“Right,” she says, and then she picks up my binoculars to peer into other people’s apartments.
I lean my forehead against the cold glass. Bennett Tower is shaped so that a whole section of it juts out, which means that we can peek into the windows of people we don’t know. We’ve been doing our Binocular and Braiding Sessions since we were kids, spying on our neighbors, making up stories about them, all the while braiding each other’s hair. Of course, it started as a way for us to see if we could see anyone naked (we were ten)—and for sure, we’ve seen plenty. In fact, we’ve seen many things over the years: drunken brawls, late-night parties, and, yes, even sex. (It was under the covers, so I didn’t really learn anything beyond what I could see on TV, and it was way more tame than anything on the Internet.) But now it’s evolved into a bit of a pastime, with Sammie giving them all names and filling in intricate details about their lives. It’s just the right distraction.
Sammie lifts her binoculars two stories above us. “The O’Briens are eating pizza again.”
“Again?” The O’Briens have four little kids who do nothing but play video games and eat frozen food. “They’re so boring.”
She scans down a few floors. “The Nut’s painting another self-portrait.”
“The Nut” is what Mila calls this strange guy who lives a few floors below us in Bennett Tower with his nervous Chihuahua, whose amber eyes and pointy pink ears shake, even if it’s ninety-five degrees outside. He spends most nights out on his balcony, painting, usually pictures of himself.
We always see him in the elevator, and he’s usually talking to himself. Mila named him the Nut after we got stuck in the elevator with him last year. He spent all eleven floors cracking pistachios, throwing the shells on the floor, twitching and mumbling. It’s hard to get an eight-year-old not to stare at adults who are testing the boundaries of appropriate behaviors themselves.
After we left the elevator and he was safely out of distance, Mila started singing this song she had learned at Girl Scouts. “Called myself on the telephone, just to see if I was home. Made a date for half past eight. Better hurry, or I’ll be late. I’m a nut, I’m a nut, I’m a nut, nut, nut.”
I tried to explain to her that he probably struggles with mental issues, but she wouldn’t listen. She sang that annoying song for two days straight, until our dad finally made her stop, saying she had a lovely singing voice but that she really needed to vary her repertoire.
Sammie moves the binoculars left. “Ooh. Mrs. Woodley is doing Pilates on her balcony.”
Mrs. Woodley’s real name isn’t Mrs. Woodley. Sammie made up her name, just as she did the O’Briens’ and those of all the other people whose lives we spy on. We don’t know Mrs. Woodley’s real name, but she’s a fifty-something-year-old woman who lives alone in an apartment on the tenth floor. For years, Mrs. Woodley was also a pretty boring character—she mostly just watched TV and ate microwave dinners. But recently she seems to be undergoing a renaissance of sorts—we’ve caught her belly dancing, cooking full gourmet meals and then eating them alone, and now, doing Pilates on the balcony.
I peek out the window. “She’s wearing her new purple leotard.”
“And she changed her hair. She looks good as a brunette,” Sammie says. “Hey. She’s seeing someone.”
“How do you know?”
Sammie hands me the binoculars. “Look at the dining room table.”
I adjust the focus. “Oh my God. A dozen roses? Who do you think sent them?”
Sammie takes the binoculars from me. “A younger man. Most definitely. His name is Tad. Her personal trainer. He’s in his early thirties, is muscular as all hell, and is taken by the fact that he’s made her come alive.”
“You’re a hopeless romantic.”
Sammie smiles at me. “Forever and ever,” she says, and then she yells, “Go Mrs. Woodley!” She sort of screams this through the window, as though Mrs. Woodley could hear it. “She’s had a hard, lonely life. I’m glad she’s finally happy.”
Sammie’s stories are all fairy tales that lead to happy endings. I know she’s trying to make me feel better, but for some reason, this story makes me feel a little worse.
Around ten, Sammie texts her mom that she’s going to stay down here tonight. I place the binoculars on the sill, and she shuts off the lights. She crawls under the blanket next to me and plays with her phone a little before she falls asleep.
I lie next to the window and stare out at the city, the flashing lights, the endless cars, the buildings. I think about the O’Briens, the Nut, Mrs. Woodley, each of them busy and empty and desperately wanting more.
I wonder what they think when they look through our window.
I wonder if they’ve seen the fights, the tears, the sudden disappearance of my father.
I wonder what story it is that they tell about us.
Habits of an Effective Test Taker #2
Do not spend too much time on any one problem. Your anxiety might start building and then you’ll lose focus. It’s better just to move on.