Adam Page 4

  ***

  “Adam? Adam!”

  Adam opened his eyes. He and Brad had crashed out on his floor, their PSPs still in their hands. His mom was in the doorway, fresh and dressed just like he’d imagined she’d be. She was holding a camera.

  “Adam! Now get all your bags together, and I’m going to take a picture of you.”

  Adam kicked Brad awake.

  “What the fuck?” said Brad. He looked around, disoriented. “Ugh, I can’t believe you’re getting on a plane.” He got up and crawled into Adam’s bed.

  “Hurry up!” said Adam’s mom. “We have to leave in ten minutes, and I want this photo.”

  Adam grabbed his red duffel, strapped it onto his back, and hoisted up his two other bags, one in each arm.

  “Ready?” said his mom. Her eyes were bloodshot. Adam could tell she was trying not to cry.

  “Ready.” He plastered on a big toothy grin.

  *Flash*

  ***

  Adam had only flown by himself once before. He had been eight, going to visit his grandparents, and a stewardess had clung to his side the entire time. She snuck him extra bags of M&M’s and ruffled his hair with her long fingernails that dug into his scalp with the most pleasurable sensation imaginable. He remembered trying to hold on to that tingling feeling for as long as he could after she’d do it. It was the first time he felt in love. Now he was seventeen, and he felt old and cool, a young man getting on a plane to go seek his fortune. Even if his fortune was his parents paying for him to live with his sister for the summer.

  In the boarding area, he looked for girls his age who might be traveling by themselves too. He’d go up, introduce himself, and they’d end up sitting next to each other on the plane, maybe even have sex in the bathroom. (“Ever heard of the mile-high club?” “I’ve been waiting my whole life to join.”) They’d decide to be boyfriend/girlfriend, go into New York City to meet his sister together (who’d be really impressed), and then it would turn out that the girl had an apartment Adam could live in with her, and at the end of the summer they’d move back home, and she’d transfer to EBP, and he would show up at school with her on his arm, and everyone would be like, “Who is she?” and he would be like, “Guys, this is . . . this is . . .” What would her name be? Adam’s eyes floated across the boarding area: A fat couple. An old couple. Another fat couple. A Hasidic man. Woman with three screaming children. Adam slumped on the floor to wait.

  On the plane, seated next to the Hasidic man who was reading the Torah or whatever, Adam dozed, the muffled airplane sounds incorporating into his half-conscious dreams. The early morning sun cut through the window, blinding him in a pleasant, hypnotic way. His eyelids hung down, and he saw murky orange-redness—capillaries, he thought, millions of them. A thickly woven blanket of blood. And then the orange-red became a drowsy brown, and then through the brown, a blurred-out face. Wavy red hair, light eyes, pink lips. This is the girl I’m going to New York to meet.

  Chapter 4

  CASEY HAD TOLD Adam to take the M60 bus for $2.75 all the way from LaGuardia Airport to 116th Street, which was right in front of Columbia.

  The bus arrived and Adam claimed the corner seat in the back, as he always did, as every teenager he knew always did. It was weird to him that the whole civil rights movement had pretty much started over a fight to not have to sit in the back, and now the back was the only cool place to sit. Especially for black kids. A lot of times Adam had gotten on a bus, hoping for a back seat, but had to take something up front because a crowd of black kids had already staked the area. And, no, he could not just “join them.”

  Adam looked out the window. The inside of the bus was a pretty mixed group of people, but out on the streets every single person he saw was black. The storefronts read: JAY’S BARBER SHOP BEAUTY SUPPLY, DRUGS AND SURGICALS, SOLANGE HAIR DESIGN, HAIR AND BODY CONTROL, FOOT CARE CENTER (foot care center?), a fake Kentucky Fried Chicken called KENNEDY FRIED CHICKEN, and SHAE SHAE’S SALON. He wondered what part of New York this was.

  There were nine black kids who went to EBP. Yes, nine. Out of 152. Adam wasn’t friends with any of them. Even though they were spread out among the grades, they were all friends and ate lunch together (all except Nyiema, who didn’t eat lunch with anyone except the six stuffed animals safety-pinned to her backpack). There was this one girl, Kandis, who Adam was kind of scared of. She had transferred to EBP mid-semester and was the only black kid in Adam’s American history class, and whenever they were talking about civil rights or racism, Kandis would get all huffy and groan really loudly any time a white kid had an opinion. Their teacher, Mr. Grossman, totally played into it, always making sure Kandis got the last word on whatever they were discussing—like she was the necessary period to any sentence. Other teachers tried really hard not to single out Kandis or the other black kids when race topics came up, acting overly nonchalant about their opinions, like: “Hmm. Maybe, maybe not. Just because you’re black doesn’t make what you say any more valid.”

  Or maybe Adam was just crazy. He hated the way he’d think obsessively about race whenever he talked to one of the black kids. One time Adam had come to school in a new hooded sweatshirt, and this black kid named Jonari had told him he liked it when they passed in the hallway. The sweatshirt had immediately become the coolest item Adam owned. Colin had a black friend who lived in San Francisco that he’d been friends with “since before they were born,” because their moms were in some baby group together. Colin was always going on and on about how tight he and Devon were, even though Adam had only met Devon a couple times over the years at Colin’s birthday parties and Devon had always looked as if he were just waiting until he could leave. One of Colin’s favorite things to say was that he “totally forgets Devon is black.” What did that even mean? Adam was pretty sure if Devon went to EBP, he’d be hanging with the nine other black kids—not Colin.

  Berkeley High was racially mixed, though, according to Sam, still really segregated. As far as Adam could tell, most of the gay kids Casey and Sam hung out with there were white. Casey had never really talked about race much, and Adam had been pretty sure she felt just as awkward about it as he did, but ever since Casey went away to college, all that had changed. Now Casey was constantly throwing around phrases like “white privilege” and “white guilt” or, most often, just plain referring to things as “white.” As in: “I just don’t want my summer job to be really white, you know?” Apparently Columbia had given her a “change of consciousness about race”—but as far as Adam could tell, that just meant talking about being white all the time.

  The bus pulled up to the 116th stop, and Adam gathered his bags and got off. He was here. New York City. Columbia University. Where Jack Kerouac used to hang out and play football and stuff. On the Road was Adam’s all-time favorite book. Of course Casey hated it. “On the Road is responsible for probably ninety percent of America’s white male jerks and their fucked-up idea of what it means to be ‘cool.’” Adam thought she was just jealous.

  He crossed the street to Columbia’s tall wrought-iron gates. Two Greek-looking sculptures stood guard on either side—to the left, a man holding a sphere that read, SCIENCE, and on the right a robed woman holding an open book. Adam lugged his two heavy bags and duffel on his back across the bricked quad in search of Casey’s dorm. He would never get into a place like Columbia. More like Diablo Valley community college. Living at home and taking the bus there every morning. Or, possibly worse, when the time came to apply, his mom would send out some desperate mass e-mail to everyone she knew who worked at a “real” college to try to get him in. “I’m writing on behalf of my son, Adam, who, despite everything, really is a good boy and tries very hard.”

  Adam rounded a corner with his bags. Columbia certainly was a classic-looking place. The towering stone buildings with names like HOMER, HERODOTUS, PLATO, ARISTOTLE chiseled on them. People who went here turned into people like that. In the center of the campus sat a giant sculpture of a woman, her arm
s outstretched—a serene welcome to those who had been accepted, and inert bronze disinterest to those who hadn’t. Adam passed a guy and a girl reading together on the crisp green lawn. The guy held his book with his arms wrapped around the girl, who leaned in between his legs, her book on her knees. They were both reading Thucydides’ The History of the Peloponnesian War, the two identical books bobbing up and down on top of each other, making Adam feel as if he had double vision.

  JOHN JAY. Finally. Adam walked in and released his bags with a thud onto the floor of the foyer. He gave the guy at the desk his name to call up to Casey. As Adam waited, two men in security uniforms unlocked the large doors to his right. The doors parted and Adam could not believe what was revealed inside—the most magnificent, elaborate, mind-boggling buffet banquet he had ever seen. He stepped over to get a better look and was hit with a puff of warm, buttery air. There were rows of grilled chicken breasts, crispy roast beef, pork chops with mushrooms, heaps of greasy French fries, mashed potatoes, butter-drenched corn on the cob. In the center of the room was a sprawling salad bar; to the left, a sandwich-making station; to the right, a glass tower sectioned off with Lucky Charms, Cocoa Puffs, Froot Loops—every kind of sugared cereal he was never allowed to have. Next to it there was a fucking ice-cream-sundae-making station. He was starving.

  “ID,” said the banquet security guard, bored.

  “Uh, no, just looking,” said Adam. He awkwardly pivoted around, pretending to be immersed in the various flyers taped to the walls: “Ultimate Frisbee on the Quad—Saturdays,” “Stand-Up Comedy Night at the Village Pourhouse,” “Horror Movie Club, This Tuesday: Wes Craven vs. John Carpenter,” “CU Bellydance Presents!” Jesus. College was like some perfectly crafted, honest-to-god utopia. Fuck.

  Casey appeared before him. “Took you long enough, loser!”

  “Shut up, retard.” They greeted each other with their customary kicks to the shins.

  When they got off the elevator onto Casey’s floor, the unbelievable Pleasure Island that was college continued. A bunch of doors were open, and Adam could see beanbag chairs and widescreen TVs. Rap music mingled with rock, drifting out from different directions. Nailed to the hallway wall was a little plastic basket filled with colorful condoms, a sign reading: FREE!

  “This is my shithole,” said Casey, opening the door to her room. “And this is June.”

  June was clearly gay. Like, no doubt about it, this was a lesbian. Casey, who had long hair and often wore skirts, wasn’t obviously gay—which is probably why she got away with Mom and Dad not knowing. June, meanwhile, had a shaved head and a giant bull nose ring, and she was wearing a baggy T-shirt that read: I WON’T GO DOWN IN HISTORY, BUT I’LL GO DOWN ON YOUR SISTER. Just in case the shaved head and bull nose ring hadn’t tipped you off.

  “Hi,” said Adam, offering his hand.

  “He’s so polite!” June said to Casey, laughing and ignoring Adam and his hand.

  Adam decided that he hated her. “And you’re so gay!” he said back to June in his head.

  “June is living with us in Brooklyn,” said Casey, flopping onto her bed.

  Great.

  “You’ll meet Craigslist when we get there. God, it’s gonna be so weird not calling Craigslist ‘Craigslist’ anymore!”

  “I know,” said June, flopping down next to Casey, staring at her with drooling eyes. June was clearly in love with Casey. Loser, thought Adam. No way are you good enough for her. Sam would beat you to a pulp.

  Casey rambled on. “We’re totally gonna be like, ‘Um, Craigslist—I mean Ethan.’” Casey and June burst out laughing.

  Ethan? Adam had just assumed they’d be living with another girl. Well, that was cool. He’d have a guy there to be on his side, maybe show him around a bit. He could already tell he’d want to be spending as much time as possible out of the apartment and away from June.

  Casey and June chattered away about the apartment, debating whether they should make a cooking/cleaning chore wheel . . . Adam tuned them out. He sat on the floor, leaned up against the bed, and stared into the dorm room across the hall from Casey’s. A girl’s shorts-clad legs lolled on her bed, a giant economics book obscuring her face, calculator resting on her stomach. Suddenly, she let the book drop, revealing a gorgeous face and loads of heavenly red hair. Was this the girl Adam had seen in his daydream on the airplane? Had she actually arrived so soon? Adam’s heart was racing. What if this was her? What if God was giving him this chance? It was now or never. Use it or lose it. But what was he supposed to do? Just get up and go introduce himself? Casey would think he was off the fucking wall. Fuck Casey, he wasn’t going to let her get in the way of him and his destiny girl. But if it was destiny, shouldn’t it happen without him really needing to make any effort? Wasn’t that the point of destiny? But maybe he did need to do something. Just give her a certain look. Then she would do the rest, bring them together. Adam sat up straighter against the bed, made eye contact with the girl, and formed a tentative smile. The girl stood up, walked over to the door, and slammed it shut. A piece of paper taped to the door with the name LINDSEY wafted briefly: a sad little wave goodbye. So long, Lindsey. . . . It was nice while it lasted. Adam turned back to Casey and June.

  “God, I cannot wait to leave this fucking place,” said Casey.

  “Really?” said Adam. “It seems pretty cool to me.”

  June snorted. Adam grimaced. People with bull nose rings should never snort.

  Casey continued, “Ugh, you have no idea. I have to listen to two sets of nasty sex happening twenty-four/seven on both sides of my walls—”

  “Nasty straight sex,” interjected June.

  “Plus the food is making me fat. Plus I hate everyone.”

  “You don’t hate me!” said June.

  “I don’t mean I hate everyone at school,” said Casey. “Mainly just everyone on my floor. Did you know most buildings don’t even have a thirteenth floor? ’Cause it’s unlucky, you know? This floor shouldn’t even exist.”

  “You should have signed up for a Carman suite like I did,” said June. “But, whatever, at least we’re rooming together next year.”

  Adam noticed Casey flinch almost imperceptibly.

  “I’m just ready to start living in the real world already,” said Casey. “Enough of this sheltered-bubble stuff. It’s, like, we’re nineteen—we shouldn’t have to be signing people in, checking in with the fucking RA about everything. And I’m sick of not being able to drink in my room.”

  “I’m gonna spend the whole fucking summer baked,” said June.

  Adam glanced at Casey. He knew she didn’t like smoking pot either. They’d bonded over it at least a million times.

  “Hell yeah!” said Casey, knuckle-bumping June.

  Traitor.

  “Let’s get the fuck out of here!” said Casey, and she jumped off the bed.

  ***

  It took two trips to load all of their stuff into the cab that was waiting for them at the corner of Amsterdam and 117th. June made a big show of rolling her sleeves over her shoulders and acting all chivalrous carrying Casey’s heavy things—“Hey, lemme get that one.” “Put that down! I got it”—and didn’t even thank Adam when he in turn carried down all of June’s heavy shit. The cabdriver didn’t want anyone up front, so the three of them squished in the back with all their stuff that didn’t fit in the trunk. Casey in the bitch seat.

  Adam had only ridden in a cab a couple times in his life. The idea of it freaked him out. You’re supposed to get in a car with a total stranger and just trust that they’ll take you where you want to go? All your life it’s “Never get in a car with a stranger, never get in a car with a stranger,” then, all of a sudden, you’re in New York and it’s “Get in a car with a stranger!”

  Casey and June were blathering on, oblivious, but if their driver—who was currently conspiring into a headpiece in a language Adam couldn’t understand—decided he wanted to kidnap them and rape the girls (or at least Casey), it would b
e up to Adam to stop him. What kind of surveillance did they have on these cabs anyway? Were they connected to a GPS in some headquarters? Adam imagined a clean office with a friendly white man monitoring the cabs on a computer system. He realized if their cabdriver looked like the white man he imagined in the office, he probably wouldn’t feel nervous right now. That thought made him uncomfortable though, so he decided to think about something else. He looked out the window at all the old brick buildings going by—there were barely any brick buildings in California. It was because of earthquakes.

  After a long drive through different neighborhoods and over a bridge, the cab pulled up in front of the apartment in Bushwick. Adam, Casey, and June piled out, unloaded their stuff from the trunk, and dumped it onto the sidewalk. Casey paid the driver and the cab sped off.

  This was their building: 206 Scholes Street. A bunch of tough-looking guys were sprawled out on the front steps, drinking and smoking, listening to music. Adam saw them looking at him and felt dumb standing there in a huddle with Casey and June and June’s five-foot-tall pink flamingo lamp.

  “I’m supposed to call the landlord,” said Casey, taking out her cell. “He said he’d meet us with the keys.”

  Adam looked over at the guys on the steps again.

  “I like your lamp,” one said to him.

  Adam looked away.

  Finally, Casey spotted a Hasidic man hustling up the street toward them—his long black coat and curly hair things flowing behind him.

  “That’s him,” whispered Casey. June and Adam nodded. For some reason it seemed like you should be quiet around a Hasid. Adam remembered the man he’d sat next to on the plane this morning. Maybe Hasids were going to have some special significance in his summer in New York. It gave the whole thing a biblical gravity. God was working with him.