I’ve taken dozens of practice-adulthood days, followed so many suits, but only once did anyone notice me.

It was this beautiful woman wearing huge 1970s sunglasses on the train, even though most of the ride is underground. I could see her mascara running down her cheek, but she was really beautiful otherwise. Like, I was sort of attracted to her.

Long, bright blond hair.

Red lipstick.

Black stockings.

Gray pinstriped skirt suit.

You could tell that she was an authority figure just by the way she sat and dared anyone to say anything about the runny mascara. The vibe she sent out was menacing and it definitely said, “Don’t fuck with me.”

Regardless, on that day, this woman was by far the most miserable person on the train. You could tell she was upset, but it also looked like she’d rip your face off if you said anything to her.

All the other adults pretended not to notice, which seemed cowardly.

As she was the obvious target for the day, I got off at her stop and followed.

I remember the sound of her high heels clicking on the concrete like cap guns firing.

She walked up the escalator; I did too, trying hard to keep up.

When we cleared the turnstile I started the mental telepathy, saying (or thinking?), “Don’t do it. Don’t go to that job you hate. Go skydiving. Buy a star on the Internet. Adopt a cat.” And I continued with my routine for a city block or so. She turned into a back alley, and when we were halfway down it, she spun around tornadolike and pointed a can of Mace at my nose.

“Who are you and why are you following me?” she said. “I will destroy your day. This is top-grade stuff too. Illegal in the United States. I squeeze this trigger and you won’t be able to see for months. You might go blind.”

I didn’t know what to say, so I put my hands up in the air, like I’ve seen criminals do in the movies whenever they want to surrender, when some tough Bogart-type guy points a gun and says, “Reach for the sky.”

It surprised her, and she took a step back, but she didn’t spray me.

“How old are you?” she said.

I said, “I’m seventeen.”

“What’s your name?”

“Leonard Peacock.”

“That’s a fake name if I ever heard one.”

I said, “I can show you my school ID.”

She said, “Let’s see it, but real slow. If you try anything funny, I’ll shoot you in the cornea.”

I lowered my hands super slo-mo and said, “It’s in my pocket. May I reach into my jacket?”

She nodded, so I produced my school ID.

She took it, glanced at my name, and said, “Well, I’ll be damned. You really are Leonard Peacock. What a stupid name.”

I said, “Why are you crying?”

I saw her trigger finger twitch and I thought I was about to get maced, but instead she put my school ID into her purse and said, “Why are you following me, really? Did someone pay you? What do they want?”

“No. It’s nothing like that at all.”

She moved the Mace a few inches closer to my face, pointed at my left eye, and said, “Don’t fuck with me, Leonard Peacock. Did Brian put you up to this? Huh? Tell me!”

I put my hands up again and said, “I don’t know any Brian. I’m just a dumb kid. I dress up like an adult and skip school every once in a while to see what being an adult is like. Okay? I just want to know if growing up’s worth it. That’s all. And so I follow the most miserable-looking adult to work, because I just know that’s going to be me someday—the most miserable adult on the train. I need to know if I can take it.”

She said, “Take what?”

I said, “Being a miserable adult.”

She lowered her Mace. “Really?”

I nodded.

She said, “You’re absolutely crazy, aren’t you?”

I nodded again.

“But not dangerous, right? You’re a lamb.”

I shook my head no, because I wasn’t a threat back then. And then I nodded, because I wasn’t a wolf or a lion or anything predatory at the time.

She said, “Okay. Do you drink coffee?”