Page 29 of Marisol Acts the Part
“Holy shit,” she finishes for me with a shy grin. “I said the same thing when I found out.”
I struggle to think of a response and am saved from finding one when several passengers file onto the train as we barrel through the busiest stops in Manhattan. We offer up our seats to two elderly women carrying several tote bags as the rest of the car fills up quickly.
It’s difficult to find a place to stand where I can keep holding on to the pole—which I definitely need unless I want to fall into someone’s lap. There’s barely any room to move as the door attempts to close around the throng of people, the conductor warning everyone to pack into the train as tightly as possible, but we’re able to settle on the opposite side of the open doors, where a man is shoved so close to me I’m practically pinned to the wall.
Normally, this size crowd would trigger my claustrophobia. I’ve never done well in tight spaces, especially when other people are involved—hence, fear of planes. Throw in the possibility of a fiery death and you have a recipe for disaster. But there’s a certain wonder to this closeness, to the way everyone moves and sways with the train’s jerky path down the track,the hum of conversations and the turning of book pages and muffled notes of music and podcasts leaking from headphones throughout the car. The way I can glance over at Jamila, admire the dimpled curve in her chin, and pretend I’m studying an ad for a divorce attorney in Long Island over her shoulder instead.
“Does it ever get less magical?” I ask as we pull into the next stop. “Living here?”
Her brows knit together as she considers the question. “It gets frustrating sometimes,” she finally answers. “Rats. Train delays. High-ass rent.”
I shudder three times in quick succession. Even Dad and Jerome’s rent-controlled place costs way more than anyone should pay for what’s basically a bedroom and a closet.
“But those things don’t outweigh the good,” she continues, smiling and gazing off into the distance nostalgically. “Like getting lost in Central Park. Or trekking to Brooklyn way too early in the morning and watching the sun rise over the river. Having the best meal of your life from a food truck at midnight. Those kinds of random experiences make living here worth it.”
My mouth waters, not at the thought of the food, but of letting loose in the city. I salivate over the adventures I haven’t had yet, and how there could be something magical waiting for me around every corner, on any day, at every hour.
“Think I can do all of that before I head back to LA?”
Nothing about New York has been what I expected since I touched down at JFK a few days ago. The eternal optimist in me has grappled with holding on to that idea of a fun, exciting summer in the city with every single curveball thrown at me.But now, thinking about spending a day getting lost in a park, I feel that hope again.
When Jamila readjusts her grip on the pole, her hand briefly brushing against mine, I swear she takes another step closer to me. Or maybe it was me. Or maybe it was the both of us, drawn together like gravity. Whatever the case, I can feel heat radiating from her, that familiar scent of oranges and cinnamon nestled above her perfume—autumn in summer—washing over me as she replies. “Only if you have a good tour guide.”
Before my heart can lurch into my throat at what her response might mean, the train beats me to the punch. We slide into the station so abruptly it throws everyone off their rhythm. Even the seasoned natives stumble—a man curses to himself as he spills his coffee, an apple rolls toward us after it tumbles out of a woman’s bag.
Jamila, pressed chest to chest against me.
She puts her hand onto the wall behind me in time to save our heads from knocking together, but she’s still close enough for me to feel her breath against my lips. Our heartbeats pound in frantic unison, mine threatening to burst right out of my chest. Heat spreads down my cheeks to my collar and lower and lower until I must be as pink as half my wardrobe.
“Sorry,” she mumbles under her breath, whatever she says next lost beneath the sound of the conductor announcing the stop before the doors fly open.
In a blink, she was pressed up against me. Another blink, and she’s gone, swept up in the swarm of people bustling onto the platform.
“I’ll see you later,” she calls out, craning her neck to see me above the crowd rushing to get off the train.
“See you,” I reply weakly, knowing she’ll never be able to hear me over the chaos of the station.
With the sweet smell of cinnamon and oranges gone, replaced by general BO funk, I’m able to snap back to reality and examine the pillars around the station. The heat and excitement built up inside me drains away as I realize in horror-movie slow motion that I don’t recognize this station or its name. And that, according to the map above my head, we just passed my stop.
“Son of a—”
“Stand clear of the closing doors.”
Chapter 9
Why have I spent 50percent of my first week here in New York trying to convince people that I’m not on the brink of an emotional breakdown?
“I’m fine, Mom,” I say, already exhausted from how many times I’ve had to reassure people this week.
Today isn’t my best day, though. Granted, none of my days so far has been great, but this has been a particularly rough one. Sitting in a salon for five hours to get my hair fully bleached was rough enough as it is. Throw in a bunch of subway delays, a pigeon pooping on my brand-new denim jacket—though Posie claims that’s good luck—and the fact that my new hair makes me look as pale as a vampire, and you have a perfect recipe for an awful day. Learning nothing from my subway ride home with Jamila and winding up deep in Brooklyn by accident was the cherry on top of the sundae.
Thank God for time differences. If Mom had called anyearlier today, she might’ve heard me sobbing in the middle of a train station after I realized what I’d done wrong too little too late. The Lyft back to our place cost around a hundred dollars with tip, but it was well worth it to avoid having an emotional breakdown in the subway. After an hour of transportation hell, I’m finally walking back to my apartment building. Ego bruised, but in one piece.
“So…how did the appointment go?” Mom asks reluctantly, clearly still eager to convince me to give up onThe Limitand come back home.
Apparently, I’m the only person who has confidence in myself. And even that’s starting to dwindle, with everyone from Dawn Greene to my ownmomthinking I’m out of my depth. I’m not sure how long I can keep running on spite. Obviously, I still want to prove all of them wrong, but it’d be nice to have at least one person in my corner.
“It’s…” I trail off as I catch my reflection in the window of a barbershop next door to Dad’s apartment. “Interesting.”
