Spring Break Mistake Read online

  Not one of my, nor Kensington’s nor Sofia’s, photos is chosen by Roberto to be featured in class today, though whether that’s because we took lousy shots or because he is purposely discriminating against us is anyone’s guess. From the little I listen at the end of class, our mission today is to go on a shadow trek—to use the day’s sunlight to play with what is lit, and what is camouflaged. With no solid leads on a way home, I reluctantly follow my roommates to the subway (with Nina very close behind us—it seems the counselors aren’t going to risk another disappearing act by Room 609). Kensington has decided to lead us to the streets of SoHo—with their relatively short buildings and narrower streets, she thinks the shadows cast will be more interesting than those farther uptown (at least, this is the reasoning she gives us, not that Sofia or I are in a position to argue with her navigational know-how at this point).

  I keep glancing at my phone on the subway, ignoring Sofia and Kensington’s chatter and hoping for an I forgive you text to appear from Celia. When we reach our stop and walk up to street level, I decide to bite the bullet and call her. I can’t take the silent treatment for a second longer, and if I can’t apologize in person, this will have to do.

  “Guys, I need to make a phone call real quick,” I yell after them, but Kensington and Sofia are already galloping ahead. I scramble to catch up while dialing Celia, and I watch them collapse into giggles—true, laugh-out-loud giggles—as I wait for my phone to ring. I hold my free ear closed with my finger, remaining a few yards away from them so I can hear. But five rings later, when the phone clicks over to Celia’s voice mail, I hang up. Celia and I have agreed to never leave each other voice mails, because we both think they’re annoying. So now is definitely not the time to make her even more upset by breaking one of our main friendship rules.

  That is, if I didn’t already break the Don’t be a lousy, selfish friend rule beyond repair.

  “What are you guys laughing at?” I walk up to Sofia and Kensington, who are huddled in the same place, Kensington propped against the railing of a stoop and Sofia leaning on a tree, sputtering with laughter.

  “She stepped in dog poop,” Sofia tells me, pointing wildly at Kensington.

  “And then she stepped in the same poop,” Kensington fills in, tears in the corners of her eyes from laughing. A couple of days ago, I never would have believed that Kensington would be capable of such laughter, period. And it would have been a welcome surprise to see this side of her, if I weren’t completely out of the loop on the story behind it.

  “Come on, let’s take a selfie,” Sofia says. “We have to document this moment.” She holds up her phone and the three of us crowd our heads into the frame. Sofia clicks the button and when the photo appears, the image causes them to burst out laughing all over again.

  “How did we both close our eyes?” Kensington asks. “Now this is getting weird.” My eyes are open in the photo, but it doesn’t even matter. Because not only am I not in on the joke, I’m also barely in the picture. My head is there, but while Kensington’s and Sofia’s faces are in full lighted view, I am, quite literally, standing in their shadows. Dim and hardly there at all.

  And at this moment, that’s exactly how I feel.

  I try—I really do—to enjoy the beginnings of our tour of SoHo. I attempt to make the best of it, to push my now overwhelming desire to go home out of my mind. But as the three of us, Nina close on our heels, hustle through the window-shoppers, dodging strollers and dog leashes and more than a few tourists, I can’t manage to get excited, to look for great shadow pictures, or to engage with Sofia and Kensington, who seem to be getting closer and chummier by the minute. I wonder what would happen if I feigned illness, if I pretended I was suddenly and violently sick. Would Nina escort me back to our dorm room, where I could at least be by myself for a few hours? Even better, would they call my parents? Would I get to go home?

  “What is with you, Avalon Kelly?” Kensington’s voice snaps me back to the present. “You are Mopey McCrankerson today.”

  “Sorry,” I say. “I’m not feeling so hot.”

  “You mean you’re not feeling so hot,” Kensington says, fanning herself with her hand. “Because your little crush isn’t around anymore.” I feel my face grow warmer no matter how hard I try to stop the blushing.

  “Ooh, you’re right,” Sofia says. “The pink cheeks are giving you away, Av.” I roll my eyes and attempt to step around them, but they block my path.

  “And to think—you were so close to becoming the next Mrs. Avalon TaterTotter,” Kensington continues, which causes she and Sofia to squeal with laughter.

  “Guys, just stop, okay? You’re not funny.” The words feel like they come out of nowhere, like someone other than me said them. Sofia and Kensington stare at me, stunned, as if a stranger has replaced their roommate.

  “Whoa,” Kensington says under her breath. And then, it happens. As much as I try to prevent it, as much as I had managed to hold them in before, they come: the tears. They start to drop, heavy and furious, down my cheeks, and the more frantically I struggle to force them away, the harder they fall.

  “Hey, hey, hey.” Sofia is next to me, arms around my shoulders, cradling me like Mom would do when I was little. “What’s wrong? What happened? What can we do?”

  “Yeah, all of that,” Kensington says. “Look, I’m not much of a hugger, but what she said.”

  “Sorry,” I say, wiping my wrist against my face. “Sorry. I don’t know why I’m crying.”

  “Yes, you do,” Kensington insists. “Tell us. We can’t fix it unless you tell us.”

  “I don’t know,” I tell them honestly. “I’m kind of homesick today. And I’m not used to getting in trouble. And my best friend is mad at me.”

  “Celia?” Sofia asks, and I nod. “I know of her from Avalon’s PhotoReady page,” she explains to Kensington.

  “That’s because you’re a creeper,” she says. “Why is she mad at you?” she asks me.

  I take a deep breath and rush through the story as quickly as possible. How Celia is the one who found out about the retreat, how she wanted us to come to it together. How we were both wait-listed, but then I got in and she didn’t. How I had promised her that I would keep her updated while I was here—how I would make her feel like she was a part of the retreat too—but I was so busy running around the city with them (and having fun, to boot) that I had all but forgotten about her. And now, how Celia wasn’t speaking to me, how her feelings were clearly hurt, how she was jealous, and how, because of all this, I feared our entire friendship was damaged for good.

  For a second, once I finish, I fear Sofia and Kensington are going to take one look at each other and start laughing—uncontrollably giggling, like they did about the dog poop—all over again. I mean, hearing the story out loud, it sounds so ridiculous, so petty, so immature. And Sofia and Kensington, well, they’re not immature. Kensington, especially. I’m sure she’s never cried hysterically on a street corner because someone didn’t text her back. Once I looked at the whole thing from a distance, it sounded so childish.

  Which didn’t mean I still wasn’t upset by it.

  “What was this chick’s photo project?” Kensington breaks the silence. “The one that didn’t get her into the retreat?”

  “#CeliaHeartsNYC,” I tell her. “Like the ‘I Heart NY’ T-shirts, only she took photos of things that looked like hearts.”

  “So, easy,” Kensington says. “Find her some hearts. There have to be tons around the city. Continue her corny project for her, which is probably what she would have done if she had been accepted on the retreat, right? That will show that you care more than some pathetic apology text would.”

  “I agree,” Sofia says, releasing her arm from around my shoulders. “Well, not about the ‘corny’ and ‘pathetic’ parts.” She shoves Kensington as she says this. “But about the meaning behind it. Plus, even if Celia is ignoring your calls and texts, she’s probably checking PhotoReady, so she’ll be sure to
see it.”

  I had to hand it to Kensington—for a girl who seemed so utterly unsentimental (she didn’t bring a single personal item from home to our dorm room!), this was a pretty thoughtful idea.

  But it was also an idea that I was almost positive Celia wouldn’t like.

  “Thank you,” I say. “Really. That’s such a nice idea. But . . .”

  “What?” they ask at the same time.

  “I don’t think Celia will go for it,” I explain. “She was pretty possessive about her project—like whenever I found a heart, I would send it to her so she could post it. I don’t know. I feel like maybe she’ll interpret it like first I stole her retreat, and now I’m stealing her project.”

  “I’d like to go on record as saying that I never want to meet this girl,” Kensington states. “But fine, then do something else—come up with your own photo collection about her.”

  “Cs!” Sofia blurts out. “Instead of hearts, you can look for Cs!”

  “Cs?” Kensington asks.

  “For Celia,” Sofia explains. “And plus—arghh, I can’t believe I didn’t think of this!” She claps her hands over her open mouth, her eyes wide with excitement. “@AvalonByTheC! Get it? The C! So it’s like a double pun, or whatever.”

  “That’s . . . ,” I begin, and Kensington and Sofia both look at me like they think I’m about to shoot down this idea too. “That’s . . . brilliant. It’s absolutely, amazingly brilliant. I can’t guarantee it will work, but I love it.”

  “What are you going to call it?” Sofia asks, literally bouncing up and down on the pavement, beyond proud of herself.

  I think for a moment and then answer, “How about #iCnyc? But with only the first C capitalized, so that it stands out.”

  “Perfecto,” Kensington answers, which coming from her is funnier than it should be.

  “Thank you,” I tell them. “For understanding. I know it might sound dumb. But I—”

  Kensington holds up her hand, halting me. “The way I see it, if this plan makes you stop blubbering with tears like a weepy jellyfish—”

  “A weepy jellyfish?” Sofia interrupts her.

  “Just go with it,” Kensington says, but then it’s my turn to stop them.

  “There is one more thing,” I say, digging in my bag and pulling out the green scarf. “What am I going to do with this?”

  “I thought you had left it in the cafeteria,” Kensington says.

  “I couldn’t go through with it,” I say. “Like you said, Tate loves this scarf—I couldn’t abandon it.”

  “I guess that means tying it to a random street lamp is out of the question too,” Sofia jokes, taking the scarf from me and wrapping it around her own head.

  “Be careful with that—I think it might be cursed,” I warn her. “Everything started going downhill after I put it on yesterday.” Sofia removes it and tosses it dramatically in Kensington’s direction. It lands on her shoulder, where she ignores it, swiping furiously at her phone instead.

  “What are you looking at so intently?” I ask her.

  “You really want to give the scarf back?” she asks. “I think I know how.”

  “How?” Sofia questions.

  Kensington holds out her phone, and I recognize Tate’s PhotoReady feed. He’s posted more pictures since yesterday, but they’re not the ones from our day together.

  “Is that Boston?” Sofia asks, squinting at the photos. “Is he home already?”

  Kensington stomps her foot with mock rage. “You’ve been here three days and you don’t recognize the place? The pictures are from here. Tate is still in New York. And I bet we can find him.”

  “No. No way,” I shoot down Kensington’s idea immediately, taking the scarf off her shoulder and tying it tightly around the strap of my bag. “I’ll give the scarf to Roberto and have him mail it back. Or something.”

  “That’s much less fun,” Kensington says. “Plus, you’re right—I’d bet money that the scarf would purposely get ‘lost in the mail,’ just for spite. If you want to return it, safe and sound, you’re going to have to do so in person.”

  “No,” I repeat. “Tate got us in enough trouble yesterday. We’re not chasing after him.”

  “Who said anything about chasing?” Kensington asks. “Plus, wouldn’t you like to see him again?”

  “If he wanted to be seen, he would have given us a way to contact him,” I point out.

  “We should do it,” Sofia says. “We should at least try. If only to return the scarf. The cursed scarf.”

  I smile despite myself. “I would like to get rid of this thing,” I confess, looping one of its ends around my hand. “Without actually, you know, getting rid of it.”

  “Then it’s on,” Kensington announces. “Let’s go. To the subway and out of SoHo. I’ve had about as many cobblestones as I can take for one day anyway.”

  “Where are we going?” Sofia calls after her.

  “Bloomingdale’s,” Kensington replies. “Now pick up your hooves and follow me.” She leads us to the correct subway station, Nina sticking close behind us.

  “So he’s at Bloomingdale’s?” Sofia asks Kensington. “Or do you want to go shopping?”

  “He’s there. I recognized the background from the last picture he posted,” Kensington says. “Which was eight minutes ago.”

  “This is exciting,” Sofia says as we board the train. “I feel like we’re on a stakeout.”

  “In stakeouts, don’t you sit somewhere and lie in wait?” I ask. “This is more like a high-speed chase.” As if on cue, our subway grinds to a harsh halt.

  “High speed, in this case, is relative,” Kensington says, a mumbling voice coming over the intercom.

  “What’s he saying?” I whisper.

  “Something about a delay,” she says. “Don’t worry—happens all the time.”

  “We’re never going to catch up to him at this rate,” Sofia says with a sigh, slouching in her seat. “We’ll be stuck with that cursed scarf forever.”

  “Please don’t say that,” I beg while flipping through the photos on my phone. “You want to help me while we wait?”

  “It’s not like we have anything else to do,” Kensington says, leaning over my shoulder. “What’s up?”

  “I’m looking for letter Cs from the pictures I took the past few days,” I say. “I figure I’ll get a head start, since who knows how many we’ll find today?”

  “The High Line,” Kensington states instantly. “Didn’t you go all the way to the top section, where the track curves around Hudson Yards? That would look like a C, if you managed to take a picture of it.”

  “It pains me to say this, but you might be a genius,” I say, opening a photo of exactly what Kensington is describing. “Do you think Celia will get it if I start with this one?”

  “Maybe not,” Sofia says. “But it’s a great photo anyway. Very New York.”

  “Good point,” I say, quickly giving the picture a black-and-white filter and then posting it on PhotoReady with the label #iCnyc. “Wait, I think I took a picture of the Levain cookie that might work. Let me see.” I scroll through my photos again, and as predicted, there’s one of my cookie, a few bites taken out of the side. If I rotate the picture around to the correct angle, it totally looks like a C. I show it to Kensington and Sofia.

  “Great, now find one more before we get off,” Kensington says as our train jolts to a start. “Rule of threes and all.”

  “Isn’t it the rule of thirds?” Sofia asks. “And I don’t think it means to post three—”

  “Whatever, brainiac,” Kensington interrupts her. “You get my point.” I post the cookie picture, and then I find another photo I had taken of a bicycle pulled into a rack, with only half of its wheel showing. I hold it up for Kensington and Sofia to study, as if asking permission.

  “I think it works,” Sofia says. “And now, besides keeping our eyes peeled for Tate, we’ll also have to look for Cs.”

  “Thanks,” I say. “I hope
she gets what I’m doing.”

  “She at least can’t say you didn’t try,” Sofia says.

  “And if she does, maybe it’s time to get some new friends,” Kensington quips, standing to exit the train as we reach the next stop. And though I don’t say it out loud, I know that’s a huge reason why Celia’s hurt right now—the fact that I have made new friends. And as much as I don’t want to lose my best one, I can’t say that I regret having met the two I have beside me.

  * * *

  The good news is that right around Bloomingdale’s, I find three more Cs: the sleek curve of a metal door handle, the left side of a round window at the top of a town house, and the C in the sign for Dylan’s Candy Bar (Kensington said that last one was cheating, but I didn’t care).

  The bad news is that by the time we reached Bloomingdale’s, Tate had already posted a new picture from a different location—one Kensington recognized as being from a completely different corner of Manhattan.

  “I can’t believe he went to South Street Seaport,” she murmurs as we make our way back to the train. “I thought he had better taste than the tourist hubs.”

  “Do you think we should go all the way there, or should we wait for him to post his next picture?” I ask. “It seems like by the time we get there, he’ll be gone anyway.”

  “Maybe he’s not even posting them in order,” Sofia guesses. “Maybe that picture was from earlier.”

  “No, it’s not,” Kensington says, pulling up the photo of South Street Seaport again. “See, if you look at the clock in the center of the square, it says the time. Which means the picture was taken only a couple of minutes before he posted it.”