What If It’s Us by Becky Albertalli, Adam Silvera
I am not a New Yorker, and I want to go home.
There are so many unspoken rules when you live here, like the way you’re never supposed to stop in the middle of the sidewalk or stare dreamily up at tall buildings or pause to read graffiti. No giant folding maps, no fanny packs, no eye contact. No humming songs from Dear Evan Hansen in public. And you’re definitely not supposed to take selfies at street corners, even if there’s a hot dog stand and a whole line of yellow taxis in the background, which is eerily how you always pictured New York. You’re allowed to silently appreciate it, but you have to be cool. From what I can tell, that’s the whole point of New York: being cool.
I’m not cool.
Take this morning. I made the mistake of glancing up at the sky, just for a moment, and now I can’t unstick my eyes. Looking up from this angle, it’s like the world’s tipping inward: dizzyingly tall buildings and a bright fireball sun.
It’s beautiful. I’ll give New York credit for that. It’s beautiful and surreal, and absolutely nothing like Georgia. I tilt my phone to snap a picture. Not an Instagram Story, no filters. Nothing drawn-out.
One tiny, quick picture.
Instantaneous pedestrian rage: Jesus. Come on. MOVE. Fucking tourists. Literally, I take a two-second photograph, and now I’m obstruction personified. I’m responsible for every subway delay, every road closure, the very phenomenon of wind resistance.
I’m not even a tourist. I somewhat live here, at least for the summer. It’s not like I’m taking a joyful sightseeing stroll at noon on a Monday. I’m at work. I mean, I’m on a Starbucks run, but it counts.
And maybe I’m taking the long way. Maybe I need a few extra minutes away from Mom’s office. Normally, being an intern is more boring than terrible, but today’s uniquely shitty. You know that kind of day where the printer runs out of paper, and there’s none in the supply room, so you try to steal some from the copier, but you can’t get the drawer open, and then you push some wrong button and the copier starts beeping? And you’re standing there thinking that whoever invented copy machines is this close to getting their ass kicked? By you? By a five-foot-six Jewish kid with ADHD and the rage of a tornado? That kind of day? Yeah.
And all I want to do is vent to Ethan and Jessie, but I still haven’t figured out how to text while walking.
I step off the sidewalk, near the entrance to a post office—and wow. They don’t make post offices like this in Milton, Georgia. It’s got a white stone exterior with pillars and brass accents, and it’s so painfully classy, I almost feel underdressed. And I’m wearing a tie.
I text the sunny street picture to Ethan and Jessie. Rough day at the office!
Jessie writes back immediately. I hate you and I want to be you.
Here’s the thing: Jessie and Ethan have been my best friends since the dawn of time, and I’ve always been Real Arthur with them. Lonely Messy Arthur, as opposed to Upbeat Instagram Arthur. But for some reason, I need them to think my New York life is awesome. I just do. So I’ve been sending them Upbeat Instagram Arthur texts for weeks. I don’t know if I’m really selling it, though.
Also I miss you, Jessie writes, throwing down a whole line of kissy emojis. She’s like my bubbe in a sixteen-year-old body. She’d text a lipstick smudge onto my cheek if she could. The weird thing is that we’ve never had one of those ooey-gooey friendships—at least not until prom night. Which happens to be the night I told Jessie and Ethan I’m gay.
I miss you guys, too, I admit.
COME HOME, ARTHUR.
Four more weeks. Not that I’m counting.
Ethan finally chimes in with the most ambiguous of all emojis: the grimace. Like, come on. The grimace? If post-prom Jessie texts like my bubbe, post-prom Ethan texts like a mime. He’s actually not so bad in the group text most of the time, but one-on-one? I’ll just say my phone stopped blowing up with his texts approximately five seconds after I came out. I’m not going to lie: it’s the crappiest feeling ever. One of these days, I’m going to call him out, and it’s going to be soon. Maybe even today. Maybe—
But then the post office door swings open, revealing—no joke—a pair of identical twin men in matching rompers. With handlebar mustaches. Ethan would love this. Which pisses me off. This happens constantly with Ethan. A minute ago, I was ready to friend-dump his emojily ambiguous ass. Now I just want to hear him laugh. A full emotional one-eighty in a span of sixty seconds.
The twins amble past me, and I see they both have man buns. Of course they have man buns. New York must be its own planet, I swear, because no one even blinks.