6One good thing about working as an intern was that I was frequently sent out to get coffee or doughnuts or tickets for this or that, all for the office workers. Even for the janitors of the building. Yes, they were above me. It sounds demeaning—and I guess it kinda was—but it was this way that I grew to know the city. Wait, scratch that… I never truly knew Manhattan backwards and forwards. But I began to learn my way around. I didn't know everything, but I knew enough. And I liked the city. We didn't have anything busy and important back home. The only thing close to a true city was Minneanapolis, and that didn't hold its ground against New York.
I'd bought a monthly subway pass but found myself only taking it when it came time to go home. I preferred to walk—I plugged in my headphone, blared music too loudly and tried to balance three or four cups of coffee at a time. In a way, this was my escape. Maybe what my parents intended me to achieve by coming all the way east. In a way, this degrading task was my favorite part of the day.
A few days after Tara brought me on her… tryst, I'd been sent to the Times Square ticket booth. "I want to bring my daughter to Wicked before it closes," Jerry from HR had told me, handing me (trusting me? This guy obviously wasn't originally from New York) his credit card. I didn't want to tell him that I couldn't give two shits about his daughter or some stupid broadway musical, but I kept my mouth shut, took his card, and left.
It was cool, for the summer at least. Bubbling, heather-gray clouds rolled in the sky, outlined in pink and gold. Every so often, a shaft of sunlight broke the hanging clouds. Pleasant weather. Not overly sunny and warm, causing the heat to snap against the pavement and the buildings to sway as if they're about to faint. Everything was hotter in that city of metal and concrete and glass.
I took my time walking to the booth. Once I entered the bright chaos of Time's Square, I headed for its center. The ticket booth hidden behind the red steps that swarmed with tourists. I went to the glass window and asked the tired-looking college student, "Do you have anything for Wicked on Friday?"
She looked at her computer for a few seconds. "It's nearly sold out. There's only five seats left."
"Where in the theatre?"
"One in balcony, two in gallery and two in orchestra."
"Can I have the orchestra seats, please?"
She didn't say anything, but gave me a strange look. Pleases and thank yous are rare here. She tapped a few keys and held out her hand for the card. I paid and wondered why people paid five hundred dollars just to see some play.
"Hi, sorry, excuse me," a voice said from close by me. I turned to see a woman about Danny's age. Only a few years older than me. She looked familiar despite her tailored suit and smooth bob.
"Uh… hi. How can I help you?"
"You didn't happen to be a camper at Fitzgerald's a few years ago, did you? In upstate New York?" she asked cautiously, politely. I recognized her then. There was something effortlessly charismatic about her. Maybe her still-bright eyes and sweet smile contrasted with her obvious professionalism.
"I was! I actually worked there last summer, but I camped every year in middle school!" I cried. I'd recognized her, but then I had a vivid memory of a blonde teenager and a teenie-bopper version of myself sitting side-by-side with our feet splashing in the camp lake. "You were actually my cabin counselor!"
"Yes, of course!" She looked so relieved that I recognized her. "Nicole! Little Nikki Carraway. How are you?"
"I'm alright. And you..." I paused, combing my memory for a name. Finally, it came to mind. "Greenie?"
"Wow, it's been so long since I've heard that name. I can't believe you remember it," she laughed, "and I'm doing okay myself, thanks for asking!"
Suddenly, the phone in her hand began to ring. She swiped the screen and held it to her ear. "Maya, what's... Chicago?" She put her hand over the mouthpiece and whispered to me, "shit, I have to go. I'm so sorry. It was lovely seeing you!"
I wanted to yell after her. Wait! Give me your number. I'm so alone... But she was gone.
The forgotten college girl cleared her throat from behind the glass. "Are you gonna take your tickets or what?"
When I was almost to the office, I saw a pack of girls around my age surrounding a familiar figure with recognizable, thick hair. One of the fans shifted and I saw a sculpted, warm jaw. Shockingly yellow eyes. A teasing and yet impatient smile.
Fucking Joseph Baker was everywhere.
Just then, my phone vibrated in my pocket. I pulled it out to see a text from a number I vaguely recognized. Bail me out. Help.
I looked up and locked eyes with an obviously struggling Joe(y?). I shrugged at him and typed back, What am I supposed to do?
My phone buzzed less than a second later. Pretend we have a date.
My heart leapt in my throat. If I did this, there was no going back. One of the fans would take a picture of me with him. Tabloids, rumors... Jamie would hear or see something. And he wouldn't take me back.
But I knew that my parents wouldn't let us be together anyway. And Joseph Baker was beautiful and famous and I figured this was the closest I was ever gonna get to dating someone so outrageously out of my league.
So I straightened my back, wiped my sweaty palms on my skirt, soothed my blouse and hoped that I looked alright.
"Joey! Sweetie," I cried, pushing through the crowd. Relief flooded his face for a fleeting moment before his usual expression returned. Snarky, cynical. "I have the nicest place lined up for lunch," I said. He nodded, a snake-like grin whipping his face.
He turned to the crowd (sure enough, their brightly-cases iPhones were taking pictures) and announced, "I'm terribly sorry, ladies, but I have a date."
He took my arm like a true gentleman and carefully steered me through them. We dodged down a side street, nearly breaking into a run to escape the crazed fans. At one point he looked over at me, breathless and smiling wide. It was the first time he smiled at me. And I think I fell a little bit in love with him.
Waiting for Joseph at the end of the block was a shiny black Mercedes. He caught his breath and apologized, saying, "I'd give you a ride, but I'm off to the Newark airport, and I wouldn't wish Jersey on anyone." He winked. "Here, money for a cab."
He slammed the door behind him and the car lurched and screeched into New York traffic. Perplexed, I stared at the fifty dollar bill in my hand. "Uh... Thanks?" I said to the empty street.
When I got home, the sun was setting over the bay. The cab rolled into my neighborhood, smoothly. It was bustling: small children were dashing along the sides of the road. College kids were screaming from balconies. It was summer break, and this much was blatantly obvious on Long Island.
I crawled out of the car into the cool evening. I could see the sun glinting off the water from my backyard. As I stalked my way through the garden, something weird stuck in my door caught my eye. Confused, I pulled it out and held it gingerly in my hands.
It was an engraved invitation. A real one. I'd only ever heard of them when my mom was mad in traffic and would shout at slow people, "What are you waiting for, an engraved invitation?"
But there it was. Creamy paper with cold cursive forming out my name. Miss Nicole Carraway. I opened it and read:
It would be an honor if you would come to the dinner party at Jay G's house next Saturday.
I looked up at the menacing castle of a mansion beside me and gulped. What did this mean?