High Hopes Read online

  As time went on, and my tuning-out skills improved, Halmuni probably began to think she had raised the most heartless granddaughter in the world—one who would casually say, “Yeah, great,” to the occasional inmate escape. As she breathlessly told me about online date meetups gone awry or high-speed car chases ending in fiery deaths, I started to feel that perhaps she was confusing TV dramas like Law & Order and CSI with reality.

  The only way I could make her comfortable about my going to Columbia was by telling her I would hardly leave campus. I assured her I certainly wouldn’t go to Morningstar Park in the evenings (because Halmuni was certain most crimes happened in parks at night) or distant neighborhoods like Harlem or, God forbid, the Bronx. I once tried to explain that many of New York’s older neighborhoods were now being heavily gentrified, and she said, “You never see Real Housewives of the Bronx!”

  But now here I was, on my first day at Columbia, going up to Harlem to buy a bike from a complete stranger. I already could picture Halmuni seeing my face keyed above an anchorman’s shoulder as he matter of factly recounted the grisly details about this unfortunate Columbia student’s murder during a Craigslist deal-gone-bad.

  Shaking off such disturbing thoughts, I buried my hands in my pockets, trying to blend in with the sky’s darkening veil, and marched to the bus stop a half-block away. Two minutes later, the bus arrived with a hiss, and I climbed aboard, paid my fare, and found a seat. Following the directions from my phone, I got off at Frederick Douglass Boulevard, leading me to dilapidated streets with sketchy, dark buildings, the kind of rough neighborhoods you saw on Cops.

  I tried to walk down the sidewalk in a narrow, straight line to avoid undue attention. A nearby street lamp barely illuminated the shadows from my footsteps. I kept my head down and to the side, relying on my peripheral vision to detect any approaching dangers. Behind me, a couple in black, puffy jackets stumbled out of a Mexican restaurant, clutching their takeout boxes. They hailed a taxi and quickly got in. I wished I could afford a cab. Right now, I would like nothing more than to take it back to Columbia, back to my room, so I could safely wiggle under the warm comforters.

  Turning on Frederick Douglass Boulevard, I searched apartment numbers for 308 West 154th Street. The red brick buildings all looked identical except for the people sitting on the porch steps. Some of them spoke to each other, barely tossing me a glance, while others stared ahead as if on guard duty. They gave me dirty looks, suspicious of my every step.

  Then he jump out of alley, knife in hand! Halmuni’s voice screamed in my head.

  I sped up my walk. 300. 302. 304. Almost there. Don’t make eye contact with anyone. Pretend like you know what you’re doing. Keep your chin up. Dogs—and people—can smell fear. From the corner of my vision, I noticed a middle-aged man wearing a grey sweatshirt and plaid pajama pants. His grey sweatshirt said, “Don’t Follow Me, I’m Lost” which made me let out a chuckle because I was, too. He must have heard me because he turned and gave me a cold leer. I looked away and walked even faster.

  I was practically running to the address the bike seller had given me, but I wasn’t sweating. Although it was the end of summer, the temperature had dropped since morning, and I found myself shivering. I should have taken B.B.’s advice and bought a bulkier, pricier jacket. I already needed to subtract 20 degrees from the actual temperature to compensate for my native Southern California upbringing.

  My teeth began chattering, and I could see my breath. I shoved my fingers deeper in my thin pockets to keep them warm. Every sound, from a window opening to a whisper, alerted me to someone nearby who I thought would most definitely assault me.

  But I had to keep walking. I had come all this way so I couldn’t give up now. Plus, the price of this bike seemed reasonable. What if bike prices kept going up on Craigslist? I couldn’t reduce any more numbers from my other budget boxes. I was already pushing things close. If some unforeseen emergency arose, I’d be in big trouble.

  At last, I arrived at 308 West 154th Street. Rusty gates outlined the exposed brick building. Black trash bags lined the nearby sidewalk, their blue strings pointing toward the street crammed with parked cars. Some of the bags looked only half-empty and fluttered as the cold wind shifted them side to side. It wasn’t just the prospect of a scary encounter with this Craigslist guy that had me on edge. Loneliness had already caught up to me. I missed the familiarity and safety of home.

  I pushed open the gate and walked up to the front step, noticing a broken pot with soil sprinkling a sodden WELCOME mat. I pushed the buzzer for Apartment 2B, which had “Doyle,” the last name from the ad, written on tape beside it. The door unlocked with a startling vibration much louder than the buzzer.

  Entering the foyer, I noticed random graffiti. Mangled letters made up a language I didn’t understand, and abstract symbols marred the concrete walls. I pulled my hoodie down to hide my face as I stepped over a Big Gulp soda, its straw broken in pieces beside it. I raised my fist at the door with peeling green paint the color of rotting cucumber skin.

  Before my knuckles met wood, the door opened. Behind it stood who I guessed was Tim Doyle. Balding on top, he had a crown of reddish fuzz extending from ear to ear. Beneath the fluorescent lights, his pale complexion looked waxy. He wore a leather jacket one size too small for his beer belly. The leather made a crackly squeaking sound when he stuck out his hand to greet me.

  I shook his hand. “Hi, I’m Kelly. The person interested in the bike?”

  He made some kind of movement with his mouth as if he were chewing an imaginary piece of gum, loosely holding onto the edge of my fingers in a shake before grabbing the door again.

  “It’s in the back.” The gruffness of his voice matched his tall stature.

  And this is how one of Halmuni’s stories start.

  I glanced past him, into a room that had probably not seen a carpet cleaning since the previous tenant. This section also seemed to be a storage space for spare vehicle parts. I detected oil mixed with cigarettes. I returned my hands to my pockets, wondering how fast I could dial 911 without him noticing.

  “I think I’ll wait out here,” I said calmly so as not to project any hint of the fear causing my heart to pound in my ears.

  I heard a sound from the apartment behind me. Glancing back, I saw a Hispanic woman with a bag of groceries. She tucked them under her chin and fiddled with her keys at the door. I mentally volunteered her as someone who might help if I screamed.

  Tim moved his jaw again in that funny way of his. “All right, I’ll bring it to you.” He headed back inside, closing the door in my face.

  I let out a deep breath. If he wanted to hurt me, he would’ve tried to get me to come in, right?

  I looked back down the now empty hallway. My first day at Columbia and here I was, standing in what could have been a drug den. Someone in the apartment above me moved a chair. The scratching sound seemed to trail across the top of my head.

  Tim opened the door again. “Here she is.”

  He suddenly wore a big smile, exposing slightly yellowed teeth and receding gums as he rolled out a bike.

  A bike, not the bike I saw on Craigslist.

  I stared at it. Painted with dozens of bugs running up and down the body, the word MANTIS stretched across the side in black, block letters. As Tim released one of his hands, he revealed a large protruding plastic insect head mounted between the bars like the bike’s very own hood ornament. How could I possibly ride this eyesore to class? This wasn’t a bike. It was a two-wheeled freak show.

  “$180. Like we said.” Tim hovered over the vehicle in a protective stance, as if my thin, frame could somehow wrest it from him.

  “Um, this isn’t what you put on Craigslist. You advertised a shiny, almost new, blue bike. I did not come all the way over here to buy this—joke!” I was furious and determined not to be bullied. Like B.B. said, I needed to toughen up and show some moxie.

  “Oh, that bike. I got that in the back, too. But that one’s $
300. This one’s the $180 deal.”

  “But that’s not what I—”

  “Listen,” he cut me off, “I don’t care what you think you saw on the ad.” He walked closer to me and I could smell his B.O. Although I was five-foot seven, he towered over me. I knew this type of guy. He was a bully, like the ones at school, and was looking for an excuse—any excuse —to pick a fight. So, I changed my tack and used my “be as sweet as possible” approach.

  “I’m a college student on a budget. And I don’t really want to go biking around at Columbia on an ... insect.”

  “Mantis. Like a praying mantis.”

  “Right. You can imagine it might look a bit silly for a grown woman to be riding around on something like this?”

  He smirked. “Go to Columbia, huh? You one of those stuck-up smarty pants snobs?”

  “No. And that isn’t my point. I’m saying it would be embarrassing to ride a bike with a mantis head on the middle.”

  He whistled. “Excuse me. Didn’t know who I was dealing with.”

  “Look. I just want a bike. A ‘normal’ bike.”

  He rolled it out toward me. “And here it is.”

  I looked up at him. He straddled the bike, still standing inches above it, pretending to steer it like some high school kid. “This could be you,” he said, adding sound effects. “Errr! Err! You’ll be the cool one cruising to class, studying microbiology or some shit.”

  I didn’t have the courage to tell him he looked anything but cool, so I just crossed my arms and looked coldly into his eyes.

  “Okay, okay,” he said. “I’ll take $20 off. And. And ... I will throw in this.”

  He rested the handlebars against the door, then disappeared down the hallway. I was afraid he was going to bring out some kind of bug helmet.

  I sighed, leaning against the door, the top of my hoodie resting against a sticker of a smiley face with a bullet shot through it.

  The floor vibrated as he came back out and tossed me a white mesh basket. It reminded me of the one attached to the pink tricycle my dad used to push me in. Near the house I grew up in was a stretch of lawn where I always grabbed sunflowers. I’d stuff them in the basket, then ride back up the hill to show my dad. When I was finally big enough for a bike without training wheels, he gave me one with a basket brimming with fake flowers as our little joke. I knew Tim’s basket, scuffed with black stains and bent edges, would probably not offer so many happy memories.

  Tim clasped the basket onto the handlebars, careful not to disturb the mantis head. “You must have a lotta books, right? Being so smart and all?”

  “I have a backpack.”

  “Bad for your back. Just put ‘em in here.” He flashed that yellow toothed smile again. “I’m really giving you a bargain. Bike and basket. Who could ask for more?”

  I pointed to the insect head on the handlebars. “It even comes with this,” hoping he’d catch my sarcasm.

  He raised his arms triumphantly. “I know!” Good God, he genuinely thought the mantis head was awesome.

  I felt deflated. Then I looked down at the bike. Or, more accurately, The Mantis.

  Well, at least it has a basket.

  CHAPTER SIX

  I pedaled faster and faster beside the campus sidewalk, hoping the wind might rip the “Mantis” paint of the bicycle’s aluminum alloy frame. I had managed to remove the insect head the night before with a screwdriver I borrowed from the RA on my floor. My roommate still hadn’t showed up, and I didn’t want her first impression of me to be strongly associated with a green carnivorous insect.

  My phone buzzed in my back-jean pocket. I stopped suddenly—too suddenly. It almost made my books catapult out of the white, mesh basket. I couldn’t believe I was actually using this thing, but Tim was right. Carrying all those books in a backpack really did hurt my spine.

  I picked up my phone. Unknown number. Area code 917. I stopped, peering over to the hall with the widest steps—easier for kids to sit and study in solitary without being tempted to talk to one another. A bunch of them sat with backpacks hunched over their shoulders, whispering to themselves or reading.

  I planted one foot in the grass and the other on the concrete, slowly lowering my bike to the pavement.

  “Hello?”

  “Kelly? This is Sophia from Poseidon—B.B.’s friend,” she said, in what sounded like a British accent.

  “Hi, Sophia—”

  She cut me off in mid-sentence. “I need you to come to the restaurant right now.”

  “I thought we were meeting on Thursday ...”

  “Leo, I told you to put that over there!” she yelled to someone off-phone. “Oh, my God, he is such an idiot.” Poor Leo, I thought. I pictured a busboy just starting off. “As I was saying, I need you here ASAP so we can get your HR stuff processed.”

  I could hear the clang and clatter of activity in the restaurant around Sophia. The ambient buzz of chatter mixed with pulsing, bass-heavy music made it sound as if she was moving through the heart of a packed nightclub.

  “Sure, I can do that.” I really wanted to go to freshman orientation and meet my roommate, but it was more important to get on Sophia’s good side.

  “Fabulous. See you soon.”

  “And should I bring—” But she had hung up. “...anything?” I whispered, putting the phone back in my pocket.

  Turning my head, I noticed several female freshmen awkwardly trying to make conversation with each other, their topics shifting quickly from music to majors to the best sororities to rush. On one level, I wished I could join in, but, never having had much time to socialize as a teenager, I lacked the skills to be “one of the girls” and didn’t even know how to start. That was fine. The point of being here was to do well academically, get into a top law school, and move Halmuni into a nice house with a yard so she didn’t have to age in a grimy K-Town apartment.

  More girls joined in the conversation, so right before they got any louder, I plugged in my earbuds, blasting my workout playlist. The bass kicked in to Justin Timberlake’s Can’t Stop the Feeling, matching the timing of my knees circling the pedals. I tightened the jacket tied around my waist, feeling grateful for the sun’s rays. The temperature was probably only in the mid-60s, but it was a whole lot better than the biting cold from last night.

  Veering off campus onto a side street felt like stepping out of a quiet museum into the middle of a crowded intersection. Passing the South Lawn, I rode onto Columbus Avenue and into Morningside Park as I continued south. The dappling sunlight made the park’s grass look freshly mowed, and the pond buzzed with ducks and geese. Paved paths weaved around beautiful landscaping with historical statues rising atop concrete staircases. A dog tried to chase down my wheels before becoming distracted by a flock of frightened birds. I turned down my music to hear the quiet from the park, actually enjoying the occasional bark or flapping wing. This picturesque spot was the exact opposite of Tim’s Harlem neighborhood, and I loved it.

  I sped faster and faster along Columbus Avenue and finally slowed to turn onto West 83rd Street, pausing to make sure the pedestrians who wanted to cross did so. Seeing my chance to finally make the turn, I was about to resume peddling when, out of nowhere, a sports car came zipping up from behind and swerved around the corner, coming so close I could feel the air whoosh as it passed.

  I gasped, swinging my handlebars far to the left and immediately losing my balance. My forearm hit the pavement first, then my wrist slammed beneath the handle bar.

  I stayed on the ground motionless as people buzzed past my head, the street now completely perpendicular to my sightline. Once I realized what had happened and remembered to breathe, I untangled my legs from the wheel, pushing myself off the ground. I winced with pain. My scraped knee was bleeding into my sock.

  “Whoa, you okay?” asked a slender hipster with eyeliner and orange hair.

  I started to respond, but he didn’t wait for my answer. Like the other people from the intersection, he dashed across to
make the light.

  I took off my helmet and examined my body for any other injuries. I started to reach down for my twisted bike when I noticed the maniac speed racer’s car was parked on the next side street, arrogantly occupying a spot with a sign reading Loading Zone Only. I was almost blinded by the deep, royal blue of the car. Then a young, dark-haired man flew out of the driver’s side. He and his luxury vehicle both looked like they just wrapped filming a James Bond movie.

  I pulled my bike closer, glaring at him as he ran to join me. His hair was thick and dark, and he had a traditionally handsome chiseled face that only male models usually enjoyed, but you could tell he didn’t make much of an effort to try to look good—he didn’t need to. His tall build fit perfectly in what I assumed was a very expensive suit.

  “Oh my God, are you okay? I am sooooo sorry.” His voice was deep but warm.

  His outfit and assertive posture made him appear older until I glanced at his eyes and realized that he must be in his twenties. They seemed to still be questioning, like he was hoping for something.

  I grabbed the handlebars to see if they still worked and then squeezed the tires to make sure that they weren’t flat.

  “I really didn’t, you were in my blind spot and—oh, no. Look at you!”

  He pulled a white handkerchief from his pocket, knelt down and pressed it against my scraped knee. I stared at him. What young guy carries a handkerchief? Was this a New Yorker thing? I’m sure if I told B.B. this, B.B. would have guffawed and said that this guy was either a sissy or had some germ phobia.

  “Why were you going so fast?” I fumed, pulling my leg away. I glanced over at his car. Its vertically opening doors looked as if they could sprout wings and fly.

  “I’m late for an appointment. But that’s no excuse.”