A smiling African-American woman shakes my hand and says, “Thank you so much. Your parents are blessed to have daughters like you two. I’m Ms. Hardwick, and I’m the director here.”
Now the Santa is passing out presents. The kids are ripping off the wrapping paper and screaming with delight.
Ms. Hardwick introduces me to two other girls, about Isabel’s age, named Lori and Jenna. They’re volunteers too, and they’re going to help baby-sit.
We all go down the corridor, along with a couple of moms, to the center’s playroom. Behind us I hear sound effects: spaceships swooping, lasers buzzing, cars racing, dolls talking to each other in squeaky voices.
The playroom is pretty small, and many of the toys and games are broken and old, but the kids are too busy playing with their gifts to notice.
Actually, the baby-sitting turns out to be pretty easy. I make a friend, a boy who just turned three, named Mikey. He keeps saying, “You my mommy” to me. He doesn’t say much more than that, and he can’t seem to leave my side. We play “space fighters,” using two action figures called Max Endor and Mr. Peebles.
When it’s time to leave, he starts throwing things and crying. I try to stop him, but it’s impossible.
Finally Ms. Hardwick picks him up. “Maybe Amalia will come back,” she says to Mikey.
“Mommy come back?” he says.
This is weird. What can I say?
“Sure,” is the first word that comes out of my mouth.
Nbook, I will never learn my lesson. Now I have to return to GAEA.
Maybe not. Kids forget. Don’t they?
Sun 12/28
James is being so nice to me. Today he’s wearing the cologne I gave him, which is a big step up from his dad’s ancient bottle of old spice — which must have been left over from his college days, because it is beginning to smell more like Old Mice.
As for the ankle bracelet, well, I just don’t know what to do, Nbook.
I don’t want to wear it just because James wants me to. That’s not right. Being a girlfriend isn’t like doing homework. It’s not an assignment. Right?
Right.
So anyway, today we go to see Fatal Judgment, which I’ve seen already at Maggie’s house because her dad produced it. The only reason I’m seeing it again is because James insisted.
And who is right in front of us in line but
Sunny is cool. She’s wearing about a half dozen studs in her ears. When she turns at a certain angle, her midriff shows under her shirt, and if I’m not mistaken, she has a pierced navel.
I am dying to know how she convinced her parents to let her do that (if she did convince them).
Well, she starts talking. And talking. And talking. About the movie, her Christmas gifts, her mom’s cancer, her dad’s bookstore, all in a big tumble of words. She leaves out a few key details, so you have to listen, just to understand what she means.
No one minds the blabbering. Even though some of her news is so sad, her delivery is hilarious. We’re all laughing.
I wish I could talk like that. She expresses more in two minutes than I do in two hours.
“Uh, Sunny? Time-out?” Ducky finally says. “Maybe some other people would like to talk?”
I finally speak up. I try to describe my experience at GAEA, but even though I think it’s interesting, I somehow seem to drag the conversation down.
At one point James nudges me and says, “Show them the ankle bracelet.”
Moment of truth. I tell him I left it at home.
He doesn’t seem too thrilled. But he doesn’t make a big deal about it.
In fact, he doesn’t make a big deal about anything. He doesn’t talk much before the film. He doesn’t say anything during the film. And after the film, when Ducky suggests we all go out for a snack, he says, “I have to go home and practice.”
So we all say good-bye, and Ducky and Sunny go off to Tico’s Tacos.
James is silent as we walk to his car. I assume he’s sulking about the ankle bracelet. But I’m not sure. So I try to make conversation. “Did you like the movie?” I ask.
He shrugs. Then he says, “Are they, like, you know…going out?”
“Sunny and Ducky? I don’t know. I think they’re just friends.”
We’re at the car now, and James gives me this funny smile. “That’s what I figured.”
“Why?” I ask.
He kind of snickers to himself. Then he says, “I just don’t think Ducky’s her type, if you know what I mean.”
Which seems strange to me, because Ducky’s cool and funny and outgoing, just like Sunny. “Well, I can see what they like about each other,” I remark.
We climb into the car, and James starts up the engine. All the while he still has this little smirk on his face. I ask him what he’s thinking about, but he says never mind and changes the subject.
We start talking about the movie. He doesn’t understand some of the plot, which is pretty confusing, but I explain it to him because Maggie has explained it to me.
Mostly, though, James wants to talk about Jennifer McBride, the star. He asks if I’ve ever met her at Maggie’s house.
“No, but I bet you’d like to,” I say.
“I just like the way her hair looks,” James says.
I start laughing.
“I’m serious,” James says. “You should get your hair cut like hers. You’d look much better.”
“Thanks a lot! I mean, really. You’re comparing me to the most gorgeous actress in the world. I could never look like that.”
James smiles. “No. You could look better than that.”
Is that corny or what?
But I like the way it sounds.
I like it a lot.
Thursday January 1!!!!!
1/1
12:09 in the afternoon
Don’t give me that blank, surprised look, Nbook.
Yes, I just woke up.
No, I have never slept so late in my life.
I have never stayed up so late in my life either. Until after 3:00! I can’t believe Papi and Mami let me. I guess 13 is the magic age. (It probably helps that they were invited to Rico’s house last night. And that practically everyone else’s parents were there too.)
What a Party!
First of all, everyone shows up. All my favorite people. I have the best time getting to know Dawn and Sunny a little more. We’re all singing our brains out and eating like pigs. And somehow I find time to draw a portrait of the scene.
At midnight, everyone starts singing “Auld Lang Syne,” but James and his friends don’t know how to play it. They try to fake it, and it sounds horrible, but nobody cares.
After the song, James lifts me in the air and gives me a big kiss. Right on the lips, right in front of the whole party.
I’m a little embarrassed but not really. Everyone’s acting kind of wild.
The Chavezes put on a tape, a dance mix. James and I are forehead to forehead, slow dancing even though the music is loud and fast. James is smiling. I can tell people are staring at us. It all feels great.
“It’s a beautiful night,” James says. “Want to go outside?”
I say yes, and we walk out into Rico’s backyard. From all around the neighborhood we hear yelling and music and noisemakers. A cool breeze makes me shiver, and James holds me tight. I smell lemons in the air, from the trees in the yard. A few lights are blinking above, and I’m trying to figure out if they’re stars or airplanes.
Then I can’t see them anymore because James’s face is in the way. He pulls me close and kisses me. I can tell he wants to really kiss me, deep kiss me. Then I remember the funniest thing: Dr. Scott examining my teeth and saying, “Did you know that jaw muscles are among the strongest in the human body?” (Is this weird or what, Nbook? I’m outside alone with a guy on a crisp night, and I think about my dentist?)
Anyway, Dr. Scott is right. I have no trouble keeping my jaw closed. The kiss, to tell the truth, is pretty wonderful anyway. But I s
tart feeling self-conscious so I pull away. I mean, come on. Mami and Papi are right inside. Besides, I am not ready for that kind of kissing. First things first. Let’s get past the ankle bracelet dilemma.
James pulls away. He’s smiling, but he looks a little puzzled. “Is this all right?” he asks.
“Is what?” I ask back.
“You know…sneaking outside?”
I nod. “Yeah.”
We stand there, silent, for awhile. Then James says it.
“You know, I really love you.”
I cannot believe this. I am stunned. So I just say, “Huh?”
“I said, I — I like you a lot,” James replies. His voice sounds nervous and I can feel he’s shaking a little.
Now, maybe my ears are playing tricks, but I know — I know, Nbook — that he did not say like.
But I take his word for it. “I like you too, James,” I say.
We stare into the sky, and I’m thinking, What next? when we hear a car horn blaring in the driveway.
Caught in the headlights! Just like a Hayden Blume movie. James puts his hands in the air and says, “Don’t shoot!”
It’s the Blumes, who’ve come to pick up Maggie. Well, they’re not driving, their chauffeur is. Which is good, because neither of them looks in any condition to drive. Especially Mrs. Blume, who can barely walk. She comes out of the car, wobbles a little, holds on to the roof ledge, and calls out to us, “Uh-uh-uh! Inducent piblic display of afflection!”
James shoots me a look. I can tell he’s about to laugh.
We follow the Blumes inside into the garage. Mrs. B is slurring her words, and I’m worrying the whole time that she’s going to blow chunks all over the floor.
Poor Maggie. She looks embarrassed as she says her good-byes. But we all act as if nothing’s wrong.
After that, the party spirit is kind of spoiled. But it’s late, and we’re all exhausted anyway.
People start going home. Everyone makes me promise to send copies of my portrait. I say good-bye to Justin, who’s there with his parents. Then Ducky starts kissing all the girls and saying dramatic farewells. He’s driven to the party alone because his parents are overseas on business and his older brother went to a different party. When he reaches me, he thinks he’s morphed into Fred Astaire and starts swinging me around the garage, singing “Auld Lang Syne.”
We’re all laughing as Ducky breaks away and dances off by himself, blowing more kisses. The Big Exit. That is so Ducky.
I see Mami and Papi are already putting on their jackets. Mami says she’s concerned about Isabel, who has gone to a party at Big Tooth Lover Boy’s house. So we say a quick round of thank yous and we head for the door.
James is busy putting away equipment. As I walk up to him and say good-bye, he picks up an amp and walks toward the back of the garage. He looks up, grunts “’Bye,” and disappears.
Oh, well. I’ll call him today.
1/1
8:00 P.M.
Nbook, Nbook, I don’t know what to do.
Isabel won’t stop crying.
Just a little while ago, we’re all in a great mood. We’re in the kitchen, preparing dinner. Papi is playing one of his old beloved Tito Puente tapes and we’re dancing and laughing.
And then the phone rings. Mami puts her hand on the receiver and tells me to turn the music down.
I run into the living room and turn the volume knob. I hear Mami saying “Happy New Year” to someone, and then “Yes, Isabel’s right here.”
When I get back into the kitchen, Isabel is sitting at the desk, the receiver cradled to her ear. Her mouth is open and her eyes are filling with tears. Then she puts the receiver on the desk and runs upstairs. Obviously she’s continuing the phone conversation in Mami and Papi’s room because she calls down, “Hang up now, please!”
As Mami obeys, I ask if Simon was the one who called. I figure he and Isabel had a fight.
Mami shakes her head. “It wasn’t Simon. It was Ms. Hardwick.”
Well, the Tito Puente tape ends and no one bothers to turn it over. Isabel comes downstairs and her makeup is all wiped off. I can tell she’s been crying. But when Papi asks if she’s all right, she nods and says, “It’s nothing.”
Mami, Papi, and I keep asking her what’s the matter. Is someone sick? Did someone die? Was Isabel fired? (Can you be fired from a volunteer job?)
Finally Isabel says, “Something happened at GAEA, that’s all. To one of the residents.”
“What happened?” Mami insists. “Tell us, hija!”
Isabel just shakes her head. “I can’t.”
She hasn’t said a word more about it all night, Nbook. And now she’s sobbing in her room.
What am I supposed to do?
Fri 1/2
You know what I wish, Nbook? I wish I could close my eyes, go back to sleep, and wake up this morning again.
This year is not off to a good start.
I’m in my room, trying to relax, and all I hear is Isabel. She’s muttering to herself. She’s clacking her rosary beads. She’s typing something on her computer. She’s whimpering.
I finally go into her room. She’s sitting at her desk, and her fingers are flying across the keyboard.
I see the words “Dear Linda” at the top of the screen.
Linda.
I’m trying to think who that is. I’m running through the faces of the moms I met at GAEA.
“Hi,” I say. “Who’s Linda?”
Isabel whirls around, like I’m some masked intruder. “Who said you could come in here?”
“Sorry,” I reply. “Must have forgotten my invitation.”
I mean that as a joke, but Isabel sure doesn’t take it that way. She’s sitting in a strange position, with her head covering the screen so I can’t see it. “Get out of here!” she yells.
This gets me angry. I’ve been worrying and worrying. All I want to do is help. And when I reach out, Isabel pushes me away.
“I already saw the name,” I say. “You’re writing to Linda. Who’s that?”
I try to look around her, but Isabel now drapes a magazine over the monitor, so it covers the screen. “Amalia, I am not allowed to talk about anyone in the shelter. You know that.”
“But I volunteered there,” I remind her.
“For a day! You’re not officially signed up.”
I sit on the bed. “Isabel, I met some of those people. Don’t you think I care about them too? You’re not the only one with a heart in this family!”
Isabel looks like she’s going to cry again. Immediately I feel bad. I start to apologize, but Isabel cuts me off.
“When you volunteer at GAEA,” she says, “you have to sign this confidentiality statement. You’re not supposed to find out residents’ last names, just first names. And you’re even discouraged from mentioning those outside the center. It’s to protect their identities.”
“Protect against what? Organized crime or something?”
Isabel shakes her head. “Their husbands. Their boyfriends.”
Now it sinks in. I think about TV movies and news reports. About dysfunctional families and battered women. And then I remember Mr. and Mrs. Parkinson in San Diego, how, in the months before they split up, we would hear their screaming fights all the way down the block.
“That bad, huh?” I ask. “I mean, with Linda?”
Isabel’s forehead wrinkles up and a tear rolls down her cheek. I put my arm around her shoulder and say, “Look, I don’t know who Linda is. I have no idea what she looks like. And I’m not going to go blabbing her name all around town. Won’t you feel better if you talk to someone about this?”
Isabel thinks for a moment. Then she nods. “Yesterday one of the residents left the center. She told Ms. Hardwick she was going to stay with her family in Anaheim. Well, her family was there waiting. But so was her ex-husband. He’d found out where she was going. And…”
My stomach is churning. I say to myself, Linda must be alive. Isabel is writing to he
r.
The first question I can think to ask is, “Will Linda be able to come back to the shelter?”
Isabel nods. “When she’s out of the hospital. I guess the ex-husband doesn’t know about GAEA. But it’s not only Linda I’m worried about. It’s her little boy. He’s still at the shelter.”
I think about all the little kids I met. I ask Isabel which boy it was.
“His name’s Mikey,” she replies.
Sat 1/3
1:17 A.M.
Sorry about all the wet spots, Nbook. It’s been a long, emotional night.
I spend all this time comforting Isabel, then I go to bed myself and — ZING! — I’m a basket case. I can’t stop picturing that poor little boy.
I think about how he called me Mommy. Why? Where was Linda that day?
Finally, around midnight, I can’t stand it any longer. I know it’s late but I have to talk to someone. So I call Maggie’s private number.
Maggie sounds practically dead. But when she hears me crying, she wakes right up.
I tell her everything, taking care not to mention names. Maggie listens carefully and makes two suggestions.
1. I should go to sleep. 2. I should write to Mikey. Something creative, something that would make him happy. He probably needs all the support he can get.
It’s late. Too late. But I have to work on 2.
1/3
7 P.M.
Yo, Nbook. Here I am at a Vanish rehearsal. I am listening to “Fallen Angel” for about the tenth time, and I’m bored.
James is mad at me again. I do not understand him.
About a half hour ago, I’m showing Maggie the comic strip I drew. She’s not really getting it. I explain that Max and Mr. Peebles are Mikey’s action figures.
But Maggie is such a writer. She writes these meaningful poems and songs, and she thinks everything has to have hidden meanings and deep thoughts.
“But what does the story mean?” she asks. “How does it end? How is it supposed to make him feel better?”
What I want to say is this: When I was playing with Mikey, I noticed how great he felt whenever Max triumphed. So Mikey identifies with Max. Now that Mikey must be feeling scared and vulnerable, I figure he’d like to see a comic strip in which Max saves the kids in the center.
Diary One: Dawn, Sunny, Maggie, Amalia, and Ducky Page 25
