Authors: Carmen Rodrigues
He takes another drag off his cigarette. And I wonder if one day he’ll get lung cancer and die. I know, it’s an evil thing to think. But as he flicks the butt of his cigarette into MY garden and lights another one, the thought feels justified.
“So you’re friends with Danny Diaz now?”
“What are you talking about?”
“I’ve seen you guys hanging around after school together.”
“Oh.” So this is another part of the reason why he can stand to talk to me?
“You know Danny?” I raise my eyebrows. I’ve never seen Danny speak to Marc. I can’t imagine them as friends.
“I know of him. I have his sister, Dalia, in my biology class. She’s hot. You know? Well, she…” Blah, blah, blah, and Marc continues to talk, but, for some reason, I stop listening. His mouth moves, but the words that come out sound like mush.
“So what do you think?”
I shrug and turn my face away. I think about all the crap he’s put me through since elementary school—the way he stopped talking to me, the way he made me disappear—and how, after all this time, he can sit across from me and blab total nonsense without feeling like he remotely owes me any type of explanation. What kind of person does that?
“I’m sorry,” he says. “I’m running on and on. I do that when I get…weird.”
“Weird?” I repeat, even though I’m silently rehashing every single snub that has taken place since the fifth grade.
“Not weird, not like that.” He shakes his head, and puffs his cigarette. “You know, I really am sorry.”
I turn to look at him. He inhales deeply and holds the smoke inside. His head falls forward, and his face is concealed in the shadows. He’s like a poster boy for love gone wrong, and the crappy thing is that I’m actually starting to feel sorry for him.
“Look, Marc…” I blow out my candle and stand. “We all mess up. Believe me. Talk to Sheila. Apologize. Get over it. I don’t care. I’m going inside.”
I turn to leave, but Marc grabs my arm and holds me in place.
“Wait—” he says, his grip firm.
“Hey—” I try to shrug free, but he holds on tighter.
“That’s not what I’m trying to apologize for right now, you know?” He stares at me as if I’m supposed to understand whatever it is he’s fumbling toward. But all I want is for him to let go of my arm.
“Marc, let go.”
“I’m sorry,” he says, ignoring me. “That’s all. I…wow.” Marc stands. The cigarette falls to the floor. He pushes it out with the corner of his patent-leather rental shoe. The whole time, he never lets my arm go. “I never thought we’d ever talk again. You know?”
I stay quiet. It’s my thing.
“I thought that we’d hate each other for the rest of our lives, and then, I guess, tonight, I don’t know what, but I’m sorry, okay?” The last part comes out as a whisper, and I remember when Marc and I were seven and playing in his tree house. By mistake he nudged me over the side, and when I landed on my back on the grass below, he put his hand over my mouth to muffle my cries while he kept telling me that he was sorry in that same little voice. The only difference (besides the fact that he nearly suffocated me) was that he also kept begging me to not tell my mother.
“Marc”—although I’d rather not have this conversation, I have to ask—“what are you sorry for?”
“I’m sorry”—Marc pauses, long enough to let go of my arm—“about everything that happened after your mom and stuff.”
“Oh, Marc, I don’t wanna talk about this—” Not now, not ever.
“But I do. Susie, if I don’t, I’ll just feel like a chickenshit tomorrow. I mean, I’m already a chickenshit. If I weren’t chickenshit, I’d be at that stupid dance with Sheila. Yeah, it’s gay, but so what?” He shakes his head, turns from me, and runs his free hand through his hair.
Oh, the irony.
“Marc?” My voice is wobbly.
“Yeah?”
“I’m chickenshit, too.”
I think about Marisol. I let the whole week pass without apologizing to her. And now she’s out having the first Cinderella night of her life, and I’m stuck here like an idiot with my jerk-off neighbor who isn’t so bad. I guess.
“This week’s been hard for me, too,” I admit.
We lapse into silence. I feel jumbled.
“So, I guess we’re both chickenshit,” Marc says finally. He sits down next to me on my swing. “You know, I really am sorry about your mom and stuff.”
“Marc, please—”
“No. After your mom died, I really didn’t know what to say, or how to be around you, and I was a really bad friend, and I’m sorry.”
He speaks in his tiny voice, but this time it catches in his throat and stays stuck. I know that he’s crying. I just know. Because I know Marc. Marc is sensitive. I don’t know why the last six years made me forget that.
“Okay, Marc.” I don’t know what else to do, so I put my arm stiffly around his shoulder. Gradually my other arm finds its way around his back. “It’s okay.”
It’s funny how Marc, my first enemy, should become the first boy that I hold. But life, I can hear my mom say, is funny like that. I look around the garden and exhale. It is the first cry that I have had all week where I don’t feel completely alone.
at two fifteen a.m. i call marisol’s private phone line. i figure
by now she should be home, tucked in bed, watching Nick at Nite. So I almost hang up the phone when she answers it half asleep.
“Marisol?” Despite my two-hour pep talk, my voice is tentative.
“Yeah? Who’s this?”
Of course, I know that she knows it’s me. Of course, I know that she’s trying to be cold. But still, I give her the benefit of the doubt. “It’s me, Susie.”
“Yeah,” Marisol says, sounding resigned. “I know. What do you want?”
So much for the benefit of the doubt.
“Were you sleeping?” I ask stupidly. Obviously she was sleeping.
“Uh-huh.”
“Okay…” I lose my nerve, and, for me, apologies require massive doses of nerve. “I’ll call you tomorrow.”
“No, you woke me up. Just tell me what you want.”
The problem with Marisol is that she’s always pretty good at calling people out. She likes follow-through, even if it means stumbling through the worst part of it.
“Well, the thing is…The thing is I’m sorry.” I say it in one breath because I’m honestly afraid that if I don’t, I never will.
“You’re what?” Marisol’s voice is softer now.
“I’m sorry,” I tell her again, only this time the words don’t run together, and I take a deep breath to continue the thought. “I’m sorry if I made you feel bad for having a date to homecoming. I didn’t mean to. I mean…I guess, in my own way, I was jealous, and a little bit insecure, and afraid that I was going to lose you.”
Once the words start, they flow. I think on some subconscious level I’ve been analyzing this fight for the better part of the week, especially during those moments watching
Tyra.
“Susie, what would make you think that you were going to lose me?” Leave it to Marisol to get to the point.
“Not lose you entirely,” I say quickly, “but lose out on doing stuff with you. I don’t want to be the third wheel on a Friday night. I don’t want for us not to have our movie night, or hang out on Halloween…I don’t want to lose that.” I try to sniffle quietly. I’m crying. How stupid is that? I keep telling myself that this week shouldn’t have been so hard for me. But it has been.
“Susie, maybe—and I’m not saying that’s going to happen with this guy—but maybe, just maybe, we’re not going to be able to spend so much time together when we’re older, but would that be such a bad thing? Think about it. It’ll give us more to talk to each other about. Right?”
“Uh-huh.” I brush the tears away with the back of my hand. They’re sliding like puddles down my cheeks.
“You’re like my sister. You’re never going to lose that. I will never let any guy come between that. ’Kay?”
“Yeah,” I whisper into the phone. “But what about my mother’s memorial service?” I ask.
“I’m not going skiing,” she says. “I made that decision before you called me. I’m sorry that I even asked you.”
“Oh.” On some level my heart heals just a little.
“Good. Do you want to get a tissue or something?” Marisol asks gently.
“How do you know I’m crying?” I half hiccup, half giggle into the phone.
“Because, I know you.” We laugh together, and I take a moment to cherish how right it feels.
“Hold on.” I pad quietly down the hall to the bathroom and swipe a roll of toilet paper. Then I pad back to my room, sit on my bed, and wrap my comforter around me. “Okay, I have a whole roll of toilet paper. Tell me everything.” I tuck my knees under my chin and rest my head against the wall. “And when you’re done, I’m going to tell you everything that happened to me tonight, and I’ll give you a clue right now—Marc Sanchez.”
“No,” Marisol shrieks. “Hey, but wait, I go first.”
“Okay,” I tell her, suddenly filled with love for her. “You go first.”
the next day i am surprisingly calm. i get up. i brush my
teeth. I take a shower. I play my guitar. I do homework. I am perfectly normal until my father drops me off in front of Danny Diaz’s house. It is only then, right before I reach to ring the doorbell, that I have a mini–panic attack. All I know is that I suddenly feel insecure about almost every part of my body. I feel like my clothes are too casual and my hair is out of place. And what if Danny has forgotten that I was invited to dinner? What if I’m showing up and nobody is home?
I glance at their driveway. Three cars are in it. They are definitely home.
Part of the problem is that I’ve straightened my hair and I’m wearing the outfit from the mall. I look better, but I don’t feel like me. I don’t feel like me at all.
Which, Marisol told me while she straightened my hair and dabbed cream eye shadow on my eyelids, was the point.
Not that being me is a bad thing, but feeling like me—the insecure me—definitely is a problem.
Okay, I can do this.
I push my finger forward and slide it across the doorbell’s soft center. One little move and the whole house will know that I’m here.
Okay, do it. Do it.
But I can’t. My hand falls limply back to my side. If I can’t ring the doorbell, how will I make it through dinner?
I take two small steps backward, and then, with the grace of a dancer, turn silently on my heels and run smack into Danny.
“Going somewhere?”
His smile lets me know that he’s been standing behind me for a good while.
“No,” I tell him. “I wasn’t going anywhere.”
“Then what were you doing?” he asks.
“Um.” I search high and low for an excuse. It’s not like I can say that I left my purse in my car. My dad dropped me off, and my purse is hanging across my shoulder. “Um,” I repeat.
“‘Um,’” Danny mimics.
“Well,” I stall, “the thing is”—and that’s when the best of the worst lies that I can think of comes tumbling out of my mouth—“The thing is that I have mud on my shoes and I wanted to get it off…in the grass.” I point to the grass as if it should be perfectly obvious to him that that was what I was about to do before I bumped into him.
“Your shoes look fine.” He stares down at my spotless sandals. They’re brown leather without a speck of dirt on them.
“It’s on the bottom.” I sidestep him and head for the lawn, where I avidly rub my feet on the grass.
I can tell that he’s not buying my lame excuse, but he still says, “Okay, Susie. I think that’s crazy, but okay.” And then he pulls on the side of my shirt playfully. It’s not the first time he’s touched me, but it feels as if it might as well be. My skin feels hot and tingly. “We should go inside.”
He cuts up the path, and I follow him. He rubs his finger over the doorbell and turns to wink at me. He’s teasing me, and I like it. “My mom was really excited about your coming today.” He tells me over his shoulder. “She made Dalia and me clean for like four hours.”
“No way.” I’m pretty sure that he’s teasing me again. But what if he’s not?
“It’s okay. We have to clean during the weekends anyway. My mom thinks that a family that cleans together stays together. Actually, she makes us do most of the cleaning.” Danny slides through the doorway, and I follow.
“Why do you have to do all the work?” I ask.
“Because.” Danny shakes his head at me, like the concept of family is foreign to me, which, maybe it is. “She and my dad pay all the bills. It’s fair to me. Besides, my mom says that if we think we’re too grown-up to clean the house, then we must be old enough to get a job. And with soccer practice, I don’t have time to work, so I’m absolutely happy to clean my room, vacuum the living room, do the laundry, and dust.” Danny runs his fingers through his hair and my toes tingle. He’s heart-wrenchingly cute today.
“Wow, you really do clean.” I try not to look at his lips. But my eyes are drawn to them. It’s like ever since I’ve given myself permission to like him, I can’t help but notice everything and anything about him.
“Don’t you?” We enter the kitchen, and the scent of Pine-Sol and onions permeates the air. Danny takes a seat on one of the three bar stools crowded around the kitchen counter. I stand next to him.
“No, we have a maid that comes three times a week.”
“That must be the life to live.”
“Not really; she always forgets to clean the bathroom and then I have to do it, which sucks.” I run my hand over the countertop.
I feel really, really strange.
“Susie?” Danny’s voice dips a little.
“Huh?” I smile at him without thinking.
“Why do you keep staring at my lips?”
“Huh?” My cheeks burn red.
“Do I have something in my teeth?” Danny smiles widely and twists his head to the side. He leans in really closely. His breath smells like ripe oranges.
“No,” I look down, and my hair drifts into my face. I wish the floor would open up, and I would be sucked under. I’m afraid that if I look up, my eyes will be drawn back to his lips…. “There’s nothing in your teeth.”
“Why don’t you sit here?” Danny pulls out the bar stool next to his and pushes it closer to him, leaving only a foot of space in between. When I hesitate, he taps the seat expectantly. Reluctantly, I accept his offer. And before I know it, we’re sitting knee to knee staring at each other.
“Where’s everyone else?” I ask him. The house is so silent.
“Oh, my mom forgot the Cuban bread and
tres leches,
so she and my dad ran back out to get it. Dalia is at her boyfriend’s house. They got into a fight last night at homecoming, so she’ll be over there kissing his butt for a while. And
mi abuelo
is outside talking to the ducks. So…” His voice trails off.
“So…” I repeat, watching him. He’s staring at me like he’s considering my face.
“I like your hair like that. Straight.” He leans forward and passes his fingertips over a strand of stray hair before brushing it behind my ear. “It’s really soft.”
His breath is hot on my face. His glance is unnerving. The tingling sensation returns quickly and glides down my belly over my thighs and settles behind my kneecaps. They feel weak, and I’m thankful that I have the stool to support my wobbly body. I’m mesmerized by him, by how a single touch from him can make me feel sexy. I’ve never felt sexy in my life. Before this moment, I would have never known how to describe what that word truly means. But now with Danny Diaz’s penny eyes piercing through me, I feel sexy. And it feels strange and awkward and beautiful all at the same time.
“I got something that I want to show you.” Danny pops off the stool and motions for me to follow with his hand. I don’t have to ask him where we’re going. I know we’re going to his bedroom.
“I borrowed it today from Mike Spitzer. He’s one of the guys on the team.”
I hover in his doorway, afraid to enter. My leg is brushing against his perfectly made bed with the pillow neatly tucked underneath his plaid Tommy Hilfiger comforter. I feel a lump forming in my throat, and I’m not even sure if I can speak. I want to sit on that bed with Danny. I want him to kiss me. In the corner, with his back to me, Danny is fidgeting with something. When he turns to face me, he holds out an acoustic guitar. “See,” he says simply, as if I should know what he means.
“How did you know I play?” I ask, surprised.
“Marisol told me. I talked to her last night at homecoming.” He smiles and pushes the guitar forward. “I thought maybe you would play something for me.”
Play for him. I don’t know what to say to that. Nobody had ever asked me to play for them—ever. “You and Marisol talked about me?” I ask quietly. He nods his head. “At homecoming?” I repeat. He nods his head again. “How was it? How was homecoming?” I ask. It’s something I’ve wanted to ask him since I walked through the door.
“Okay, I guess.” He presses the guitar into my hands. “If you’re into that kind of thing. Would you?” he asks, pointing at the guitar.
In my hands, the guitar is cold and foreign and comforting. I strum it casually, trying to find the courage to give him what he really wants from me. “I really want to hear you play,” he tells me, closer this time. He is just a fiber of carpet away.
“Do you like Marisol?” I say, stepping two fibers back. This question is urgently important to me. Anything to take us away from THIS.
“Marisol’s cool.” He pounds lightly on the wall with his fist.
“And?” I prompt him.
“And what?” The pounding increases. He looks over at me; his eyes burn holes through my heart. “She’s nice. We talked last night at the dance when I was standing by the restroom waiting for…Tamara.” He looks down, like he’s aware that the mention of her name might ruin THIS.
“Sit.” He drags me onto his bed, then scoots away from me as if I am on fire. He watches me expectantly. “Play,” he instructs.
I rest the guitar on my knee and clear my mind, and then I pluck a whisper of a melody from some far-off place that I haven’t quite seen. I hum it so that I can remember and let my fingers know what they are expected to play, and then, after I close my eyes and listen, I began to play with confidence. Before I know it I am singing, my voice husky, wobbly, and afraid. But still I am singing.
I sang a lullaby as if to soothe your soul
And I sang it in a whisper to be heard by you alone
And in the moonlight of the night
I saw your lovely face
And I wondered if you’d comfort me…
Or if you’d let me stay.
The words flow smoothly, like a sunny day in the back of my house, sitting between the palm trees that border my garden. In my mind, I picture Marisol there, feet propped over the edge of her bench, fingers curling in and out, eyes lost in the skies.
I was lost inside your eyes
Lost inside your depth
Lost to everything but the sound of your own breath
And I wondered where you’d go
I wondered what you’d see
And I wondered if you’d realize the love inside of me.
I play the chords. I know them well. Only a few weeks ago, I had cried while writing this song. I told myself I wasn’t crying for anyone in particular, but for the beauty of the words, their longing. Now I wasn’t so sure.
To the very end, I play with my eyes shut. When I finish, I lay the guitar in my lap and hum a little longer. My body is filled with electrical currents and bridges of uncertainty. I feel raw and exposed, like I handed Danny the keys to my diary and asked that he read it all out loud and understand.
Danny says something to quiet the silence. A heartbeat after the words leave his mouth, I have already forgotten them. I don’t care about what he says, but how he says it. My whole body aches from his tone. I have mesmerized him.
I open my eyes, and frown at their wetness.
“That song,” is all he says now.
“Yes,” I say, “that song.”
“That song,” he repeats, as if I should know.
“Yes,” I tell him. “That song.” And then, when it is inevitable, “I know.”
dinner is not what i feared. there is no fancy china
pattern to contend with, Dalia (thankfully) does not wear her tiara, and Danny’s father is not stuffy and he doesn’t bore us to death by speaking about adult subject matters such as foreign policy and the Republicans’ proposed tax cut for the upcoming year.
It’s much better than that. There are plates that don’t match and a chipped dining room table. There are his parents and Dalia. There is Danny and me. There is his cat, Max, and his grandfather who saves bread underneath the table to give to the ducks later that day. And I smile the whole way through, because dinner is nothing like what I expected and everything that I hoped it would be.
“What does your father do?” Mr. Diaz asks somewhere between the Cuban bread and the rice and beans.
“He’s a literature professor at UM,” I tell him.
“And your mother?”
“Um, she died in a car accident when I was nine.”
“Oh,” Mrs. Diaz says.
“Oh,” Mr. Diaz says.
“I’m sorry, Susie. We didn’t know,” Mrs. Diaz apologizes. And Mr. Diaz shakes his head sympathetically, while Dalia looks away. Danny reaches for my hand underneath the table and then like a dream quickly takes it away.
“I didn’t know,” he says, looking at me, like I’m new to him, like in someway it all makes sense.
“I don’t like to talk about it.” I pick at my food. Shove broccoli around. Apparently, Dalia takes this as a signal to change the subject.
“Mami,” she says, “are we or are we not going to Cuba this year?”
The conversation moves fast from there. Danny’s parents tell me about their trips to Cuba and Spain and Portugal. I have seen the world, too, I tell his mom. My dad has a set of coffee table books that explore international travel. Danny laughs, and even Dalia smiles. It’s all back to normal after that. And the best part is that I know I am a hit.