"What are you going to do for New Year's?" she asked.
"Maybe, if you want, you can come to the Stone household?"
"I don't know. I don't do drugs."
"Really? A child actor doesn't do drugs?"
"One of one. And you know, too soon?" Her voice was slower.
"Yeah. Yeah. Got a point."
I blurted out, "I mean, if you want to go to the ball drop—"
"Yes! I have never been."
"I mean, it's not all that." "Yeah, if you want."
"Yes!"
The rest of the conversation was about Sundance—it was Emma's first time—and I, as a bona fide veteran, gave her the necessary advice.
"At the after-parties, you have to dress up. It's like Halloween."
"Really?"
"Yeah, I was Iron-Man last year, and throughout the party I kept yelling 'Jarvis.'"
"That's bizarre."
I held in my laughter. "Yeah. This year I'm going to be Kick-Ass."
"Hold on. You don't think we should match or something, like Superman and Wonder Woman?"
"You can be Katie Deauxma, Kick-Ass's love interest. Come on, it will be a time," I said.
There was some hesitation. "Okay, I will order one on eBay."
"Bye."
"Bye."
Christmas flew by, and New Year's was filled with heartfelt goodbyes, and I took a bus to Port Authority. It was unusually warm, as if the huge crowd discarded the December cold.
I saw Emma waiting at 42nd and 8th Avenue under the blue scaffold. Straight away, a man wearing a purple NYU hat approached me. "Hey, are you Ryan Stone?"
"Yes. I am?"
"Oh my god. I loved you in Margin Call. Can I have a picture?"
Emma walked in and touched my left shoulder. "I can take it for you."
He looked puzzled for a second and said, "Thank you."
We fit together in the frame as some of the passersby gave us strange looks.
Take the photo, Emma.
She held the small iPhone with glee. "Say 'NYC Ball Drop!'"
We both said in unison, "NYC Ball Drop!"
"Thank you so much."
I answered, "No problem."
He scurried away. "Look at you greeting your fans."
"I mean, a million people fill the streets. At least someone will know me." I laughed at myself.
"We should be going. We are already late." She held my hand and crossed 8th Avenue. A flood of blue swept through the streets, as if the Smurfs had laid siege to the city.
She looked divine: golden hair spilling over a Burberry leather trench merged with the confetti in the air, as if she was the incarnation of everything that's new and materialistic in the world. She waved a finger toward the AMC and Regal standing next to each other—bad for business. Her soft Californian accent, the way she would laugh as if she was a dragon, and her noticeable eyeliner forced the impression of naivety—you would not have been wrong—but carried such a bubbly and positive demeanor that washed away any ill will.
The barricades tightened as we reached the end of the crowd. Metal fencing split Times Square into different sections as we were shoulder to shoulder with tourists wearing glasses that read 2012. Somewhere farther down Broadway, somebody had thrown a beach ball in the air.
A remix of Party Rock Anthem was played through the speakers.
Emma looked upward at the enormous advertisements climbing the buildings. The giant red Coca-Cola sign reflected against her face.
"This is insane," she said.
"I thought you were born here."
"I was born upstate. But my childhood was spent in LA."
"I could have sworn you mentioned the city."
"I lied." We both laughed.
A woman wearing blinking cat ears squeezed past us and shouted, "Happy New Year!" despite it being an hour away. She laughed.
There it was again. That loud, unashamed, almost theatrical laugh.
"You know," I said. "You can be yourself, and you're safe," I said, half-yelling through the noise.
"What?"
"I mean—"
"Are you Emma Roberts?" A college-aged woman approached her with a wide grin.
She brightened instantly, alive again like a wind-up monkey freshly turned.
"Yes. Isn't it so crazy here?"
"It is." She approached closer. "I can't wait to see Gaga."
"Me too."
"Can I have a picture?" I stepped in, and the fan walked back to her friend group with ecstasy.
The crowd swayed every few minutes like the ocean moving beneath concrete. A group of college students from Ohio attempted to start a countdown from fifty minutes but lost track somewhere in the late forties.
"Are you nervous for Sundance?" I asked, trying to change the topic.
"A little."
"You'll survive."
"You say that like it's war."
"It basically is. Just rich people pretending that nothing else exists."
She laughed quietly to herself.
"And everybody dresses like lumberjacks and Marvel heroes for some reason."
"That sounds horrifying."
"It is horrifying."
The giant screens suddenly shifted into a performance montage, and the music reverberated through the square while cameras panned across the crowd searching for attractive couples to broadcast across the country.
Emma looked upward toward the descending crystal ball that was so high.
"I can't believe people wait all day for this."
"They pee in diapers."
She turned toward me in horror.
"You're lying."
"I wish I was."
"That's the saddest thing I've ever heard."
"Well, you gotta get to wet a Big Apple before you eat it."
A beach ball bounced toward us through the crowd. Emma slapped it back into the air with surprising force and immediately looked proud of herself.
"Did you see that?"
"Future volleyball career."
"I think so."
The final ten minutes before midnight transformed the atmosphere completely. People straightened themselves instinctively. Phones appeared everywhere. Strangers became friendlier. The entire crowd carried the strange shared awareness that they were approaching all year. Emma leaned closer to me so I could hear her.
"I think this might actually be fun."
"Don't tell anyone I said this," I replied, "but it usually is."
"That's very vulnerable of you."
I laughed.
The countdown clock appeared on every screen in Times Square simultaneously.
The crowd erupted.
Thirty seconds.
Drunk college students screamed numbers before they even appeared.
Twenty.
Emma grabbed my hand tighter.
Ten.
It seemed as if the city saw Godzilla.
Nine.
Eight.
Seven.
Gold confetti already drifted from rooftops too early.
Six.
Five.
Emma looked at me briefly and smiled.
Four.
Three.
Two.
One.
The ball dropped through explosions of gold light, and the entire square collapsed into chaos. Emma kissed me before I could think. In the corner of my eye l saw Gaga kiss the mayor.
Cold lips. The taste of hot chocolate. Her hand against my cheek while the city grew darker.
When we finally pulled apart, she laughed softly.
"Happy New Year."
"Happy New Year."
Behind us, Empire State of Mind thundered through the speakers while tourists cried and hugged strangers beneath the advertisements.
"Okay," she said, "that was worth it."
"I told you."
"You literally spent the entire night insulting this place."
"That's how we show affection."
The walk downtown afterward felt dreamlike. Near Bryant Park, she slipped her arm through mine.
"So," she asked, "see you next month?"
"Yep. Get ready."
"That's not reassuring."
"It's freezing. This night actually is much warmer."
"That sounds incredible."
"It is."
She smiled to herself at that.
By the time January disappeared and we landed in Park City for the Sundance Film Festival, the city already felt distant, as if the buzz of New Year's evaporated into thin air.