The Kids Aren't Alright

Chapter 2: Ronan

It's midnight, and I'm sneaking out of my apartment. My parents, who have been asleep for the past hour, are oblivious to the sounds of the front door clicking shut or my Chucks tapping lightly away across the veined marble floor of the hallway. I'd be surprised if they did hear- I've been giving them the slip for years now, and they've never been the wiser about it. They're wonderfully self-absorbed like that.

Tonight is a weeknight, so everybody's already asleep in their rooms, and the hallways are silent and empty. The only person I see on my way out is the concierge, an old, white-haired man named Fred. He waves at me as I pass by. A few years ago, I struck a deal with him: every week, I buy him a bag of Bugles, and in return, he keeps his lips sealed about my late-night exits. It also helps that he's totally out of it in the way that lots of old people are. I'm sure that if he knew what happened earlier today- what I did today- he wouldn't let me off so easily.

Technically, I'm not even supposed to be leaving the apartment; and not just because Sabrina, my mother, screamed at me not to. It's not a big deal, but I'm sort of under house arrest. (The lenient, breakable kind of house arrest, of course.) Like I said, it's really not a big deal. And what my parents don't know won't hurt them.

I give Fred a two-fingered salute as I spin through the revolving door. Then I step out onto the cracked sidewalks of Manhattan.

I take a deep breath. The air smells wonderful- like car exhaust and fried food and weed. I'm sure that a lot of people hate the way New York smells, but after hours of being cooped up in our apartment, it smells like designer perfume. It's not that I don't like our apartment- it's spacious and full of windows and probably cost millions- but being stuck indoors with my mother makes me feel like ants are crawling around underneath my skin. I needed to get out of the house. I need to be out on the streets one more time before my life potentially changes forever.

There's a scuffling sound to my left. A few feet away, a boy my age with messy brown hair leans against the limestone facade of the apartment building, hands stuffed into his pockets and his feet scraping nervously at the pavement. He's wearing a jean jacket that's more pins and patches than denim; I can see the NASA pin I gave him for his birthday last year, clasped near his right wrist. He wants to be an astronaut when he's older. Or a baseball star. That's Jesse Brooks for you- daydreamer extraordinaire. I've known him since seventh grade, and for the past four years, this has always been where we meet; this wall, under this lamppost, at this time. It's used to be such a rebellious, secret thing- we thought we were the baddest kids in town, sneaking out of the house at midnight. Now it's just routine. I call him, or he calls me, and then we end up here.

Usually, Jesse greets me when I spin through the revolving doors, but tonight he's lost in thought and gazing distractedly off at the cars and cabs. I'm not surprised by this. Jesse has his head stuck in the clouds more often than not. I call his name once, but he doesn't respond, so instead, I walk forward and tap him on the shoulder instead.

He leaps into the air like somebody just yanked a rug out from underneath him. "Jesus, Ronan!" He turns to me, wide-eyed and bewildered. "Where the hell did you even come from?"

"You know that apartment I've lived in for five years? Well, I sort of came from that direction."

Jesse rolls his eyes. Most of the shock has faded from his face, but his expression is still too tight- his eyebrows furrowed, his lips pursed. And even though he's looking right at me, his blue eyes seem pale and distant, like he's seeing through me and into the horizon; caught up in something a thousand miles away. "Smart-ass," he tells me. "The next time you scare me like that I'll judo flip you."

"Okay, Karate Kid."

Jesse hits me in the shoulder while I pantomime the wipe on/wipe off motion.

"It's a good movie," he protests. "Ralph Macchio is a star."