“Just looks like sound advice to me,” James says, and starts to laugh.
I give him a look.
“No, I’m just messing with you. ‘40 Girlie Moves That Make Guys Melt,’ ” he reads out loud, “ ‘The New Feminism: Would You Go Topless to Get a Pay Raise,’ ‘Mind Tricks That Melt Pounds.’ Is that real? What does that even mean?”
“What does any of it mean? It’s all about getting super skinny, or lean, working out, and then doing whatever it takes to please men. It’s a setup! And Cosmo is not the only magazine trying to get into our heads.” We scan the others. Most of them have super-skinny white women on the cover with some type of headline that suggests that women aren’t enough. “I mean, how about some covers that read: ‘Food Is Delicious—Ways to Love It’—or oh, oh, ‘Ways to Have a Healthy Relationship with Cheeseburgers,’ or ‘Your Body = Perfection,’ or ‘Sex—The Way YOU Like It.’ ” I pause. I can’t believe I said that last one out loud.
James smiles. “Those are good lines.”
“Yeah, they are,” I say, feeling confident. “Maybe I just need to start my own magazine, or club, or whatever, because this is the kind of stuff I really wanna be talking about—the kinds of issues that are the most important—to me, at least,” I say, and I start to really think about it. Maybe other girls are feeling the same way as me and hate getting all the mixed messages from the media. Maybe I need to figure out a way to be talking about these issues more, and create a space where learning and talking about women is normal and doesn’t get shut down right away.
“I’d read it,” James says. “And maybe you can make one for guys too.”
“What? It’s totally not the same for guys. You all get all the positive messages—you’re always celebrated and . . .”
“What? No, the same is totally true for men. You’re just not looking out for it.” He leans over his legs to catch his breath. “Come on, I’ll show you.” He runs ahead of me to 175th Street. We weave between people, dodging bicycles, babies in strollers, and old folks taking their sweet time. I smell coffee brewing at Floridita and pass the elderly man who sits in a wheelchair outside the restaurant wearing an old captain’s outfit. He salutes me, same as he does every morning on my way to school. The city feels alive to me in a new way this afternoon, and I can’t tell if it’s because I’m running with my crush, or if it’s because my heart feels like it’s beating somewhere else outside my chest.
“Here,” James says, pointing to the window of the Vitamin Shoppe. “Check this guy out,” he says, looking up. “Six-pack abs, insane muscles—I mean, you gotta work for that.”
“And maybe take steroids, right?” I ask.
“Yeah, or spend all your time in the gym. All I’m saying is that it’s the same thing for guys. We got that pressure too.” I give him another look. “Okay, maybe it’s not exactly the same.” We look in the window at the cover of a Men’s Health magazine. It reads: “6 Moves for Six-Pack Abs” and “Make Good Sex Great.” “I mean, that’s a lot.” He looks at me, glances at his watch. “Come on, we gotta go if we’re gonna get back on time. So just, ya know, think about it—writing some stuff for us.”
“Yeah, yeah, I’ll think about it,” I say, pushing past him to take the lead. We run down Broadway all the way to 170th Street, then take a detour to J. Hood Wright Park to look at the GW Bridge on the first landing. We decide that as long as we get back by 3:05, then it doesn’t really matter where we go. The bridge looks massive from our landing, and the Hudson rough and wild below. We talk about our classes—the ones that we actually like, and the ones we’re just suffering through. We both agree that calculus can suck it. And we talk about the neighborhood and how we both landed in it.
“I love the Heights. Can’t imagine growing up anywhere else,” James starts. We’re on the way back to school on Amsterdam Avenue, having crossed over for the famous coco helado. “It’s home. My grandfather came here from the Dominican Republic, and just stayed. He was a mechanic, and he made enough to send my dad to college and business school, so when my dad made enough money, he bought the shop, and now he runs it. It’s home,” he says again.
“What about your mom? What does she do?” I ask.
“She’s an artist—sculpture mostly and some painting. And she lives upstate—Hudson Valley. My folks aren’t together anymore—I’m their only one, so I live with my dad during the week and try to spend weekends with my mom.”
“Oh, I’m sorry, I didn’t . . .”
“Nothing to be sorry about. They’re cool with me, they just couldn’t work it out with each other. And my mom hates the city—can’t stand the noise and all the people—anyway she likes all that space. She’s always telling me I need to spend more time in nature. Always telling me what to do—kinda reminds me of you,” he says.
“So you mean she’s awesome,” I say. James starts to laugh and nods his head. “I think our moms used to be on some Parent-Teacher Association together before your mom moved. My mom thinks your mom is really cool.”
“Yeah, your mom’s Italian, right? I feel like they were probably swapping recipes for sauce or something.”
“You’re probably right.” I start to laugh. “But yeah, she’s Italian, and I gotta say, she’s a pretty amazing cook.”
“Ah, that’s cool. Maybe you’ll invite me over to eat sometime?”
I smile to myself, imagining James sitting around the table with my family—how awkward it would be.
“Uh, yeah, maybe,” is what I say.
“And what about your dad?”
“Irish. All the way. And my dad’s actually a pretty good cook too. And they’re both way too religious for me, but that’s a whole other story,” I finish.
“Ah, I didn’t know all that,” James says.
“There’s a lot you don’t know about me,” I say. “Could I get a small mango?” I ask the man scooping ice into small paper cups.
James pulls a five-dollar bill out of his back pocket and orders a coconut. “I got this.”
“No, no, you don’t have to . . .”
“You can just get it next time,” he says.
“Ah, there’s gonna be a next time?” I ask, feeling confident.
“Yeah, I mean next week when we run again.” He looks at me. “What did you mean?”
“What? Um, no, yeah, that’s what I meant,” I stumble through.
James looks right at me. We sit at the edge of the playground and eat our coco helado while watching people walk by. In my head, I can’t believe I’m actually sitting next to a crush I’ve had for almost two years—and mostly can’t believe we got the chance to talk—more than I’ve ever talked to him. I also can’t really believe that our legs are touching, and that I haven’t passed out from the electricity. I have no idea if he’s even feeling anything at all. I have no idea what’s in his head, and I want to so badly.