view from here

Until quite recently, I had never really been anywhere. New York is a cluttered place where everything I could ever need is in the palm of my hand.

I am a little bit obsessed with Claudia Conway. The daughter of two public figures—one a spokesperson for the Trump White House, the other a notorious Twitter #resister—Claudia rose to prominence over the summer in lockdown. She found TikTok like the rest of us did. She quickly disproved any assertions that her parents actually got along, speculation that had long been purported not just by gossip magazines, but also by reputable newspapers. And almost as soon as the Internet became sure she was who she claimed to be, Claudia went viral.

A few Octobers ago, I finally summited the endless flight of rickety metal stairs on the Manhattan side of the High Bridge and discovered a shock of red as my reward. It blossomed up from an enormous, crisp blue swimming pool, empty but for so many crimson leaves that coursed out over the edges of the pit toward the line of trees that still held their kin. The walls, the bleachers, every inch of concrete was painted deep red as though stained with arbor blood. I whirled around expecting to meet some other wide eyes, but seeing none, I realized that it fell on me to audibly honor that autumn day. I hadn’t planned to end my walk by shouting.

The buzzer calls the end of the matchup, but that was never necessary. The game could have been over at minute 14. The Columbia men’s basketball team has just lost its 11th consecutive game (with two more losses to follow) and I am accidentally spilling my nonalcoholic beer on the lacquered hardwood of the Jonathan D. Schiller Court of Levien Gymnasium in the Dodge Fitness Center. The imitation brew is all over my skirt, which was an impractical garment for sitting on the seats of the press box to begin with. The rub between my tights and the vinyl is uncomfortable, not painful, but it is a distraction throughout the game. The stickiness of the beer makes the situation even less sexy.

Sports fans ache to see this kind of finish. Down by one and with two seconds remaining, Anthony Davis pulled up for a three-pointer. It could not have been more perfect: The ball sailed cleanly through the net as the backboard buzzed red to signal the end of the game. Even from thousands of miles away, I could imagine the crisp snapping of the white cords as the ball passed through. My dad rose from his chair; I screamed. And it was only Game 2 of the Western Conference Finals.

Since returning home in the middle of the spring semester, I’ve been living in my family’s attic. We don’t actually have enough space in the house for all of us to be home at once, so we converted the cramped attic into my de facto room for my indefinite stay.

I love my hometown—I think. In the summers, townies and tourists mill around Brunswick, Maine like fish in a stream. The locals are shiny, broad-backed trout; they’re tanned and wear Red Sox caps and tee shirts from local breweries; they drive trucks with immaculate exteriors and crushed Budweiser cans under the seats.

I hear a knock on my door—quiet at first, then growing louder. The doorknob twists, but I had locked it to prevent any unwanted intrusions.