Him: So your goin where?

Me: To NYC

Him: For how long?

Me: As long as it takes

I dropped the phone on the bed and looked at my disaster of a room, desperately trying to piece together something cool from the lame selection of boot-cut jeans, polo shirts and Old Navy tees I'd pulled from drawers.

The phone rang (playing Taylor Swift's "Welcome to New York" for inspiration) and I knew it would be Benji. There was no chance he was letting me off the hook with the bomb I'd dropped seconds earlier. I dug the phone out from in between my 200 stuffed animals—they kept on multiplying even though my grandmother knew I'd stopped playing with them over a decade ago—and answered.       "Hey ... can't talk now. Am totally late. My bus leaves in two hours and I haven't finished packing yet."

"Who's this? I'm looking for Catherine. You know, the girl who lives at home with her parents and whose idea of adventure is walking to Wawa at 10pm for a blue raspberry slushie?"

 "Benji! I don't have time for this! Listen, can I call you from the bus?"

Okay, so I was being a bit evasive. But evasive is good. I mean, aren't girls supposed to be mysterious every once in a while? Aren't we supposed to keep them guessing? I could hear my mother's voice in my head: Catherine, it's not nice to tease your boyfriend. But Benji wasn't my boyfriend ... exactly. He was just a "boy" who was also a "friend," who just happened to be someone I kissed a few times (ok, five times to be exact, but who's counting?). So what did I owe him? I wasn't obligated to update him on every little twist and turn in my life.

"So, when were you going to tell me?" he said, the sound of his voice changing from playful to slightly awkwardly serious. "After you'd been receiving mail at some New York address? And what about school?!"

That, right there, was the reason I conveniently "forgot" to tell Benji about my plans. Sure, he knew I wanted to move to New York City someday. He just didn't know that "someday" was, like, a week from Tuesday. I resisted telling him because I was sure he would object. After all, "Benjamin Darling, III"—as his mother insisted on calling him in her high-pitched northeastern cant—had his act together in the more traditional sense. He was going to be a senior at Villanova University on track to become a high school English teacher. The minute I told him about my outrageous decision I knew he'd launch into a sermon that would sound much like my dad's. And, to be honest, I couldn't endure one more soapbox speech after hearing approximately five hundred of them all summer long.

 "School can wait," I said. "Besides, I'm only 18—I have the rest of my life for school." I braced myself and waited for the avalanche of judgment.

But there was no lecture. No speech. Just  ... static. And then more static.

 "Hello? Are you still there? Are you breathing? Do you need CPR?" I asked, half joking, half serious.

"Wow—I'm just surprised," he said, his voice cracking a bit. "That's a really bold move, Catherine. I hope it works out for you."

"That's it?" I said, slightly miffed. I guess I expected him to put up more of a fight. Or at least lecture me on the virtues of higher education. Or maybe act like he might miss me in even a teeny, weenie way. "You're not going to tell me I'm being a complete idiot? That I'm making the biggest mistake of my life?"

"No, I'm not."

I replayed the conversation over and over again in my mind during the cab ride to the Greyhound bus station. I insisted that my parents not drive me there, because I knew my mother would get all dramatic and emotional at the gate and be totally ridiculously embarrassing as if I was moving to Guam or something. Besides, they'd be up that weekend to deliver the rest of my stuff. I knew I could have waited for them, but the anticipation was killing me.

At the bus terminal, I began to feel queasy, like I was going to hurl right then and there in front of a group of Japanese tourists who would no doubt have cameras at the ready in case I made a spectacle of myself worthy of YouTube. I sat down on one of those 1980s plastic stadium chairs that were bolted to the ground and tried to keep my cool, looking out the window and thinking about butterflies and rainbows and puppies and anything other than moving to a big city all by myself.

A station attendant's voice blasted through the loudspeaker, further setting me on edge, and the announcement was made that a northbound bus from Washington to New York Penn Station had arrived.

AGH. This is it. My ride.

Breathe, Catherine. Breathe.

I stood on Jell-O legs and dragged my suitcases over to the outdoor boarding area where the driver was taking tickets. As I waited—reminding myself that I could always hop back on the bus and, in two hours, have a home-cooked meal and my raggedy old Barney pillow for comfort—I noticed a mob of people gesturing toward something from behind. I turned to look, just as the tourists started rolling their cameras and clicking away.

Inside the waiting area, a guy was pressed up against the window, sucking face with the glass. His body turned and contorted in crazy positions, as he smooched the pane. At first, it was hard to get a good look, but then I noticed the farmer's tan, the light-brown locks, the deep-set blue eyes and comical expression when he pulled away (looking quite pleased with himself!).

Oh. My. Gawd. You've got to be kidding me: BENJI!

When he saw that he'd finally gotten my attention (more like, my mortified reaction), he grabbed a poster off the ground and held it above his head. In bold black letters, it read:

DON'T FORGET THE LITTLE PEOPLE.

Beneath it, a tiny red arrow pointed down, toward his head. 

I burst out laughing, unable to maintain my horror and embarrassment at this performance. A security guard came up from behind Benji and not-so-politely motioned toward the exit. I quickly turned away, so as not to be associated with this little display, and handed the driver my boarding pass, now drenched in sweat from my cold, clammy hands.

I boarded the bus, still feeling like I might collapse at any moment. But at least now, I could breathe again. 

***

117 Leonard Street was a lonely tenement on a block plagued by dilapidated projects and burned-out garages in the Williamsburg section of Brooklyn. The apartment building, once teetering on the brink of demolition, had received a facelift from anxious real estate developers looking to revive the "Burg" as hipsters — who flocked to the borough in droves — called it.

Across the street from the apartment building was a liquor store (which we soon discovered sold more than just alcohol after hours), a junkyard with a chained-up pit bull, and, a few blocks up, subsidized housing.

As I struggled down the street with my belongings, after a nerve-wracking cab ride in which the driver got us lost and dumped me three blocks from my destination, the locals' eyes were on me. They followed me from row house to row house, as I strived to keep my bearing—and my nerve. From a nearby playground, someone shouted, "Hey, Big Bird!" I cringed. Even 100 miles from home, I couldn't escape the taunting nickname that had tormented me since childhood.

It felt like I'd walked thirty miles in the desert by the time I reached the fourth-floor apartment and knocked. An old-fashioned peephole slid open to reveal a flutter of thick caterpillar lashes sweeping across a penetrating eye.

"Jon-Michelle? It's me, Catherine."

Silence ... and then a look of recognition, thank God.

"Oh, hiii, Catherine!" she said, pulling the door open, wearing a teeny lace camisole with matching hot pants. "I wasn't expecting you till later!" She smiled and her lips revealed a full mouth of perfectly placed Chiclets.

Inside the apartment, white, freshly painted walls met newly laid hardwood floors. The midmorning sunlight streaked through three floor-to-ceiling windows. I watched as the beams riveted across the floor in a dizzying kaleidoscope. The spacious, airy room gave the appearance of sturdy modern craftsmanship rather than what it really was—a thin veil of plaster masking a structural oddity. Stepping forward, I tripped on a board that jutted out.

"Be careful, the floors are really uneven," Jon-Michelle said, pointing to a plant that was sitting on the ground, cocked to one side. "And watch your head on the ceiling, it slants! I swear, this place was built by elves on acid!" she said, rolling her eyes. "Welcome to the funhouse!"

From the bedroom, a 20-something in boxer briefs, and nothing else, emerged. Jon-Michelle introduced him as Eric. He was your typical blond-hair, blue-eyed pretty boy and, as I guessed, a model as well.

"Want the grand tour?" Jon-Michelle asked me, waving Eric off as he tried to wrap his arms around her waist.

The kitchenette, a tiny two-by-four at the end of the room, was equipped with a new stove, refrigerator, and a flimsy butcher block on wheels that teetered from side to side when you stepped at various spots on the floor. On the other side of the room was a wrought-iron daybed—my new sleeping quarters. The small adjacent room was Jon-Michelle's room. In it, there was a gigantic sleigh bed that fit flush to the walls, making it nearly impossible for anyone to walk around it. The solid oak structure had been a gift from a former boyfriend, she said. It had a matching armoire cramped in the corner that hovered over it like the Leaning Tower of Pisa.

In the bathroom, the tub appeared clean and new (thank goodness)—freshly mounted, with powdery white clay collected at the bottom of the basin and a sparkly, silver-plated showerhead that hung above. I looked at myself in the mirror. My pale skin seemed opalescent, almost blue under the neon lights that sprung from the cabinet with copper plugs and wires popping out like broken jack-in-the-boxes. I studied my sallow reflection, searching for a sign of strength. My cheeks were flushed but a coolness ran over me. I pushed my mousy brown locks away from my face, and stared at my reflection. This was it; my new life. The tomorrow I had been waiting for.

"Isn't she adorable, Eric?" Jon-Michelle said, as she came up behind me. "When we met, I just knew she'd be great for high fashion." She turned and whispered to me that Eric had just finished up a campaign for Hollister.

 "You'd do great in Japan," he said to me, flashing his hundred-dollars-an-hour smile. "They dig girls with pale skin and large, exaggerated eyes. Like Japanamation."

"She'll do just fine here," Jon-Michelle said, tapping my shoulder.

It sort of felt like an out-of-body experience to have Jon-Michelle, a certifiable cool girl, take an interest in me—a person who, until now, had never quite been able to overcome my second-class social status.

Being a late-bloomer (and, well, the "freaky tall chick") meant I pretty much lost out on most normal teen milestones—like dates to dances, invites to co-ed parties (after all, what boy wants to grope a double-A cup in the dark during 7 minutes in heaven?), and, of course, eating lunch with the cool kids in the cafeteria. By the time I finally started to "blossom" as my mother put it, it was too late to climb the social ladder—the girls had me labeled and the boys weren't interested. They liked the short, cute cheerleader types with the big boobs and the bleached blonde hair. And the tattoos.

(I thought about getting a tattoo once—one of those little Chinese characters that said "peace" or "love"—but my mother would have cried herself into a nervous breakdown and my father would have grounded me for life.)

So I just flew under the radar, hanging out with the quiet, nerdy types from my AP classes, but secretly forming crushes on the brooding poets or the depressed Goths, whom, I imagined, were equally misunderstood.

That's why when Jon-Michelle showed an interest in me (in, of all things, rooming with me), I was a bit weary of her motives. What was in it for her?

"She's my next project!" Jon-Michelle explained to Eric.

Eric shot me an "Is she serious?" look.

I shrugged my shoulders.

"Oh, come on, she's new to New York. I'm going to give her all the dirty details of how things work up here."

A veteran of the modeling world at just 21, Jon-Michelle knew what designers were looking for. Perhaps she thought of me as that somewhat awkward, ugly duckling (let's face it, my Lauren Conrad á la Kohl's wardrobe could use a little help) who might someday become a beautiful (or, at least, less awkward) swan. At least I hope that's what she thought.

"Just tell me what to do," I said with an awkward laugh, half-kidding. If Jon-Michelle wanted me as her pet project, so be it. I was gonna need all the help I could get.

I dragged my bags into my closet of a room and started to unpack my things, listening to the two of them talk about how someone might go about getting a New York agent (which, Jon-Michelle promised, she'd explain later in laymen's terms).  About a half hour into the discussion, Eric realized that he was late for a shoot. He ran back into the bedroom and threw on a pair of skinny jeans and a graphic Rolling Stones tee before coming back to plant a long, wet kiss on Jon-Michelle's lips. I tried not to gape as she returned the gesture with long, wet kiss of her own.

After he left, I turned to her, slightly confused. "Eric's nice, but I thought you said your boyfriend's name was Ian?"

"Oh, it is," she said, with a mischievous grin. "Eric and I are just friends."

Oh, right ... silly me.

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