Goodbye Yellow Brick Road ✔︎

6 | Going Green

|photo by Jose Oh Mw from Unsplash|

The doorman gives me the signal: a nod that means I have the revolving deathtrap all to myself. It's embarrassing that he's noticed my aversion—I've only been in New York five days. I return the nod, take a breath and charge through the door. My next breath is Fifth Avenue morning air. You'd think it might be a little fresher this early in the day but no. It's still toxic. Still makes me feel like I'm polluting my lungs.

I drop my head back in true tourist form to look at the balcony of my aunt's penthouse—as if she'd be up there waving frantically and screaming for me to wait. I guess it's pointless to be mad at her. I'm the idiot who let myself hope she might drag her ass out of bed before 10:00 a.m.

A shrill whistle calls my attention to a large man in a dark suit. His beefy shoulder knocks into my head as he rush-waddles past me to get to a slowing taxi, but he doesn't acknowledge the violation. I cross my arms, making myself even smaller, and merge into the pedestrian traffic, walking fast to keep pace with the natives as I watch for my sign. Five blocks of this and I get to turn onto a quieter street.

I've walked by Zachary Prep before. Mom and I were here on one of our yearly mother-daughter expeditions. We took a detour off Fifth and she stopped under a forest green flag and said, "This is it." I barely had a chance to read the name on the building before she hooked her arm through mine and tugged me the entire two blocks to the Metropolitan. She had the strangest scowl on her face, not fear exactly but something close to it. I kept looking back to see if someone was chasing us.

Now I know she was running from her past—from memories she won't share because she wants me to form my own opinion.

I stop at the intersection—even though the crossing signal is telling me to walk. The tannish stone building on the other side of the street is only six stories but right now, it's looming like a skyscraper. I dig my phone out of my brand new shoulder bag, a gift from Emily. What my aunt lacks in nurturing warmth she makes up for with extravagance and impeccable taste.

Megan answers on the fourth ring. "Maybe Helen is right about me," I tell her.

"What time is it?" she asks through a yawn.

"Seven. I'm standing in front of my new school. I'm supposed to meet the principal and pick up my class schedule, but I can't seem to move my feet."

"Where's your aunt?"

"At the penthouse, still in bed. Aunt Emily doesn't do mornings."

"Oh."

There's a beat of silence and then, noises that generate a visual image of my best friend since sixth grade, yawning, stretching and scratching. Megan is even less of a morning person than I am. On sleepovers, I used to amuse myself by waking her up, just to watch her pull herself out of that funny little fog of sleep.

"Mother of shit," I whisper. "What am I doing?"

"What do you mean?" she asks, slightly more alert.

"I'm nostalgic as crap right now because I miss you." Plus my entire future is there: Virginia Tech, NASA, Glenn. "Remind me again why I agreed to come here?"

"Zachary offers college level math."

Somehow that doesn't sound as appealing as it did when I read it on their website two weeks ago.

"Helen is not right obviously because you got on the plane," Megan says. "It's a nine month detour. You'll come home in June and everything will go right back to the way it was."