“Well, that’s from A Moveable Feast,” he says, like he can’t believe she didn’t know that random quote.
She takes another bite of the bagel that had been perfect a moment before. Now the kosher salt topping burns the inside of her upper lip, and the smoked salmon slimes its way down her throat, oozing too much cream cheese.
This is how things go with Lennon. One minute, it’s all great, and the next . . .
“You should read it,” he says, “if you want to read about Paris.”
“I didn’t say I wanted to read about Paris.”
“You said you want to go there.”
“I didn’t say that, either.”
Maybe this happens in every relationship. Even her parents, who seem so perfectly suited, have had their ups and downs lately.
Last night, she’d overheard them arguing about Thanksgiving next month. Dad’s family is coming from Kansas, and Mom isn’t thrilled about it.
“You always said you wished they would visit us, Nora. Now that they are, why are you so—”
“I never said I wished they’d visit. I just commented they never did.”
“Well, they don’t like LA.”
“How do they know they like New York if they’ve never been here?”
The conversation had sounded an awful lot like the one Stacey’s having right now with Lennon.
It isn’t really about Paris. It’s about him putting words into her mouth. About him not listening to her.
She rewraps the bagel in foil and shoves it back into the deli bag.
“What’s going on?” he asks, noticing, because he notices everything. Every damned thing, and she’s sick of it. “I thought you were famished.”
“I never said that.”
“Yeah, you did, when we were on our way to the deli.”
“I didn’t say famished. Maybe I said I was hungry, but—”
“No.” He’s shaking his head. “You said famished. I remember.”
“Well, I remember, too.”
She doesn’t, really. It had been a trite conversation, mostly about the song he’d learned for his guitar lesson later today, and the movie she’d seen the night before with her lunch table friends. He’d interrupted that to talk about the amazing sushi dinner he’d had while she was at the movie.
“We’ll go next week,” he said.
“Sure, on Saturday.”
“The all-you-can-eat special is on Fridays.”
“That’s okay. How much raw fish can a person eat?” she asked, and laughed.
He didn’t. “Why can’t you go on Friday?”
“I go to the movies on Fridays. It’s, like, a thing. Oh, hey,” she added, seeing his expression, “we need to remember to grab napkins from the deli because remember what happened the other day, when we forgot?”
They’d licked their fingers and then rinsed their hands in the fountain, playfully flicking water at each other as a pair of old ladies scowled at them.
Today, they have napkins. She wipes her hands and asks Lennon if she can bum a smoke.
“Did you forget yours?”
“Yeah,” she lies.
The truth is, she’d flushed her last pack down the toilet a few days ago, after Rebecca shared some ugly gossip about a girl in their social studies class.
“I mean, it’s not surprising that she has an STD,” she hissed as they walked down the hall after class. “She’s always been disgusting.”
“Disgusting how?”
“You know . . . she shoplifts. And she smokes.”
“Well, I mean . . . a lot of people do.”
“Not smart, classy ones.”
The words, and Rebecca’s decisive tone, resonated with Stacey. She’d decided she’d better quit the habit before she got addicted, and discovered it was already too late.
Summoning the same willpower that had allowed her to lose so much weight this year, she’s managed to get through the last few days without smoking.
So much for that.
Lennon holds out his pack and she puts a cigarette between her lips, avoiding his gaze as he flicks a lighter for her.
“Thanks,” she murmurs, inhaling and thinking about cancer and lung disease and how hard it’s been to figure out college while fighting off nicotine cravings.
“What have you been thinking about early decision?” Lennon asks, and for an illogical moment, she wonders if he’s read her mind.
Maybe there’s an app for that. Virtual Kreskin.
She clears her throat. “So, yeah, what have I been thinking about early decision? I’ve been thinking that I’m doing it.”
“I know, but Thursday, you said you were going to narrow down your list and figure out which schools are—”
“Brown.” Until it comes out of her mouth, she hadn’t realized she’d made up her mind.
“Brown?” he echoes, like she just announced she’s joining the circus.
“Right. That’s it. They have an amazing literary arts program.”
“I thought you didn’t know what you wanted to major in.”
“I didn’t.”
“But now you do?”
“Right.”
“So, like, what? You just decided this minute? Brown, and literary arts?”
“No! I’ve been leaning in that direction.”
“Really? When were you going to tell me?”
She scowls, taking a deep drag, saying nothing, and not just because her lungs hurt.
Lennon shoves his unfinished bagel into the bag, crumples it, and throws it at a nearby trash can. It’s full, and the bag ricochets out. He leaves it lying there among the fallen leaves.
“Lost my appetite,” he says, as if she asked what’s wrong. Which she didn’t because she knows damned well. And she knows, as they sit there in silence, that he’s waiting for her to elaborate on the college thing.
Whatever. Let him ask.
He broods. And then he does. “What happened to Columbia?”
“Still there, last I heard.”
“Funny.”
She shrugs. “I never said I was going to Columbia.”
“They have a solid literary arts program, too. And you’re a legacy.”
“My dad didn’t actually graduate from there. Anyway, you’re the one who wants to go to Columbia. Or NYU, Fordham . . .”
“Other places, too.”
“You just said the other day that you can’t imagine living anywhere other than New York.”
“You said the same thing.”
“I don’t think I did.”
“Well, you’re wrong,” he says flatly.
“I’m wrong about where I want to live? You know better than I do?”
“I’m not talking about what you want, I’m talking about what you said.”
“No, Lennon, I think you’re talking about what you heard. Which is probably whatever you wanted to hear, and not what I actually said!”
“Geez, calm down. Maybe you’re right. You don’t have to get all—”
“I am right.”
“Okay. Maybe I’ll miss you if you’re far away. Maybe that’s all I’m trying to say.”
She says nothing, just sucks toxic smoke into her lungs, thinking about how it’s his fault that she ever even started this filthy habit, and how hard it is to quit because it does calm her nerves. There’s comfort in the ritual and rhythm of it; in having something to do in difficult moments; in the way it forces you to breathe, even if what you’re breathing is carcinogenic smoke.