How They Met, and Other Stories(19)
Author: David Levithan

This makes me seem lonely, which isn’t really true. I have other

parts of me—friendship, for one—which compensate

for the void. I can’t feel the nothingness except in those rare

times when there’s nothing else to feel.

Mandy must fit into a part of me. I don’t feel alone as we walk

from card store to card store. It feels nice to hold her hand.

Not spectacular, but nice. We can’t really find an interesting

card. The stores are full of artificial rainbows, nicotine-voiced

sarcasm that’s never actually funny, and cute little cartoon

animals holding Happy Birthday balloons. After making the

rounds we decide to go back upstairs to Hallmark

and give in to Snoopy and Woodstock.

There’s nobody on the escalators. There’s really no one in the

mall. It’s February and, as my father loves to point out, we’re in

a recession. Occasionally an employee will pass us, wearing a

T-shirt that says, In My Life, I Love The Mall. Looking at the

escalator, I have an idea. (It’s actually more of an impulse than

an idea.) I turn to Mandy and say, “Why don’t we go down the

up escalator?”—I used to love to do that when I was a kid, and

me and my friend Randy would be able to fit side by side and

race to the top. Running to stay still. Mandy just gives me this

what are you talking about? look that tries to convince me she

isn’t in the mood. I leap onto the third or fourth stair and

start running.

The rest of the mall dissolves—I feel my legs pushing me up

against the flow. I’m making it—step, and step, and step. I

reach the final leap—the most dangerous part. Especially if your

shoelaces are untied, as mine are. I take a breath and jump onto

the second level’s marble floor. I raise my arms to complete the

arc, like a champion Olympic gymnast, conqueror of the mall.

I look down and see Mandy at the base of the escalator, making

mock clapping gestures. “Come on,” I yell, motioning for her

to follow. She touches her hair in hesitation. I can feel the reason

killing the impulse. “You can do it,” I say, but she shrugs.

I don’t understand. Anyone can do it. We’re at some sort of

standstill, like when a conversation abruptly stops

and you can’t think of anything more to say. I don’t think

she’s going to do it. I really hope she does.

I’m about to yell “Don’t bother” with a particular edge

in my voice. But then Mandy pulls her coat firmly around her

shoulders and throws herself onto the downward escalator.

How can I explain what I suddenly feel? I see her jump,

her hair lifting in the air, and I can’t help but think something

along the lines of Wow. I once asked Randy how he knew

that he had fallen in love with his girlfriend, Amy, and he just

looked at me like it was the hardest question in the world.

I expected some floral, florid explanation, about the air

lightening and flute music filling his ears. This relationship

that had him so transfixed—I expected a masterpiece of

sentiment, one that would make me so happy for him and

so empty inside. Instead he just turned to me and said,

“The minute I knew I was in love was the minute when

there was no question about it. One night I was lying

in the dark, looking at her looking at me, and it just

was there, undeniable.”

There is no question about it. I look in amazement

as Mandy pushes herself up the stairs, not looking up

at me, concentrating on her footwork. I want so much

for her to reach the top. I want her to reach me

at this very moment. I picture myself embracing her

when she makes it, looking into her eyes for the

confirmation of my feelings. What do I feel? If it isn’t

love, then it’s certainly the potential for love, the realization

that there’s more to us than liking and dating and being

each other’s Pictionary partners. I’m so happy. I’m so

afraid. Does she feel the same way? All I know

is that I know. When she reaches the top, maybe I’ll

dance with her to the piped-in non-music drifting

from the ceiling. I’ll do anything—I want to do something

totally strange and new and special. I want to hold her.

I want to sleep with her—fall asleep with her in my arms.

I want to wake up that way. I’ve never seen her asleep.

All of these strange impulses—I want to tuck her in.

I want to be there, and be there, and be there.

And then she falls.

It’s over before I can register what’s happening. Her foot

hits one of the steps and, well, she trips. It isn’t dramatic—

she doesn’t fall down the escalator or anything.

It isn’t even good comedy. She just stumbles face-first onto the

steps. Then she pushes herself up and rides the rest of the way

down. I run to her—it’s as if I’m moving doubly, being

carried as I go down. I get to her. I can’t tell if she’s crying

or laughing. “I can’t do anything!” she says, brushing back

her hair, and I see her exasperation isn’t serious. I say

something along the lines of “Don’t be silly, it could’ve

happened to anyone,” and gather the things that fell

from her bag. She’s still sitting when I’m done, so I offer her

my hand. She doesn’t get up—she just keeps looking at me,

not at my hand but at my face. I put the bag down and sit

beside her, right there on the floor of the mall. “Are you

okay?” I ask. She says, “I fell,” and I say, “I think I’ve fallen, too.”

It’s never like the movies, is it? A great romantic moment, and

clunky, corny things just tumble out. “Oh,” she says, and I wonder

if she’s saying it just to see what I’ll offer next.

“Yeah,” I reply, saying it to see what she’ll say next.

Which is, “You have to be careful.” Now what does that mean?

Indirect discretion. No one wants to fully commit—

everyone’s afraid that they’re misinterpreting because no one

is talking straight. Playing the old What Are You Thinking? game.

You have to be careful. Mandy has skinned her hands

and her lip has a little cut in one of its corners.

“Sometimes…” I say.