Marianna Baer - Frost

David and I carried our bags up the three flights, “accidentally” bumping into each other a number of times. We found Viv, Abby, and Cameron sitting in the Parker-Whites’ less-formal living room, watching one of the Spider-Man movies.

“Hey.” Viv unwound her limbs from Cameron’s and came over to give me a hug. “Long drive, huh?”

“Sorry,” David said. “My fault. I suggested an alternate route that turned out to suck.”

That wasn’t really why we were late, of course—it had been my fault for oversleeping. He was taking the bullet for me, probably because it had been so obvious in the car that I was worried they were going to be mad. I had a sudden urge to hug him. As if sensing this, he placed a hand on the small of my back.

“I wish you guys hadn’t waited for us,” I said.

“Viv’s idea,” Abby said, not looking away from the TV, even though a commercial was on.

Celeste appeared in the doorway. David took his hand off me to move a bag that was in her way.

“I hope you guys are hungry,” Viv said. “We stocked up at the farmers’ market this morning. I got those dilly beans you love, Leen, and good bread and cheese. A ton of stuff.”

“Actually,” I said, feeling a spike of guilt, “we kind of ate in the car.”

“Oh, okay,” she said. I could hear her disappointment. “Well, it’s a gorgeous day. What does everyone want to do? Abby, Cam, turn off the TV, losers.”

It turned out that none of us had really thought about what we wanted to do in New York, except Abby, and everything she suggested involved tons of walking. I kept having to point out that Celeste was on crutches.

“Okay,” she finally said to me, “how about we sit on our asses and do nothing? Does that work for you?”

“No, I—”

“How about we split up?” David said. “You guys go do what you want. Celeste and I will be more mellow.”

People exchanged looks. “Sounds good,” Abby said.

So now I had to pick whether to spend the day with David or with my friends? This wasn’t part of the plan.

“You’re coming with us, Leena, right?” Abby said.

“Umm … I …”

Viv cut in. “Wait a minute. I’ve got an idea.”

Viv conferred with Miss Sweden for a minute, then the two of them wrangled some sort of metal contraption out of the hall closet. It turned out to be a collapsible wheelchair that belonged to Viv’s grandfather.

Celeste stared at it. “You want me to ride around in that? In Manhattan?”

“It might be kind of annoying,” Abby said. “The sidewalks are so crowded.”

“Try it,” Viv said.

Celeste sat down and wheeled herself slowly forward. “It’s hard to maneuver.”

“We’ll push you,” I said. “We’ll take turns.”

“Promise you won’t push me down any stairs?” she said.

“Promise,” I said.

“At least not on purpose,” Abby added. Then she looked around at all of our horrified expressions. “Just kidding! Jeez.”

Who knew a wheelchair in New York could be so much fun?

We didn’t only take turns pushing, we took turns riding. Much to their mothers’ annoyance, we used small children and strollers in the Central Park Zoo as a moving-obstacle course. We had time trials down the park’s corridor of massive elm trees.

At one point, David pushed Abby in a tight little circle until she was laughing and screaming and begging him to stop. When he did stop, she caught her breath and gathered her hair back in its clip. Our eyes met and she smiled. The first real smile I’d gotten from her in a long time.

Even Celeste seemed like she was relaxed and having fun. A whole group of Japanese tourists must have mistaken her for a movie star because they asked if they could have their picture taken with her. Of course, she obliged, taking off her coat so her fabulous outfit would be visible.

We ended up at a matchbox-size Indian restaurant in the East Village for dinner. The ceiling and walls were decorated with so many flickering, multicolored Christmas lights it was like being inside a kaleidoscope. Along with the frenetic Bollywood music, the table full of curries, and everyone talking, it was sensory overload of the best kind. At the end of the meal when the bill came, David took out a credit card and handed it to the waiter.

“How much do we owe you?” Viv called over the blaring strains of the sitar.

“I’m taking care of it,” he said.

“What?” I said. “No way. That bill must be huge.”

“Yeah, man,” Cameron said. “I wouldn’t feel right.”

“Look,” David said. “It’s not a big deal—this place isn’t expensive. Just saying thanks for the weekend.”

When the waiter brought the receipt back for David to sign, I said, “Are you sure? Let me give you some cash, at least.”

“Leena,” he said quietly, folding up the yellow copy and placing it in his wallet. “I’m trying to impress you here. You’re not making it very easy.”

“Oh.” I stared down at the tablecloth, a stupid grin on my face.

The temperature outside had dropped. None of us were dressed for it, and I shivered in my thin coat as we stood on the sidewalk, debating what next. Without a word, David draped his hoodie over my shoulders. I moved closer so I was leaning slightly against him, and rested like that until a minivan cab big enough for all of us came down the street, and we decided to head back to Viv’s house for the time being. During the ride, Celeste suggested we go to a bar in a remote, waterfront neighborhood in Brooklyn that she’d been to over the summer with Band Boy. She promised they wouldn’t card us, and if they did, I was the only one without a fake ID.

“Will there be guys?” Abby asked. “Cute guys?”

“Actually,” Celeste said, “there’s a sign on the door that says Ugly Guys Only. Is that a problem?”

“At least Cameron and David will be able to come in,” Viv said.

Everyone laughed. I settled back against the comfy seat and closed my eyes. We’d made it through the day and no one was fighting.

David was sitting next to me. I felt his hand, warm on my knee. He squeezed it and I squeezed his hand and I thought, Maybe we should just die right now, in a car accident. Because it didn’t get better than this.

DESPITE CELESTE’S ASSURANCE we wouldn’t be carded, I wasn’t taking any chances. Back at the Parker-Whites’, I put on my nicest jeans and a black turtleneck sweater that made me look older and more sophisticated, and pulled my hair into a twist at the nape of my neck.

“You look like a librarian,” Celeste said from the bed she’d claimed.

We were sharing a room here, too, with twin beds, framed photos of Japanese temples on the walls, and a massive golden Buddha statue watching from the corner.

Insisting I could do better, she had me try on one of the many dresses she’d brought—a red-and-black-pattern vintage Diane von Furstenburg. The silk stretched over me, cool and slinky, and seemed to fit. Then I looked in the mirror. “No way,” I said immediately, taken aback by how exposed I felt. This sort of dress—tight, low-cut, curve-enhancing—was obviously designed for someone with a different sort of build. Or, rather, a different sort of personality. And definitely someone with different footwear, I thought, looking across the room at my selection: scuffy, brown, lace-up boots or Chucks.

A knock came at the door. Celeste said, “Come in,” at the same time I said, “One minute.” Her voice must have been louder because the door opened. David stood there.

“Wow,” he said.

I crossed my arms in front of my boobs. “I was just trying it on,” I explained. “I’m not wearing it.”