The cool breeze coming off the Hudson is a welcome contrast to the heat reverberating off the cobblestone-and brick-lined streets and sidewalks. I stare across the river toward the island of Manhattan, at the small boats cutting through the water, the drivers and passengers likely carefree and wealthy. Probably the sort of people who try to work “I have a boat” into every conversation. Seeing all that—the New York City skyline, the people of means frolicking in the water below—I feel this awkward urge to pull out my phone and check my bank account balance. What is it about seeing unchecked wealth that makes you so conscious of your own? The rent and utilities have cleared, but the month is barely half over, and I can’t bring myself to deal with thinking about fundraising over the next two weeks.
I bet Chad down there, floating on his father’s boat, doesn’t have to worry about overdrafts.
I look down at my smartwatch, at the steps we’ve walked so far, and think about selling it in another ten days or so. It’s a shame this gadget can’t track all the steps I’ve taken back.
“You pick your classes yet?” Rebekah asks as we get closer to the railing. I lean against it, peering over into the water, the metal hot against my bare arms. You can’t exactly see any of the New York City campuses by looking across the river, but I know they’re there. NYU, Columbia, Fordham, Pace, SUNY... All of them just waiting for the fall semester, when students will once again be milling about. Students who aren’t desperately trying to keep the dreams of their parents alive.
Actually, scratch that, because that’s definitely happening right now, somewhere, someplace. Parents dreaming that their kids will become lawyers, doctors, teachers, actresses...whatever the case might be. Kinda like Aaron, with his parents and that office he brought up. And those kids are doing it, pushing forward and living dreams for their families, right across the river, in cozy classrooms and giant sprawling lecture halls. Dreams that don’t belong to them, but to other people.
In that moment, I feel sad for Aaron.
But chances are, none of them are likely paying for their parents to do any of that. Though in my mom’s defense, it isn’t much. She only has a summer semester left of part-time graduate school, and then she’ll finally have that master’s of library science she’s been working so hard to finish.
Her dream seemed so much easier to reach when Dad was still around—four grand a semester felt like nothing. But after he left, that part-time job of hers couldn’t quite handle the rent and her tuition and everything else.
Whenever I try to talk to anyone about this—Rebekah, my handful of Internet friends—they always say the same things. Tell her to apply for student loans. Get a scholarship. Tell her to put it off and pick up a job. Which is why I don’t talk about it anymore. Like any of those things are such immediate, easy tasks. Like my mom deserves to let go of her dream or work herself to death even more or go into crippling debt because of my asshole father. Like it’s easy to get a scholarship or a full student loan when you make just enough to pay for your classes, but not really, because if you pay for those classes, rent and groceries become a fever dream.
Fuck that. I’ll struggle so she can soar. I can handle it.
“Div?” Rebekah nudges.
“Hmm? Oh. Classes. Yeah, not yet,” I reply. “Still got time to register, still have to pay for them. Actually, I was thinking I might take a gap year.”
Rebekah makes a face, her nose crinkled up in doubt.
“Okay, a gap semester.”
She makes an even more intense face.
“Stop it with the face!” I exclaim. “I know, I know. But my mom just has these two summer classes left, and I just can’t bring myself to leave until things settle down. I really want to give her this summer and some time to find her dream job.”
“Sure, but—”
“She deserves it,” I insist. “She’s sacrificed a lot for me. Hudson County will still be there when I’m ready to go.” I look behind me, in the direction of Jersey City, like somehow I’ll be able to see the community college in the town next door from here.
“I swear, you’re an old soul, Div.” Rebekah bumps her shoulder against mine and points away from the water. “Come on. I’m starving.”
* * *
There’s a reason hopping the PATH train into Hoboken is a worthwhile venture, spending time with Rebekah and enjoying the wonderful atmosphere aside. That reason is Quarter Slice Crisis, the ultimate hipster pizza place located not too far from the waterfront downtown. It’s squeezed between a Starbucks and a boutique clothing store, both of which are probably none-too-thrilled with the pizzeria-slash-arcade’s outward appearance, with its poorly painted illustrations of pizza and video game characters on the enormous plate glass window that is almost always dirty.
Rebekah turns to look at me as someone walks out of the shop, a white paper bag likely filled with food under his arm. “You have quarters?”
“Do I have quarters?” I scoff. “Please.”
We walk through the doors of the pizza shop and are immediately blasted by chiptune music screaming from the overhead speakers, the air filled with techno beats. There’s always something like this playing in Quarter Slice Crisis, but when I hear vocals singing over the 8-bit beeps and bloops, I turn and look at Rebekah, raising my eyebrows in a silent question. It sounds like an odd mix of Fall Out Boy meets the music of Sonic the Hedgehog, and I can’t figure out what exactly I’m hearing.
“I Fight Dragons,” Rebekah supplies. “Pop punk band, with chiptunes and video game sounds.”
I close my eyes and tilt my head up. “This is everything I ever wanted,” I say with a contented smile.
We laugh and keep walking in, up toward the register and pizzas displayed on the countertop. Quarter Slice Crisis is one of those places that pays more attention to atmosphere than substance—or in this case, sustenance, as the pies are usually as basic as they come. Cheese. Pepperoni. There’s a different type of pizza today, though, labeled with a little Post-it that reads NEW! in big neon letters. I squint at the pie in question, trying to identify the topping.
“Mushroom,” the guy behind the counter says. He looks up at me, blinking slowly, incredibly mellow. There’s a little red in the whites of his eyes, and I’m convinced he has to be stoned. “Our new vegan option.”
I give Rebekah a look, and she shakes her head. Because yes, mushrooms magically make a pizza vegan.
“Just a slice of cheese for me, please,” I say, indicating the pizzas on the countertop. “And a large Dr. Pepper.” I glance at Rebekah. “Actually, make that two orders.”
“What if I wanted to try the vegan pizza?” Rebekah challenges.