“I’m heading uptown to my appointment and your tagging along with me.” I say. We walk down each block quietly, and Daniel starts with a question from that stupid article. The question starts with “Would you like to be famous and how?” He said he’d like to be a poet. Of course he does, I say in my head. I check the distance to Attorney Fitzgerald’s office (My lawyer), and he is already onto the next question. He guides me off to the side so that we aren’t blocking people, and I suddenly notice how brown, and beautiful his eyes are in the sunlight. He folds his sweatshirt and puts it into my backpack. His shirt is crisp white and the red tie stands out more than before. I wonder if Jamaican boys wear the same. My mood turns somber at the thought. I don’t want new friends, a new education, new school, new house, new cliques, and new hangouts. I feel like I’m about to drown in the deep end of a pool, I tell him. I tell Daniel, I simply can’t swim, and he is concerned at the thought. “But your Jamaican. You grew up surrounded by water.” he says. He offers to teach me how to swim. “That ship has sailed.” I say. New York only has pools, and chlorine is gross. The dark blue ocean here is nothing compared to the clear bright blue water in Jamaica.