Take Me There (17 page)

This is why I’m going to be a software designer. So I can do something I love, and make tons of money at the same time. So I can get the fuck out of here. Buy a huge house with so much space I can’t even use it all. And then I can send money home. My parents have had a hard life. It’s not easy when you do what you love but it doesn’t pay. And you have four kids. My two older sisters moved out, but it’s not like my parents can afford to help them much with college. So I’ll send my parents money, and maybe they can get a bigger place, too. They can relax when they’re older, the way they deserve to. Without having to worry about how they’re going to survive.

But for now, I’m the one who has to survive. Which sounds a lot easier than it actually is.

I have to walk way over to the East Side to get the 6 train. And then I have to go uptown to the Citicorp Building. It’s my favorite skyscraper, with that cool slanted top. It’s Rhiannon’s favorite, too, but we like it for different reasons. She just has a thing for buildings with slanted tops.

I like what it symbolizes. You can smell the money all the way down the street. And I know how obnoxious that sounds, but to me it means freedom.

When I was thirteen, I wanted to be a finance guy like Rhiannon’s dad. I used to ask him tons of questions about his job. And I found out that going into finance is a guaranteed way to get rich. The only problem is that I’m not a shark. You have to be ruthless to be an extremely successful stockbroker. I’m too much of a nice guy to make that possible.

I also got the impression that having a lot of money can turn a decent person into an asshole. So when I’m successful, I’ll have to make sure that doesn’t happen to me.

Schlepping it to the East Side isn’t exactly my idea of fun times. But I have to do it. Rhiannon is bumming hard-core. We have this thing where we help each other out. I already have a girlfriend—it’s not like that, we just go way back is all. We’re solid.

When I get to her place, Brooke answers the door.

“Hey!” She immediately zeroes in on the Cinnabon box. “Aww! For me? You shouldn’t have.”

“Yeah, I guess that’s why I didn’t.” The biting sarcasm is our thing. It’s this game we play where we pretend to hate each other. It never gets old.

“Oh, well. There are worse things.”

“Speaking of . . .”

“She’s not up yet. I’m afraid she’s never getting out of bed again. But!” Brooke snatches the box from me. “This will most definitely help.”

“So . . . can you just . . . ?”

“No prob. Isn’t there that party tonight?”

“Yeah.”

“Because I don’t think she’s going.”

“Don’t worry,” I say. “She’s going.”

Although the prospect of returning to my decrepit apartment is highly appealing, I decide to go over to Thompson Street for a game of chess with the NYU geeks. I’m not doing Mrs. Schaffer’s thing until four, anyway.

Max is already sitting in the window seat. He’s working out strategies. He’s waiting for a decent opponent. And then I walk in.

He’s like, “Dude. You’re late.”

“Sorry,” I go. “Emergency intervention.”

“Shit happens.”

“Big-time.”

Max and I have been playing chess all year. He was asking about his brother Brad last week. Which was weird because we don’t hang out or anything, we just go to school together. So there wasn’t much to tell.

Twenty minutes later, he’s got me.

“Checkmate.”

“Fuck.” I study the board. I go over my last five moves. “How did that happen?”

“Um . . . maybe because I’m a genius and you suck?”

“Maybe not.” I’m off my game. All unfocused. Story of my life.

I’m too stressed all the time. Not sleeping enough. There’s always too much work that never seems to get done. And when it does, there’s tons more. I’m pressurized, ready to explode any second.

Something has to change. I don’t know what. But something.

It’s righteous that I convinced Rhiannon to go to the party. But now I have to call the one person I’m dreading the most. Because I already know how she’s going to react.

“Hello?”

“Hey. It’s—”

“Hi, James! I know your voice by now.”

“Oh. Well . . . how’s it going?”

“Great! What about you?”

“Great. Except . . . there’s something I have to ask you.”

Nothing from Jessica’s end.

“You still there?” I say.

“Yeah. But I’m not sure I want to hear this.”

“I know we’re supposed to go to the party as a date, but—”

“What are you telling me?”

She does this every time. I don’t get why she goes ballistic if I even mention Rhiannon’s name. It’s like I’m not allowed to have friends who are girls or something. Which is absurd, considering all the straight guy friends Jessica has.

“Just that . . . would you mind if Rhiannon came with us?”

“Would I
mind
?”

“Yeah.”

“What do you think?”

“That you might.”

“Ya think?”

See? I knew this would happen. This is exactly what I wanted to avoid. Why can’t there be an easy way to do this? It’s not like I’m saying I don’t want to go with her at all.

“You know what I think?” Jessica has this bitchy, sarcastic tone. Which I’ve never heard from her before.

“Um . . . not really.”

“I think you’d rather be with her.”

“With who? Rhiannon?”

“Come on, Jess, that’s crazy.”

“Oh, really?”

“You know it is.”

“No, what I
know
is how it makes me feel when you never talk to me about your problems but you always talk to her!”

“When did I do that?”

“Oh my god! Like, I don’t know,
all the time
?”

“I talk to you.”

“Not like you talk to her.”

“How would you know?”

“Let’s just say I’ve overheard some of your conversations.”

“Like what?”

“Please. The
point
. Is that I always ask you what’s wrong and if everything’s okay, and you never tell me anything. And I want you to come to me, but no. You always have to go running to her.”

“I don’t—”

“And those walks you guys take? What’s that about?”

“They’re just walks.”

“Well, did it ever occur to you that
I
might want to go?”

“We’ve walked before.”

“Oh, yeah, like what, twice? And we never go to the pier. Like that’s your secret place or something. Did you ever think that maybe I’d want to go, too?”

This blows. Big-time. I was only calling to see if Rhiannon could come with us, and now I have to deal with this crap. Jessica seriously needs to get her jealousy issues under control.

“Look, Jess. I’m sorry I asked about the party. Just forget it, okay?”

“No! I can’t forget it! You obviously want to go with her instead, so why don’t you just admit it?”

“Because it’s not true.”

“Whatever.”

“It’s not!”

“Do you even realize how much time you spend with her compared to me?”

“Why are you acting like she’s my girlfriend? We never even went out!”

“Why would I be acting like that?
I’m
your girlfriend, remember?”

I don’t know how to get out of this. It’s like no matter what I say, she’s determined to think what she wants.

“I guess not,” Jessica decides.

“Yeah, I remember, but . . .”

“But what?”

“Why are you getting so crazy about this?”

“Oh, so now I’m crazy?”

“Come on, Jess. You know what I mean.”

“You know what? It’s funny. Because I thought you were different.”

I have no idea what to say to that. Different from what?

“But,” she says, “I guess I was wrong.”

I check the time. “Look, let me just call her and—”

“Go be with her then! She’s the one you want!”

“I was—”

“Forget it. I really don’t care anymore.”

And then she hangs up.

I’m pretty sure I’ve just been dumped.

I should feel all tragic right now. But I don’t. I feel . . . empty.

And I don’t even know why.

“Is that you, James?”

“It’s me, Mrs. Schaffer.”

Three locks click open. The chain lock rattles. Mrs. Schaffer peeks out. She examines the bags of groceries I’m holding.

“An angel, this one.” She opens the door all the way. “Come in, come in.”

I go over to her kitchen counter and put the bags down. Then I start unpacking.

Mrs. Schaffer shuffles over in her slippers. “Now, you leave those, James.”

“That’s okay.” I pull out a gallon of water. “I don’t mind.”

It’s this thing we do. I start unpacking. She protests. I keep unpacking. She orders me to sit down at the kitchen table, where she has a plate of cookies out for me. They’re really good cookies. She always has these green and pink ones shaped like leaves with chocolate in the middle.

And then later, after we’ve talked for a while and I’ve eaten all the cookies, I unpack the rest while she’s dusting in the living room. She pretends she doesn’t know what’s going down, and I pretend the same thing doesn’t go down every week. This way I can help her out and she doesn’t have to be embarrassed. Which she would be if she ever admitted that her arthritis makes it really hard for her to unpack the heavy stuff.

“I’m an old lady. Haven’t you ever heard of respecting your elders? Get over to that table and sit.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“I put your cookies out nice, the way you like.”

“Thank you.”

We sit. I eat.

She watches me eat.

“So and?”

“Yes?”

“What’s happening with the girl?”

“Nothing so far.”

“How can this be?” Mrs. Schaffer gets up to pour me a glass of milk. “How can it still be like this?”