Kiss Me in New York Read online

  Kiss Me in New York

  ~ by ~

  Catherine Rider

  ISBN 978-1-77138-980-8 (EPUB)

  KCP Loft is an imprint of Kids Can Press

  Text © 2017 Working Partners Ltd.

  Series created by Working Partners Ltd.

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted, in any form or by any means, without the prior written permission of Kids Can Press Ltd. or, in case of photocopying or other reprographic copying, a license from The Canadian Copyright Licensing Agency (Access Copyright). For an Access Copyright license, visit www.accesscopyright.ca or call toll free to 1-800-893-5777.

  This is a work of fiction and any resemblance of characters to persons living or dead is purely coincidental.

  Many of the designations used by manufacturers and sellers to distinguish their products are claimed as trademarks. Where those designations appear in this book and Kids Can Press Ltd. was aware of a trademark claim, the designations have been printed in initial capital letters (e.g., Instagram).

  Kids Can Press gratefully acknowledges the financial support of the Government of Ontario, through the Ontario Media Development Corporation.

  Published in Canada and the U.S. by Kids Can Press Ltd.

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  Kids Can Press is a Corus Entertainment Inc. company

  www.kidscanpress.com

  www.kcploft.com

  Edited by Kate Egan

  Designed by Emma Dolan

  Library and Archives Canada Cataloguing in Publication

  Rider, Catherine (Novelist), author

  Kiss me in New York / Catherine Rider.

  ISBN 978-1-77138-848-1 (hardback)

  I. Title.

  PZ7.1.R53Kis 2017 j813'.6 C2016-906700-9

  To Julia, for all the New York stories

  ~ Chapter One ~

  CHARLOTTE

  Christmas Eve 2:00 P.M.

  A broken heart changes a lot of things. For example: I’m not usually the type of person who scowls when a smiling lady at JFK Airport wishes me “Happy holidays!” as she checks me in for my flight.

  But right now, I can’t help it. It’s Christmas Eve, and I just want to get out of New York as fast as possible. I want to never look back. I want to forget I ever came here in the first place — forget that I ever thought I could find some kind of New Me in this city.

  When I first got here, New York was all bright lights and excitement. But two weeks ago, that changed. I began seeing what Mr. and Mrs. Lawrence, my host family in Yonkers, always complained about whenever I brought up “the city” and how much I liked it. Like all the rude people — so many of them — and they always seem to be in the way. The rats. The fact that the entire city often smells like it’s standing underneath a giant umbrella made of rancid pizza.

  The lady’s smile is morphing into a frown. I realize I must look totally weird standing here, scowling and staring into nothing. I try to cover up by saying, “Oh, yes … you, too!” I tell her that I am catching the 6:45 p.m. flight to London Heathrow.

  She looks at her computer, her brow creasing. “Wow, you’re here with almost five hours to spare. You Brits like to be punctual, huh?”

  What I would like to say, if it were socially acceptable and would not make me seem like a crazy person: “It’s nothing to do with punctuality, Ronda.” (That’s the name on her badge.) “Up until two weeks ago, I was so not looking forward to going home. I was having the absolute best study abroad semester at Sacred Heart High, and I was starting to get ridiculously excited about coming back here for college in September. I’d been accepted — early admission — into Columbia’s journalism program, and I was over the moon about that. Because I was going to be moving to a place where I could live stories. New York was going to give me so many things to write about. And I could become New Charlotte. Who’s New Charlotte? Oh, New Charlotte is basically me — I mean, we look identical, because there’s nothing I can do about that — but New Charlotte is impulsive and outgoing, where Old Charlotte was a bit more indoorsy. New Charlotte takes chances; Old Charlotte would never do that. And then, I actually came here and discovered, New Charlotte was bloody awesome! Lots of people liked her … especially this boy in my English class, Colin.

  “But then Colin went and broke my heart. The minute that happened, I stopped being all impulsive and free, which gave me time to focus on the things that kind of suck about New York — like how your subway cars are about as comfortable to ride as shopping trolleys. And how you allow really, really dumb things to happen, like letting cars turn into crowds of crossing pedestrians! And how cold it gets here in December. Seriously, that’s got to be some kind of human rights violation.”

  What I actually say: “I’m just eager to get home, I guess.”

  Which is no less true. Just a more direct way of saying what I want to say. Maybe that’s why things didn’t work with Colin. Maybe if I’d just come out with it, asked him if he was unhappy … If I’d been more direct, would we still be together?

  Come on, Charlotte. Being more direct would not have made Colin any less of a bell-end.

  I can’t fault my own logic there, just like I have no response to my brain’s cruel taunt — This is what I get for trying to be impulsive.

  When my tote bag knocks over a Statue of Liberty model, which clips a toy taxi and sends it crashing down onto an Empire State Building statue below, I realize two things: one, my tote bag is as unnecessarily big as my mum has always said it is, and two, I must have checked in, checked my suitcase, walked away from the desk, through the airport and into a gift shop, without my brain recording the memories of doing any of these things.

  But, yep, I have a full boarding pass tucked into my passport and am, for some reason, standing in a gift shop. What the hell am I doing here? I do not want reminders of my semester abroad — I want to leave everything behind. New York is welcome to everything it touched, everything it spoiled — everything it turned rotten.

  I was not lying to Ronda. Right now, I just want to go home. Go home and settle back into being Old Me … No, not old. Original Me. The Real Me I apparently have no choice about being. Let’s call her English Charlotte.

  The sharp, hot prickles behind my eyes tell me it’s time to get out of here — not even English Charlotte weeps in public — and so I weave my way through displays of soft statues and plastic skyscrapers, marching back out into the main airport building. I duck my head to avoid catching a glimpse of the giant posters of the New York City skyline — today, now that I’m in a bad (sad) mood, I don’t see the bright lights of a city that never sleeps. I see tall, glass and steel monstrosities glaring at the sky as if challenging it to a fight.

  Come on, New York — what did the sky ever do to you?

  God, coming to the airport so early might have been a mistake — now I have four hours to sit around and mope. I stare at my mobile, checking Instagram every few minutes: first my timeline, then my comments and new follows, then my friends’ activities to see who liked whose photos (refresh-refresh-refresh). My battery will be totally drained, and I won’t even be able to spend the remaining time listening to music. But that might be a good thing — there’s pretty much nothing left on my playlists except miserable songs.

  I’ve actually started to really, really like The Smiths — and that’s probably not a good thing in my state!

  I need to be super attracted to the girl I’m with. I need to feel — I don’t know, p
assion — I guess. And … I just don’t.

  That’s how he broke up with me.

  I decide that distraction is what I need, so I march into the Hudson bookstore — no, no, book shop (no more American English for me!) — and come to a dead stop when I realize I’m not sure what I’m looking for. The bestseller chart is all chick lit, which I usually like — but, right now, all the hearts I’m seeing make me want to vomit. Then my eyes fall on a trio of trashy, pulpy, violent thrillers — now there’s an idea. A book that’s all plot, violence and no feelings. That seems like exactly what I need right now. I spend about five minutes making a choice, trying to predict how distracting each book will be, but it’s hard to tell from the almost identical covers — silhouetted men posing mid-stride beneath one-word titles. I wonder, what is the difference between Vengeance, Retaliation and Payback, really?

  Payback’s tagline is, literally, “DONNY HAS IT COMING …”

  I don’t know who Donny is or why he “HAS IT COMING,” but I pick up the book and head to the counter, turning around and sidestepping a figure who’s risking a dislocated shoulder to reach a hardback on a high shelf. One of the biggest bestsellers. I hear him grunt, then swear, as a different book falls from the shelf — I just about register that it’s a small paperback before it bonks me on the head. I instinctively thrust out my arms, catching and cradling it.

  “Oh, dude, I’m so sorry.”

  I look up into the deep brown eyes of a tall guy, who I guess is a couple of years older than me. His hair is long and shaggy and looks like it’s been flattened by the beanie I can just tell he’s been wearing for much of the day. I’ve been in New York long enough to recognize guys like him as Williamsburg Wankers — a nickname (okay, an insult) I coined myself and which the girls at Sacred Heart thought was just The Best and Most British translation of “hipster” they’d ever heard.

  This guy might be a Williamsburg Wanker, but he’s pulling off the scruffy and rough yet hygienic look quite well. Brooklyn hipsters don’t have the same … crusty look that I see on hipsters back home. Even in my bad mood, I recognize hotness.

  If I had a heart that hadn’t just been used as a punching bag by another hipster with good cheekbones, it would probably be fluttering a little right now.

  He’s holding out his free hand. The other is holding whatever book he’s here to buy and a bag from the same gift shop that I just left. “Want me to put that back for you?”

  I look down at the two books I’m holding. The book I rescued from a painful death is covered with cartoon drawings of wineglasses, musical instruments, hearts with bandages over them — and, weirdly, a puppy. Swirling red letters scream at me:

  Get Over Your Ex in Ten Easy Steps!

  “Maybe try accepting that he’s an asshole.”

  I look back up at Hipster Hottie, who’s smirking as he glances from me to the self-help book. Then he points at Payback. “Though it looks like you’re researching more violent ideas.”

  I nod. “I’ll just daydream about paying him back.”

  “You should let me get that. After all, I almost gave you a concussion just now.”

  I hand him the book. “Thank you. You have earned yourself immunity from my Payback List.”

  Um, what’s going on here? Am I flirting — with a stranger? This isn’t exactly “like” me, but I guess since he’s a cute guy I’m never going to run into again, there’s no harm in flirting a little?

  Even English Charlotte does that sometimes. And just because I’ve been reset to English Charlotte doesn’t mean I can’t add to and improve her. Hipster Hottie doesn’t know that I was just totally dumped by my boyfriend for not being super attractive; doesn’t know that I’ve been crying hourly for the past two weeks; doesn’t know that my Autumn Mission to become a Daring Free Spirit resulted in that spirit getting arrested and thrown into an emotional dungeon.

  The original New York mission is still active: for a few hours more, I don’t have to be the shy, timid English girl.

  I can be her when I get home.

  “Hey,” he says, tucking all the books under one arm, “can I get your opinion on something?”

  He doesn’t wait for me to answer. From the gift shop bag, he pulls out a pink teddy bear with a black T-shirt that has what looks like a child’s drawing of the Manhattan skyline on it. In big, pink letters are the words “I HEART NEW YORK.”

  No heart symbol — the word “heart” is actually spelled out.

  “I got this for my girl. She’s coming home after a semester away in Cali … How cheesy do you think this is, scale of one to ten?”

  “Seventeen.”

  He laughs. Too much. I wonder if his laugh would be quite this annoying if it didn’t come right after his mention of the g-word put the brakes on my optimism.

  Learn your lesson, English Charlotte, I tell myself as I numbly follow Hipster Hottie to the counter. Operation New Charlotte was a humiliating failure.

  He pays for my book, and I tune out whatever he’s babbling about. I’m sure his “girl” is lovely and everything, but it’s not like I want to hear all about how much she’ll “dig” the irony of the cheesy T-shirt. Once he’s paid, he hands me the bag with my book, and we walk out together, coming to a stop just outside the store. We’ve walked into a human blizzard, Christmas travelers hustling in every direction.

  “Thanks for the book,” I tell him, stuffing it into my tote bag.

  He’s about to respond, when we both start at the sound of a guy’s voice — a high-pitched yelp that cuts right through the hubbub of airport noise.

  “You want to break up? Are you serious?!”

  Hipster Hottie turns around — I have to sidestep to see past him — and we both stare. A young couple stands face-to-face just outside Arrivals. The girl is a tanned blonde with annoyingly perfect curly hair, wearing a pretty fabulous white walker coat. She looks like she’s not much older than me. The pale blue suitcase behind her tells me she’s the one who has arrived. The guy is also around my age and wearing a light-brown field coat that’s clashing horribly with the yellow-and-cream plaid shirt I can see underneath. Over one shoulder is a red backpack, but I don’t see any airport tags. This isn’t a young couple returning from somewhere; this is a young couple reuniting at the airport.

  Well, they were a couple. And “reuniting” might be a stretch.

  The girl has her hands clasped together, held tight to her chest. The universal gesture for I’m so sorry. The guy has let the hand holding a dozen red roses drop to his side as his eyes dart left and right, as though he’s just been asked to figure out the square root of 23,213.

  I think I wore the exact same look when Colin broke up with me.

  I offer Hipster Hottie a grimace — the universal expression for Awkward. But he’s not looking at me — he’s looking at the floor, shaking his head and saying, “She told him she’d see him after the holidays.”

  Bloody hell, that’s the girl he’s here to meet?

  He looks at me, his expression similar to the one Mr. Lawrence got the day a plumber told him he would be calling “sometime between ten a.m. and four p.m.” A look that says, Can you believe this BS that I have to deal with?

  “She was going to take care of it then. But here he is, showing up to ‘surprise’ her and putting her in this awful situation. What a jerk, huh?”

  He doesn’t even say goodbye; he just walks over to the splitting couple, taking out the stupid stuffed bear and putting it on the girl’s shoulder. She starts in surprise, turns around, gasps in delight. Then she grins and pulls him into a long, deep kiss, while poor Rose-Bearing Boy looks no closer to solving his maths problem.

  I turn away from the bizarre scene and make my way toward Security, remembering something that Hipster Hottie said to me.

  I have no problem accepting that he’s an arsehole.

  *

/>   2:55 p.m.

  “Sir, I understand you’re upset, but I am not responsible for the weather. If you want to take it up with someone, try God.”

  I’ve heard the lady at the gate say versions of this same line to four different passengers now, and I’m still hoping that my brain has just decided to mess with me by imagining a nightmare where reports of a possible blizzard have thrown JFK Airport into chaos.

  When I get to the front of the line, I put my palm on the desk as if I need it to prop me up, tell the lady my flight number and desperately hope my plane has special wheels with alien-tech tires that give it enough grip to charge down the runway no matter how deep the snow, taking me far, far away from here.

  Taking me home.

  Gate Lady looks at her computer. “Well, honey, the good news is that your plane is here at JFK. The bad news is it won’t actually be leaving, due to …”

  Then she launches into some sort of explanation, but I’m not listening because my head feels like it’s been dunked under water, my ears full of this weird rushing noise that makes everything feel suddenly distant. The black peacoat I’m wearing, which Mrs. Lawrence bought me when the weather turned, feels like it’s come to life and is strangling my whole body.

  My flight home has been canceled.

  I’m stuck here.

  “What about the next flight out? Can’t I be transferred? I mean, it’s a red eye, right? It makes no difference to me if I land at eight in the morning, instead of six — I’m not going to sleep anyway. I never sleep on planes. I get too excited by traveling.” I can sense that I’m rambling, and I know why I am — as long as I’m talking, I’m not crying.

  I can’t be stuck here. I just can’t! I need to get home. My parents are waiting for me. In fact, my dad is probably checking the status of my flight right about now, and when he sees that it’s delayed, he’s going to freak out.

  “Miss, I’m so sorry,” says Gate Lady, making a face like it’s breaking her heart to be the bearer of bad news to a stranger. I’ve seen her make the same face twice already. “But with the weather conditions, all our other flights to London have long waiting lists already … There’s very little chance you’ll get on a flight tonight. I’m so sorry.”