Page 13 of Backslide
New York winter was long. Had lost its charm ages ago.
The snow had yellowed—with the help of enthusiastic neighborhood dogs—and the last vestiges, small patches of ice, still cling to the dark soil of sporadic tree wells.
It isn’t that Nellie doesn’t appreciate the warmth. She does. It is a balm as it warms the top of her head. But nothing is icier than arriving late to drawing. That means being on the receiving end of a disappointed look—through horn-rimmed glasses—from the teacher, Sharon, a bony frustrated artist with limited patience.
“Guys…” Nellie says, preparing to say goodbye and run ahead no matter how Cara resists, “thanks for walking me, but I’m just going to…”
But then she stops midsentence, her mouth dropping open slightly. Because, through the glare of afternoon sunlight, she sees a trio of boys walking toward them like a hormonal mirage. And she recognizes them instantly, as if from her imagination.
The boys from the party.
The tall one. The short one. The one she saw only from afar, but who—since she spotted him—she’s been thinking about nightly in bed as she waits under her too-heavy comforter for sleep to turn her thoughts to dreams. Who she has endowed with an imaginary personality that probably bears no resemblance to theactualflesh-and-blood boy. Who she feels like sheknowsbecause of how much he has occupied her thoughts.
She has looked for him at other parties since that first one—desperately, pathetically. No dice.
She’s looked around the neighborhood too. Because even though she doesn’t know these boysreally, she knows them vaguely as one of the other groups of kids from this corner of the city. She never paid them much mind before. But she knows they think they own the Upper West Side just like she, Cara, and Sabrina do.
No doubt, they also eat Gray’s Papaya hot dogs with tangy mustard and sauerkraut over a greasy orange counter, also suck tart stripedcandy sticks down to fine points from the Broadway Nut Shop, where nothing ever tastes quite as good as the store smells. They too order whatever is still hot—crusty on the outside and pliable on the inside—from H&H Bagels. They sit on the same stoops, avoid the same bird shit splatters on the same green park benches, eat funnel cake dusted with powdered sugar from the same street fairs. They probably smoke blunts and drink tall boys on the border of Riverside Park, by the same stone wall where Nellie perches daily.
They have been living parallel lives.
So, why shouldn’t she spot her mystery guy here? On her turf? She’s never seen him specifically here before—she would remember—but then she didn’t know to look.
It’s been long enough now, since the party though, that she has (until this very moment!) convinced herself that maybe he doesn’t exist at all. That she has exaggerated him so greatly in her mind that he no longer resembles any actual boy. Perhaps she passes therealhim daily without recognition because she has built him up so much in her mind. Because there is no way he’s as hot as she remembers, no way his smile is as easy, no way he glows as bright.
But here he is now. Like she finally manifested him. Sauntering toward her flanked by his friends, hands in his pockets, in a kind of lazy meander that can only come from having nowhere to be.
And he is just as magnetic as she recalls. No. He ismore. Because there is no baseball cap this time. His hair is buzzed short. And he’s taller than she realized. Over six feet. Golden tan in the light of day. Lean and muscular in an athletic way.
He is chewing gum, his jaw popping. And even that looks good on him.
As they come to a stop in front of each other, she is overwhelmed by a full-body flush, irrationally sure he can read her thoughts. Surely, he—and all his friends—will know that she spends every night in the dark wondering about him, reinventing him.
She averts her eyes, looking anywhere else.
“Hey!” says the tall blond one. Damien. That’s his name. “I know you! You’re Sabrina’s friends, right?”
It’s funny for him to pretend he’s not sure. It’s a manipulation; a power play. Like he’s too cool to have fully engaged. They’d hung out that whole night at the party—drinking, dancing, shouting above the din, repeat. Now, he looks from Nellie to Cara for recognition.
Cara nods, overcome by quiet. She shifts on her feet, bites her nails. That’s how she rolls with new people. How she clams up.
Nellie has no choice but to speak for them both. “Yeah,” she humors him. “We met at that club.”
“No doubt,” he says, bobbing his head. Which sort of makes no sense. But then he laughs. At himself maybe? At them? It’s hard to tell.
Which Nellie also thinks is by design.
It’s all a little obnoxious.
“I remember!” the short boy chimes in, shooting them an untempered smile—open for business.
He seems unapologetically sweet in his striped orange, white, and yellow Hang Ten T-shirt. Like human candy corn.
Lydia clears her throat. Like,hello?
“That’s Lydia,” Nellie says, fighting the urge to roll her eyes. “You guys didn’t meet her at the party. Because she wasn’t there.”
Oh, blessed night.
