"Yes ma'am," said a heavy-set African-American woman, with tightly braided blond and brown hair. "I understand you're travelling by the 67rd Street Line Subway station. But you still need a Metrocard."
"Oh r-r-right-t," I said, feeling stupid. I handed her the cerulean card and she swiped it into the fare machine. She handed it back with one hand and with the other, pointed to an almost full train car.
"That way."145Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡ6Z30hCHk21
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The train ride was atrocious.
Being the native New Yorker that I am, I will never enjoy subway rides. Third stop in, some middle school girls stepped on and refused to stop going on about SHANIQUA DID WHAT. Then a horrible subway singer, named Milo, kept bothering me because I refused to "further his blossoming career" and drop some change into his empty guitar case.
In his thick Portuguese accent, he kept saying, "Please? For Milo, yeah?" which really sound like "Plice, fear Meee-lo".
One of the middle school’s girls who'd been fueling the Shaniqua gossip noticed what was going on and retorted sharply, "Why don't you just give him money and get him off your back?”
I stuttered, "I c-c-can't."
Another girl, whispered into the ear of the middle school girl. The two of them turned their heads in my direction and giggled. They were laughing at my stutter. Maybe they thought I was disabled. Suddenly, I was self-conscious of my clown-styled 90s denim jeans and my large, free falling red and black plaid shirt. I guessed Shaniqua's story had lost its excitement and I had just become their newest target.
The giggling continued and I decided to drown out my surroundings with some music and some words. I pulled out my turquoise headphones and my MP3, which had a cracked screen and some chipped paint. I scrolled through the selections and picked out my latest favourite song: Benedictinos, a Gregorian chant. As I brought out my library copy of John Green's novel, The Fault In Our Stars from my vomit-coloured knapsack, I noticed someone watching me from the corner of my eye. It was the brunette girl from school, whom I'd sat beside in the auditorium. The one who smelled like Christian C perfume. She was holding onto a pole near the edge of the train car and she was smiling at me.
"That book is amazing, " she commented. Her green eyes lit up, as she talked.
"Y-yes," I replied, surprised at the friendliness. "H-ha-v-ve you re-re-read it b-before?"
Immediately, I felt stupid. Of course she'd read it before. She'd just told me it was good.
Her smile twisted into the all-too familiar zig-zag line of confusion that crossed most people's face, when they heard me speak for the first time. "Mm-hmm," she answered. Then, she turned her head away from me, ending the conversation. I felt like I'd been slapped in the face. At least it was Friday and I wouldn't have to worry about making friends for a long time. Well, for about 59 hours.
One hour and a taxi ride later, I was at the apartment complex in Maspeth, Queens.
"M-moom." I yelled. "I'm h-h-home."
No sound. Maybe she was working with another client.
I decided not to check her bedroom, in case she really was working and instead walked into the kitchen and pulled out some strawberry tarts from the pantry. I peeked through the toaster grate first, before popping the tarts into the toaster, checking to make sure the Striped Buster Beetles I'd read about on Huffington Post, hadn't laid eggs in there. According to the article, New York was having an outbreak of the little creepy crawly devils.
After chewing down the tarts, I raced upstairs and locked my bedroom door, anticipating the next few hours I would have alone. I pulled out my second hand cell phone from my denim pocket and scrolled through the familiar Figment screen, wondering if He had sent me another message. 145Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡFFNaPOvEs3
145Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡfeckggP5NI
He had.
