[editor's note]

well, I guess i'm not really the editor. I found this story in a collection at the library.

don't know if you have it at YOUR library, so I took the liberty of typing it up for you.

the author of this is most likely gay, but I haven't researched him, so I don't know.

not that there's anything wrong with that. the story IS about a straight couple.

If Linda Bieber is reading this, it's a metaphor..or something of the sort, right?

Please don't sue me! I'm giving you free advertising, david levithan!

-R.M.O.C

Author : David Levithan

Book: How They Met and other stories

Story: Escalator: a love story

Pages: 76 – 83 (there's no chapters, it's a short story.)

The Escalator : A Love Story

When I was born, my mother loved me. That was love –

the pain and such and my head snapped into shape

by a nurse. (of course, I'm being overdramatic. Of course

I don't remember this – I don't remember any of the times

when I was very young and everyone looked at my little body –

so chubby – and loved me instantly. Why would I want

to remember such pure love?) Certainly, my family will always

love me – it's part of the package, the unwritten pledge. But

what was my introduction to earned love? Well, I fell for

Emily Mercer in kindergarten. She had red hair, freckles,

and my heart. It didn't work out. I broke a few crayons.

Maybe I've been harmed because my best friends have been girls

I grew up seeing both sides of love and why guys were

slime. That was always the word. Slime. So I had to prevent

myself from doing slimy things because I wanted to be in love

sometimes with my best friends. (Now there's a complication.)

Sure, I had crushes in elementary school. But mostly I watched,

gossiped about who would be getting valentines signed "Love,"

and who would send Love and get nothing in return

Even in junior high –– what did I know? I had an early inkling

that the boyfriend/girlfriend stuff wasn't love, just a way to fill

the space next to you. Love was long run and nothing

would ever be long run in junior high.

Now i'm in high school, wanting to fall in love

if it's not inconvenient. Do I want to be in love? Yes

and sometimes no. Do other people want me

to be in love? Hell, yes. That's why I am here now,

wandering around the mall with Mandy. Such a name, Mandy.

Not the kind poets have fun with. It's a plain name and she's

pretty plain herself. This isn't to say I don't like her. I do.

I like her, she likes me. We leave it at that. When you're in

high school, love is rare and like is enjoyable, so you just take

what you can get. And I got Mandy.

We're here in the mall, looking for a birthday present.

It's assumed we'll be giving a present together –– that's what

couples are supposed to do. After a while, you become part

of a proper noun. We're Daniel-and-Mandy. It makes people

happy and jealous. I feel it, too, when I look at other couples

with something real between them. I look at their eyes, the way

the know each other's paragraphs, and something seems right.

I doubt people see that in me and Mandy, but I hope they do.

We might as well make them happy and jealous.

Mandy and I are walking through the hall, holding hands.

That's about as close as we usually get. We've kissed,

and that's about it. We don't really hang out on the fast track.

Our friends say we fit and I imagine us as Legos. My mother

once told me that you really know someone when you know

their parents. I think this was her way of telling me to invite

Mandy over to dinner. I never have, although I guess I should.

I've only been over to her house a few times. I still haven't me

her father, although I think my father knows him. (I'd remark

here that it's such a small world.. but the truth is that

it's just a small town.)

What do I know about love? Not much – that's the safe answer.

Even when I think I have a grasp on it, something comes along

to make me realize I don't know anything at all. It's just a

concept to me. It's the thing that all the songs are written about,

a concept, it makes me a better observer. And it also leaves a

place inside of me hollow. Sometimes I can actually feel it. To

reach down inside that part – I wonder how it would feel, to

touch a void. That nameless empty.

This makes me seem lonely, which isn't really true. I have other

parts of me – friendship for one – which compensates

for the void. I can't feel the nothingness except in those rare

times when there's nothing else to feel.

Mandy must fit into a part of me. I don't feel alone as we walk

from card store to card store. It feels nice to hold her hand.

Not spectacular, but nice. We can't really find an interesting

card. The stores are full of artificial rainbows, nicotine-voiced

sarcasm that's never actually funny, and cute little cartoon

animals holding Happy Birthday balloons. After making the

rounds we decide to back upstairs to Hallmark

and give in to Snoopy and Woodstock.

There's nobody on the escalators. There's really no one in the

mall. It's February and, as my father loves to point out, we're in

a recession. Occasionally an employee will pass us, wearing a

T-shirt that says, In My Life, I Love The Mall. Looking at the

escalator, I have an idea. (It's actually more of an impulse than

an idea.) I turn to Mandy and say, "Why don't we go down the

up escalator?" – I used to love to do that when I was a kid, and

me and my friend Randy would be able to fit side by side and

race to the top. Running to stay still. Mandy just gives me this

what are you talking about? look that tries to convince me she

isn't in the mood. I leap onto the third or fourth stair and

start running.

The rest of the mall dissolves – I feel my legs pushing me up

against the flow. I'm making it – step, and step, and step. I

reach the final leap – the most dangerous part. Especially if your

shoelaces are untied, as mine are. I take a breath and jump onto

the second level's marble floor. I raise my arms to complete the

arc like a champion Olympic gymnast, conqueror of the mall.

I look down and see Mandy at the base of the escalator, making

mock clapping gestures. "Come on," I yell, motioning for her

to follow. She touches her hair in hesitation. I can feel the reason

killing the impulse. "You can do it," I say, but she shrugs.

I don't understand. Anyone can do it. We're at some sort of

standstill, like when a conversation abruptly stops

and you can't think of anything more to say. I don't think

she's going to do it. I really hope she does.

I'm about to yell, "Don't bother" with a particular edge

in my voice. But when Mandy pulls her coat firmly around her

shoulders and throws herself onto the downward escalator.

How can I explain what I suddenly feel? I see her jump,

her hair lifting in the air, and I can't help but think something

along the lines of Wow.

I once asked Randy how he knew

that he had fallen in love with his girlfriend, Amy, and he just

looked at me like it was the hardest question in the world.

I expected some floral, florid explanation, about the air

lightening and flute music filling his ears. The relationship

that had him so transfixed – I expected a masterpiece of

sentiment, one that would make me so happy for him and

so empty inside. Instead he just turned to me and said,

"The minute I knew I was in love was the minute when

there was no question about it. One night I was lying

in the dark, looking at her looking at me, and it just

was there, undeniable."

There is no question about it. I look in amazement

as Mandy pushes herself up the stairs, not looking up

at me, concentration on her footwork. I want so much

for her to reach the top. I want her to reach me

at this very moment. I picture myself embracing her

when she makes it, looking into her eyes for the

confirmation of my feelings. What do I feel? If it isn't

love, then it's certainly potential for love, the realization

that there's more to us than liking and dating and being

each other's Pictionary partners. I'm so happy. I'm so

afraid. Does she feel the same way? All I know

is that I know. When she reaches the top, maybe I'll

dance with her to the piped-in non-music drifting

from the ceiling. I'll do anything 00 I want to do something

totally strange and new and special. I want to hold her.

I want to sleep with her – fall asleep with her in my arms.

I want to wake up that way. I've never seen her asleep.

All of these strange impulses— I want to tuck her in.

I want to be there, and there, and be there.

And then she falls.

It's over before I can register what's happening. Her foot

hits one of the steps and, well, she trips. It isn't dramatic –

she doesn't fall down the escalator or anything.

It isn't even good comedy. She just stumbles face-first onto the

steps. Then she pushes herself up and rides the rest of the way

down. I run to her – it's as if i'm moving doubly, being

carried as I go down. I get to her. I can't tell if she's crying

or laughing. "I can't do anything!" she says, brushing back

her hair, and I see her exasperation isn't serious. I say

something along the lines of "Don't be silly, it could've

happened to anyone," and gather the things that fell

from her bag. She's still sitting when i'm done, so I offer her

my hand. She doesn't get up – she just keeps looking at me,

not at my hand but at my face. I put the bag down and sit

beside her, right there on the floor of the mall. "Are you

okay?" I ask. She says, "I fell," and I say, "I think I've fallen too."

(isn't that sweet?)

It's never like the movies, is it? A great romantic moment, and

clunky, corny things just tumble out. "Oh," she says, And I wonder

if she's saying it just to see what I'll offer next.

"Yeah," I reply saying it to see what she'll say next.

Which is, "You have to be careful." Now what does that mean?

Indirect discretion. No one wants to fully commit –

everyone's afraid that they're misinterpreting because no one

is talking straight. Playing the old What-Are-You-Thinking? Game.

You have to be careful. Mandy has skinned her hands

and her lip has a little cut in one of it's corners.

I kissed her anyway.