Tonight the Streets Are Ours

“Bianca?” you’re saying right now. (“You” being “my readers”—happy new year, folks!) “I thought she had cut your heart out of your chest and then thrown it to the floor and stomped on it in high heels.”


That was true. But that was before my grand geste. (French again. Those French understand romance better than we ever will.)

It was December 31st. The end of a year. Out with the old, in with the new, auld lang syne and all that. But I didn’t want to let go of the old. Julio and Raleigh had both invited me to their New Year’s parties, but I didn’t feel like partying. If I could have spent New Year’s Eve alone somewhere with Bianca, I would have preferred that to the best soiree in New York City. (Soiree: also French.)

I asked Miranda, my amateur relationship coach, “How do you reach somebody who doesn’t want to be reached?”

She replied, “Art!”

Not helpful, Miranda.

But it got me thinking. I’m a writer. I know how to say how I really feel. Just give me enough words and I can say how I really feel here in this journal, and if somebody reads it, maybe they would understand.

But I never told Bianca—or anyone I know in my real life—about Tonight the Streets Are Ours. I have no way to make Bianca read these words. I could write her a letter, but she would never open it.

I needed something that she couldn’t ignore, a letter that she couldn’t help but open. Art that’s so in-your-face that there could be no misunderstanding.

And that’s when I came up with my grand geste.

It took a day of phone calls. I started with my dad’s Rolodex and I went from there. There may come a time when my dad finds out just how many of his clients and colleagues I called, and if that time comes, I will be in trouble. But it was worth it.

Apparently this thing that I was asking for can be done, but it costs money. It costs a lot of money. But I got it as a favor, from one of my dad’s contacts who does something obscenely important with Dow Jones and happens to have a soft spot for me and my family, especially after what happened with my brother. This is a good thing, because at that point I would have paid the money, no matter how much it was, and I would have paid it with my dad’s AmEx. And he would have legitimately disowned me. That’s always the threat with my father: if you don’t follow his rules, you won’t get his money. It’s how he keeps everyone in line.

I went to Julio’s party, after all. I was antsy the whole time. I talked to people but don’t remember what I said. I kept staring past them at Julio’s giant flat-screen TV, which was showing the mayhem in Times Square as they prepared to drop the ball at midnight. A million people came to see it in person this year, and a billion watched on TV.

At 10:30, it happened. On the electronic ticker tape circling Times Square, these words appeared:

BIANCA—A NEW YEAR MEANS A NEW START. COME FIND ME AT THE PLACE WHERE WE FIRST MET, AND WE WILL START ANEW. I’LL BE THERE WAITING FOR YOU AT MIDNIGHT. LOVE, PETER.

The message circled around twice before it was replaced by the headline news of the day.

“Dude,” Julio said, staring at the TV. “Dude. Is that you? Did you do that? How did you do that?”

“Now that is so sweet,” the cold-looking news anchor said to her cohost. “Bianca, girl, wherever you are, you should take Peter back!”

“Don’t you wish some man would send you such a romantic message?” asked the other host.

“You know it!”

“Man, you are such a baller!” Julio hooted, punching me on the shoulder. “How did you make that happen? Are you a magician now?”

“I have to go,” I said. I grabbed my coat. “I have to go.”

“Go where?” some girl asked. “It’s not even midnight yet.”

“To the bookstore,” I tried to explain. “I said I’d be there, so I need to be there.”

“What if she’s not there?” Mark asked.