One Rule

The fluorescent lights of the NYU classroom hum, casting a sterile glow over my desk as the minute hand silently ticks toward freedom. I am absolutely pissed. I let myself get used on last week’s psych final by Mr. Smooth, that’s what I call him. He’s the guy who never glanced my way until test day. Right now, he is sauntering into the lecture hall fashionably late as he always is wearing that leather jacket, collar up, exuding big-city cool. He slides effortlessly into a seat next to the most stunning girl in class—a dead ringer for Jaclyn Smith of Charlie’s Angels, complete with the dark cascading hair. He whispers something in her ear, making her quietly laugh. He throws a casual look back toward my row. Not a nod. Not a blink of recognition.

Nothing.

My stinging ego drags me back to the day of the exam. I replay the memory loop: Mr. Smooth sitting a desk-chair away, the gap between us feeling like a canyon. Midway through the grueling multiple-choice exam, he softly cleared his throat, tapping his pencil rhythmically against his desk to get my attention. Playing it cool, I angled my paper and sneaked him a few answers. That is exactly how it went down. Now I sit here grinding my teeth while the bespectacled Ms. Newman drones on, her voice a flat nasal monotone as she conducts a meticulous postmortem of the entire exam.

I tune her out, turning my embarrassment inward. I’m the one who logged the hours at the library. I did the heavy reading, the late-night cramming. I aced the test on my own merit. Why give my labor away for free? Just for the fleeting excitement of being the guy with the answers. If he had just walked up to me today, clapped me on the shoulder, and said, “Hey, thanks for the save, let’s go grab a cold Bud,” then everything would make sense. The universe would be balanced. Maybe I should just walk right up to his desk and confront him.

The bell cuts through my thoughts. Class is dismissed. Instead of confronting him, I watch him glide out the door, his hand resting casually on the small of the Jaclyn Smith look-alike’s back. I sit frozen until the room completely empties, then gather my things, trudge down the ancient linoleum steps and walk out into the crisp winter air.

I walk down Washington Place, aiming to cut through Washington Square Park. The morning air smells of diesel exhaust, roasted chestnuts, and damp earth. The park is a chaotic swirl of students in denim, off beat artists, elderly chess players, and eccentric street folk. Near the fountain, I stop, the sight of a mime traps me. She is inside an invisible box. Her gloved palms press flat against the empty air, tracing imaginary corners hand over hand. She drops to her knees, her face a mask of exaggerated desperation, searching for an exit seam. Finally, she finds one. Flattening her body against the cold pavement, she slides underneath the invisible barrier, stands up, and dramatically wipes the back of her white-gloved hand across her forehead, then dusting off her knees with a silent sigh of relief.

A chill goes down my spine. I know how she feels, wanting to break out of an invisible box. That exact suffocation is what drove me out of Oregon and onto a cross-country flight to New York City and the borough of Manhattan.

The mime catches me staring. Her eyes are massive under rings of heavy black eyeliner, stark against her chalk-white face and the downturned cherry red paint of her mouth. She looks right at me. What am I supposed to do here? Tip her? Clap? Feeling self-conscious, I spin on my heel and walk away, my high-top sneakers squeaking against the concrete. When I look back over my shoulder, she is watching me still, her right hand raised high, slowly folding her fingers down into her palm and back up again in a ghostly, rhythmic wave. I leave her behind, cross the street, and push through the heavy glass door of Ray’s Pizza. The ambient roar of the street vanishes, replaced by the dense, heavenly wall of scent: bubbling mozzarella, charred yeast, oregano, and sweet tomato sauce.

“Yo, Riles! How ya doing, kid?” Ray’s booming voice cuts through the aroma of the empty shop.

I love that he calls me Riles. It’s a phenomenon I’ve noticed all over Manhattan—this instant shorthand of nicknames, call signs, and truncated titles. It’s uniquely New York. It feels informal on the surface, but underneath, it carries a strange, immediate warmth.

Ray is behind the counter, kneading a massive mound of pale dough with thick, calloused hands that look capable of snapping bricks in half. He’s wearing his uniform: a dark blue beanie rolled tight above his ears and cocked to the left. His white short-sleeved shirt is unbuttoned halfway down, exposing a V-neck T-shirt where a tiny gold cross glints from kitchen lights. An apron dusted with white flour clings to his jeans.

“Fine, thank you, Ray,” I say, my voice echoing back at me. “How are you?”

Four months in this city and I still sound like a painfully polite provincial dork.

“Making the dough to get the dough. You want the usual?” Ray asks, his eyes never leaving the rhythmic slap-and-fold of the dough.

“Yes, please,” I reply.

Jesus, Riley, why couldn’t I say something slick? Something like, “Lay a slice on me, Ray-Man, I’m starving.”

I’ve been a regular here since the NYU semester kicked off in September. My schedule is light—one class on Tuesday, another on Friday, both wrapping up by eleven in the morning. I always head straight here afterward. At this hour, the vinyl booths are empty, the metal stools stand vacant, and the quiet suits me just fine.

Ray pivots smoothly, using a long wooden peel to extract two steaming, bubbling pies from the roaring, stacked brick ovens. He slides them onto the stainless-steel counter with an expert flick of his wrist, leaving them to cool while he returns to his dough.

Angie, Ray’s wife, steps out from the back, offering me a warm smile. In my eyes, she looks exactly like a young Natalie Wood—radiant, sharp-eyed, and completely commanding. She’s the anchor that keeps Ray moored. She moves away from the old mechanical cash register to pull a cold bottle of root beer from the glass-front cooler.

Over the last few months, they’ve managed to piece together my story from the fragments I’ve dropped. They know I’m a student from the Pacific Northwest, though they both emphasize the last syllable, pronouncing it “Or-e-GONE.” I never have the heart to correct them. To be honest, they’re just about the only people I actually talk to in this entire city.

“How did that test go?” Angie asks, popping the metal cap off my soda. “You ace it?”

It hits me right in the chest how they always remember the little details of my week.

“I got an A,” I say, the word dropping out of my mouth like a lead weight. The image of Mr. Smooth laughing in the front row flashes vividly in my mind.

“Wow, that’s great!” Angie beams.

Ray slides a heavy square of pizza onto a wax-paper plate and carries it over. They both stand on the other side of the counter, leaning forward, studying my face.

“So why the sour look, kid?” Ray asks.

I stare down at my wallet, debating whether to unload my pathetic drama. I pay Angie, sliding a five-dollar bill across the counter and dropping a handful of dollar bills directly into the glass tip jar. Giving a healthy tip is one urban survival skill I feel confident in. Avoiding their gaze, I pick up my food. I don’t want them writing me off as some sensitive kid who can’t cut it in the five boroughs. But they feel more authentic than anyone else I’ve met here or anywhere else.

“It’s nothing, really,” I say over my shoulder, retreating to a row of chrome-and-vinyl stools facing the front window.

I look out at the street. Across the asphalt, I can still see the white-faced mime in the park, adjusting her imaginary box for a new crowd. I take a massive bite of my slice—a thick, heavy square of Sicilian topped with curling circles of pepperoni glistening with oil.

After a few quiet chews, the silence gets to me. I turn around on my stool. Ray is still punishing the dough, and Angie is methodically rolling plastic forks into paper napkins, stacking them neatly in a cardboard box. They both look up instantly, waiting.

“It’s really nothing,” I repeat, “but it’s kinda eating at me.”

“Spit it out, Riles, what happened?” Ray demands, slamming the dough down with a satisfying thud.

“Okay. So last week during the final, I’m sitting in the dead back of the room. I always sit there. Nobody ever sits near me. But right before the test papers are handed out, this guy takes the desk right next to mine. It’s weird because he usually sits up front with this incredibly beautiful girl—she looks like Jaclyn Smith from Charlie’s Angels.”

“The brunette?” Ray asks, his eyes lighting up.

“Oh, Ray,” Angie chides, swatting his arm playfully. She turns her gaze back to me, her voice softening. “Go ahead, Riley.”

It hits me that Angie always uses my full name. She never calls me Riles.

“Anyway, the professor hands out the exams and starts the clock. About fifteen minutes in, this guy starts tapping his desk, looking at me desperately. Long story short... I leaned over and let him copy a few of my answers. Today we got the grades back. He got an A, too.”

“So, did he come up and thank you today?” Angie asks, her eyebrows knitting together.

“He owes you a cold beer, at least,” Ray grunts.

“No,” I say, the bitterness sharp in my throat. “He sat up front, completely wrapped up in the Jaclyn Smith girl, acting like he’d never seen me before in his life. When class ended, he walked right out without a word.”

I turn back to the window, taking another bite of the Sicilian to hide my face. Behind me, I can hear the silent communication passing between Ray and Angie. I swallow the pizza and face Ray again. “What would you do, Ray?”

Ray stops working. He raises a massive, flour-dusted fist and squeezes it tight. “Punch his teeth down his throat.”

“Ray!” Angie snaps, though there’s a flicker of amusement in her eyes. She turns back to me, leaning her elbows on the counter. “So, Riley... did you get anything out of doing that? I mean, why did you do it?”

“I didn’t get anything,” I mutter, looking down at my hands. “I just... I wanted to feel cool; I guess. Like I was somebody.” The words sound incredibly small in the big room.

Ray sighs, wiping his hands on his apron. “So, the guy took you.”

The words sting.

Angie reaches across the counter, her eyes holding mine with fierce, protective clarity. “Listen to me, Riley. It’s a big city. There’s one rule: Don’t give nothing away for nothing. You gotta protect your work.”

I don’t answer. The word loser feels branded onto my forehead. I quickly finish the crust, ball up the greasy paper plate, and toss it along with my empty soda bottle into the trash can. The lunch rush is starting; the bell above the door jingles as three city workers walk in, followed by a a group of students. I grab the strap of my canvas bookbag, my head lowered as I steer toward the exit. Ray and Angie are already pulling fresh pies, completely focused on the customers.

My hand touches the cold brass handle of the front door.

“Yo, Riles!”

Ray’s voice explodes over the din of the lunch crowd, I freeze, look back.

Ray is pointing a flour-white finger straight at me from behind the counter. “Fuhgeddaboudit! We’ll see you next week, kid.”

Angie breaks into a wide, brilliant smile, waving a napkin at me.

And with that, I push back into the city.

Author: Peter has written festival winning screenplays, published numerous essays/letters to the editor and written a half dozen short stories. This is his first short story submission.

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