Page 56 of My Own Kind of Person

“I went on some school trips.”

“What have you been doing the past seventeen years?”

“This is what I ask myself.”

A seagull flies by, a reminder that even though all I can see is cement, we’re on an island.

Elijah motions for me to follow and I do. He talks with his hands, fingers spread wide, walking quickly, telling me about when he started coming in for ballet at his studio, Steps on Broadway. The first time, his mother took the train with him. Since then, he’s been on his own. Coming home late on a weeknight is the best part. His mom thinks he’s going to an extra class now, that’s why he’s able to be here. I tell him I texted my mom I’ll be home late and she gave me three thumbs-ups, no questions asked.

He leads us into the subway and through the turnstile, tapping his phone to pay for both of us, glancing only briefly at the signs before maneuvering through crowds of people to a wide staircase. We descend deeper to a cement platform with stained benches and bright signs advertising dating apps. There are no trains in sight, but we’re surrounded by loud rumbling. Beside a trash can sits a woman sewing fabric rats. The rats are spread around her eating fabric pizza, wearing ripped socks as sweaters, and playing cardboard instruments. It’s unclear whether she’s selling them or just living her life.

A train arrives and I line up behind Elijah. The doors open and a wave of people push us inside. I’m pressed against Elijah’s back. I look to see if there’s somewhere else I’m supposed to go, but the train is packed. We stand shoulder to shoulder as the doors close. Elijah holds my arm when the train lurches away.

He removes from his purple bag a pair of over-ear headphones. “You don’t know Sufjan Stevens, right?”

“I apparently don’t know anything.”

He places the headphones over my ears. When the song starts, all I can think is that I’ve never actually listened to music. I’ve listened to the top layer of music, but there are ten more that are only accessible when you have good headphones.

A mandolin plays while a gentle voice sings, and I am simultaneously transported elsewhere and returned to myself.

I lift one headphone off my ear. “This guy is great.”

“He’s gorgeous too.”

He shows me a photo of Sufjan, dark stubble over a light complexion, his short hair a mess. He has a gap between his front teeth.

“He is.”

He shows me photos of Sufjan wearing wings, wearing a pink-and-black striped jacket, and wearing three hats. I don’t know how to interpret any of these looks. In some pictures he’s older than my mom, in others almost as young as me.

“So many life goals,” Elijah says.

“You mean you want to be like him or be with him?”

“This is what I ask myself.”

There’s something I’m feeling that I don’t understand, that runs away when I try to look at it.

I start to take the headphones off but Elijah stops me.

“Keep them on. Listening to music while surrounded by millions of people is one of the best parts of being in the city.”

As the train speeds through tunnels of barely lit graffiti, I exist only in the song. Elijah doesn’t look at me and I take this as a kindness, a way of offering me space. After the song ends, it repeats. My heartbeat slows and my thoughts calm.

I take the headphones off as we emerge onto the cobblestone streets of SoHo. The buildings are shorter here, and everyone carries shopping bags. Elijah leads us confidently down a small street that might be an alleyway.

“The thing I find frustrating about Jay,” he says, as though we’ve been discussing this the whole time, “is that he always says he’s joking. And since he’s only joking, he doesn’t have to take responsibility for what he says. He gets to pretend he isn’t being serious.”

I jump right in. “Yes! But I feel like the effect is serious.”

He stops. “Of course it is. Because every time he jokes, the idea inside his joke becomes more normal.”

“And if you say it’s offensive, you’re accused of being too sensitive. Which for some reason means you automatically lose?”

He starts walking again. “Because sensitivity is weakness. Caring is weakness.”

“Which doesn’t make any sense at all. We’re supposed to go our entire lives never feeling, never caring? How is that in any way admirable or desirable?”