Excerpt: Run With Me

Sometimes, when I want to, I can run really fast. I did that one October afternoon. It was one of those days in New York where it’s definitely cooler, but everyone is in denial about it. That’s why I left the house in a t-shirt and jeans. I still don’t know why I felt the need to run. Maybe it was because I was tired of being inside when the sky was so blue outside. Or I had a lot of cooped up energy. Or maybe I just needed to feel that my body could still move. Whatever the reason, I hopped down the steps of the brownstone building that I live in and hit the sidewalk. I didn’t really have any idea of where I wanted to go, so I just let my feet guide me. I live on Willow St. so I started by running along the Promenade. Usually I hate running on the Promenade, because it’s where practically every physically active person in Brooklyn Heights goes, but that day I didn’t really care. I sped past the skyline in a matter of minutes, so I didn’t even get the time to be annoyed by all the power – walkers.
I continued from the Promenade up to the street and just ran straight ahead. I liked the pressure that was building inside my chest for running so fast. I liked the way my legs started to burn from suddenly being used so much. I even liked the feeling of sweat starting to build up on my back. I bent forward just a little bit, reminding myself to keep going. I continued past the Hillside Park, where there were several dogs running around. That was pretty typical for a Sunday afternoon. I had begged my dad for a dog for about a year, but my dad kept insisting that I wouldn’t be able to take care of it. Which was ridiculous, because I didn’t exactly have a busy social schedule or anything. I wouldn’t even mind picking up the dog shit if it was a cute dog.
When it was time to go down the steep hill I slowed down a little. I had once sped all the way down that hill and fallen over my own feet, right in front of this Jewish grandmother, who completely freaked out and started yelling in Yiddish or something. When I got to the bottom of the hill, the Brooklyn Bridge was right there, looming above me. The thing about the Brooklyn Bridge is that even though it probably isn’t the biggest bridge in the world, it commands a certain amount of respect. It seems so majestic, somehow, like it knows that you’re in awe of it. I’ve lived on Willow St. all sixteen years of my life, and somehow I still get overwhelmed by the bridge. Maybe I was just too sentimental. There was a red light for the cars, so I managed to cross the street without even stopping. I turned once I had crossed the street, though, and ran past the Brooklyn Ice Cream Factory and on to the water.
This was one of those places that just screamed “tourist attraction!” And it was. After the Brooklyn Ice Cream Factory there is this sort of platform that goes out over the water. There’s a railing around it, and if you stand here you are right next to the Brooklyn Bridge, and you have a perfect view of the Manhattan Skyline. There are usually around five brides running around here, having their wedding picture taken.
I continued to sprint until I reached the railing. I slammed against it and stopped, panting. For a few moments I hung my head over, looking down at the water below me. At that moment, feeling hot and exhausted, I just wanted to hop in. But of course I never would, seeing as the river is just about the dirtiest, most unsanitary thing you have ever seen.
I eventually raised my head a looked around. Above me a helicopter zoomed around and some Japanese tourists seemed unbelievably fascinated by it. They kept pointing at it as though they had never seen a helicopter before in their lives. A boy about my age trying to hop onto the benches with his skateboard. It wasn’t going so good for him, though, because he kept falling off. He reminded me a little of my cousin Ricky, who was never seen without a skateboard. Ricky was at least a little better than this kid, though, who now had a number of nasty bruises on his arms. I left the platform and walked past the Ice Cream Factory. I considered for a moment getting some ice cream, but realized that I didn’t have any money. My dad was always telling me how I needed to remember to always have money, keys and a cell phone with me when I left the house. I wasn’t that good at remembering any of the above.
I went back to the street and continued on under the Bridge. The thing about walking under a bridge is that it kind of feels like the world is ending if you close your eyes. The cars speeding along over your head sound more like things about to crash down on you. Once I was past the Brooklyn Bridge, the Manhattan Bridge is the next bridge looming above you. Except the Manhattan Bridge doesn’t really loom. It doesn’t have that same majestic feeling as the Brooklyn Bridge. First of all, the Brooklyn Bridge is brown, and made of stone, whereas the Manhattan Bridge is blue. It’s kind of hard to have respect for a bridge that’s blue. Another thing is that the Manhattan Bridge just doesn’t seem as big. It doesn’t seem like a major architectural achievement like the Brooklyn Bridge. But then again, I don’t really know anything about architecture. I walked along the street, toward the Manhattan Bridge, until I reached the park.
The park is right next the Manhattan Bridge, which is maybe a kind of stupid place for a park. Sure, it’s right next to the water, but it’s also next to the Manhattan Bridge – where a train goes over every few minutes. Ever stood underneath a train? It’s pretty noisy. But once you’ve been in the park for a while you start to get used to it. The park next to the Manhattan Bridge is this small, circular area. There is a sort of “beach feel” to it, because the water laps up onto a few small rocks, where kids always play in the summer, dipping their feet into the water and running away screaming. Around the ground with the rocks there are these steps leading up to an area with trees and benches. I took a seat on one of these steps with my back to the Manhattan Bridge and looked out over the view. The train was making a racket behind me, but I could see over the water to the skyline and the Brooklyn Bridge. It’s a nice view, I’ve got to admit. I sat there and caught my breath a little. I was still feeling a little exhausted from my run.
That’s when I saw her. She was sitting on the steps a little lower than me. She was reading a book and seemed completely absorbed in it by the way that she was slightly curled over it. Her long hair partially hid her face, but I could still see that it was her.
Her name was Sydney and she was in my Photography class. I wasn’t in the Photography class because I was good at taking pictures. I just needed a creative subject in tenth grade, and between all the subjects that I could choose from, Photography seemed to be the one that offer the least embarrassment. So far it had only been boring, but I didn’t mind.
Sydney had started at my school that year. I didn’t know her that well at all, but the teacher had made her introduce herself in front of the class because she was new. Of course, now that I had seen her I couldn’t not say hi, since it would be embarrassing if she turned around and saw me and knew that I hadn’t said hi. I sighed. It wasn’t that Sydney hadn’t seemed like a nice girl when she introduced herself to the class, I just wasn’t in the mood to talk.
I hadn’t even known that she lived in Brooklyn, let alone in this part of Brooklyn. We went to school in Manhattan, so it wasn’t entirely normal to run into classmates in Brooklyn Heights.
“Sydney,” I called.
She shut her book and looked around, finally seeing me. “Hi,” she said. “Uh…”
I realized that she had forgotten my name.
“Julian,” I told her. “My friends call me Jules.”
Sydney got up and hopped up two steps to sit next to me.
“Hi, Julian.”
“We’re in the same Photography class,” I said lamely, feeling stupid for ever saying anything. I should just have kept my mouth shut, like a normal person. She didn’t even know who I was.
“I know,” she said. “I just can’t remember everyone’s name. It’s kind of hard, starting a new school. Especially one that’s so big.”
“Huh,” I said, not really relating. Every school that I had ever gone to had been big. I noticed what Sydney really looked like then. She had long brown hair that reached down to the middle of her back. Her bangs were too long and flopped slightly into her wide blue eyes. She had a pouty mouth, but at the moment she was smiling. Sydney was wearing a purple sweater and jeans, and on them were written things like “Grandma’s birthday the 12th!” and “Remember English Essay for the 24th!” and a band called the Shins, which I had never heard of. I noticed that she was watching me scrutinize her.
“I didn’t know that you lived around here,” I said.
“Oh, I live on Montague St,” she told me, smiling even wider.
“You’re kidding,” I said.
“No,” she said seriously. “I live on the corner of Montague and Pierrepont.”
“But that’s really close to where I live!” I exclaimed. “I live on Willow St.!”
“Really?” she said.
“Yeah,” I told her. “How come I haven’t seen you on the Subway or anything when we go to school?”
“My dad drives me to school,” she said.
I almost felt my jaw dropped. What kind of dad had the time – and the patience – to drive to Manhattan before eight in the morning? The traffic at that time of day was horrible, and it could take up to an hour.
“Why not take the Subway?” I asked.
“My parents…” her voice trailed off. “They’re kind of protective.”
“Wow.”
“Yeah.”
We sat in silence for a few moments, looking at the Brooklyn Bridge.
“I’ve always preferred the Brooklyn Bridge to the Manhattan Bridge,” she said.
“Me too,” I told her. “Have you lived here your whole life?”
“Yeah,” she said, looking away.
Silence fell over us again, until my stomach unceremoniously rumbled. Sydney snorted with laughter.
“Feeding time?” she asked me.
“Guess so,” I told her. “I’ll see you in school tomorrow, I guess. “
I got up to go.
“Oh,” she said, her face falling. “Right.”
I stood there, wondering whether I should go or not. I didn’t like that she looked so sad. Maybe she didn’t have that many friends at school yet. Actually, now that I thought about it, I had mostly seen her sit alone or at a table with all the freaks. I didn’t really want to get messed up in freak land, but I couldn’t help but feel a little sorry for her.
“Do you maybe want to get a bagel with me?” I asked.
2
“So what are you passionate about?”
We were sitting in front of Montague St. Hot Bagels, the place that – I swear to God – makes the best bagels ever. Sydney had a little bit of cream cheese right above her lip.
“I don’t know,” I said honestly.
“Well, you’re in the Photography class,” Sydney pressed. “Do you like taking pictures?”
“Not really,” I said. “It just sounded easy.”
“Hmm,” she said, frowning a little.
“What?” I asked.
“Nothing.”
“But what’s with the Hmm?”
“There’s nothing with the Hmm, it was just an Hmm.”
“But you must mean something by it.”
“Fine,” Sydney said. “I think it’s stupid that you chose something just because it’s easy.”
“What, are you passionate about taking pictures?” I asked.
“Not yet,” Sydney confessed. “But I will be.”
“How can you know that you will be?” I said, feeling annoyed. “How can you say, ‘so I don’t like taking pictures now, but in a few months I will’?”
Sydney shrugged. “I just know.”
“Hmm,” I said, without even thinking.
Sydney burst out laughing. She had a loud laugh that was instantly contagious. I couldn’t help it, I started laughing as well.
“So seriously,” Sydney said, calming down and taking a bite of her poppy seed bagel. “What are you passionate about?”
“Nothing, really,” I said, feeling incredibly boring.
“How can you not be passionate about anything?” she asked, her eyes wide.
“I don’t know,” I said, shrugging and squirming a bit in my seat. “I’m just not good at anything.”
“Being passionate about something isn’t the same thing as being good at something,” she said.
“Fine, then,” I said. “What are you passionate about then?”
“Comics,” Sydney said instantly. “I read comics every night before bed. And I’ve started drawing my own, too. I have a superhero called Nuclear Girl, but people call her Nuke.”
I stared at her dumbly, but Sydney didn’t seem to notice.
“She was born next to a nuclear plant, so now she has, like, radiation inside of her, that she unleashes on her enemies. She can’t be around normal people too much, though, because she might kill them by accident. Which sucks, because she has a crush on this guy who’s a human,” Sydney said, very quickly. Her eyes were alight, and her hands were gesturing wildly. “My favorite superhero is Batman, though, because he actually doesn’t have any superpowers, you know? Like, he just does what he does because he wants to fight crime, he wasn’t bitten by a spider or from another planet or anything. Plus, he has, like, a great back story, you know that whole thing with his parents?”
“Um,” I said. “Oh, yeah, his parents were murdered by that guy in the street?”
I had never really read comics. When I was younger my brother, Zach, was really into comics, but I was more into smashing police cars into each other. I had a Star Wars phase, but that was because of the light sabers, not the actual storyline.
“Yeah,” Sydney said, nodding. “I like to draw, too. Especially pigeons, for some reason.”
“You like to draw pigeons?” I asked.
“Totally,” Sydney said. “They look so serious sometimes, when they, like, cock their head to the side, you know?” Sydney demonstrated by cocking her own head to the side, imitating the pigeons that were walking around beside us, clearly waiting for us to drop half a bagel.
Although, if we actually dropped half a bagel I think that they might die from shock. Pigeons are used to eating crumbs and trash, I think that they might just be too overwhelmed by their good fortune.
“I’ve never really noticed pigeons all that much before,” I admitted.
“But they’re everywhere!” Sydney exclaimed, waving around wildly.
“I know, I just…” I trailed off. “Yes, I’ve noticed them.”
I felt like I was boring and I had to say something interesting to be just as fascinating as Sydney.
“My grandma kills pigeons,” I told her.
“Seriously?” Sydney asked through a mouthful of bagel.
“Yeah,” I said. “She puts rat poison on bread and sets it outside, and then she throws the dead pigeons into the neighbor’s yard.”
“Wow,” Sydney said. “She sounds kind of weird.”
“She lives in Queens,” I explained.