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Oh, we’re just scattering some dead fish about town, breaking some
windows, photographing naked guys, hanging out in skyscraper lobbies at three-
fifteen in the morning, that kind of thing. “Not much,” I answered.

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“Elevators are down for the night,” Gus said. “Had to shut ’em off at three.
You’re welcome to take the stairs, though.”
“Cool. See ya, Gus.”
“See ya, Margo.”
“How the hell do you know the security guard at the SunTrust Building?” I
asked once we were safely in the stairwell.
“He was a senior when we were freshmen,” she answered. “We gotta hustle,
okay? Time’s a-wastin’.” Margo started taking the stairs two at a time, flying up,
one arm on the rail, and I tried to keep pace with her, but couldn’t. Margo didn’t
play any sports, but she liked to run—I sometimes saw her running by herself
listening to music in Jefferson Park. I, however, did not like to run. Or, for that
matter, engage in any kind of physical exertion. But now I tried to keep up a
steady pace, wiping the sweat off my forehead and ignoring the burning in my
legs. When I got to the twenty-fifth floor, Margo was standing on the landing,
waiting for me.
“Check it out,” she said. She opened the stairwell door and we were inside a
huge room with an oak table as long as two cars, and a long bank of floor-to-
ceiling windows. “Conference room,” she said. “It’s got the best view in the
whole building.” I followed her as she walked along the windows. “Okay, so
there,” she said pointing, “is Jefferson Park. See our houses? Lights still off, so
that’s good.” She moved over a few panes. “Jase’s house. Lights off, no more
cop cars. Excellent, although it might mean he’s made it home, which is
unfortunate.” Becca’s house was too far away to see, even from up here.
She was quiet for a moment, and then she walked right up to the glass and
leaned her forehead against it. I hung back, but then she grabbed my T-shirt and
pulled me forward. I didn’t want our collective weight against a single pane of
glass, but she kept pulling me forward, and I could feel her balled fist in my side,
and finally I put my head against the glass as gently as possible and looked
around.
From above, Orlando was pretty well lit. Beneath us I could see the flashing
DON’T WALK signs at intersections, and the streetlights running up and down
the city in a perfect grid until downtown ended and the winding streets and cul-
de-sacs of Orlando’s infinite suburb started.
“It’s beautiful,” I said.
Margo scoffed. “Really? You seriously think so?”

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“I mean, well, maybe not,” I said, although it was. When I saw Orlando from
an airplane, it looked like a LEGO set sunk into an ocean of green. Here, at
night, it looked like a real place—but for the first time a place I could see. As I
walked around the conference room, and then through the other offices on the
floor, I could see it all: there was school. There was Jefferson Park. There, in the
distance, Disney World. There was Wet ’n Wild. There, the 7-Eleven where
Margo painted her nails and I fought for breath. It was all here—my whole
world, and I could see it just by walking around a building. “It’s more
impressive,” I said out loud. “From a distance, I mean. You can’t see the wear on
things, you know? You can’t see the rust or the weeds or the paint cracking. You
see the place as someone once imagined it.”
“Everything’s uglier close up,” she said.
“Not you,” I answered before thinking better of it.
Her forehead still against the glass, she turned to me and smiled. “Here’s a
tip: you’re cute when you’re confident. And less when you’re not.” Before I had
a chance to say anything, her eyes went back to the view and she started talking.
“Here’s what’s not beautiful about it: from here, you can’t see the rust or the
cracked paint or whatever, but you can tell what the place really is. You see how
fake it all is. It’s not even hard enough to be made out of plastic. It’s a paper
town. I mean look at it, Q: look at all those cul-de-sacs, those streets that turn in
on themselves, all the houses that were built to fall apart. All those paper people
living in their paper houses, burning the future to stay warm. All the paper kids
drinking beer some bum bought for them at the paper convenience store.
Everyone demented with the mania of owning things. All the things paper-thin
and paper-frail. And all the people, too. I’ve lived here for eighteen years and I
have never once in my life come across anyone who cares about anything that
matters.”
“I’ll try not to take that personally,” I said. We were both staring into the inky
distance, the cul-de-sacs and quarter-acre lots. But her shoulder was against my
arm, and the backs of our hands were touching, and although I was not looking
at Margo, pressing myself against the glass felt almost like pressing myself
against her.
“Sorry,” she said. “Maybe things would have been different for me if I’d
been hanging out with you the whole time instead of—ugh. Just, God. I just hate
myself so much for even caring about my, quote, friends. I mean, just so you
know, it’s not that I am oh-so-upset about Jason. Or Becca. Or even Lacey,
although I actually liked her. But it was the last string. It was a lame string, for

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sure, but it was the one I had left, and every paper girl needs at least one string,
right?”
And here is what I said. I said, “You would be welcome at our lunch table
tomorrow.”
“That’s sweet,” she answered, her voice trailing off. She turned to me and
nodded softly. I smiled. She smiled. I believed the smile. We walked to the stairs
and then ran down them. At the bottom of each flight, I jumped off the bottom
step and clicked my heels to make her laugh, and she laughed. I thought I was
cheering her up. I thought she was cheerable. I thought maybe if I could be
confident, something might happen between us.
I was wrong.

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