By Charlie Carillo
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I hadn't bothered calling because I'd never really thought about it. I never really thought I was going to follow Ronald home that afternoon in the first place, or that he'd live all the way in Manhattan, or that his father would want to hear the song not only once, but twice. It was all like a dream, is what I'm trying to say, and who phones home from a dream? "We thought you were dead," my mother said. My father rolled his eyes. "No, we didn't. Don't tell him that. " "I didn't get killed," I offered, but I don't think either of them heard me.
His shouting jolted me. We were in a home with a knock-you-on-your-ass view of Central Park, and for the first time in my seventeen years I felt my nose bump up against the barrier that separates the rich from the poor. I understood that as much as anything else it was about light and air. The long, wide windows of the Robinski living room looked straight out onto the seemingly endless park. " I was shocked to discover that my feet had taken me to the window--my breath was practically fogging the glass.
I wanted to pretend it hadn't happened, too. It would be easier all around. We got off the plane and walked together down a long ramp toward the luggage carousel. She had baggage to pick up but I had nothing but my carry-on bag, so this was a perfect departure point. We stopped walking and shook hands, as if one of us had just sold life insurance to the other. "It was really nice meeting you," I said, well aware that the verb in that statement was a lot milder than it could have been. She seemed to appreciate it, though.