:: Take Me There excerpt ::

Rhiannon

My life could not possibly suck more than it does right now.

I try not to cry.

And to let it go.

I don’t want to be this totally depressed person, with a heart so broken it hurts every time I breathe.

I still love him.

And here’s the worst part.

I want him back.

The homework pile on my desk is laughing at my pain. I’m not laughing with you, it says. I’m laughing at you. You pathetic idiot.

The homework pile is right. I am pathetic. I am an idiot.

I vaguely remember remnants of my normal life. They’re like a dream. These detached, blurry images that may belong to someone else.

I hate being like this.

And then other times I’m like, Okay, Ree. Enough already. Get over it. Because how can I let someone who doesn’t love me anymore turn me into this person I don’t even recognize?

Being awake sucks.

My Persian cat Snickers, aka Snick-Snick, jumps up into bed with me and purrs. He curls up in a fluff ball, pressing against my ribs. I pet his long, soft fur. He feels sad, like me.

Question: When does the pain go away?

I reach over to my nightstand for the remote and my glasses. I turn on the TV. Here’s the agenda: I’ll watch a gazillion movies, read the huge stack of magazines I’ve accumulated because I never have time to read them, and snarf horrifying amounts of junk food until it’s time to get up and go to school on Monday.

Getting dumped is crazy times. Like . . . what? You’re supposed to instantly turn off all your emotions just because he says it’s over? You’re supposed to go on with your life like nothing happened?

Garden State is in the DVD player. I press play even though I just watched it a week ago.

I wish Steve were here so bad, watching the movie with me. We had this way together. I would lie against him with my cheek on his chest, feeling his heartbeat. And he would hold my hand with my fingers folded in between his. He had this way of making me feel so good by not really doing much of anything. Just by being him.

Question: Where did all that love go?

Last week I went through the motions of school on automatic. I cried at the most random things. Someone would be pouring a glass of water and I’d suddenly feel tears running down my face. But the absolute worst was when people asked if I was okay. Because then I had to admit that it was real, it happened, and we weren’t together anymore.

And yeah, it got better. My stomach eventually went back to normal. I didn’t cry every day.

But my heart. My heart will always be broken.

Nicole

So here’s what happened.

Danny was my boyfriend. He was sweet and funny and cute and he totally adored me. And that’s why I had to break up with him.

I’m the kind of girl who gets noticed all the time. Which you’d realize is so ironic if you knew me, because I’d rather be the one watching than the one being watched. But the reason I get noticed is because supposedly I have this in-your-face wild-style thing going on, even though I don’t think there’s anything wild about it. Just your average graphic tanks and spiked belts and cropped vintage tees and funky jewelry and fishnets with combat boots, that sort of thing. Oh, and I have a nose ring, but it’s just this small diamond stud that you can hardly see unless you get really close to me. Which I don’t exactly invite a lot of people to do.

So most people assume I’m wild like my style, which isn’t even that wild in the first place (like, hello, it’s called the East Village, you might want to check it out sometime), but I’m really not. Just because a person chooses to express themselves in an extreme way doesn’t mean they have an extreme personality. I’m just making a statement. It’s not some rage against the machine, down with the man type deal. Plus, it’s this whole new thing with me. I just put my wardrobe together last September and came back to school all different. I guess you could say I needed a change.

Anyway. Danny was my first real boyfriend. The thing with Jared doesn’t count because he was only trying to score. So when Danny not only noticed me but also asked me out, I was like, “What’s wrong with you?” Because normally people look at me but they don’t exactly talk to me. They just kind of sneak looks like I can’t tell they’re gawking, or they get shocked into silence, depending on the person. But Danny was like, “Nothing.” And I believed him because he was Danny.

He just came right up to me with his cute smile and customized Vans, which is the ultimate skater-boy sneaker that gets me every time, and his yellow rubber bracelet that says moment of zen and his radical attitude and picked me to be with out of everyone else. Maybe he thought my clothes matched his political fanaticism.

And it was great at first. But then there was that night. So I had to break up with him. I couldn’t deal with it then and I still can’t deal with it now and that’s just the way it is.

Yeah. You know what? The whole thing is way too complicated to even get into here.

It’s been three weeks. Let’s just say Danny’s still not over me. But I like him and I want to be friends with him and he said that’s cool, but you can tell it’s not. Because how can you be just friends with someone when what you really want is so much more? But he said he’d rather be friends with me than not know me at all. So now we’re both at this party at Keith’s place, and I heard that Danny might ask me to the Last Blast dance next Friday and I don’t know what to say if he does.

I drink my 7-Up and watch Heather fake-sip her beer. I totally get that she’s fake-sipping it because she knows Carl is watching and she has a major crush on him, but still. That’s no excuse to act like someone you’re not. It’s like, if you don’t want to drink then don’t drink. It’s so tragic. That’s one thing I love about Rhiannon. She’s straight-edge and doesn’t care who knows, because she’s proud of it.

Scanning the crowd for Rhiannon, I find her standing near the wall looking sad. I try to remember the last time she didn’t look sad and I can’t. And I can’t believe Steve dumped her like that and didn’t even tell her why. Who does that? But unfortunately for Ree, you can’t argue your way into someone liking you again when they just announced that they don’t anymore. It’s over for them, so it has to be over for you, even though it’s so not. I never used to get this, but after I broke up with Danny, everything was crystal.

James

It’s absurd to walk by a thirteen-million-dollar brownstone with some homeless guy sleeping on the sidewalk right outside. Something like that really makes you think about how the world works.

I live in this really upscale neighborhood. Which is a joke, because if you saw my crappy rent-stabilized apartment, you would never assume this. Especially with the roaches in the kitchen we can never seem to get rid of and the noise that never ends.

Incessant noise.

Like right now. I’m trying to get this Industrial Design report done, but the beeping is driving me crazy. And it’s not going to stop until I make it stop. Our insane neighbor who blasts the TV at three in the morning doesn’t help things, either.

It’s not like our apartment has other features to make up for the constant noise. Highlights of our “living room,” which is technically a converted space where Ma strategically placed screens to divide into a living room and a dining room, include a pool of candle wax on the ancient radiator, a lamp from 1964 with a broken shade, and a dusty philodendron hanging in the window. The window, of course, overlooks an alley, in which the classier guys pee when they get too drunk at the bar next door. And that would be why we keep the window closed.

Whenever the smoke detector goes off like this, it’s the same story. Ma wildly smacks at it and swings a towel around in a frenzied fit, knowing the whole time that both methods are entirely ineffective. The smoke detector goes off when it’s having a bad day and/or the oven’s been on for at least twenty minutes. And since Ma is currently baking bread, the alarm naturally decides to go off.

I pull on some jeans and yank a T-shirt over my head, pulling it down as I walk to the kitchen. The alarm sounds like an air-raid alert.

“Sheesh!” Ma’s towel frantically jabs at the air. “James! Can you—?”

“I’m on it.” I drag a chair across the floor so it’s under the smoke detector. Then I stand on it and snag the detector’s cover so hard I crack the plastic. I guess you could say I have some repressed anger. Or maybe not so repressed. I grab the batteries and throw them on the floor.

Silence. Finally.

“Thanks, hon,” Ma says.

“Anytime.”

Except, really, it’s more like all the time. I don’t know how much longer I can take it. Sharing a room with my little brother. Never more than three consecutive seconds of quiet. The neighbors with the music playing all night. The other neighbors with the loud sex. In fact, the only redeeming neighbor around here is Mrs. Schaffer.

My parents mean well. Ma nags because she cares about me. I get it. But that doesn’t make it any easier to live here. It’s just too suffocating when all I want is some time to myself, to do what I want without everyone on top of me all the time.

I’m sick of never being able to do homework without being interrupted. Or work on my computer projects. Or even think clearly.

This is why I’m going to be a software designer. So I can do something I love, and make tons of money at the same time. So I can get the fuck out of here. Buy a huge house with so much space I can’t even use it all. And then I can send money home. My parents have had a hard life. It’s not easy when you do what you love but it doesn’t pay. And you have four kids. My two older sisters moved out, but it’s not like my parents can afford to help them much with college loans. So I’ll send my parents money, and maybe they can get a bigger place, too. They can relax when they’re older, the way they deserve to. Without having to worry about how they’re going to survive.

But for now, I’m the one who has to survive. Which sounds a lot easier than it actually is.

Although the prospect of returning to my decrepit apartment is highly appealing, I decide to go over to Third Street for a game of chess with the NYU geeks.

Max is already sitting in the window seat. He’s working out strategies. He’s waiting for a decent opponent. And then I walk in.

He’s like, “Dude. You’re late.”

“Sorry,” I go. “Emergency intervention.”

“Shit happens.”

“Big-time.”

Max and I have been playing chess all year. He was asking about his brother Brad last week. Which was weird because we don’t hang out or anything, we just go to school together. So there wasn’t much to tell.

Twenty minutes later, he’s got me.

“Checkmate.”

“Fuck.” I study the board. I go over my last five moves. “How did that happen?”

“Um . . . maybe because I’m a genius and you suck?”

“Maybe not.” I’m off my game. All unfocused. Story of my life.

I’m too stressed all the time. Not sleeping enough. There’s always too much work that never seems to get done. And when it does, there’s tons more. I’m pressurized, ready to explode any second.

Something has to change. I don’t know what. But something.