I Wish You Knew, page 5
“C’mon, bro. Let’s be backseat runts in the best orchestra in the world.” I grab him by the shoulders, grinning like a fool.
“Nah, it’s not practical. I’m planning on going into banking in the Financial District,” Brennon responds curtly.
“Damn. You sure have everything figured out.” Becca giggles, rolling her eyes in my direction.
“Everyone has a plan of some sort. Don’t you?” Brennon defends himself. His cheeks blush a twinge.
“Uh, no. I’m a free spirit. What’s the fuss, really? Life is trial and error. How do you even know you’ll be happy doing those things anyways?” She laughs out loud.
“Happy?” Brennon says softly, his face twisting into a knot.
The three of us swivel our heads in synchrony toward the loud piano sound nearing us.
It’s the opening chords of “Imagine” by John Lennon. The male singer’s voice is angelic and rich with vibrato, reverberating melodically off the trees.
My feet instinctively begin gravitating toward the music; I’m pulled to it like a magnet. “Where’s that coming from?” Brennon wonders out loud as he follows. Becca lags behind us.
We enter an open plaza circled by a ring of white roses. At its focal point stands a classic Yamaha piano with craftsmanship quality and a modern sheen. It looks like the pianos I would tinker around with at the stores, daydreaming of affording one someday.
The sunlight is dancing around the circumference of the ornate bench. A middle-aged man with a double-breasted jacket and brown hat is perched on top of the organically invented spotlight. It’s shining brightly right on him.
“Let’s stay here and listen for a bit,” Becca suggests as she glances up at me. She probably notices that I’m smiling ear to ear. I’m utterly captivated by the music.
This was Mom’s favorite song. She was two when it was released; her parents rocked her in her crib to it for years. It was also the first song she sang to me.
“Don’t forget to be a dreamer, Anthony,” she would say right before tucking me into my covers each night.
I close my eyes briefly and can almost sense her presence next to me: her orange blossom-scented perfume, her coffee breath, and the way the corner of her eyes would crinkle when she beamed at me. People used to say I inherited her blue eyes, blonde curls, and magnetism.
“I’ve never heard anyone play the piano like that,” Brennon comments, snapping me back to the present.
“I know, right,” Becca chimes in.
“He’s talented, that’s for sure,” I comment, mouth parting slightly as the man effortlessly transitions into the next chorus. They both nod.
“Woohoo! Encore!” We whistle and clap wildly, laughing at his ceremonious bows and his dramatic twirling of his hat.
“My name is Tomás, pleasure to serve you all this lovely afternoon. Come again, my friends. And don’t forget—live every day with passion. It’s the only thing that enriches your soul!” He bellows in a thick Portuguese accent. I recognize it because we had a Portuguese guy frequent our old convenience store; he was like a broken record of deep, questionably inspiring phrases.
We alternate in dropping dollar bills into his suede hat. Becca giggles when Tomás kisses the palm of her hand and ogles at her with his gold-studded smile.
“What a great guy. He’s a master of his art and he knows how to entertain a crowd,” I sigh happily as we nestle into the grass. Brennon’s run out of water and suggested we rest under the cool shadow of a Hickory tree with massive branches.
“I’ve always been more of a writer than a music person, but something about Tomás... He was brilliant. I never thought classical musicians could be that charming.” Becca leans against the trunk next to me.
Brennon and I exchange looks. We belt out laughing in good humor.
Becca flushes red. “I-I didn’t mean...”
I wave my hand at her and shake my head to express that no offense was taken. I shoot her a reassuring smile.
She smiles back and mouths, “Sorry.”
“Help me picture your life here, Becca. What was it like growing up among all this…energy?” I ask her, genuinely curious.
“Well, it was everything. From the historic landmarks to the delicious food to the people who are always up to something. My best friend and I grew up here since middle school. Oh, she’s a cute friend I can introduce you to, Brennon.” Becca smiles knowingly at him, pushing him in the shoulder.
“Why do you assume I’m single?” he replies, wiggling his eyebrows flirtatiously.
“You’re in luck, because Brennon’s been wanting to get out there in the dating pool,” I reveal to her.
Brennon kicks me in the shin, and I raise my hands in feigned innocence.
“You seem like the type. You know, the I’m-forever-lonely-but-I’m-always-looking type.” Becca jokes, laughing softly at him.
“Okay, I guess. Show me a photo of her,” Brennon scoffs defensively. Becca types her password into her phone and proceeds to pull up a photo in her camera roll.
“She’s pretty, right?” she says, holding up her phone with the screen bright. It’s a photo of her and her friend at a carnival, arms interlinked and cotton candy in hand.
The girl in the photo jolts me.
Pale skin with yellow undertones, pink lips, round, dark brown almond-shaped eyes, long slightly wavy dark brown hair, cute dimples... She’s so familiar to me. Oh my god...
“Wait, I know her,” Brennon and I blurt out in unison.
“How do you know her?” I immediately turn to Brennon and ask with a puzzled look replacing the shock on my face.
“You guys both know her? How?” Becca stares at the both of us with wide eyes, completely taken aback.
“Subway Girl. I saw her on the subway, and then she bumped into me later that day,” Brennon blurts out.
Oh my god, it’s Jenny. I feel like my worlds are colliding. The ground starts to shake beneath me. Oh my god, it’s her.
“You know Jenny? How do you know her?” Becca’s voice echoes in the background of my nonexistent reality. Her voice sounds laced with confusion with a hint of...irritation?
“Anthony, are you okay?” Brennon looks at my drained, pale face with concern.
My mouth opens but no words come out. My world is spinning, and I can’t make it stop.
Chapter Five
Anthony
August 30, 2021
“Found an iconic graffiti spot in Brooklyn. You and Brennon in?” Becca texted me.
“Does that mean I’m no longer a stranger?” I texted back.
“You passed the test ;) Oh, and I’m bringing Jenny,” she replied.
My stomach dropped. I had barely been able to choke out how Jenny and I knew each other that day in Central Park.
“Friday? Meet us in Columbia’s campus square at 5 p.m.?” Becca sent.
“It’s a date :)” I finally texted back.
If I squeeze my eyes shut and scour my memory files for Jenny long enough, it’s her eyes that luster the clearest: chocolate puddles of infinite depth. She was infamous for outsmarting all the other six-year-olds, including me. The other kindergarten knuckleheads were agitated; I was amused. Besides, I was a doofus deserving of some humbling, and she kept me in check.
I wonder how she’s changed.
Upper West Side, Columbia University
“What are the odds? You and Subway Girl, long lost childhood friends.” Brennon shakes his head in wonder at the world’s mysterious ways.
“She has a name, dude, and it’s Jenny.” I sock him in the arm. Brennon dodges half a second too late. If he’s going to date her, he might as well say her name properly. “Date” referring to the action, not the intention. “And yeah, I know, it’s almost... Um...”
“You’re about to spew some poetic shit, aren’t you?” Brennon socks me in the arm back.
“No,” I cough out, cursing at myself for being so mushy. It’s embarrassing.
“There goes ‘hopeless romantic’ Anthony. The world is blessing Jenny and I, no doubt,” Brennon guffaws at me. That’s not what I meant, bro.
He laughs heartily.
My palms are sweating profusely; I wipe them on my low-hanging, gray sweatpants. I’m torn between curiosity and dread. People romanticize their childhoods without realizing it, and Jenny was at the center of mine. I fear my bubble will pop, dissipating the glossy haze of the days I spent playing in that treehouse without worry before Mom passed. Those memories are damn near sacred to me.
But it’s been ages since our families were close, and I suddenly need to know everything about her. How’s her mom? How’s Maya, the little rascal? I remember her stumbling constantly over her two chubby feet. She’s probably not so little anymore.
Ding! “We’re at the courtyard across from Franklin Avenue. Can’t wait to see you :)” Becca’s text pops up on my screen.
I type back immediately. “Same :).”
“Another day, another tourist spot for the newcomer ;)” Becca texts me back.
“Dispatcher, I’m in dire need of some city guidance from a local,” my thumbs type back.
“Standby,” she replies. I’m lucky she finds me humorous.
I’ve grown a liking to Becca; it’s been entertaining to text back and forth, chatting about the city and casually milking her for hints on Jenny’s life here. I picked her up twice during breaks, and we would sneak off to Joe’s Pizza. She’s pleasant to be around...and a good kisser. Besides, Brennon called dibs on Jenny. Not that I care, of course.
Just then, I lock eyes with Jenny in the distance.
I watch as her mouth falls open and her eyebrows scrunch together. She’s shell-shocked; I can tell. Her expression dissolves from confusion to recognition to a twisting of her mouth that expresses...annoyance? Becca stands next to her in ripped denim jeans and a light green sweater, waving cheerfully at us as we close the distance between us.
“Anthony Sanders? You’re the violinist?” Jenny shrieks in bewilderment.
Then her eyes slowly travel to Brennon, briefly skirting over his muscular arms, and her face immediately flushes pink.
“You again!” she exclaims and points to Brennon. She shoots Becca a baffled look and lowers her eyes briefly, seemingly abashed, like she can’t believe her vision and what it’s revealing to her.
“Surprise! The three of us thought it’d be funny if we kept this whole thing a secret from you,” I hear Becca explain to Jenny. She’s shaking her head in disbelief. We reach them and I quickly give Becca a hug. Brennon has his fists shoved in his pockets and is chuckling next to Jenny.
And then I turn to her. “Jenny.”
“Anthony.”
A palpable awkward silence hangs in the air. Suddenly I can’t resist anymore, and I pull her in for a deep hug, clutching her head with the back of my hand. Her face is flushed and warm against my chest. I breathe in her familiar scent, warm like buttery vanilla with a hint of something new: a floral perfume, maybe? Although she’s definitely grown in height, she’s still half a head shorter than me.
“You’ve grown taller,” I whisper.
Then we drink each other in. My eyes are skirting the center of her pale face, landing on those deep, brown pools that are lit up bright in astonishment. They glaze over in nostalgia, but it’s brief. She’s suppressing the emotion from spilling out of her. Again, I can tell. I did the same back home when the occasional whiff of fresh-baked cookies or drugstore perfume would trigger a memory of Mom.
My pupils pass through her thick, dark hair, the side bangs that are blowing in the summer breeze, her black maxi skirt, and the white T-shirt tied in a knot that fits her snugly. Besides her height and the absence of baby fat, she’s quite peculiarly the exact same. Except one thing is bothering me...
Her eyes. They aren’t how I remember them. They’re darker, engulfed in a gray shadow, and they just seem overwhelmingly...sad? Scared? I can’t place my finger on it, but it tugs at my heart for some reason. I release a deep sigh through my chest, rattling my whole body for a short, powerful millisecond. Seeing her is such a vulnerable immersion back into my—our—past. My mouth is so dry. It feels raw.
I straighten up. “Becca showed us your photo the other day and I explained to them how we’re childhood friends. So much time has passed since then, it’s crazy, right?” I crack a grin at the abrupt memory that surfaces of her shoving Oreos in my face. Those used to be my weakness.
“Nearly a decade. And yeah, we were. Our families aren’t close anymore, though,” she responds bluntly, as if closing the topic off from further discussion. How weird. Maybe she’s worried I’ll embarrass her?
No, I’m probably just reading her wrong. I nod slowly.
“And I was the asshole that scratched you up on my way home. Uh, I’m still sorry about that, by the way.” Brennon glances at Jenny with a sheepish smile. Is it just me or is he acting shy? It’s completely unlike him.
She flushes again.
Oh, his tactics are so working on her.
“Oh, don’t even apologize. You heard what she said about you on the subway,” Becca interjects, coughing.
Brennon clears his throat and tries to keep a straight face.
“Hey!” Jenny protests, crossing her arms to face Becca while her face flares pink.
“I’m sorry, I just had to,” Becca wheezes out as we all join her in laughter, entertained by the exchange.
“I can’t lie; it’s true. I meant what I said,” Jenny blurts out. Her face freezes and then she belts out laughing, surprising me with her unashamed honesty.
Of course, Brennon bragged to me about it that day. Little did I know, Subway Girl had been Jenny.
“I’m honored, m’ladies.” Brennon bows ridiculously, further fueling the girls’ laughter.
I run my hand through my wild blonde curls, slightly annoyed by him showing off. Becca and Jenny are eating it up, regardless. We start meandering toward The Carlton Collective off Amsterdam Avenue.
“Props to you for suggesting this. You know, this open-air gallery has been on my bucket list since I moved here.” I thank Becca, smiling at her in sincere appreciation. New York does have its points of charm.
“Don’t thank me: it was Jenny’s idea. She’s the painter here. She was basically famous in our high school for holing up in that art studio of hers and creating Picassos every other month,” Becca shares.
The corners of Brennon’s mouth turn downward and his chin lifts up as if he’s impressed.
My eyebrows lift in surprise. “You still paint? I remember how giddy you were when you won that contest in kindergarten. Our treehouse was covered in your glittery, fairytale scribbles.” I turn to Jenny while we walk, chuckling softly at the memory.
Jenny starts giggling at the thought, and the mere sound hits me with déjà vu. Her whole face begins to light up a twinge when she catches herself and clears her throat, suppressing the emotion from flowing out of her...again. It’s like she’s trying to hold back. Is she mad at me or something?
I’m so confused.
“They weren’t scribbles, and yes, it’s been a hobby of mine since I can remember,” she answers curtly. I notice Becca kick her softly in the foot. The corners of Jenny’s mouth lift slightly, like she’s trying to break the slight tension in the air.
“What about you, Anthony? Did you always want to be a violinist?” Becca reverts the attention back to me.
“When I was younger, discipline used to feel so foreign to me. It’s like I was held captive without my freedom.” I laugh, shaking my head in embarrassment.
“Damn, a lot must’ve changed since you were a kid,” Becca comments.
Jenny scoffs. I can just picture the thought bubbles popping up above her head with, “That’s an understatement.”
“To be honest with you guys, I was a total nutcase with too much energy and an insatiable appetite,” I chuckle.
“Second part still rings true,” Brennon jokes.
“Right?” I nudge Jenny playfully. Her face lifts a little bit.
“Yeah, I was in pretty close proximity through it all, remember?” Jenny responds, chuckling under her breath.
I remember. “But that’s why I fell in love with music, I think. To the untrained ear, it sounds like orchestrated chaos,” I continue.
“Mm-hmm, I definitely know what you mean, bro.” Brennon nods.
Becca seems puzzled. “Chaos? It’s enticing chaos, though. It’s art.”
“For sure. There’s so much going on simultaneously though. One piece is an adventure to listen to. Some percussion here, a violin solo there. But you would never know what’s it like to be in sync with everyone until you’re playing in it, on stage. It’s just nice to do your part but then...be part of something bigger, you know?” I say, pausing in the middle for dramatic effect.
“Wow,” Becca says.
“Hey, don’t let his head get too inflated,” Brennon teases. My forehead wrinkles as I acknowledge his comment and laugh alongside Becca.
Becca’s smiling, but Jenny’s frowning. What is up with her?
“We’re here, guys! Viola!” Jenny rapidly turns toward us and fans her arms out toward the first mural.
Our heads swivel and we collectively gasp, soaking in the gigantic artwork on the side of the apartment building. It’s a vibrant adaptation of the famous “V-J Day in Times Square” photograph, featuring the Kissing Sailor, except a rainbow is vividly spilling out of the couple. The straight-lined triangles are hued in light blue, dark red, hot pink, forest green, and burnt orange. The woman’s dress, tights, and shoes are all checkered in multicolored diamonds; the sailor’s clothes are striped in red and white. Only his white hat and their faces, their lips passionately locked in a kiss, are left untouched by color.
