Chapter Five | Hot Rod

♫ Hot Rod by Dayglow

They say that everyone has two births— the birth of the body and the birth of the mind. From four years of age and onward you start to become aware of yourself and make real memories, rather than loose, arbitrary points of recognition in the mind and weak strings attaching them.

Some claim to remember, like this guy on Tik Tok who described a hardware store in Maryland and his uncle, and looking at his palms and feeling his chest heave. Another mentioned a car ride and a purple hued sky with smudges of pink and shades of orange on the horizon. Another, a normal evening in the living room, a cup of warm milk and a Disney movie.

I can't really remember who I was as a child.

Throw that onto a platform like Tumblr and they'll diagnose you with three different illnesses and mention unprocessed trauma, but it's true. I can't really imagine anyone having vivid visions like the internet people do, I don't know what I liked and did all day except play with my siblings and watch them draw or watch movies. It's not substantial— it's as loose as the pre-mind-birth stage of being alive.

I know what people have told me about myself. I ask my parents and they say, Nova, you were a lovely and brave little girl. And I listen to it like they're describing a movie, unable to imagine the main character is me.

Sometimes I wake up in the morning and can't imagine living before. Like all my memories are just information and codes, like I'm walking and seeing and eating for the first time. Then at night I vow that tomorrow will look different, and it does. As if I caught the universe granting me a vision I shouldn't have, as if it was a glitch of consciousness. It's no wonder half the internet believes to some extent that we live in a simulation. There's too many of them— glitches— and too many mistakes, and the cosmos can't possibly invent an experience quite as intricate. Or a rush of emotions, of wrongness, quite as off-putting.

But I slipped into puberty with time, a pimple-faced, braces-wearing, pigtailed thirteen-year-old hauling orthopedic boots with her each day. People used to cringe away at each step, physically and obviously, as I trotted by. I once got asked if walking was considered a workout and said yes, unaware it was a joke, because weeks before my physicist had actually told me that moving in general was exercise enough for me. You know, considering.

I was unattractive to befriend. That's what I remember and can only assume. Maybe when I was smaller and it was still just cute to see me struggle through my life was I somewhat of a magnet to my peers, but when you get older it works the opposite way. It's not cute, it's just annoying. And it's not fun, it's embarrassing. You get to a point of new beginnings in which everyone is eager to reinvent themselves, appear more grown-up and serious and responsible, and that's where you get stranded. You can replace your butterfly clips with bobby pins, but you can't replace your orthopedic shoes— built-in braces and all— with the new Converse and skinny jeans. So, there, have fun getting stuck in an eternal fifth-grade universe while your friends go off discovering makeup and boys and high-end fashion (or, fakes thereof).

I think that's where my mind birth happened. It explains my lack of memories before, like that's when I started making them. One of Carter Wilkin, shouting "I heard nothing she said!" after my end-of-the-year history presentation, prompting the entire class to burst into fits of laughter and my teacher giggling but telling me it's fine. Of dropping mac and cheese in the cafeteria and then proceeding to slip on it, over and over again. Of being followed by a middle-aged man at fourteen when I lost my way a town over, until he caught up with me and insisted on tying my shoelaces. I thought he was going to murder me but instead he started telling me about his brother, also disabled, and I was rescued by a woman who looked like my mom and asked if I knew the guy. The worst part? I was upset over the fact that he wasn't just a regular old creep, but that even in public, as a young girl, all people saw was something that needed fixing. I couldn't even relate to others when it came to being a teenaged girl in America.

So, you grow up, then, and there's an eagerness to it. Like the internalized misogyny of subconsciously associating being catcalled and sexualized with being validated in your womanhood, even when no-one's around you adjust your stance and facial expression because the male gaze is everlasting, like you're nothing unless approved of in the most disgusting, patriarchic manner. I used to practice in my room, try to control how I'd be perceived, and then wait until it happened to me. It never did and instead of feeling lucky, I felt like I wasn't good enough.

Then comes, inevitably, the attention of men. A teacher in high school. A classmate. A boy at the grocery store an aisle over. Since that man followed me I discovered that I tended to look over my shoulder twice, I read too much into it when a teacher asked me to stay behind after class but had no friends to wait for me, always terrified because by then, in retrospect, I'd realized that I should be scared. To be followed is one thing, to find yourself so lucky as to have his motives be something as innocent (as genuine, non-harmful) is another. All of a sudden I became hyper-aware of how wrong it could've gone, and could still go. Because, if someone with the wrong intentions were to creep up behind me, I'd never had and never would have the legs to run.

By the time Logan came around, I was still scared.

He'd been insistent, committed, call it what you want. Sat behind me during algebra and then next to me during English and attempted, heartwarmingly, to strike up conversations with me I awkwardly tended to reject at sixteen. Where others got the hint and moved on, Logan had almost seemed amused at my efforts. I mean, I guess I get it. He could find his seat with the wrestling team within minutes and be accepted in a second, but where's the fun in that?

No, there was me, and Logan was absolutely certain he'd win my trust. Two years later, I can only give in and say he did. Since both of my siblings had graduated by the time he came around, I used to spend my lunch breaks in the library or on the bleachers or, if both were at their full capacity and/or the winter was cold and unforgiving, even a restroom stall. Tray on my lap (clothed, you freak), the door locked like in the movies. Not because of some sort of self-pity, but because I truly didn't have anyone to sit with, and to claim an entire lunch table for yourself (trust me, no group will just sit with you), that's even worse than exiting a stall while wiping breadcrumbs off of the corner of your mouth and carrying a red lunch tray underneath your arm as you wash your hands. At least at my school, it was. But he claimed a table for the two of us and since he was new meat and crazy interesting to our small high school, the athletic crowd followed. They didn't talk to me unless Logan specifically involved me in the conversation, but they were generally pretty nice since then. I guess for the rest of junior year and senior year, it secured a less pathetic stance for me. I was neutral. Neutral Nova: Logan's friend, Flynn and Sofia's little sister.

I remained Logan's friend even to last summer, a week after graduation. Turned out he lived a few houses over, mine blue on the edge of the beach and his white a three-minute walk away, so we'd met on the hot sand in our swimming suits with folding chairs and music and sunscreen, and he'd shown me the e-mail. "New York University's athletic program is excited to welcome you on the team, and hereby invites you to the initiation camp in Jersey during the introduction week". Something along those lines.

He'd been so excited, he couldn't even sit still. I didn't have the heart to beg him not to go and make me spend the introduction week without him, so I cheered with him and helped him pack and well, that was that. At least we'd still had the summer. Him, buzzing with excitement, counting the days, and me, feeling extremely ill at the thought of having to acquaint myself with New York without the guy I was now apparently too dependent of. So, that was a great realization, too.

At least I have somewhat of an excuse. I had doctor's appointments (Hyde). Full days of activities (the actual introduction part). And if Logan hadn't come back from camp earlier, I'd probably go to Brooklyn on my own today, but since he's here, why not seize the opportunity and drag him to the hospital with me?

I left the dorm early. Even Olivia wasn't up yet when I showered and the dining hall had barely opened. I bought a tumbler from the campus shop a few days ago, because I discovered that in order to get your breakfast you have to fill an open cup and then put it on your tray and then carry that tray to a table. I'd rather not try something I know I lack the hands for and instead bought something I could at least shut, so that if it falls over I won't relive my middle school mac and cheese moment.

And now I stand at the open mouth of the closest subway entrance, where Logan's supposed to emerge from in a while. The sun rises quickly, drenching me in orange and pinks and then finally a slow gold, and the sidewalks grow busier and chattier until I'm pushed against buildings, straining my neck to keep an eye on the subway. The day is clear and fresh, I suppose the storm that was supposed to sweep over Logan's campsite has skipped Manhattan.

I have my tumbler in one hand, filled to the brim with warm chocolate milk, and my purse slung over my shoulders. What I suspect is that he'll want to go to his dorm and drop off his stuff, maybe take a shower, and then I can propose the idea of him going to Brooklyn with me today. I've even mapped out our route, so that on our way back, if we have a day left, we can tour the sights together. You don't go to New York with your best friend and skip the Statue of Liberty and Times Square and (my favorite) Central Park. I've always seen it as an experience that'll only strengthen our bonds to the city and each other. It's such an iconic bucket list item.

Finally, a flash of purple appears and then is swallowed by the crowd. Very well knowing it could've been an NYU hoodie I leap forward, grinning. And indeed— Logan Peterson stands in the midst of the group, his blond hair tussled and eyes tired and red, his lip pulled inwards as he scans the crowd and then finds me.

For a split-second recognition dawns on his face, but when someone pushes up against me from behind he moves towards me quickly and immediately pulls me to him until he's embracing me and shielding me at the same time.

I hear some strangers utter some curse words at his lack of care and at the space we're inhabiting on the sidewalk, but I'm too distracted by the relief that I feel at finally being reunited with him.

He pulls back and looks at me, something flickering in his diamond eyes. "You look great, Nova," he compliments, twirling a piece of my hair on his fingers and smiling. "I haven't been able to stop thinking about you this week, but I see you don't need me at all."

He then flings an arm around my shoulders and we start down the sidewalk as I find his hand by the side of my neck and hold it.

"I suppose I've managed," I begin, smiling back at him. "But I've missed you."

He looks down at me. "So, how has it been? Are you familiar enough to give me the tour now? You know, I'm lucky. The guys—" he nods to the rest of the team, several paces ahead of us—"Don't have someone like you to show them around. The freshmen, at least."

"I know my way around. But I have to credit my roommate for that, too. And some of the other friends I've made. They've hauled me with them this week, after a while you just remember." The first purple NYU flag waves us closer, grazing the leaves of a tree and the frame of the window next to it. I recognize the building instantly, it was one Kaitlyn in particular was very excited about. "See, this is the Silver Center for Arts and Science, where I'll end up like Kaitlyn," I tell Logan, and he laughs at that. "And if you go forward and then take the left, around Washington Square Park, you end up at the NYU Arts and Science building. But we have to go forward, that's where Weinstein Hall is, my dormitory."

"And where's my dormitory, grand tour master?" Logan teases, but I see how impressed he is with me and also kind of solemn. Maybe he's upset I've had all week to find my way and he didn't. He shields it. "I'm in, uh." He pulls his phone from the front pocket of his jeans and then says, "Brittany Hall."

"I know that the NYU Palladium Athletic Facility is further up north, closer to Union Square Park, so considering your scholarship it must be between there and Washington Square, but I've never been." We stop on the sidewalk when we realize neither of us know where we're going if not my dormitory, this time attempting to make some space for others by stepping further to the buildings.

"I'll call Chad and ask," Logan tells me. He momentarily looks up from his phone screen, squinting his eyes at the sun behind me. "Yet."

"What?"

"You haven't been to Brittany Hall, yet. We'll have to balance our hangout spots, you know. You'll have to come to mine sometimes. This isn't the beach."

I feel my cheeks heat up at the suggestion, so nonchalantly delivered. I imagine myself clumsily making my way to his dorm, strutting along the streets on my own, a girl in a world city who has somewhere to be. It's a long way from eating lunch in a toilet stall in high school.

"Okay." But Logan already has his phone pressed against his ear, elbow in the air like my dad does when he's calling people, looking around as I wait.

"Hey man, where am I supposed to go?... Alright. Yeah, I see it. Cool. Alright." Then he hangs up, readjusts his bag strap on his shoulder, and motions for me to come with him.

"I don't understand how that was a conversation," I admit, and he laughs.

Now that my nerves have somewhat subsided and Logan is actually underneath my touch again, I feel calm and content enough to feel an ease as we walk. There's always an unsafety to walking alone, with nobody to hold onto or at least close enough to reach out to. I'm always plagued with a feeling of uncertainty and simultaneously fragility, like the force of the wind or a soft knock of a stranger might be enough to cause my knees to buckle, sweep me off my feet and hurl me onto the pavement. Part of not having a trustworthy body, then, is not being able to trust it to keep me standing, always requiring a fistful of someone else's steadiness to feel normal enough. My mind is exhausted from keeping me afloat.

The avenue deepens. Logan's steps are big but he allows me to lean into him until it feels like his body absorbs the weight of my steps. Sometimes it surprises me how well-adjusted he has grown to be to me during the past two years. Kind of like Milo reading my mind in the café yesterday, carrying my drink and then pushing it close to me. It's rare to find somebody who grows to be in tune with you, or at least is willing to learn.

"So, how was your camp? What did you guys do?" His hand finds mine this time, his thumb caressing my knuckles as we move forward with the crowd like a wave. The team, previously in sight before us, is long gone but Logan now knows the way.

"We played, a lot. I guess the coaches wanted to get an idea of each of our stances. And there's this obvious hierarchy, not just on the field. I'm going to have to work my way up." His eyes glaze over as he thinks about the past week, pursing his lips.

"But it was fun?" I inquire, studying his hardened features.

"Sure." He doesn't say anything else, but his gaze softens when he notices my concern. "It was a good time. I made friends. The weather was nice to play in, up until last night. It's just a step up from high school, is all."

I lay my head against his arm. "You'll prove yourself worthy of the scholarship and have fun. In the meantime, there'll always be me to complain to."

I don't get a verbal reply from him, but his hand tightens around mine for a split second and his arm loses its rigidity against the side of my face. I imagine his soft smile, the one reserved just for me, and let him lead us to Brittany Hall in silence, both of us marveling over the sights.

Logan's dorm feels bigger than mine. Maybe because it's half-empty, the walls bare, his bedsheets plain and his desk empty. Even his dormmate, a guy called Wesley in his junior year, barely has any clutter scattered around the place.

I sit on Logan's bed as he empties the contents of his weekend bag on his desk chair. He sniffs a few shirts and throws some garments into the hamper in the corner of the room, and then pulls a towel from the drawer underneath his bed.

"I'll shower real fast," he assures me.

I take a whiff of the air and dramatically scrunch up my nose. "Please, take your time."

He rolls up the towel and hits my arm with it, scooping up some clothes and then disappearing into the small bathroom that he, too, shares with his neighbors. He leaves the door cracked open, allowing the steam to bellow from the space as soon as he turns on the shower. "What are your plans for today, aside from adoring me?" He asks loudly, an echo wrapping around him.

"Well, I have to go to Brooklyn in about an hour, for a doctor's visit at the hospital." I lean back against the wall, my feet barely dangling over the edge of his bed. I'm just five feet four and everything here, I've noticed, is quite huge. "I was actually about to ask if you'd come with me. Afterwards we can tour the sights, see Times Square and everything. I've even planned out the subway route so we can't get lost."

"Ahhh," he sighs.

I'm not sure if it's because of the hot water hitting his skin and muscles (they must be sore), or if it's a reaction to my suggestions. I wait a few beats.

"I'm not sure, Nov," then floats through the open door. "I'd come with you, but I'm so damn tired. I want to just crash for the rest of the weekend."

My stomach sinks. Just then I notice that the sky outside has been glossed over with a dark grey since we got inside, swollen with heavy clouds and a wind that knocks leaves off of trees. The last bit of blue is quick to be dampened, too. I realize that the storm that urged the team to return early hasn't skipped Manhattan at all, it's just taken its time reaching us.

"You're kidding me," I murmur, scooting to the edge of the bed and then moving to the window to press my nose to the glass. The sight of the street and umbrellas popping open blurs as I focus on the raindrops clattering against the window right in front of my eyes.

"Huh?" Logan's voice echoes from the bathroom.

"It's raining!" I raise my voice so he can hear me over both the shower and the weather and return to his bed, collapsing onto it with a grunt that escapes my mouth just when my phone buzzes in the pocket of my coat. I awkwardly roll onto my side to fish it out.

I find myself smiling as I open the conversation. My friendship with Milo has kind of developed the way I thought my friendship with Olivia would. He's the one I find in the dining hall for breakfast, who replies to my stories on Instagram and sends me random texts throughout the day to ask how I'm doing. Funny thing is, he barely even knows me, so this all should feel awkward— but it doesn't. It feels like he's just my friend.

It suddenly strikes me that I have the answer right in front of me. It only takes one glance out the window to fill me with dread about heading to Brooklyn on my own, but Milo has lived here since he was a kid. If Logan's occupied, and everyone else feels too far removed to consider, maybe asking to come with me wouldn't be so weird. Besides, he said it when I met him: the Milo Macarevich version of anything is the best version, guaranteed, and considering the turn of the weather and my not-so-extensive knowledge of New York commute, the best version would be great.

The door to the bathroom opens wider and Logan steps out, dressed in a fresh T-shirt and a pair of sweatpants. He's drying his hair with his towel when he notices me sprawled out over his bed and grins. "Canceling the hospital thing?"

I notice his eyes flicker between me and the window, and know that he's familiar with my tendency to cancel my plans if it keeps me out of the rain. "Actually, I just secured someone else to come with me. Milo said he'll be downstairs in about twenty minutes," I respond. I push myself up.

The smile slips from Logan's face. "Milo?" He tosses the towel onto his desk— boys— and lowers himself onto the bed next to me, sinking into his spot on the mattress. "Who's that?" He asks, half-surprised and half-offended that I'm not staying in with him, probably.

"Well, you know how dumb I am, I spilled my drink right before the tour so I missed it, but he was there to show me around anyway and we've been friends ever since. He's lived here forever so I figured, who else?"

Logan purses his lips. "I don't think that's a great idea, Nov. You don't let a guy you just met lead you around a foreign city. If you reschedule, I'll come with you."

I give him a look. "You don't know the city, either."

"I'll learn, then."

"That's very sweet, but I'm going today. You're not roping me back into my comfort zone when this week has been so revolutionary for me. I'm on a roll." I also want to just get everything over with while I can, but that doesn't sound as cool so I don't say it out loud. I bump my forehead with Logan's, who's taken to a ridiculous pouting.

A beat passes. Two. I raise both of my eyebrows at him and watch the determination take shape on his face.

"I'll come today anyway. Let me just get dressed."

But he was right when he said he was tired, especially now that he's showered and comfortable is it visible in the way his limbs look like weights, the way he's moving them.

I stand up in a flash and press both hands to his chest to push him back onto the bed. "Stay," I command sternly. "If it makes you feel any better, I can ask Milo to come up so you can visibly assess that he's not a threat. Will that make you simmer down?"

"He won't be a threat to me, Nova. I'll be a threat to him. He does anything remotely disgusting, I'll pull his lungs out through his throat."

"I appreciate the sentiment, hate the image that just appeared in front of me." I take ahold of my phone again with a spastic right hand, enclosing it around the frame to type to Milo with a pointer finger. "There, he's coming up— what are you doing?"

Logan has slipped out of bed again, pulling off his pajama pants. "He can't come up here and feel threatened by some stranger lying in bed like someone's grandfather, can he?" He sputters defensively, reaching for the first pair of jeans he can get his hands on.

"You're ridiculous," I tell him.

"And you're lucky to have me."

I turn away from him, grinning and knowing that I am. Lucky to have him.

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