There were a million people rushing down the street that first morning—so many it made me woozy.
There were moms with their kids, teenagers with their friends, and people with briefcases, some in suits, others dressed in casual summer gear—all of them moving like a wave headed toward the start of their day. I struggled to keep up with Auntie Jill, who was practically leaping down Fulton Street.
“Pick it up, Mina,” she said easily while she breezed through the crowd headed toward the subway. I was way behind her, huffing like I was in the middle of a five-mile run. The new art supplies box my mom gave me as a going-away present felt like I was carrying a plump ten-year-old down the street. “If we catch a number four train in the next few minutes, we just might make it to camp early enough for you to see the instructors’ artwork in the teachers’ gallery.”
“Okay,” I said simply, because that’s about all I could manage as I chased her down the subway stairs and into the cavernous underground station. It was hot down there and it kinda smelled; I was convinced the place was a lab for germ nastiness on the level of the mold experiment we did in science class just before summer break. I made a mental note: Don’t touch anything in the subway.
Auntie Jill took one look at my face, shook her head, and cracked up. “You’ll get used to the subway quicker than you think,” she laughed as if she could read my mind. She handed me a small yellow card, then headed for a turnstile leading onto the platform. “Keep your MetroCard in a safe place, okay? You’re going to need it to get to all of the different places you and your class will be traveling for your art assignments.”
I watched Auntie Jill swipe her card and push through the turnstile, and then I did the same, just as the train rushed into the station. We walked double time to the yellow line, my aunt holding on to my wrist as she squeezed past a couple of people. Standing to my right was a girl about my age, effortlessly hoisting an art supplies box twice the size of mine to look at the oversize hot-pink watch on her left wrist. She caught me staring and smiled. I quickly turned my head toward the opening subway door and moved a little closer to my aunt, who was about to make her move onto the train.
There weren’t any seats on the train and because my hands were full with my art supplies and I wasn’t used to riding a subway, I forgot to brace myself for takeoff. And what do you know? As soon as the train pulled out of the station, I went flying into the girl with the hot-pink watch.
“Omigod, I’m so sorry,” I told the girl, grappling for the silver pole and trying to catch my footing before I fell to the floor. I dropped my MetroCard at the feet of a man with sneakers the size of a small canoe. As I fumbled around on the floor trying to retrieve the card, I could feel practically every eye in the car trained on me. If I had the power to melt into a little puddle and drip out of the cracks of the heavy metal doors, I would have done it, for sure.
“Um, yeah. The poles are a perfect way to keep that from happening again,” the girl said as she grabbed my elbow to help me up. She giggled, so I guessed she hadn’t meant it to be mean. I cringed. Nice! As if I’m not already embarrassed enough, I wanted to say. Instead, I mumbled, “Thanks.”
“Here, let me take your art box, honey,” Auntie Jill said. “You okay?”
“Uh, yeah, I’m okay,” I said, running my fingers over my neon-green miniskirt, swiping at imaginary dirt and trying really hard not to look like a total dork in front of all of New York City.
“Nice art box,” the girl said as she moved her hand on the pole to make room for mine. “I saw one just like it at Pearl when my mom took me to buy mine. You an artist?”
I hesitated. I didn’t really know what to say back, or even if she expected me to speak to her. And what in the world was “Pearl”? I sure wasn’t about to ask her, though, because the girl said it like I was supposed to already know. I settled on a weak “kinda.”
“Actually, my niece is quite talented and well on her way to becoming an artist,” Auntie Jill chimed in. She clearly couldn’t help herself from bragging about me. Embarrassed, I fought back a groan. “I see you have an art box, too—are you an artist?” she asked the girl.
“I want to be.” The girl smiled warmly. “I’m actually on my way to the SoHo Children’s Art Program. Today’s my first day.”
“Really? What a coincidence! I’m an instructor there, and my niece Mina is going to be in the camp, too,” Auntie Jill said excitedly. “What’s your name?”
“Gabriella,” she said, rolling the “r” in her name and giving a little wave.
“Well, it’s nice to meet you, Gabriella. You look really familiar to me for some reason,” Auntie said, tilting her head to the side. I took a closer look at the girl, too; she had an olive complexion and long brown hair pulled into a curly mass at the top of her head.
“Aren’t you one of the art teachers at Brooklyn Tech?” Gabriella asked.
“Yes—yes, I am,” Auntie Jill said, squinting her eyes as if that was going to help her recognize the girl. “Forgive me, but you don’t look old enough for Brooklyn Tech.”
“No, no—I don’t go to Tech. But my brother does. He’s in the science program and takes some of the art classes. I think I’ve seen you at a few of the art shows there?”
“Oh! Who’s your brother?” Auntie Jill asked, the excitement in her voice rising.
“Kent Diaz. He’s in the eleventh grade.”
“Oh! I know Kent! He wants to be an architect, right?”
“Right,” Gabriella said, smiling.
“Well it’s nice to meet you!” Auntie Jill said. “See, Mina?” she added, turning toward me. “You’re not even at the camp yet and you’ve made a new friend.”
I gripped the pole a little tighter and tossed a halfhearted grin in the girl’s direction, then focused my attention on the Sam and Liza my girls had scribbled on my lucky purple Converses. I’d designed my sneakers on the Converse website all by myself. The funky green stripe up the heel and the starry lavender and neon-pink laces I found at Target made them look super-special. I was wearing them when I got the A on my math final, and when I applied for the summer art camp, which had only fifteen openings, but from what Auntie Jill said, hundreds of applications, so it was safe for me to assume that my sneakers were lucky. Sam and Liza got ahold of them just before we all left for summer vacation and signed their names on the sides with special sparkly white marker, reminding me the entire time they were scribbling not to forget them while I was at my “fancy art camp.”
But as for Gabriella? I wasn’t sure if she’d be real friend material. Suddenly, I missed Liza and Sam more than ever.