakota?

At first I did,
Jena said.
But then I realized that…can I be honest with you?

Fine with me,
I wrote. What did I have to lose? I was just the news source for my brother. Nothing more, nothing less.

Dakota hurt me,
Jena wrote.
He didn’t treat me well, though it took me a little while to realize that. I originally went onto your blog to find out more about him (call me a stalker), but then I read your posts (all of them, even from 2 years ago!) and you showed me what a decent guy is really like. And now with everything going on
with my grandma…I don’t regret what happened with Dakota, but I’m completely over it. I just wanted you to know that.

I read and reread her message before finally writing,
How did he hurt you?

For one, he ditched me for another girl. But also, he didn’t respect me. He treated me like an object, not a person with feelings. I’m sorry. I know he’s your brother, but you said I could be honest.

No, that’s fine,
I wrote back.
You’ve read my blog. You know he’s treated me that way too.

So you’ll still talk to me? You’re not just saying that?

Yeah, I will
. I paused before adding,
But can I ask you a question?

Of course.

How did you find me? Does Dakota know about my blog?
At that point, in late May, the prospect of Dakota reading my personal thoughts sent me into a sheer panic.

He never mentioned it,
Jena said. Then she explained how, even before she’d met my brother, she saw me in the business center at the resort one night and glimpsed the name “Loser with a Laptop.” When she said that, I tried to remember a girl coming into that room, the only place that had wireless. I knew from
the picture on her ReaLife page that she had brown eyes and medium-length brown hair. But no, all I could remember was this one housekeeper who barged in and yelled at me in Spanish to move it so she could sweep. Jena said that when she saw me that night, I was listening to music and pounding furiously at my keyboard. She’d stood behind me, wishing she could tap my shoulder and ask if I wanted to hang out, but I didn’t look up so Jena eventually left the room.

I wish I’d looked up,
I wrote to her.
If I did, though, I probably would have been too chicken to take you up on your offer.

Or maybe not,
Jena said.
Maybe we would have stayed up for hours having an amazing conversation and telling each other things we’d never say in the daylight.

I guess that sums up why I’m going to New York City. I want to look up this time. I want a second shot at that conversation.

I slept for most of the ride. At some point, I opened my eyes and the bus was speeding past hills and lopsided, peeling barns. An hour or so later, we pulled into a small city with low brick buildings. A woman with two young children got off. A guy with long hair and a backpack got on.

As we got closer to New York City, traffic slowed to a crawl. The driver announced we’d be getting to the Port Authority Bus Terminal a half hour late, around four. Everyone immediately got on their phones and reported the delay. I didn’t have Jena’s number. Last night, when we were IMing, we decided to do it the old-fashioned way where people promise to be somewhere and actually show up. I guess if it got really late I could look up the number of her museum.

As I stared out the window at the jumble of cars and trucks, I thought about how when Jena first told me she’d hooked up with my brother, I felt completely insecure. I mean, how could I ever live up to
that
? But then, as we continued chatting, I really did believe her when she said she wasn’t the same girl she’d been back in April. Over the past month, we’ve even talked about Dakota, like how his girlfriend’s death messed him up. In June, when I blogged that Dakota was acting nicer to me, more human, Jena commented that she was genuinely happy. But it wasn’t like,
Oh, goodie, maybe I’ll get another chance with him
. It was more like she was happy because her brother meant a lot to her and everyone deserves a good sibling.

As the bus picked up speed again, I wondered if I’m not the same person I was before, either. Like Dakota
calling me legendary and giving me two of his freaking condoms. That
never
would have happened two months ago.

A few minutes later, the bus entered a long tunnel, which I assumed was going under the Hudson River. When we emerged on the other side we were in New York City. There were skyscrapers everywhere, so tall the streets were shadowy. The driver maneuvered through some crowded streets before pulling into a massive, several-story garage and shutting off the engine.

“Port Authority!” he called out.

People stood up and collected their things. Well, everyone except me. I huddled in my seat, unable to move.
What the hell was I doing here?
I asked myself.
Was I really about to step off this bus and onto the sidewalks of New York City all by myself? Was I insane?

“You getting off?” the driver called back to me.

I nodded up at him and said, “Yeah.”

I was here because I wanted to be here,
I told myself.
And, yes, I was going to venture into New York City by myself. And maybe I was insane, but it was better than the alternative, hiding behind my laptop instead of living my life.

And so I reached for my duffel and walked slowly down the narrow aisle.

As I wandered aimlessly through the Port Authority Bus Terminal, my pep talk to myself disappeared into thin air. Or more like smoggy, unbreathable air. Honestly, I felt like hell. My boxers were bunched around my balls and there was a rank ripeness radiating from my armpits. I kept searching for a sign, any sign, telling me where to go next. Dakota had instructed me to look out for a taxi area, that that’s what he and his wrestling team did when they came down to the city a few years ago. But all I could see was this massive crowd of people jostling each other and shouting into their phones. And there were so many smells—bus exhaust and incense and who knows what else. It was so strong my lungs were constricting. I dodged into the nearest men’s room and
reached into my bag for my inhaler.

The bathroom was grimy, one faucet dripping and a fluorescent light flickering on and off. A few guys were lined up at the urinals. I had to pee, but I had no interest in a public display, so I closed myself in a stall. I hung my bag on the hook, shook my inhaler, and popped off the cap. I exhaled, closed my lips around the mouthpiece, and pressed down. As I kicked up the toilet seat with my sneaker, I could feel the medicine working its way through my body. I hate the way it makes me feel, jittery and anxious, but it’s better than not being able to breathe.

I flushed the toilet, and then stripped off my T-shirt and bunched it into my bag. I slid on a fresh layer of deodorant, dug around for a new shirt, and unlocked the stall. There was only one guy out there now, swishing with mouthwash. As I washed my hands, I glanced at my reflection in the mirror. Skinny with messy reddish hair, jeans, and a gray T-shirt. It was hot today, probably eighty-five. I thought about changing into shorts, but then I remembered Dakota’s comment about my skeletal legs. Besides, I don’t have tons of leg hair yet, and what I do have is this annoyingly invisible shade of pale orange. No, shorts are definitely
not
the way to go if I want to make any kind of first
impression with Jena.

After I left the bathroom, I bought a bag of chips and a water from a guy in a magazine stand. As I was tucking my wallet back in my jeans, I suddenly got paranoid that someone was going to pickpocket me. I remember when we came to New York City before, my dad kept talking about how there are thieves everywhere and you have to know what to do when a man holds a gun in your face and demands your money. My heart, already racing from the medication, began thumping even harder.

“You okay?” asked the guy at the magazine stand. He was a tall African man with a gap between his front teeth and deep scars down his cheeks.

“I’m just…I’m looking for where to get a cab,” I said.

He pointed to an exit door ten or fifteen feet away, then smiled and said, “You’ll be fine. You’ll be okay.”

I wondered how bad I looked. My dad always says it’s important to appear confident even when you’re scared shitless, that people smell vulnerability and will prey on it. But it’s one thing when, like my dad, you lift weights, wear a uniform, and pack a pistol. It’s another thing when you’re, well, me.

Somehow I found the cab line. I was standing in
front of three women with streaked hair and too much eye shadow. They kept talking about the Broadway show they were going to see on their girls’ night out. When I heard that, I thought of my mom on her girls’ trip and I had a flash of terror about what she would do if she knew where I was right now.

“You’re up!” the taxi dispatcher barked, pointing at me.

I approached the nearest cab, opened the back door, and climbed onto the seat. The driver had a phone clipped to his ear and he was talking, loud and fast, to someone in a language I didn’t recognize. I sat there, waiting, unsure what to do.

“Where to?” the driver asked.

“Uh, the Children’s Museum?”

The driver said something into his phone and then glanced over his shoulder at me. “What are the cross streets?”

I fumbled in my pocket for the piece of paper. “Two-twelve West Eighty-third Street.”

“Between?”

“Uh…”

The cab behind us honked. My driver clicked on the meter and the car lurched forward.

Twenty minutes later, we arrived in front of a tall stone building. There was a blue awning out front that said
CHILDREN’S MUSEUM OF MANHATTAN
. I handed some cash to the driver, grabbed my bag, and stepped onto the street. As I did, I thought,
See, look at me doing this, all confident and cool, just like I belong
. I slung my duffel over my shoulder and I swear I could feel new muscles in my forearm.

But then, the second the cab pulled away, I wanted to flail my arms and say,
No, come back! You’re my last connection to, I don’t know, the bus station that contains the bus that could zoom me back to the comfort of my home.
I watched miserably as the bright yellow car disappeared down the block.

Now I was alone on a sidewalk in New York City. Alone with four pigeons, three kids on scooters, a couple going at it under some scaffolding, and a guy in a necktie droning into his cell phone, “I understand where you’re coming from. I really do. I can see it in your eyes.”
No, you idiot,
I wanted to tell him.
No, you can’t.

I stared up at the Children’s Museum. I couldn’t believe Jena was inside at this very moment. My stomach flipped excitedly as I glanced at my phone. 4:57
P.M
.
Now or never, O-Boy. Now or never.

I walked up the ramp and into the lobby. Moms and dads and babysitters were wrestling kids into strollers, dragging them toward the door, chasing them with juice boxes. I cut through the crowd and approached the ticket counter.

“Can I help you?” asked a middle-aged woman behind the desk. Her hair was pulled back with a red scarf and she was wearing a name tag that said
Rosie
.

“I’m…” I glanced at the price to get in. Jena hadn’t mentioned whether I should pay or just explain that I was meeting up with her.

She tipped her head to one side. “Are you here for Jena?”

“Yeah, I’m Owen.”

“Well, go on upstairs!” she said, smiling. “Jena’s on the second floor. She said you’ll know where to find her.”

She handed me a sticker and instructed me to put it on my shirt. It was a picture of a unicorn which, at the end of the day, is an improvement over
Hello, my name is Owen Evans. I can’t wait to be your friend!

I headed up the stairs. On the first landing, a sandy-haired toddler was spread-eagle on the ground. His dad was standing above him, waiting. When I reached the second floor, I headed down a short hallway, turned
the corner, and glanced into a huge room.

I spotted Jena right away. She was laying on the floor, staring upward, her arms at her sides. I was partially obscured behind the doorway so I watched her for a second. She was wearing cropped pants and a blue T-shirt that said
INTERN
. She looked different than her ReaLife picture, younger, even prettier. No, not just prettier. As my brother would put it, Jena was hot.

Forget about flailing. Now I was completely drowned.

I turned abruptly and raced toward a bathroom. There were arrows everywhere, but I kept getting lost and winding up surrounded by packs of wailing babies. When I finally locked myself in a stall, I was gasping. But it wasn’t asthma. Now it was full-fledged panic. Who was I kidding? There’s no way I was going to be able to hang out with this girl. It’s one thing to IM her, to craft these smart messages that crack her up. But it’s another thing entirely to be here, in person, trying to be someone I’m not. This is Dakota’s kind of girl, after all. I’m in way over my head.

I grabbed the condoms out of my bag, chucked them in the toilet, and flushed. One went down, but the other burped back up. I flushed again and they
were both gone. I could feel tears coming on. I wiped my eyes with the back of my hand and thought about how much I’d been hiding in bathrooms recently. Yesterday at the hotel, Port Authority, now here. I could envision the post I’d write when I got back to Rochester.
The Stall Report
. All about how I traveled to New York City to meet a girl but ended up cowering in toilet stalls instead.

I pictured Jena reading it, realizing I came this close and stood her up.
No,
I thought. I couldn’t do that to her. She was here. She came. Even if I was a spineless wimp, it still wasn’t okay to hurt her like that.

I headed back downstairs. This time, I walked right over to her, dropped my duffel on the ground, and said, “Hey.”

“Owen,” she said. “You made it!”

Her eyes were hazel and sparkly with long, dark lashes. I never noticed that in her picture. In fact, I thought her eyes were brown.

Jena patted the carpet next to her. “You should lie down. Look up at this.”

I lowered myself onto the ground and stared at the butterflies. Jena tugged one of the ropes and they flapped their orange wings. We were laying so close, our shoulders were touching. And then, at the exact
same second, we turned our heads and looked at each other. She smiled, revealing a silver-colored retainer. I flashed my retainer back at her.

“Matching retainers!” she squealed.

I laughed, but didn’t say anything. I suddenly felt very thirsty. And hungry. And happy to be here.