We took the Q all the way downtown and into Brooklyn, until it snaked around Prospect Park and rose up out of the tunnels, hurtling along the elevated track, past Midwood and Sheepshead Bay. As most of the city receded behind us, I pulled out my phone.
“When should I tell my mom I’ll be home?” I asked, pretending to start a text.
“I don’t know. When’s the latest they’ll let you stay out?”
“I don’t know, that depends on what we’re doing.” You raised your eyebrows and I felt my cheeks redden. “Not like—I just meant, where we’re going.”
“All the way,” you said.
My neck got hot. “What do you mean?”
“The last stop. Coney Island.” You paused, pulled back, and smiled suspiciously. “Why, what did you think I meant?”
“Nothing. I’ve just . . . never been to the last stop before.” That was a lie; my dad used to take me to Cyclones games and I’d even gone to the Mermaid Parade once, with Liv and her mom, when I was eleven, before my parents had realized—because I had diligently reported back—that some of the mermaids went topless as part of their costumes. But I couldn’t admit to you that all I could think about as the pale blue sky flashed by in the windows was when it would happen. We’d been flirting all week, getting used to our new, different chemistry like cautious kids doing a science project, curious about the results but too afraid to mix anything that might blow up in our faces. But the tension kept on building, and it couldn’t hold forever. Sooner or later one of us was going to have to cross a line that would make it impossible to pretend that we were still just friends. The prospect was both thrilling and completely terrifying. I couldn’t stop looking at your lips.
“You’ve never gone to Coney Island?” I watched them say, incredulously.
I shrugged. “New York City’s a big place.”
“Oh, man,” you laughed, clapping your hands together. “I can’t wait. This is gonna be the best.”
It already is, I felt like saying.
? ? ?
Our first stop was Nathan’s Famous Hot Dogs on the boardwalk, where you made a big show of buying two hot dogs twice the length of their buns, plus curly fries and giant sodas that dripped condensation onto the table.
“A good, greasy meal is the foundation of the true Coney Island experience,” you explained, brandishing the squirt-top ketchup like a paintbrush. “If you don’t feel at least a little sick on the rides, you’re doing it wrong.”
“Rides?” I shook my head, swallowing my curly fry half-chewed. “Uh-uh. Who said anything about rides?”
You looked at me like I was crazy. “C’mon,” you said. “We have to ride the rides. At least the Cyclone. That’s the whole point.”
“When I was—” I was about to tell you that when I was eight, I’d ridden the Cyclone and busted my nose on the safety bar (because I’d been hiding my face in my lap out of sheer terror, and the G-force during the descent had jerked my head upward). But then I remembered that as far as you were concerned I hadn’t been to Coney Island. “When I was a kid I had a bad roller-coaster experience,” I said, guiltily grabbing another fry.
“Then let me”—you took an enormous bite of your hot dog and grinned at me through bun-filled chipmunk cheeks—“replace it with a good experience.”
“On that rickety-ass thing?” I laughed.
“It’s only ninety years old. Besides, you can’t really talk, gimpy.” You gave me a look like, It’s on, and it was a battle not to smile.
“I’ll think about it,” I said.
“That’s the elevation portion of the day,” you said. “It’s the most important part of the healing process. We can’t skip it.”
“Mmmm hmmm.” I gestured to our fast food feast. “And what’s this supposed to be?”
You picked up your soda and shook it. “Ice, ice, baby.”
I raised an eyebrow. “Flimsy, but I’ll allow it.” We toasted and knocked back the rest of our drinks. “What about compression?” I asked.
“Wait and see. That’s the next stop.”
“We going back to Times Square?” I laughed.
You smiled in a way that made my stomach flip. The ice joke had been lame, but at least we had heat covered.
“You’ll see,” you said.
? ? ?
The wind coming off the ocean was freezing, so we darted down the boardwalk, past an old man sitting on a folding chair under a beach umbrella, holding a boombox that was blaring “La Bamba.” You pulled me into a brightly lit arcade and led me by the hand to an old-fashioned photobooth.
“Compression,” you announced proudly, opening the curtain. I slipped off my glasses and leaned Abuela’s crutches against the outside of the booth. Once we squeezed in, not knowing what to do, I perched awkwardly on your lap. I tried to make myself light and dainty by keeping as much weight as I could on my feet, like I was doing a static squat.
“OK, what faces are we making?” I asked as you fed three crumpled bills into the machine. “Silly or serious?”