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After Androu left, I went back to Quentin. He was waiting patiently, leaning against the wall. He was also giving me god-level side eye.
“Really?” he said. “You and Mr. Straightlaces?”
“Oh shut up.”
“Hey, you can do whatever you want. Though you might as well go out with Erlang Shen if that’s your type.”
“Maybe I should,” I snapped. “Erlang Shen’s as good-looking as you and he’s a better dresser to boot.”
Quentin waved his fists rudely at me and walked away down the hall.
“He probably wouldn’t show up for a date in our school uniform!” I called out.
22
Saturday morning, the lady of the castle awaited her chariot to the ball.
Only her castle was a parking lot so barren that not even fast-food franchises wanted to risk planting a flag nearby. The only building at this train station was a little barnlike wooden depot with padlocked doors and a dark, shadowed interior. I had been coming to this place my entire life and had never once been inside or seen the lights on.
Santa Firenza in a nutshell, folks.
I sweated under the sun, my exposed arms browning in the heat. Because of my general hawkishness on time, I ended up with a lot of moments like this, where I had nothing to do but wait for the rest of the world to catch up.
After about fifteen minutes or so, the clang of bells and an air horn announced that I was done. The northbound train was here, ready to whisk me away. A magical journey redolent with the odors of bicycle grease and blue porta-potty liquid.
Sometimes the cars could be full of rowdy pregamers rocking orange and black, gripping paper-bagged tallboys and woo-ing at each other. Today it was less crowded. I watched a man who was much shorter than me splay his legs into the aisle, putting his feet up on an opposing strut even though he could have fit perfectly well into his chair.
We stopped at every station along the way, letting me take in the landscape as it became stripmalls, then regular malls, and then stripmalls again. I could tell I was getting closer as freestanding offices bearing signage for various unicorn startups began appearing.
It took an hour and a half for the train to reach the end of the line in the city. I stepped out onto the platform and shivered. I untied my spare jacket from my waist and put it on properly. This was a different climate system entirely. Different rules.
I looked around, orienting myself under the gray sky of the city. If I strayed to the south I would be in the SoMa district, which if I understood correctly was composed entirely of loft condos and coworking offices. Following the avenues too far to the east wou
ld take me to the water’s edge, where I might find the Ferry Building disgorging tourists out of its maw.
There were too many buses heading in the same direction, and I never remembered the numbered routes. Eventually I gave in and did what I always did. Follow the old Chinese people. I hopped on the line that had the most passengers carrying plastic bags and settled in for more waiting.
Public transportation among my kind is its own special hell. No bus has ever moved so slowly as it does through a Chinatown. I was pretty sure that if you needed to decelerate a photon for a physics experiment, all you had to do was throw some cardboard boxes full of dark leafy greens in the laser beam’s path and let nature take over.
Eventually, the bus I was on burst through the stasis field of budget realtors, dry goods stores, and oddly terrible dim sum shops. Upon reaching a petite, bright-green park, we swung a westward turn, both literally and figuratively.
Instead of bubble tea shops, you now had cafés that served lattes in a bowl so you could dunk your Viennoiseries easier. You had eyewear galleries that displayed three, four different frames, tops. Tiny dogs. Double strollers. “Hallelujah” (the song—the new one).
Most of all you had space. Personal space, breathing room, everywhere. On the sidewalks and in the two-bedroom apartments and in the career tracks. I didn’t know if I needed that much space, but I was damn sure I’d work my ass off for it first, and then decide.
Speaking of which, my stop. I got off the bus at a plush little walkup, the brass plate reading SILVERLINE ADMISSIONS COUNSELING.
Inside the second-floor lobby I sat waiting in a pod chair surrounded by pots of bamboo. The furniture was eggshell white. The walls were eggshell white. I tried to ignore the tasteful indie rock and R&B, played low and targeted at my generation more precisely than a payload from a stealth bomber.
The door opened and it wasn’t Anna who stepped out. It was a girl my age—another client.
I could tell immediately she was more put together than me. I didn’t mean my appearance, though that, too. It was the way she carried herself with enough confidence and quirk and receptiveness that it could have been a sign plastered over her head: I AM WHO EVERYONE WANTS.
Her session had run to the end and might have gone over had someone not graciously noticed the clock. That’s how much raw material Anna had to work with. My sessions were always punctuated by five minutes of awkward chitchat.
“Hi,” the girl offered, blushing cutely. She swung her backpack over her shoulder, revealing patches from both Habitat for Humanity and Amnesty International. I was severely outclassed. What kind of scrub game had I been playing?
“Man, talking with Anna’s fun but terrifying,” she said, trying to start a conversation. She didn’t even have the decency to be catty with me. I just wanted her to tuck her charmingly wispy curls under her beret and go, before I had to get out of my chair.
