Catwalk (Sample Excerpt)

Chapter 1

Him: So your goin where?

Me: To NYC

Him: For how long?

Me: As long as it takes

I dropped the phone on the bed and looked at my disaster of a room, desperately trying to piece together something cool from the lame selection of boot-cut jeans, polo shirts and Old Navy tees I'd pulled from drawers.

The phone rang (playing Taylor Swift's "Welcome to New York" for inspiration) and I knew it would be Benji. There was no chance he was letting me off the hook with the bomb I'd dropped seconds earlier. I dug the phone out from in between my 200 stuffed animals—they kept on multiplying even though my grandmother knew I'd stopped playing with them over a decade ago—and answered.       "Hey ... can't talk now. Am totally late. My bus leaves in two hours and I haven't finished packing yet."

"Who's this? I'm looking for Catherine. You know, the girl who lives at home with her parents and whose idea of adventure is walking to Wawa at 10pm for a blue raspberry slushie?"

 "Benji! I don't have time for this! Listen, can I call you from the bus?"

Okay, so I was being a bit evasive. But evasive is good. I mean, aren't girls supposed to be mysterious every once in a while? Aren't we supposed to keep them guessing? I could hear my mother's voice in my head: Catherine, it's not nice to tease your boyfriend. But Benji wasn't my boyfriend ... exactly. He was just a "boy" who was also a "friend," who just happened to be someone I kissed a few times (ok, five times to be exact, but who's counting?). So what did I owe him? I wasn't obligated to update him on every little twist and turn in my life.

"So, when were you going to tell me?" he said, the sound of his voice changing from playful to slightly awkwardly serious. "After you'd been receiving mail at some New York address? And what about school?!"

That, right there, was the reason I conveniently "forgot" to tell Benji about my plans. Sure, he knew I wanted to move to New York City someday. He just didn't know that "someday" was, like, a week from Tuesday. I resisted telling him because I was sure he would object. After all, "Benjamin Darling, III"—as his mother insisted on calling him in her high-pitched northeastern cant—had his act together in the more traditional sense. He was going to be a senior at Villanova University on track to become a high school English teacher. The minute I told him about my outrageous decision I knew he'd launch into a sermon that would sound much like my dad's. And, to be honest, I couldn't endure one more soapbox speech after hearing approximately five hundred of them all summer long.

 "School can wait," I said. "Besides, I'm only 18—I have the rest of my life for school." I braced myself and waited for the avalanche of judgment.

But there was no lecture. No speech. Just  ... static. And then more static.

 "Hello? Are you still there? Are you breathing? Do you need CPR?" I asked, half joking, half serious.

"Wow—I'm just surprised," he said, his voice cracking a bit. "That's a really bold move, Catherine. I hope it works out for you."

"That's it?" I said, slightly miffed. I guess I expected him to put up more of a fight. Or at least lecture me on the virtues of higher education. Or maybe act like he might miss me in even a teeny, weenie way. "You're not going to tell me I'm being a complete idiot? That I'm making the biggest mistake of my life?"

"No, I'm not."

I replayed the conversation over and over again in my mind during the cab ride to the Greyhound bus station. I insisted that my parents not drive me there, because I knew my mother would get all dramatic and emotional at the gate and be totally ridiculously embarrassing as if I was moving to Guam or something. Besides, they'd be up that weekend to deliver the rest of my stuff. I knew I could have waited for them, but the anticipation was killing me.