Austin stares at me, clutching his arm close to him.
Like a broken bird.
For some reason, that image comes to mind. Austin is kind of like a bird. Always moving and flying, yet eventually coming back to the nest.
“I-I’m serious,” I stutter out.
He stares at me, green eyes looking straight at me. I’ve never seen him so focused. Usually, even if he’s looking at you, he’s humming under his breath, bouncing on his feet, a ball of stored energy bursting at the seams.
“Why me?” he whispers quietly, his voice seemingly an octave deeper. Maybe it’s just my imagination, or maybe it’s the weight of this moment pressing down on him.
“Because I’m trying to trust you. All the other people I trust can’t help. My mom and Ned dance around the issue, and Anna’s too busy at auditions for Girl in Crowd #3.”
“She never told me that she has Hollywood aspirations.”
For a moment, I feel confused. Then I remember that Austin met Anna.
He met her in more ways than one…
“Well, yeah. So you’re my only hope.”
“Wait, did you say that you’re trying to trust me?”
“Um, yeah. Why?”
“Is this a test?” His eyes narrow.
“What? No!”
“You have trust issues.”
“Woah! I thought you were majoring in architecture, not psychology.”
“I am. But you have so many issues that they’re like a blaring neon sign in the middle of a field of cows.”
“Excuse me?”
Hell yeah. Excuse me for mistaking you for a nice guy.
“Okay. I’m sorry. This night’s just been shitty.”
“Doesn’t sound like it.”
“What’s gotten into your panties? I said I was sorry.”
You mean aside from you?
“You know what? We’re both a little tense after tonight. I’m leaving.”
And so I do. I leave without even a kiss on a cheek. I don’t know what just happened. I don’t know if that was a fight, or the end of us. All I know is that I’m done for the night.
I run in the cold to the subway station. Quickly, I swipe my card and join everybody else waiting under the fluorescent beacon of the light on the platform. We huddle against the cold, pulling jackets tighter, putting on hoods, blowing on hands, pulling on hats and scarves and gloves. And I wonder if there’s anybody like me here, who’s worried and broken and unsure. I’m sure there are. Because this is the city of dreams, supposedly. Broken ones.
I hop on the train and in the middle of my ride, just as I’m getting lost in thought, my phone vibrates. My mom’s calling.
“Hey,” I answer.
“Hey. Where are you?”
She sounds pretty calm.
Did my outburst work?
“I’m on the train. I went out with Austin in Brooklyn, and he broke his arm. He fell on some ice.”
“You should’ve called me. Ned would have picked you up.”
“In his Lamborghini?” I snort.
“Well…no…Anyway, we’re going out with some of Ned’s friends. I just called to let you know.”
Her voice sounds strained. I could tell she’s really trying not to yell at me for last night. Truthfully, that makes me feel guiltier.
She can try. Why can’t you, you brat?
“Okay.” I hesitate. “Mom?”
“Yes?”
“I’m sorry. I mean, Ned shouldn’t have asked that. But I overreacted. I’m sorry.”
“Maybe you need some more independence. I’ll lay off a bit. It’s just…”
“What?”
“You’re my only child. I don’t want you to mess up the way I did. You only get one chance.”
“I know. Mom, can I ask you something?”
“Yes.”
“What was his name?”
I hear her suck in her breath. She knows exactly who I’m talking about. For a while, she’s silent.
“Mom?”
“Daniel. Daniel Basto.”
“Thanks. Love you.”
She doesn’t respond. I end the call.
Bingo.
Twenty minutes later, I get home. I run to my room, turn on my computer, and blast some music on my surround sound speakers. Thank you, Ned.
I dance awkwardly around my room to warm up, then get to work. I google his name. Apparently, there’s a lot of Daniel Bastos. So I narrow my search. I type in, “Daniel Basto New York.” A story about the criminal case of an illegal immigrant who stole from a jewelry store comes up. But he’s only 28. I scroll down some more. Lawyers, doctors, even accountants.
Suddenly, I realize something. What if he’s not in New York anymore? So instead I type in, “Daniel Basto musician.” The first result is the website of a cheesy wedding singer named Hasto Basto. I click on it and practically have a seizure from the bright, blinking letters at the top of the page. “AVAILABLE FOR WEDDINGS, QUINCEANARAS, AND MORE!”
Then there’s an image of the man himself, dressed in the stereotypical Mexican garb of a sombrero and poncho. Immediately, I close the tab. I’ve had enough for one night.
YOU ARE READING
Catered
Teen FictionAustin's a cater waiter working for New York City's top catering service. Aria's the cynical stepdaughter of one of the city's richest men, the daughter of a father she never knew. When her mother married Ned Rochester, they traded in a small house...
