Rush

By Elizabeth Derby

Continued from Part I

I clatter down the gullet of Penn Station and pray that I'm not too late. Pushing past a bouquet dealer and a bovine couple holding hands, I halt at the nearest timetable and scan for the Coast line. Cursing my terrible vision, I push up my glasses and pull a deep breath.

Of course I’m twenty minutes early. I stand panting by a garbage can and feel sweat trickle down my neck, cutting a path through the city grit and dirt on my skin. Gross. But that’s what I get for spending all weekend in a city where I don’t, you know, live.

Apparently I have time to kill, so coffee it is. I trudge back up the station stairwell to daylight, passing several ruffled pedestrians. I smile brightly when they scowl.

Did I say busy and important? You must have me confused with someone else.

I join the herd milling inside Starbucks with a sense of sharpened masochism. Six bucks for a coffee and communal bad breath—what’s not to love?

After grimacing my way through my absurdly long order, I wedge myself next to an overstuffed armchair. Its occupant appears unperturbed by the crush of bodies pressing in, though she’s practically shouting into her cell phone. “Really, Sue, you should have been there!” she yells. “There were so many people, and Adam has gotten seriously fat.”

Then, to my horror/delight, I realize her phone is on speaker. “Ohmigod, is he really?” squeaks the disembodied voice of an overeager college girl. “He’s such a jerk. Tell me more.”

Yes, please.

“Ohmigod, you have no idea,” assures the patron in the armchair. “You know he’s just sitting at home, Wii bowling all day like a loser. His gut was practically the size of the keg.” I giggle and keep my eyes trained to the ceiling. She continues. “He was making out with some girl wearing a sequined miniskirt around her bellybutton. Even the 151 couldn’t compare to how ill I felt watching those slobs play tonsil hockey.”

Ew. I start to inch away, thinking that maybe I’ve eavesdropped enough, thanks, when someone groans to my left. I turn to see a tall brunette whose perfect features are twisted with the mirror image of my inner disgust. We glance at each other with deep understanding. Then we simultaneously double-take.

“Wow! Mary! I hardly recognized you,” smiles my high school prom queen. Her grin is pristine and tiara-ready as she tosses Starbucks’s latest CD into a barrel of coffee beans. My thoughts switch on spin cycle—sheisobeautifulIamsolame—howcanshepossiblylooksoputtogether—whyintheworlddon’tmypantsfitlikethat? The crowd parts as she approaches like plebeians bowing to a royal procession, and my words seem stuck in my throat. Only when I’m face-to-face with the goddess whose shapely limbs and cascading locks inspired countless bouts of self-loathing in high school do I suddenly realize I’ve completely forgotten her name.

Part II of a multi-part series, continue to Part III