Spring Break Mistake Read online

  We’re in the midst of taking goofy pictures in front of Shakespeare’s statue on Poet’s Walk when I hear it—the faint sound of carousel music in the distance. “Are we close?” I stop posing to ask Kensington. “I hear a giant music box.”

  “You have the ears of a German shepherd,” she tells me. “Yes, it’s around the bend.”

  “Let’s go!” Sofia says, and she takes off running down the tree-lined Mall.

  “She’s definitely going to get herself lost,” Kensington shakes her head as we start after her, Ella trailing farther behind. We reach Sofia when she’s come to a stop at a fork in the path, and Kensington hurries in front of us. The music becomes louder and louder, and I rush to catch up with Kensington, linking one arm through hers and then reaching back my other for Sofia. We skip Wizard of Oz–style the rest of the way until the carousel appears before us.

  “I’ll get our tickets,” I say. “My treat.” I walk up to the booth and rustle in my bag for my wallet. “Three tickets, please,” I request when I reach the window.

  “Make that four,” a voice calls over my shoulder. A male voice, so it can’t be Ella, or Sofia, or Kensington. But it sounds almost as familiar.

  I turn slowly to face the speaker, and there, right in front of me, is Tate. Tousled hair, emerald-eyed, perfect-smile Tate, there, as if a figment of my imagination.

  I reach out and touch his shoulder, as if to make sure I’m not seeing things, which makes Tate laugh.

  “I’m real, last I checked,” he tells me. “How have you been, @AvalonByTheC?”

  “What—I can’t—where did you—” I stammer, before blurting out, “I have your scarf!” He tries to answer, but I continue blabbering. “But I don’t have it with me—it’s in our dorm room. But maybe you want to pick it up later, or I can mail it—” Before I can continue, Sofia and Kensington run up to us, saving me from my own jabbering.

  “What are you doing here?” Kensington asks, shoving him playfully.

  “What, did you think just because I got kicked out that I would go back to Boston with my tail between my legs?” he asks.

  “But where have you been staying?” Sofia questions him. “Please don’t tell me in that cardboard box I saw on the sidewalk outside Dingymist Dorm.”

  “My uncle lives in the city,” Tate explains. “So I’ve been crashing with him.”

  “I can’t believe we ran into you,” I say. “What are the chances, in a city this big?”

  “Well . . . ,” he begins. “You didn’t exactly run into me. I made a point of running into you. You guys have been pretty busy on PhotoReady today. Once I saw you were in Central Park, I knew you’d come to the carousel, so I staked it out.”

  “I don’t know whether that’s sweet or creepy,” Kensington says. “I’m leaning toward creepy.”

  “But why did you know we’d come here?” I ask him. “I didn’t even know there was a carousel in the park before Kensington told us.”

  “Please,” Tate says, that sparkly smile spreading across his face. “It’s such a girl thing to do. No offense—the carousel is pretty great. I knew even Kenz wouldn’t be able to resist it.”

  “So, speaking of the carousel . . . are we riding it or not?” Sofia asks.

  “Oh, right,” I say. I had gotten so distracted by Tate’s appearance that I had stepped away from the booth without completing my purchase. I shuffle back and buy four tickets, and we step up to board as the carousel comes to a halt. The operator slides the gate open, and we dart onto the platform. I choose a giant white horse, and Tate picks a tiny gray pony next to mine.

  “I’m pretty sure those are meant for preschoolers.” I laugh at him.

  “Just my speed,” he says, holding up his phone. “Let’s take a picture of us being preschoolers before the ride starts.” I lean my head toward his, and he snaps a selfie of the two of us on our respective stallions.

  “You’ll have to send that to me,” I tell him. “Of course, that would require giving someone your phone number, which doesn’t seem to be your forte.”

  “Put yours in,” he says, handing me his phone. I type my number into his contacts and name myself @AvalonByTheC.

  “Are you texting it to me now?” I ask as the ride jolts into motion.

  “Eventually,” he replies with that signature grin. As the carousel makes its way round and round the dome, I snap photos of Kensington in front of me, Sofia behind me, Tate next to me. I take pictures of the moving horses and the rotating platform for our #PhotoRetreatMotion tag, and I even photograph myself. The carousel ride comes to an end entirely too soon, and Tate begins to dismount his horse before it’s at a complete stop. Rebellious, as usual.

  “Good seeing you three,” he says. He pats the head of my horse twice and then steps off the carousel’s platform, moving toward the exit.

  “Wait!” I call after him. “What about your scarf?”

  “Enjoy it,” he replies. “I’ll get it back some other time.” With that, he jogs out into the park and away from us once again. And after he’s gone from view, I continue to stare in that direction, as if waiting for him to pop up out of nowhere once again.

  “What was that?” I ask as Sofia, Kensington, and I mosey off our saddles and away from the carousel. “Did he really disappear again?”

  “International man of mystery,” Kensington says, now linking her arms through mine and Sofia’s. “I don’t think we’ll ever figure that one out. But at least you got to see him.”

  “And he gave you his number,” Sofia says. “I saw that.”

  “Actually, I gave him mine,” I clarify. “I never got his. And I doubt I’ll hear from him.”

  “You definitely will,” Kensington says. “I bet he left his scarf with you on purpose—it was a full-on Cinderella move. That’s his glass slipper.”

  “Oh, please,” I say. “That’s so not what happened.”

  “He made a point of finding you today,” Sofia adds. “A point of it.”

  “Of finding us,” I correct her.

  “He barely spoke to us; he came for you,” she says. “That has to mean something.”

  “But what?” I ask. “What does it mean?”

  “It means he wanted to see you,” Sofia says. “It at least means that.”

  “So, guys?” Ella comes up behind us. “I received a text from Roberto—they’re changing the location of our dinner to a place in Midtown. We can probably walk there if you like, but we should get going shortly.”

  “Where is it?” Kensington asks her, a vague look of suspicion flashing across her face.

  “Forty-Fourth between Broadway and Eighth,” Ella answers her. “Right off of—”

  “Nooooooooo,” Kensington moans.

  “What is it? What’s wrong?” Sofia asks, looking from Ella to Kensington to me and back again.

  “I’m no expert,” I begin, “but I’m pretty sure the place we’re going is in the heart of . . .”

  “Times Square?!” Sofia calls out, and Ella and I nod as Kensington buries her face in her hands.

  “Finally!” Sofia leaps down the path ahead of us, so giddy that I’m convinced she’s about to do a cartwheel. “Come on, Kensington. Time to go to your favorite #HometownAttraction!” She takes off running as if she knows where she’s going, and the three of us struggle to keep up. We make our way out of the park and then down Broadway, and with every block, the signs around us grow taller, brighter, more sparkly, until finally, we are nestled directly in the middle of Times Square, in the heart of New York, in the center of the world. We look up, Sofia’s wide eyes reflecting the glitter all around us.

  “I can’t believe I almost didn’t see this,” Sofia says. “You can’t deprive a tourist like me of Times Square!” I laugh as I pull out my phone to take a photo, but after a beat, I place it back in my pocket. Because no picture can properly capture how I feel in this moment; that’s something only my memory is capable of.

  After Sofia got her fill of Times Square, and K
ensington got her fill of complaining about Times Square, the entire retreat group was escorted back to Dingymist Dorm to begin packing for our noontime departure tomorrow. Kensington is beyond smug when, fifteen minutes later, save for her sheets and a few toiletries, she is finished, while Sofia and I have barely gotten our suitcases out of the closet.

  “Seriously, what are we going to do with our mural?” Sofia asks. “We hardly got to enjoy it.”

  “Maybe, since Kensington’s sitting there, staring at us”—I clear my throat loudly at her—“she’d agree to print some duplicate photos so we can each re-create the mural at home.”

  Kensington rolls her eyes at this, but instead of arguing, she holds out her hands to take our phones. While she systematically begins printing pictures, Sofia and I scramble about the room, trying to throw all our items into bags. As we work, we polish off the remaining snacks, more so we won’t have to pack anything extra than because we’re hungry—even Sofia.

  “So you never heard from Tate, huh?” she asks, picking up his scarf from my bed and tossing it casually into my suitcase.

  “No,” I say with a shrug. “Whatever. He’s a weirdo.”

  “You certainly took enough pictures of this weirdo on the carousel,” Kensington says, looking up at me with one eyebrow raised.

  “As a great photographer once said,” I begin, “ ‘I photograph what scares me. I photograph the things I scare.’ ” This makes Sofia burst out laughing and Kensington roll her eyes even higher than the first time.

  “I don’t know how I put up with you two clowns for a whole week,” she says.

  “Oh, you know you love us,” Sofia says, crossing the room and pretending to sit on Kensington’s lap, placing her arms around her neck. I come up behind them and wrap one arm around Kensington’s shoulders and the other around Sofia’s.

  “We should promise to go to the same college in five years,” I tell them. “Then we can live together all over again.”

  “Room six-oh-nine, version two-point-oh,” Sofia says. “Agree to this, or we’re never releasing you,” she tells Kensington.

  “Agreed, agreed,” she says. “Now leave me in peace if you want these pictures sometime this century!”

  Sofia and I return to packing, and Kensington returns to printing, but the efficiency lasts only a few minutes before Kensington calls out, “Hey, did you guys see this?” She holds out her phone with a picture on the screen.

  A picture of Tate and me. The selfie he took on the carousel.

  “How did you get that?” I ask her. “Did he finally text it to me?”

  “No,” she says. “He posted it on PhotoReady. It looks like it’s the first time he’s ever posted a picture with people in it, so if I were you, I’d be honored.”

  “That’s soooooo sweet,” Sofia says.

  “Okay, he’s cute, I’ll admit it,” I say. “But why did I have to smile like that in the picture?”

  “Smile like what?” Kensington asks.

  “With my teeth,” I explain. “The braces ruin the whole thing, especially when he has such a perfect smile. A perfecto smile. You know, perfecto? Like El—”

  “No, no, no changing the subject,” Kensington says. “Is this what that whole #IfYouJustSmile nonsense was about? Where you never actually showed your smile?”

  “I guess,” I tell her. “I mean, you guys have seen pictures of my sister—her smile is almost as good as Tate’s. And mine is, well, it’s not. It’s metal and kind of crooked and—”

  “More gratifying,” Kensington interrupts me again.

  “Right,” Sofia says. “Because when we get you to smile—to really smile—we know that you mean it. It’s like a point of pride. Plus, your smile is beautiful, the same as Tate’s or Arden’s.”

  “Oh, stop it,” I say. “No lying. You know that’s not true. I know that’s not true. It was a pity compliment.”

  “Yeah, you’re right,” Kensington says. “But we’re also right. Your smile’s not perfect, but it’s very you. It doesn’t open up to everyone. Only to the inner circle.”

  “I assume that makes us the inner circle,” Sofia says.

  “Hey, you two can stop psychoanalyzing me now,” I say. “You, get back to printing. You, get back to packing.”

  “You didn’t answer me,” Sofia says. “Are we or are we not the inner circle?”

  “You are,” I tell her. “You’re practically the bull’s-eye.”

  “Very good.” Sofia nods with satisfaction. “But don’t tell your other bull’s-eye that.”

  “Who?” I ask.

  “Celia, duh,” Sofia answers.

  “Yeah, if you two end up in another spat, we won’t be there to fix the problem,” Kensington quips, rolling her eyes yet again.

  “You know, if you keep doing that, they’re going to get stuck up there,” I tell her. “At least, that’s what my grandmother always told me.”

  “Let’s focus on the happy news of the evening,” Sofia says. “Tate’s selfie with Avalon.”

  “Oh, for the love . . . Could we please talk about someone besides me?” I say, tossing a licorice stick at her.

  “Fine, let’s talk about me,” Sofia says.

  “Your favorite topic,” Kensington remarks as all of a sudden, the twinkle lights go dark.

  “Did you unplug those?” Sofia asks.

  “No, Miss Accusatory,” Kensington answers. “They went out on their own.”

  “We must have burned them out by keeping them on all the time,” I reason. “It’s a fitting end, really.” And as much as I had wished—was it only a day ago?—for the end of the week to come sooner, for me to head home immediately, now that it was happening, I couldn’t help but wish for just one more night in the infamous Room 609.

  The following morning, we have a truncated class with Roberto before we’re released for a final photographic journey. Not only does Roberto have a “motion” photograph from each of the three of us in the collage for discussion today (carousel for me, fountain for Sofia, taxi for Kensington), but he also makes a point of complimenting each of them.

  “I guess we’re not on the blacklist anymore,” Kensington whispers.

  “Way to redeem ourselves at the last minute,” I say, extending a palm to both of them for a silent high five.

  “I assume you haven’t checked PhotoReady yet,” Sofia says to me quietly.

  “Why, what did Tate do now?” I ask, but Sofia only shrugs a response. I quickly open the app, and as I scroll through my feed, I find picture after picture of . . . me. All of them taken this week, and posted by either Sofia or Kensington. Underneath each photo is a single label: #IfYouJustSmile. And sure enough, in every one, I’m smiling—sometimes a smirk, sometimes a full-on grin—and I must admit that while it’s not a perfect smile, it is a happy one.

  “Good thing you have such talented photographer friends, huh?” Sofia says proudly. “There are so many potential profile pictures in there.”

  “Yeah, you’re welcome,” Kensington says.

  “They’re great, really,” I say. “I can’t believe you took all these without me noticing.”

  “You were too busy trying not to smile that you didn’t notice when you were,” Sofia says. “Now what has Roberto been droning on about? I haven’t been listening.”

  “Something about photographing reflections,” Kensington answers. “Mirrors and water and that nonsense. Get it? Because we’re ‘reflecting’ on our week.” Kensington does one of her best eye rolls to accompany this statement.

  “Shhhh.” One of the other retreaters shushes us, but I don’t feel my cheeks flush pink with embarrassment as they usually would. I’m too distracted by my phone buzzing with a text. Rebels until the end, Kensington writes. Nice work, 609.

  * * *

  Toward the end of my final hour with Kensington and Sofia, my phone begins vibrating with a multitude of texts. Every single one of them is from Arden with some variation of We’re heeeeeeeeeere (the number of Es is
accurate).

  “My family’s here,” I tell my roommates, sounding sadder about it than I mean to.

  “Boo,” Sofia says. “I mean, sorry. I guess it’s okay if you’re excited to see them.”

  “I’m more excited to see my cat,” I say. “The poor thing’s been cooped up with the neighbor all week.”

  “I’m so glad I only learned now that you’re a crazy cat lady,” Kensington says. “If I had known this early on, no way I could have gotten past that.”

  “You’re going to love it even more when you find out the cat’s name,” I tell her.

  “I can’t even bear to think . . . ,” Kensington begins, pretending to place her hands over her ears. “Don’t tell me Whiskers or Fluffy or—”

  “Jelly,” I tell her. “Jelly Kelly.”

  “That is adorable!” Sofia exclaims.

  “Best you stop now before I lose all respect for you,” Kensington says. “Pretty soon you’ll be telling me that you like scented candles, too.”

  “Hey, I love candles!” Sofia pipes up.

  “Honestly, I don’t know how I lived in the same space as you two for a week,” Kensington says, shaking her head as my phone begins vibrating yet again. “Is the cat calling?” she asks, her favorite smirk plastered across her face.

  “Very funny,” I say. “But I guess I really do have to go find them. . . .”

  “Which means it’s almost time for me to get whisked away to the airport by Ella,” Sofia says, pouting.

  “I’m sure you’ll find your journey to be perfecto,” I tell her. “I assume you’re taking yourself home?” I ask Kensington.

  “Indeed,” she says. “A straight shot up on the 1 train.”

  “Where do you live anyway?” Sofia asks.

  “The Upper West Side,” she answers.

  “Wait, where we went the first night?” I ask. “You took us to your own neighborhood and didn’t tell us?”

  “Yep, we passed my apartment building too,” Kensington says. “You know, you’re not the only one who likes to be reminded of home every once in a while, Avalon Kelly.”