Lost in Love (2 page)

“HAS SHE BEEN THERE ALL
night?” I whisper to Rosanna.

“I think so,” she whispers back.

Our vantage point behind the breakfast bar provides us with a stark view of a disheveled Sadie on an even more disheveled couch. Half of the matching mugs she bought for the apartment are scattered around the floor and coffee table. The mugs' cheerful stripes are a sharp contrast to the Girl Formerly Known as Sadie. Balled-up tissues are strewn everywhere. Even on top of her. She's sprawled on the couch in a crooked diagonal, with her feet dangling off the edge, watching
Crazy, Stupid, Love
. The tank and shorts of her Forever 21 pajama set (a super cute set that has “Love is all around you” printed all over the shorts) are beyond rumpled. Poor thing. She doesn't even have the
motivation to change. All signs point to lack of showering. Sadie is the last person I'd have expected to see shattered by boy drama. Or any drama, really. She's the most positive person I know.

“How can we help her?” Rosanna whispers.

“Well, eventually we have to throw her in the shower,” I say. No question there.

“I'm really worried. It's like her whole life was destroyed overnight.”

I hate to admit it, but I kind of knew Sadie was going to crash and burn. There was no way I knew Austin was lying about his life or anything. I just knew her relationship would come to an end. When relationships are crashing and burning all around you, you tend to not be that optimistic about love.

“The best way to help her is to be there for her,” I whisper to Rosanna.

Her bagel pops out of the toaster. She goes to put it on a plate, then comes back over to the breakfast bar where we've been huddled together. Rosanna takes the lid off her tub of Breakstone's whipped butter. She slowly scrapes a knife along the top of the butter and spreads it thinly on the bagel. She's so precise you'd think she was conducting brain surgery. How can she not be sick of bagels? She eats them like every day. Maybe she couldn't get good bagels back in Chicago, where she's from.

“What are you doing tonight?” I ask.

“Nothing.”

“So D isn't whisking you off anywhere before South Beach?” That boy is totally spoiling her. D is taking Rosanna to Miami for Fourth of July weekend. I'm sure they'll be staying at the most exclusive hotel and eating at the best restaurants. That's how D rolls. D and all the other trust-fund kids aspiring to investment banker status. I was surprised Rosanna agreed to go. When it comes to boy adventures, she and I are on opposite ends of the pleasure spectrum. She's only going because D reserved separate rooms for them.

We sit on our stools at the bar, Rosanna crunching on her toasted bagel, me spooning my boysenberry yogurt, looking everywhere but at what could be mistaken for a dead body on the couch. My heart aches for Sadie. It sucks that boys have the power to break even the strongest girls. I wish I didn't know how she feels. I wish no one had to know how she feels.

“There's not much we can do for her,” I say. “She just has to feel it.” Time is the only thing that can heal the devastation of boy betrayal. Not that I had enough time to get over mine. . . .

As much as I wanted to be over Logan before he showed up at my door Saturday night, I wasn't. There was a little less aching in my chest when I thought about him, but the pain was still there.

The first time Logan kissed me was near the end of our
first date. We were hanging out on Ocean Front Walk after dinner and Logan was talking about how college is not his thing. He didn't know what his thing was, but he was only twenty-one so there was plenty of time to figure it out. Maybe he would join a circus. Or a band, even though he didn't play an instrument. Or maybe he would be a nomad, picking up odd jobs in odder towns until he was ready to move on to his next unknown destination. I loved the way he had no problem going with the flow. How he refused to let anyone force him into being someone he's not. We were connecting on a hundred different levels, all firing synapses and racing heartbeats.

And then there was a moment. The electric crackle of our charged conversation defused to a hypnotic hum. Logan leaned back against a palm tree, pulling me toward him. He put his arms around me. And then he kissed me. He tasted like honey.

Maybe I would have been over Logan if he had waited a year to fly across the country and announce what an idiot he was for dumping me right before I moved here. But he didn't. And I wasn't. He came all the way from California to tell me he wanted me back after only a couple weeks. I swear I felt like one of those flustered-but-adorable girls from a Nora Ephron movie. When does the boy ever come after the girl he dumped in real life?

Not that this changes my opinion of relationships in any way. Relationships are destined for failure. Everything
has to end eventually. But it validates what I already knew. Logan is here in New York because what we had meant something. Before he threw it all away.

I don't know if I can trust him again. I don't know if I can give up Summer Fun Darcy to be exclusive with the boy who broke my heart. All I know is that giving Logan a second chance is the right thing to do. However long it takes, he deserves the chance to show how he really feels.

Logan was my heart. Could he be again?

I wish I could swoop in on Sadie the way Logan swooped in on me and take away her pain. We were talking with Rosanna about going to the beach this weekend. But that was before the scandalous exposure of Austin's double life. Sadie doesn't want to go to the beach now. She doesn't even want to get off the couch. And Rosanna will be away with D.

After we say goodbye to Sadie, we head down the long flights of our fourth-floor walk-up: me clomping along in my three-inch wedges and Rosanna bouncing in her comfy sneakers. Comfort does not interest me. The price of fashion includes deft maneuvering on everything from steep stairs to cobblestone streets. I wouldn't have it any other way. When it comes to couture, the more alarming the better.

Rosanna's subway stop is in the same direction as UNY, so we walk together for a few blocks. I quickly call Logan to cancel our plans for tonight. We were going to hit up some
static dancing at this Polish rec center. You know, typical Monday night stuff. When my call goes to voice mail, I explain that Sadie needs some emergency girl time, but I'd love to see him tomorrow night if he's free. Logan got the hookup on a friend of a friend's apartment in Chelsea. The apartment belongs to an older guy, like twenty-five, who travels a lot for work. All Logan has to do is take care of the plants, bring in the mail, and pay part of the rent. I guess Logan had a decent amount saved before he came here, because he's still looking for a job.

The boy drama gloom inside our apartment distracted us from realizing what a gorgeous day it is. I smile in the morning sunshine as I saunter down 5th Avenue. But then a boy who looks like Jude passes us. The shock of that first millisecond wipes the smile right off my face. My heart is slamming out an entire repertoire on the steel drum. It takes a few seconds for my body to register that I did not just encounter Jude. I don't have to figure out what to say to him. I don't have to watch him walk away dejected again. My adrenaline level returns to normal. I'm off the hook for now.

Jude has been ignoring my messages. Which might be a good thing, considering I have no idea what's going to come out of my mouth when I talk to him. I know I owe him an explanation. The question is how much to explain.

WHEN WE GET TO MY
subway stop and Darcy branches off toward class, I start obsessing over the call I'm going to make at work. All weekend I've been dying to call the Upper East Side camp to get Addison's number. I cannot wait to find out what her damage is. She has to tell me why she wants to hurt me. Why would a person I don't even know hate me? This whole Nasty Girl thing is stressing me out so much I can't even enjoy the anticipation of going away with D. My mind still can't wrap itself around the fact that we are going to South Beach together.

D could not be a sweeter, more generous person. The first thing I did when he called Sunday night and invited me to South Beach was refuse. There was no way I could let him pay for such an elaborate trip. I told him that I would love to go away with him one day, but I couldn't afford to yet.

“We're going,” D said. “I want to treat you the way you deserve to be treated.”

“But it's not right that you would have to pay for everything.”

“Oh, it's right. I want to take you away for a trip you will never forget.”

“Could we wait until I can save up enough to pay my way? Or at least pay for most of it?”

“Aren't you putting yourself through college? Haven't you taken out student loans?”

He was right. I was delusional to think I could afford to go anywhere before I'm thirty.

“Let me do this for you,” D said. “You'd be doing
me
the favor. I want to go away, but I don't want to go alone. I really want you to come with me. Please let me take you?”

We went back and forth for a long time. But I finally accepted that D really did want to treat me. And it's not like he couldn't afford to. Donovan Clark is from a rich family. He can afford to do anything.

All I want to do is get on the subway and lose myself in a few minutes of swooning over D. But I can't. Because Addison is so nasty she's even invading my fantasy life.

The Lower East Side day camp where I'm a counselor is affiliated with a camp on the Upper East Side where Addison works. There was a party for the counselors and staff of both camps. Addison threw me a nasty glare as
soon as I got there. Like she hated me even though I'd never seen her before. Then she intentionally spilled red punch all over my best going-out top (which was white, of course) and went over to a group of girls and started laughing.

And then she ran into Mica, the only counselor at camp I've clicked with, and told her all these nasty lies about me. Lies about things I've said and done that came out of nowhere. Mica believed everything Addison said. Now she won't talk to me.

I was really hoping that Mica and I would become good friends. Our connection was so much more than the superficial friendships I had in high school. We have tons in common, like our strong opinions, high expectations, and affection for quirky cool activities. We both come from poor families. People who grew up poor understand other people who grew up poor in a way no one else can. We've experienced the same hard times. I don't have to explain myself like I do with everyone else. She doesn't make me feel like I have to defend why I don't have a cell phone the way every other person I've ever met has. Mica isn't confused about why I've been eating bagels for dinner most nights since I moved to New York City. Or why I wear old shirts that have holes in them instead of buying new ones. Mica knows that when money is extremely tight, luxuries like cell phones and square meals and new clothes aren't always an option.

I hope Darcy appreciates how lucky she is with her parents paying her bills. She won't have a pile of student loan debt towering over her for the next ten years. I'll be in debt long after I've graduated and am finally a social worker. Not that I'll be making good money. I don't care about being rich. I care about helping other people and making their lives better.

The subway comes just as I'm passing through the turnstile. I get to camp—which is in part of an elementary school we're allowed to use for the summer—ten minutes early and rush over to the main office before first period starts. The camp's administrative assistant, Cecelia, is always so nice to everyone. The world would be a better place with more kind people like Cecelia in it. She gives me the number to the Upper East Side camp and lets me use the office phone. My palms sweat as I dial.

“Hi,” I say when a woman answers the phone. “This is Rosanna Tranelli. I'm a counselor at the Lower East Side camp? I was wondering if it would be possible to get the phone number of one of your counselors.”

“Which counselor?” she asks.

“Addison. I don't know her last name.” I take out the red pen and small notebook I always carry in my bag. Addison is probably at camp already, but maybe she'll answer her cell before first period. Waiting until tonight to talk would be excruciating.

One of the older girls streaks into the main office. She
runs over to Cecelia and starts squealing about some doctor's note. I press a finger against my free ear.

“There's no Addison here,” the assistant says. “I didn't think we had a counselor by that name, but I just checked the system to make sure. Could she work at our affiliated location?”

“I'm calling from that location right now.”

“You're sure she doesn't work there?”

“Yes. I'm a counselor here. I know all of the other counselors.”

“Well, I'm sorry,” she says, her tone taking on a sharp edge. “I don't know what to tell you.”

“That's okay,” I reply. “Thanks for checking. Bye.” I hang up and stare at the phone. How can Addison not work there? The camp party was only for counselors and staff from both camps. She told Mica she works at the Upper East camp. Why would she lie about where she works?

“Is everything okay?” Cecelia asks me.

“Yeah.” I put my pen and notebook away. “Thanks for all your help.”

“Anytime.” Cecelia gives me a warm smile before answering a call.

I head over to the cafeteria to pick up my group of campers. I'm assigned to six eight-year-old girls. We go to activities together in the morning, sit together at lunch, and then have more activities and free play in the afternoon. At the end of the day, I take the girls to the pickup
area in front of the school and wait with them until they're all picked up by guardians or put on the buses that take them home. I love kids in general, but girls this age are the best.

Momo and Jenny, two girls from my group, are at their table in the cafeteria. The camp provides free breakfast to kids who qualify.

“Ready for nature?” I ask them. Learning about nature at an indoor camp isn't the most ideal situation. But we're making the best of having camp at a school. We've renamed and repurposed some of the rooms to sound more like a real campground. The cafeteria is the dining hall. The tables with benches in the courtyard are the arts and crafts area. The set of lockers we're allowed to use are cubbies. The yoga studio is really just a classroom. Street games take place in the gym. Once a week all the groups leave for a special activity off campus. We've been to the Central Park Harlem Meer for fishing and gone swimming at a nearby public pool. Coming up we have kayaking in the Hudson River, roller-skating in Brooklyn, and an afternoon at the Museum of Natural History.

“Boo.” Momo frowns into her chocolate milk. “Why do we have to do nature?”

“How else are you going to learn about the environment?” I say, even though the “nature” they're learning about is hardly enough.

“Do we have arts and crafts today?” Momo asks.

“You know we do.”

Momo brightens. Arts and crafts is her favorite activity. She also likes street games and yoga.

“I heard we're making jewelry in arts and crafts this week,” Jenny says. “Monday is earrings—that's today—Tuesday is bracelets, Wednesday and Thursday are necklaces, and Friday is tiaras.”

“That sounds awesome,” I say. “I can't wait to see what you girls make.”

“I'm using pink and purple beads on my bracelet,” Momo informs us.

“I'm making a rainbow one,” Jenny says. Jenny loves everything rainbow. Even her sneaker shoelaces are tie-dyed rainbow.

The bell rings over the loudspeaker. Time for first period.

“Let's go,” I say. The girls take their trays up to the counter. The smell of hash browns is making my mouth water even though I just had a bagel. If counselors qualified for free breakfast, I'd be all over that.

Nature takes place in a classroom with southern exposure. All sorts of plants are growing in ceramic pots along the counter that runs under the windows. Today we're learning how to repot plants. Then everyone will decorate a pot. At the end of the summer, the kids will get to take their plants home.

“It's very important that you water your plant right after
you repot it,” the nature instructor explains to the group. He's repotting a plant on a table in the front of the room for everyone to watch before they repot theirs. “Plants are in trauma when their pot is changed. Make sure you give them plenty of water right away.”

After the demo, the girls begin prepping their areas to repot their plants. They spread newspaper on the floor. They bring watering cans over to their stations. Momo digs her trowel into a bucket of soil, then pulls too hard when she scoops the soil out. Soil goes flying all over her shirt. She tries to rub it off, but then she has streaks of soil down her white shirt.

This is why every camper is required to keep a change of clothes in the main office.

“Come on,” I tell her. “Let's go change.”

“My shirt is ruined.”

“No it's not. That soil will come out in the wash.”

“Are you sure?” Momo sounds more worried than she should be about getting her shirt dirty.

“Absolutely.”

“Good. My mom would be mad if I ruined another shirt.”

We go to the main office. Cecelia makes pouty lips at Momo's shirt.

“Your nice white shirt,” she sympathizes. “I'm always spilling things on my white shirts.”

“Tell me about it,” I mumble. The white top that
Addison spilled punch on was permanently stained. And that was my only presentable top until Darcy gave me all those fancy clothes. “Can we grab Momo's backup shirt?”

“You bet.” Cecelia unlocks the door to a storage room and returns with Momo's extra shirt. “Just have your mom send another clean shirt with you to camp tomorrow, okay?” Cecelia instructs Momo.

“Okay,” Momo says.

“Or I can call her for you.”

“No!” Momo yells. “It's okay. I won't forget to tell her.”

“All righty then.” Cecelia throws me a look. I press my lips together to prevent myself from saying something I shouldn't. At least in front of Momo.

We find an empty classroom where Momo can change. The girls usually have no problem changing in front of one another. On days when we go to the public pool, they all take their clothes off to change into bathing suits in the same room. But Momo darts to the corner to change into her clean shirt. She faces away from me, hunkered down.

“Can you not look?” she says.

I turn away from her. “I'm not looking.”

She changes quickly. On the way back to nature, we stop at her locker to put her dirty shirt in her backpack.

“Are you sure this dirt will come out?” she asks me again.

“Yes. Just tell your mom to wash the shirt in hot water.”

“Maybe she didn't do that last time.”

“What happened last time?”

Momo pauses for a second. Then she runs back into nature without answering me.

I follow her in, lingering near the door. The last thing I want to do is crowd Momo and scare her off from telling me something I should know. I'm getting worried about her. Most of the time she seems fine. She gets along with everyone. She acts like a normal girl. But sometimes she'll say or do something that seems a little off. Something that strikes a familiar chord.

She jumped a mile when a metal tub fell in arts and crafts. Then she ran over to the water fountain, sweaty and shaken. Her reaction reminded me of how panicked I was when that guy grabbed me at Come Out and Play. When he grabbed me from behind, all I could feel was being grabbed by the man who molested me.

Momo said she told something she was supposed to keep secret. Her jewelry box was taken away as punishment. Permanently. And now she's stressing over a dirty shirt. What eight-year-old gets that concerned about dirty clothes? I wonder what happened the last time she got a shirt dirty.

I wonder what her mom did to her.

After the kids go home, I stay late to talk to the camp director. Frank is not someone you'd guess works with kids. He's a gruff guy in his fifties with leathery skin and a bald spot, and doesn't appear to enjoy his job. The kind
of guy who starts watching the clock when it's almost time to go. He's not mean to the kids and he's not rude to the counselors. He's just not the easygoing, energetic, enthusiastic camp director I was hoping for.

Frank is using one of the classrooms as his office. Papers are scattered over his desk. A few file folder boxes are stacked on the floor nearby. The room smells musty. I knock on the open door.

“Come on in,” Frank says from behind his desk. He looks back down at his paperwork.

I stand there awkwardly, waiting for him to look at me.

Eventually he does. “Pull up a chair,” he says, gesturing to a stack of orange plastic chairs against the wall.

I pull the top chair off the stack and place it in front of his desk. I sit down without knowing exactly what I'm going to say. The blinds on the windows behind Frank are all the way down with their slits half-open. An office building is next door. People are working at their desks, but none of them are looking over here. Do they ever watch the kids in class during the school year? Or is this school just part of the background scenery?