Tonight the Streets Are Ours

It’s extraordinary to Arden that this story that has captivated and inspired her for months is just that: a story. Even Peter’s take on his parents was twisted for maximum sympathy. While they seemed uptight, especially when compared to Arden’s own parents, they also seemed like they’re trying to work things out, if they’re going to family therapy together.

She can no longer accept that they don’t even care about Peter’s talent. Not when she’s seen that writing contest certificate so carefully framed, so prominently displayed. Not when she considers that they spend the money to send him to a specialized art school where he can study writing. Shouldn’t that have been a red flag all along? How many other warning signs did Arden miss in pursuit of believing Peter’s fantasy?

Bianca signals the waiter for the check, and Arden feels the time pressure of needing to find out all the truth, now, while she can.

“Can I just ask you one more question?” Arden says.

Bianca waves her hand as if to say Go for it.

Arden clears her throat and asks what she’s been wondering about ever since she first read this story, weeks and weeks ago. “Why did you do it? Why did you stay with Leo and see Peter on the side? Why not just break up with Leo? Or just not hook up with Peter?”

Bianca looks wrecked. “Knowing what I know now, seeing how it tore their family apart, I wouldn’t do it. Obviously. But at the time … I cared about them both, in very different ways. I’d known Leo for much longer, because we went to school together. We had a lot in common. He was on the football team, and I’m a cheerleader, you know, so we already shared a whole friend group, anyway. And he’s just honestly, truly, nice. The sort of guy who will accompany you to the hair salon, wait around for your whole appointment, and then take you home again, or who will make chicken noodle soup when you’re sick and spoon-feed it to you no matter how germy you are. A sweet person, you know what I mean?

“And then I met Peter, and he … he was different. He wasn’t like anyone else I knew. He was sexy, and romantic, and artistic, and I wanted him. And he wanted me, too, which was … very flattering. I didn’t know if I should give up on somebody who I had this strong relationship with for somebody who seemed appealing from a distance. I didn’t know what to choose. So I just didn’t choose, which turned out to be the stupidest choice of all.”

Arden has always trusted that Bianca and Peter are soul mates, just the way Peter said. But seeing the way Bianca’s face softens when she talks about Leo, she’s not sure anymore.

The waiter brings the check, and Arden senses that wherever Bianca is going from here, it does not include her. Which is rational, of course. They are not friends. Bianca knows nothing about her. And, as it turns out, she doesn’t know very much about Bianca, either.

Bianca puts some cash on the table and stands up. The conversation is over.

“Thanks for brunch,” Arden says.

“Thanks for listening to me,” says Bianca.

And they go their separate ways.





Going home for the first time

Arden walks slowly down a crowded street, trying to figure out what to do from here. She is surrounded by more people than she’d find at an Allegany High sporting event, yet she is completely, irrevocably alone. Bianca has gone, she doesn’t ever want to see Peter again, her phone is dead, her car is dead, and for all she knows, Lindsey is dead, too. She feels so lost.

When Arden was a little girl, her mother instructed her that if they ever got separated—in the supermarket or at a fair—she should tell an official but otherwise just sit there and wait, because her mother would come find her.

Arden doesn’t think that this plan would work now that she’s seventeen and lost in New York City. And anyway, she’s done enough sitting and waiting to last her a lifetime. So she does something that she had vowed never to do. She stops walking, sticks out her arm—just like she saw Peter do at five o’clock this morning—and hails a taxi.

“Where you going?” the driver asks.