I never thought I’d see the walls of my childhood bedroom completely blank. It felt as though there would always be a piece of me here. But now? Without the glossy posters of TLC, Madonna, Michael Jackson, and countless other artists I’ve come to love covering every inch of the place I’ve called home for as long as I can remember—everything is porcelain white.
Sparkling white, from all the cleaning. Besides the horizontal lines Mom etched into the door frame with bubble gum colored ink to keep track of the inches I’d grown over the years, there’s no evidence that I’d ever existed here. In less than a week’s time, the renovators will paint over the door frame, a new family will move in, and all that effort getting the kid version of me to hold still with a tape measure held up to my head will have been for nothing. I can’t say I’m truly sad about it, though. I failed to reach my goal of growing to five feet ten by my eighteenth birthday—a feat I was challenged to by my best friend, Phoebe—and I’d rather not have a daily reminder of that fact.
I stand at the doorway, my hand outstretched, brushing my fingertips against the indentations in the wall—starting from the line Mom carved when I was four and slowly making my way up to when I was ten…twelve…fifteen…and then the line I drew last night. The final, tallest, line. Five feet, eight inches above the ground.
The horn blares from outside as I take in a deep breath, backing out of the room where I’d spent hours—thousands of them—perfecting my dance routines. They were mainly ballet, but I take pride in my versatility as a dancer. I can do ballroom, tap, hip hop…if there’s a video online about it, I’ve tried it out at least once. This room has seen me fall and get back up. Over and over again. But now…this is it. No more getting caught shimmying in my glitter sequined dance dress by my neighbors whose bedroom is perfectly parallel to mine. No more late night talks and move nights with Phoebe on the brown and white speckled carpet. I close the door behind me, walk slowly down the winding staircase, my eyes lingering on the empty living room, the empty kitchen. The horn blares again and I pick up pace, gripping the house key tightly in my hand.
When I’m out in the bright morning sunlight, I close the front door and turn the key, locking it. There’s no urge to cry, like I’d expected. I guess what Phoebe said last night stuck with me. She’d said not to think of the move as a “goodbye” but as a “see you later.” I could always come back to Pennsylvania to visit. My grandparents are here. My uncles, aunts, and cousins—but more likely than not, I’d come to visit Phoebe. I talked to her more than anyone else, even my own family. Probably because we both have a fierce passion for dance, something not everyone can relate to.
Just like she promised, she came to the house to say goodbye. She’s leaning against the driver side window of our white van, talking to my dad, as I’m coming down the porch steps. My dad points in my direction and when Phoebe sees me, her entire face lights up—but I know she’s been crying. The rims of her eeys are red. Phoebe and I have been friends since we were five. We’d met at a youth dance competition, the first one I’d ever attended, and she was kind enough to walk up and give me a hug when I was crying due to performance jitters, even though she was on the team I was up against. Our parents exchanged numbers, and that was the beginning. We’ve been inseparable ever since.
She has her wavy brown hair pulled up in a high ponytail, and she’s wearing the purple Nike gym shoes she bought for herself last Christmas, which match up perfectly with the loose shorts she’s wearing—a contrast to my flowery blouse and curve-hugging jeans. The sporty look has always suited Phoebe, even now, with her nose runny, and her brows turned downward in a ‘I can’t believe you’re really leaving me’ expression. She runs toward me and before I can say anything, she’s enveloped me in the tightest hug I think I’ve ever received in my entire life. This is why I love Phoebe. She doesn’t shy away from affection. When she’s feeling something, she lets others feel it, too. The hug lasts a while, with her swaying me from side to side, and then she pulls away and reaches into her shoulder bag.
“I have something for you,” se says. “I almost forgot it before I left, and if I had—I swear, on everything I own that I probably shoouldn’t, I would have brought it all the way to Avenburgh myself. I don’t care how long the drive is.”
“Phoebe, you really didn’t have to bring me anything.”
“No, no. I did. I won’t see you again for who knows how long. There’s no way I was showing up empty handed.”
A smile prickles the corners of my lips. I hadn’t expected any gifts. Phoebe isn’t a gift girl. She prefers to write letters. Lengthy, handwritten ones. She gives them to anyone who means something to her. Girls on her dance team. Her parents. Friends at school. The lunch ladies—they get along just great according to what she’s told me—and even her dog, a tiny Shih Tzu who obviously can’t read them, but she writes to her as if one day she will.
I’d received my letter last week, and—I cried. Me. Raine Harilan. Aside from situations like this, I almost never cry—but Phoebe, with her letters? They get me every time. So, when I see her pull out a small, perfectly wrapped gift box in shiny golden ribbon, I mentally prepare myself. If this gift is anything like her letters, I may be in a bit of trouble. I can’t control my tears once they start, and once they start, there’s a very real possibility that I’ll spend the whole drive to Illinois trying to pull myself together.
Phoebe holds the gift box towards me and I take it, handling it gently. Up close, the golden ribbon shimmers, and it’s so pretty that a part of me doesn’t want to untie it, but I do it anyway, carefully unraveling the fabric. I pull the top off the box and laying in a square of foam is a heart-shaped necklace with two distinct halves—one with my initials, and the other with Phoebe’s. At the bottom, they combine to say: Badass Best Friends since 2001. I’d been saying for months that we needed one of these necklaces to solidify our friendship. How real could our relationship be, anyway, if we didn’t have a necklace to symbolize the thirteen years we’d known each other? These were the exact words I’d jokingly said to Phoebe last week when we passed this very same necklace in the mall. The one that made me gasp when I saw it’s price tag.
“Let me help—it’s made out of real silver, and the clasp is really small, so you have to be careful with it,” she says, holding her hand out. I place the necklace in her palm.
With slow, deliberate movements, she pushes my long, brown hair back, pulls the necklace around my neck, and clips it into place.
“You know, there’s a reason why I let you have the badass half, and no—it’s not because I think you’re cooler than me. Although some of the time, you totally are.” She pauses, adjusting the necklace. “It’s because I want you to know that whatever happens in Avenburgh, you’ll be able to handle it. You’re strong, Raine. I’m not just saying that because we’ve known each other basically our whole lives at this point. I’m saying it because I’ve seen you. Just like you’ve seen me. You get what I’m saying?”
I know Phoebe is referring to the fact that we’ve both witnessed each other as our best selves and our worst. As nice as Phoebe can be, there was one time I had to physically hold her back from getting into a fight with a girl from the Pittsburgh dance team who imitated most of her routine and then called her a copy. There was also that one time she had to hold my hair back before a solo performance in which the stakes felt so high, I was throwing up from anxiety.
I nod my head. “I get it.” I say, taking in a deep breath as shse straightens my hair in the back. When she’s done, she steps around so she’s facing me again, and gives me one last hug.
“Good. I can’t wait to hear all about everything,” she says, pulling away from me. “Don’t forget to call me, okay? I don’t care how late in the night it is…if you need something, I’m just a few numbers away. Wow. I sound like a total mom right now.”
“That’s you ninety percent of the time,” I say with a chuckle. “Thank you. For the necklace and…for coming out here.”
I look into Phoebe’s light green eyes, trying to memorize them. They are flecked with multiple shades of the color and almost seem to glow when the sunlight touches them. This is as high-definition as I’ll be seeing Phoebe for a while. It could be over a yar before I’m able to see her outside of the tiny pixels of my phone screen. I try not to think too deeply about it as Phoebe gives me a smile and a warm “You’re welcome.”
It feels like I should have more to say, but my mind comes up empty. I suppose Phoebe’s mind if empty, too, because she’s not saying anything, either. This is unusual for her, she always has something to say, but I suppose this situation has left us both speechless. There’s a heavy weight to our silence and then she says: “I’ll see you later?”
I’m really trying not to cry now.
“Later, Phoebe.”
I head to the van after that, and my hand pauses on the door handle. I turn around, giving Phoebe a wave goodbye. She waves back, and from where I am, several feet away now, I can see that tears have escaped from her eyes. She wipes them away with her sleeve, and I’m tempted to get out of the car and hug her again, but I decide to stay where I am. As much as it pains me to see her cry, this next phase of our lives is something we’ll have to navigate on our own. I watch from the tinted window as she walks to her SUV on the opposite end of the street, and in less than a minute, she’s gone.
“Do we have everything?” Mom asks, turning around in the passenger seat, and I reassure her that we do. Her eeys are half covered by the shadow of her baseball cap—the one she ordered online with Avenburgh, the name of our new home, printed in bold, white font. Above the letters, with its wings spread wide, is the city bird—the hummingbird. Mom has been buying all sorts of Avenburgh themed collectibles. Shirts, hair scarfs, socks…she says it’s her way of processing the move, and she’s been using that word a lot ever since Dad lost his job last August. It came as a shock, especially to her. Things were going well for Dad for a while. He was an engineer at a giant, highly-reputable steel mill making enough for us to afford a comfortable middle-class lifestyle here in Pennsylvania. Then he came home one day, sat Mom and I down, and told us that his boss had made some tough decisions—he’d laid him off and nearly one hundred other workers. Workers with families. With kids to feed. Bills to pay.
Dad thought that if he gave it time, they’d call him and offer him his old position back, but they never did. It took nearly a year for him to find his new position in Avenburgh. I don’t know much about engineering, but I trust him when he says it’s his dream job. Why else would he be okay with us moving? Leaving behind everything he and Mom spent their lives together building?
I prop my arm agains the window, using it as a pillow for what will be a long drive. It will take nine hours to get from Harler, Pennsylvania to Avenburgh, Illinois, and that’s if Dad drives the speed limit. He likest to go five below and I tease him about it. Mom and I both do.
With a sigh, Dad pulls out of the driveway and backs out onto our street. Our old street. He eases his foot on the brakes when we’re parallel to the front of the house. The house with the light blue panels, victorian-style roof, white fence, pool, and an old oak tree on the east side of the yard that I used to climb when I was too young to be climbing anything. We all just stare at it for a moment—the house we’d spent eighteen years living in—and then Dad drives off.
As we make our way through the neighborhood and toward the exit, we pass by the giant houses made from maroon, aqua, and gold bricks that I used to dream about living in as a kid. It’s a familiar sight. One I might never see again. From there, Dad heads for the highway. As we’re speeding down the ramp, I put my ear buds in and get lost in the vibrant sound of 90’s pop music. My playlist should be enough to get me through the rest of the trip. It doesn’t take much to keep my mind occupied. All I need is a song, and a thought, and from there I can enter into my own world. My ideal world.
I imagine myself dancing in a sold-out theater in New York City. It’s the same daydream I’ve had ever since I was eight. It’s so vivid that I can almost feel the spotlight warming my skin and hear the crowd, a wave of people, cheering for me. It’s a distant roar in my mind at first, but it becomes clear the more I visualize it. Everyone’s smiling, clapping along to the beat. It’s the kind of energy that’s infectious—that you feel deep in your bones. I switch to different songs and adjust the choreography in my daydream accordingly.
When I focus on my dream, everything that I worry about on a daily basis seems to disappear—school, my parent’s stress, fitting in, my fear of change, all of it. The one thing I want…maybe even need more than anything else in the world is to get into the New York Institute of Dance and Arts. It’s one of the most competitive dance schools in the state, with over one thousand applicants applying for the dance program each year. There’s only a fifteen percent acceptance rate, so Mom and Dad think it’s a long shot, but I’ve practiced so much—enough that it doesn’t feel like some faraway goal, but something I can achieve. It’s within my grasp, if only I can reach out and take it…
The reality is, I need rigorous training. I’ve practiced under Beatrice Lee, my bright-eyed dance instructor, for the past two years, but with the move…it’ll be different. She won’t be around and I’ll have to find someone else. Someone who sees my vision.
For the rest of the drive, I alternate between music and listening to Mom and Dad retell the story of their youth—how they met in college, became rivals in a writing elective they ended up in together before ultimately falling in love. They’ve told me the story so many times I’ve retained every twist and turn leading up to their eventual marriage, but I pretend it’s the firs time I’ve heard it—just like the last time. And the time before that.
We stop by gas stations in small towns, gawk at the sight of mountains, valleys covered in wildflowers, and sparkling lakes reflecting the perfectly clear blue sky. Nine hours into the trip—Dad definitely drove the spee limit—the GPS is tellign us we are thirty minutes away from our destination.
I press my forehead against the window—observing. There’s a tall water tower in the distance with Avenburgh printed on it in the same font as Mom’s hat, and it gleams in the harsh sunlight.
“Who’s hungry?” Dad asks, pulling into the parking lot of a building with sleek glass windows and a giant sign that says: Werbaker’s. It has a revolving door, and as people are filing in, others are filing out. “I’ve been checking out reviews on this place…people swear by it. Apparently they have the best corn dogs, so I figured we’d give it a shot.”
Dad’s eyes flicker to meet mine in the rearview mirror. He knows how much I love corn dogs. I’ve been obsessed with them since my first trip to Harler Festival, when I was five. It’s one of my earliest memories, for good reasons—it even inspired my halloween costume the following year. I was the only one in first grade who dressed in full length dog outfit holding a giant plush corndog. My dad still jokes about it. He’s smiling at me in the mirror now, and he doesn’t even have to say it. I know he’s thinking about it.
Dad parks the car and I get out, stretching my arms, my legs. Our last stop was a few hours ago and I’m starting to feel stiff everywhere. Knowing that we’re only thirteen minutes away from the place we’ll be calling home gives me a sense of relief. I’ve become exhausted from staring out the window, listening to Mom and Dad talk about the good old days. I want to be alone in my room. My new room. Even if it is over five hundred miles away from the only place I’ve ever really known.
Dad wraps his arm around Mom’s waist as we head toward the entrance to Werbaker’s We make our way through the rotating doors and immediately someone greets us. A young blonde woman wearing an apron and a hat that resembles one a pirate would wear. It would look ridiculous on me with all its flashy embroideries, but the woman manages to pull it off. She sits us at a table in the back of the bustling restaurant, away from the live band playing jazz, settling instead for a spot near the bathrooms, which Mom isn’t too happy about. There’s a view of Avenburgh’s skyline through the long windows, though, which makes up for it.
The sight of it makes my breath catch in my throat. I’ve never seen anything like it. I mean…I’ve seen city skylines before. Just a month ago, Mom and I went to Philadelphia to visit her sister, but there’s something different about the way the buildings are colored in Avenburgh. Even from this distance, the dark towers glisten, catching the sun’s rays at just the right angle. It sends a chill down my body.
Mom gazes at me from across the table, her long dark hair curled to perfection, framing her face. Dad has his arm over her shoulder, and he’s looking at me, too, through the lenses of his thick-rimmed glasses. We slip into a discussion about our favorite TV shows, giving each other updates on what’s happening in the storyline. It’s kind of our thing. What we talk about when we’d rather not talk about anything else.
When the waitress returns to the table, I order a corn dog with fries on the side. Mom and Dad both order a salad. The waitress comes back to give me a refill of water, and Dad tells her to still bring the salads, but to bring an order of wings as well. There’s a silence at the table when she leaves. Mom and Dad don’t tell me about their finances, but it’s the little things tht show how much they’ve been struggling with only Mom working.
Dad leans forward, and I take in a breath, anticipating a change of subject. “Raine, how are you feeling?”
I twirl my thumbs in my lap. Dad’s always asking me about how I’m feeling and I never know what to say. If I tell him that I’m feeling better than I was feeling earlier in the day, that might give him one less reason to worry about me, but still…opening up to my parents has never come easily to me.
“I’m good, Dad,” I say, as the table next to us rumbles with laughter. I wish I could somehow absorb their energy. “I’m…ready for a fresh start, I guess.”
The corner of Mom’s lips lift. “We’re so proud of you. For understanding. For stepping up. For—”
“—Mom, it was nothing, really,” I say, shaking my head. “Whatever you two felt was best.” I look between each of them and there’s another beat of silence. It only takes a second for me to realize what I’ve done. I accidentally put extra emphasis on the word two.
It’s no secret that this move was mainly a one-sided decision. At least, when Dad first received the offer. There were nights I’d lay in bed, just staring at the glowing stars on my ceiling, listening to them argue for what felt like hours. Mom wanted to say to be closer to family. Dad wanted to leave because he couldn’t think of a better possible opportunity. They went back and forth for months, and then, Mom changed. The arguments ceased, and she began talking about all the ways our lives would improve by moving to Avenburgh. She was so convincing, but I couldn’t let go of the memory of her not standing up to him. For not doing a good enough job convincing hiim that Harler was where we belonged. Then I thought, am I selfish? This is Dad’s dream, just like how dancing in New York is mine, and with the bills piling up, it was as if we had no other choice. It took a while, but eventually I got over the hurt—the unexpectedness of the whole situation.
Or, I thought I had.
The waitress comes back with our food, thankfully putting an end to the silence permeating our table. She sets each plate down carefully in front of us and tells us she hopes we enjoy our meal. I thank her and then I pick up the stick of my corn dog, bringing it to my lips, without thinking. Steam is swirling from the crust, but my mind doesn’t register that I’m about to burn my tongue until I already have. I flinch and drop the corn dog on my plate.
“Someone’s in a hurry,” Dad says. “You sure you’re okay?”
I pour some ice water on a napkin and dab the tip of my tongue with it. “Yeah, I just couldn’t wait,” I say, annoyed at myself.
Mom and Dad give each other a look, and I wish I knew what they were thinking. They have this silent way of communicating sometimes, where they’ll just look at each other, exchanging a back and forth without needing words. I suppose that’s what happens when you’ve been married for twenty-one years. You kind of just get each other in a way that other people aren’t able to understand. Even despite their disagreements, my parents have stuck together, and I admire that about them.
Maybe Dad was right, though. I was in a hurry. A hurry to get on with my new life. But in order for that to happen, I need answers. Answers to question I’d been afraid to ask ever since my last dance practice with Beatrice Lee. I have to know what dance school I’ll be attending. Mainly because it will have an impact on whether or not I get into NYIDA. I figure I’ll ease into it, gently.
“I’ve been searching for dance studios in Avenburgh..” I start to say, and Mom and Dad give each other that look again. “I’m going to need to practice a lot outside of school. Probably three hours a day, and there are a few dance schools that offer—”
Mom inhales deeply. “Honey,” she says, her voice softer than usual. “I’m afraid that we just can’t…afford dance classes for you right now.”
Her words don’t fully hit me until I see her eyes become glossy, as if she’s holding back tears. I know my parents. If there was a way for them to afford my dance classes, they would have tried with everything they had. But there wasn’t a way. I can see that now, just looking into their eyes. I glance down at my hands.
“Oh,” I say. “It’s okay.” In my eyes, it’s very much not okay—not for my future—but I don’t want to concern my parents any more than I already have. My dream feels like it’s hanging in teh balance now. There’s practically a zero percent chance that I will get into NYIDA without some form of formal training. Practicing through videos online, while helpful, simply isn’t going to make me competitive enough against the other applicants. I can feel the corners of my eyes burning, but I put all my energy into keeping tears from falling. All these emotions—it’s a culmination of all the things that have hit me all at once. Having to leave Pennsylvania, leave Phoebe, leave my dane friends, leave Beatrice Lee, and move to a place where I know absolutely no one. Not being able to afford professional dance class is another bitter pill I’d rather not take.
Mom reaches over the table and grabs hold of my hand.
“I’ve taken extra hours at work, as many as I possibly can, but—even with that, it’s not enough. I wish it was…but it’s just not. We are so sorry, Raine. We know how hard you’ve been working.”
I nod my head and tell her it’s okay once again, before moving my hand away. I pick up my corn dog, which has cooled off now, and take a bite. The bread, my favorite part, hardly tastes like anything.
We finish our food and then head out of the restaurant, back to the car. The sun is beginning to lower itself in the sky, so the heat isn’t as intense as it was earlier in the day. Dad drives on the highway for about ten minutes before we’ve officially entered the city. The skyscrapers tower above us as he passes through green light after green light. I shift in my seat, observing the people who occupy Avenburgh—a young man with a leather briefcase weaving quickly through the crowd, an older woman wheeling a metal buggy through the crosswalk, little kids playing with a soccer ball so close to the street I worry that one of them might kick it into oncoming traffic. My attention shifts from person to person, absorbing a fleeting shapshot of their lives.
We make our way through the heart of the city, where a giant clocktower made of copper bricks chimes an upbeat tune. I tilt my head up as we pass by, admiring the gold trim that surrounds the hand of the clock which moves forward, ever so slowly. The GPS informs us that we are only fifteen minutes away from our destination, and Dad keeps driving, past the downtown area, and I continue to watch from the window as the skyline gets smaller in the distance. We enter into a neighborhood, called Reywoods, and I pay close attention to the houses.
They aren’t as bright and colorful as the houses in my old neighborhood, but they have their own distinct appeal. Many of them have long, glass windows and dark panels. They aren’tall the same color—there’s definitely some variation, but they all just seem to flow together. Even a corner shop near the main road blends in with the surrounding houses and markets, despite it flashing with bright signs declaring they sell Everything You Could Ever Need. Maybe it’s the modern geometric shape of the roofs, the grey outer walls, the tinted windows. It’s all very cohesive, as if the entire area was meticulously planned so that no building contrasts too greatly from the rest.
Finally, we pull up to a two-story house. It’s a faded red color, a bit brighter than the rest of the houses—but it doesn’t stand out too much. It has a small garage that isn’t big enough to fit the van, so Dad parks in the driveway. He gets out of the car and then circles to the front of the house, marveling at it. It’s much smaller than our house in Harler—no porch, no pool, no white fence that surrounds an oversized backyard—but I had expected this. Dad informed Mom and I that we would be downsizing and this house is actually one floor taller than I’d imagined it to be.
Mom hands me a few boxes and I wait for Dad to open the front door before heading inside. The first thing I notice is the layout—there’s a small foyer that has been freshly cleaned. On the opposite end of the foyer is the staircase—ivory colored—which leads to the second-floor bedrooms. I take the boxes up the steps, not knowing which room is mine. I step through one doorway and it leads me to a large space with marble walls. This must be the master bedroom. I head down the hallway after that, past the bathroom and then to a door that opens to a room that is facing the setting sun. There are two wide windows that have a perfect view of Downtown Avenburgh. It’s a small room, but I don’t mind it. It has swirled patterns engrained into the walls, a walk-in closet, and even it’s own private bathroom. By the time Mom comes up the steps, I’ve already mentally claimed it as mine. I imagine the walls filled with my posters, and my bed—which will arrive tomorrow—covered with my bright purple comforter that I’d picked out last month.
Mom steps in through the doorway, leaning her shoulder against the door frame. She may as well be my twin. We have the same cupid’s bow lips, and tawny skin. Even the shape of our faces are direct copies of each other. When I look at her, its like looking into a mirror…almost. A version of what I could look like twenty years into the future.
“You like this room?” she asks.
I nod my head. I don’t just like this room. I love it. It’s a wonderful distraction from the news I’d received at the restaurant.
“Can I have it?”
Mom smiles, but it doesn’t fully reach her eyes. “It’s yours.” I exhale a sigh of relief and thank her. She just stands there, looking at me with that half smile on her face, and I want to tell her that she doesn’t have to carry the guilt she’s feeling. I’ll figure something out on my own. I know I will. As hard as the last year has been for the three of us, I still hold onto faith that life will get better.
“Everything’s going to be okay, Mom,” I say, in an attempt to reassure her, and a brightness finally flickers in her eyes.
“I think so, too, Raine,” she says, and then she steps closer to me, planting a kiss on the top of my head.
I get back to unpacking after that—blasting my pop playlist. I get into a rhythm and start doing choreography from my last dance recital—the one that almost got my team first place. There are a lot of steps, but I’ve memorized them all. My favorite is the pirouette—the classic ballet twirl. I became known for it on my dance team because I could hold my balance and spin longer than anyone else. Even though I’m on carpet, I decide to give it a try because it’s the move I plan to perfect for my NYIDA audition. I arch my foot, rising onto my toes, and twirl, using my upper body for momentum since the floor isn’t doing me any favors. The room blurs as I spin, but then I lose my balance. Before I can catch myself, my shoulder slams into the wall, and something sharp digs into my side.
I turn around, seeing a rusted spike sticking out from the wall. It was probably left behind by the family who lived here before. Maybe to hang a mirror or pictures or something like that. I lift the bottom of my shirt. The sharp edge was jagged enough that it’s left me with some damage to my waist. Blood trickles down my side and I wince as it begins to sting. An infection is the last thing I need, so I act quickly. I rush into the master bedroom, where Mom and Dad are talking and unpacking, to ask if they have any bandages. Dad throws me a small box, but they aren’t big enough. I do what I can, though, returning to my room and covering my side firmly with about ten of them, hoping they can hold the blood while I make a run to the corner store up the street.
I know Mom and Dad would offer me a ride, but it can’t be any more than a ten minute walk, and I don’t want to send them into a panic over what is probably a minor injury. More than that, I need some time alone after that long drive. To process things and figure out a plan for what I’m going to do about my dance future. I lift my shirt again, observing the wound. The bandages are still holding up, so I have enough time. I head out the house, closing the door gently behind me. As soon as my feet hit the sidewalk, I speed walk toward the corner store.
There aren’t a lot of people out. I only pass by a handful on the sidewalk, but there are some out in their front yards, tending to their flowers, trimming bushes. As I’m approaching the main road, a little girl with binoculars smiles at me and then places it over her eyes, pointing it in my direction. I smile at her and continue walking.
I have to cross a busy intersection that separates the corner store from the rest of the neighborhood, but from there, I find it easily. Just like I anticipated, it takes around ten minutes for me to reach the luminous storefront. Bells jingle at the top of the door when I step inside and I’m met by bright, fluorescent lights. The man at the register glances at me, but he doesn’t say anything. He has dark circles beneath his eyes. The kind of circles I’d expect to see on someone who has gone days without sleep. I try not to feel sorry for the man as I head to the back of the store, trying to find the first aid section. If this store truly has Everything You Could Ever Need, as it had said outside, then the bandages I’m looking for should be here. I walk through aisle after aisle, and when it crosses my mind to ask the tired man at the register, I push the thought away. I’ll find it myself.
As I’m turning into another aisle, I catch sight of an area with countless shelves, all filled with clear boxes of CDs. Hanging from the ceiling is a flickering neon sign that reads: Music for the Ages. The CDs cover at least a quarter of the span of the entire store, and I begin to question if I’ve wandered into the wrong place. I’m starting to reverse my steps, intending to return to the front of the store, when I see a boy, likely around my age, standing in front of one of the shelves, bringing one of the CD cases close to his face and observing the back of it carefully.
His hair is the darkest brown, nearly black, and it falls over his head in shiny waves. It’s the first thing I notice. The second thing—his skin. It’s the shade of smooth caramel. Unblemished to the point where it feels unfair. I pause, just staring at him. I’ve never completely stopped what I’m doing to look at someone before. Maybe I’ll be walking in public and see someone who catches my eye, but I always keep walking. This boy, though—he’s got so much of my attention it’s as if my legs have decided they don’t work anymore.
I ponder this for a moment. Here this guy is, just minding his own business, looking at CDs, and my feet have frozen where I stand. It’s absurd. I’m trying to shake myself out of my trance just as he glances over to look at me. I’m too late. He’s caught me. I expect him to grimace, but he just holds eye contact with me for a moment before returning to what he was doing. It’s after seeing him full-on that I take in more details—the alluring curvature of his eyes, the piercing in his lip, in his ears. The tattoos spiraling into the sleeve of his black shirt.
Why am I still staring? I don’t understand what’s gotten into me. Flustered, I head straight for the register and ask the tired cashier to help me find the bandages, but even he has a hard time. We circle the store, not once, but twice, before he finds the kind I’m looking for. He rings me up after that, and I hade out the door, hearing the bells jingling from above and inhaling a cloud of white smoke simultaneously.
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