Teófila’s Guide to Saving the Sun

by Cynthia A. Rodriguez

  Not that I wear much in the way of color.

  Her belly-button ring glints in the sun as she lifts her arms over her head. The move is calculated and the boys walking past eat up the display.

  I pretend not to notice any of it.

  “My mom’s being a total bitch over me failing chemistry,” she says.

  I tip my head back and relish in the way the sun feels on my skin, the way my black T-shirt absorbs the heat, and I close my eyes. Only to resist the urge to roll them. “You’re not stupid, Miley.”

  “I know that,” she answers as I hear the flick of her lighter and smell the now burning cigarette.

  “Why are you failing, then?”

  All that comes from her is a yelp and I open an eye to see my best friend tossing her lit cigarette over his shoulder and down the grassy hill we’re standing at the top of.

  “Smoking’s bad for you,” he says as he sneers back at the cigarette, far enough away now to not kill us.

  “That’s rich,” she yells. “You and your buddies smoke all the time.”

  “My friends smoke bud, not that shit,” he answers, pointing after the cigarette he’d tossed. “And whatever they do, don’t got shit to do with me.”

  “Yeah? Why are you bothering me, then?”

  He pulls me into a side hug.

  “Because you’re smoking around T and she’s too nice to tell you to quit. But I’m not.”

  I roll my eyes, but no one sees it as he continues to squeeze my head into his chest.

  “I have no problem telling her if it bothers me,” I say, my words muffled by his body. I push away and tuck my long strands behind my ears.

  Elijah watches my moves, and his eyes linger on my hair longer than I’d like.

  “What?” I ask, touching the top of my head. “Something on my head?”

  He shakes his and points at Miley. “She won’t say it, but I will…”

  “Cut it out.” I push his hand down and pull him away from her. “I’ll be back, Millicent.”

  She yells after us in anger over me saying her full name, but I ignore her.

  “What’s your issue?” I hiss as I stare over my shoulder and then back at him. We’re on the edge of the football field and I admire how bright and crisp the grass looks.

  “She’s not a good influence.”

  I snort. “I would bet her parents think it’s the other way around.”

  Before Miley and I became friends, she looked like a damn peach all the time. Over time, and without my help, she just…changed. And every chance her mom gets, she makes these angry little eyes at me.

  It makes me feel powerful that an adult could be so intimidated by my influence. It also makes me feel sad for Miley because her mother is a judgmental and narrowminded asshole.

  “Yeah, but they probably don’t know you’ve got the best grades here.”

  “Not the best,” I say, “but close. And what should that matter?”

  He places his arm over my shoulder. “T, you look a little emo. I gotta be honest.”

  “I just like to wear black…”

  “Uh uh,” he says, interrupting me. “It isn’t just the black clothes. You changed your hair. It’s always hiding your face now. You wear eyeliner now, too, and I bet your mama hates it.”

  I shrug and move away from his loose hold.

  I only wear black, yeah. But it makes me feel…comfortable.

  And I straighten my hair now. So what?

  My mom doesn’t even know I sneak her eyeliner to school.

  “What’s wrong with my hair?” I touch it for the second time under his gaze.

  Those damn probing eyes of his, a deeper brown than his skin.

  “Nothing,” he answers.

  Sure, he knows my soft spots.

  “What are you thinking?” I ask.

  But I know his, too.

  “How do you get your hair like that, anyway?”

  The straightened pieces float a little in the breeze before settling back against me.

  “I use a flatiron.”

  He smiles as we walk the perimeter of the football field, our hands now swinging beside us.

  “You iron your hair?”

  “Not the way you’re thinking,” I answer and cross my arms.

  “What happens if it burns?”

  He’s walking a little ahead of me now and turns so he’s walking backwards, a smug smile on his face.

  “I don’t know. It’s never happened to me! And why do you care so much?”

  He’s pensive now, his eyes on the grass as we walk. My black Keds are picking up moisture from the dewy field and my toes feel gross in my socks, but I continue along, waiting. He turns and walks beside me now.

  The silence stretches as I breathe and exist in the sunshine.

  “I miss your curly hair.”

  I don’t say anything. But my mind is racing with insecure thoughts.

  This big part of me is telling me not to care that he misses my curls. But then I have to remind myself that I straighten my hair because I got so tired of trying to figure out what to do with it.

  More than that, I got tired of the whispers and the laughs when my big hair got a little too big on humid days.

  “Fuck burnt hair.” He lifts his head and offers me a big smile, nearly every one of his perfect teeth on display.

  The warning bell rings and Miley is waving her arms at us from the top of the hill.

  “My hair isn’t burnt,” I say, but he’s already running toward the building.

  I trek a little slower, hating the way my shoes feel squishy now.

  When I reach Miley, she starts in.

  “I don’t know how you’re friends with him. He’s so annoying.”

  The sigh that escapes my lips is full of impatience. “You don’t know him the way I do,” I tell her.

  My eyes scan the people moving around us, trying to make it to class before the second bell goes off, signaling that we should be in a classroom.

  “I’m sure. I bet no one does.”

  I stop listening to her as I scan the crowd for him. There, a few yards away, he has his arm around some girl, smiling in her face as they walk to class.

  And something about our friendship feels so out of sync.

  A few moments ago, he’d opened up an insecurity of mine. That box is still open and here he is now, his arm around a girl with perfectly waved hair.

  Nothing like mine.

  I don’t want Elijah…in that way. He’s my best friend.

  But as the years have passed, he’s gone from relationship to relationship with beautiful mean girls.

  Beautiful girls who are mean to me. And I never tell him anymore.

  I let him be.

  I’m not like them; not like him.

  Miley is still going on about her mom being a bitch and I can’t take it anymore, so I speed up and duck into the building, and then into a bathroom.

  The second bell rings but I’m hiding in a stall, wondering what I’m feeling and why I’m even here.

  I’m pondering these thoughts when I hear the bathroom door open.

  Footsteps make their way slowly and part of me wants to open the stall door, to see what’s going on. But a larger part of me just wants to be alone.

  Someone stops in front of the stall I’m hiding in.

  “T?”

  I unlock the stall door and swing it open in disbelief.

  “You can’t be in here, Elijah!”

  He has concern written on his face, and none of it has to do with himself.

  These are the moments I know that he is none of what people think he is.

  He is none of what I worry he could become.

  “Are you okay?” He steps toward me. “I saw you rush off and you looked upset.”

  I don’t know what to say to him. I don’t know what’s wrong with me. “I just feel a little…sad sometimes.”

  He steps away and sits on the radiator in front of the window. “Wanna talk about it
?”

  I shake my head, not sure what exactly I could even say.

  “We can sit here until you’re ready to go, then.”

  I pull myself up onto the radiator and lay my head on his shoulder. “Why do you hide this side of you from the world?” I ask him.

  He takes my hand in his and runs his fingers over the lines in my palm, like he’s about to tell me what my future holds. “I never met anyone else who deserved it.”

  We’re sitting there silently when the bathroom door opens, and a guidance counselor walks in.

  Her eyes widen when she sees us and I hop up, ready to explain.

  “Mr. Williams, what do you think you’re doing?” Her voice is loud and shrill and it’s freaking me out.

  “It isn’t his fault, Mrs. Adams,” I tell her, my arms outstretched, my voice pleading. “He was just making sure I was okay.”

  “And are you, Ms. Morales? Do I need to send you to the nurse? Do I need to call your parents?”

  “No!” The last thing I need is to have them miss work to come here because I was a little sad.

  “This is grounds for suspension, Ms. Morales. I’m going to need a little more than that.” Her voice is stern, but her eyes aren’t.

  “I just…felt a little down.”

  And those kind eyes take in my black clothes, my hair in my face, my eyeliner, and they draw their own conclusions.

  “Mr. Williams, please excuse yourself.”

  As Elijah passes me, he squeezes my hand.

  I keep my eyes on Mrs. Adams and wonder what comes next.

  She leads me into her office and asks me a bunch of questions.

  By the end of the conversation, she’s not only called my parents and informed them of her concerns, she’s suggested I sit down with a therapist.

  And I ask myself why.

  Why do I feel so alone sometimes?

  7

  HAPPY BIRTHDAY, MR. WILLIAMS

  Don’t be a chicken-shit.

  I know Elijah’s mom isn’t home. Her car isn’t outside and I’d specifically asked Elijah if she was working overnight, which he confirmed.

  I am the world’s biggest chicken-shit. But I somehow manage to slide Elijah’s bedroom window open and climb in quietly. There isn’t really a need for it, because Elijah sleeps with more conviction than anything else he’s ever done in his life.

  So, I have to bounce on his bed and yell a few times before he’s conscious.

  “Happy birthday to you,” I start off, my Marilyn Monroe voice not sexy in the least. “Happy birthday, Mr. Williams…” I get up and twirl around the room as he wipes the sleep from his eyes.

  “Don’t quit your day job,” he tells me, his voice groggy with sleep.

  “Well, we all can’t be you,” I say as I pick up one of his pillows from the floor and hit him with it. “Now get your ass in gear. We’ve got a fun day ahead of us and we have to get out of here before your mom gets in and realizes we’re skipping school.”

  Elijah sits up, his brows drawn and a smile on his face. “Skipping school?”

  I fight the urge to roll my eyes. “Yes. Skipping school.” I pick the pillow up that I hit him with and hold it over my shoulder, my eyes wide in my threatening pose. “Unless that’s a problem?”

  He shakes his head with a laugh and gets up, scratching his bare stomach as he stretches and stands. I look away and set the pillow down on his bed.

  His laptop is open and when I tap on the keyboard, I see an open document.

  I read the word “she” but before I can really get into it, he reaches over and shuts the laptop.

  “Hey,” I say as I watch him walk away and out of the room.

  “The lyrics aren’t ready yet,” he yells from the bathroom.

  As I hear the shower start running, I sit on his bed. It’s still warm from his body. I pull a book from my bookbag and settle in while he gets ready.

  “What’s this one about?” he asks from the doorway.

  I was so engrossed in dragons and elves that I hadn’t heard him make his way back in. He’s only wearing a towel around his waist and I swear I nearly get whiplash trying to look away.

  “A boy finds a gem in the woods and it turns out to be a dragon’s egg. Chaos ensues.”

  “Over a damn rock?” Elijah’s moving around the room, getting ready.

  And I’m regretting coming over so early. “Yep. Over a damn rock.”

  “What’s on the agenda today?” he asks, his words muffled from inside his closet.

  “Oh, you know. Just made a list of all your favorite things to do. Figured we’d cross them off one-by-one.”

  Elijah pokes his head out of the closet, a shirt hanging from his neck. “Why are you so damn good to me?”

  I shrug as I pull the list from my bag and smile.

  First up: Gourmet donuts.

  8

  THEY DON’T NEED TO TOUCH YOU

  I don’t think I’ve ever broken as many rules as I have today. And the one we’re about to break is the worst of them all.

  We’ve eaten gourmet donuts—mine was fruity pebbles and Elijah’s was maple bacon—and volunteered at the animal shelter. Elijah’s always wanted a dog and I’ve always wanted a cat. We went to the record store, where I introduced Elijah to some of my recent favorites, and I sat in the park as he sang for the people walking by. He even made a little money in the process. We watched the sun set and had one of the fanciest dinners I’ve ever eaten, thanks to my savings from babysitting my little cousins. My mom even let me borrow my dad’s car while he’s in Puerto Rico visiting his sisters.

  Which makes the last activity on Elijah’s birthday list a little easier.

  I pull up outside his house after sneaking out of mine.

  Elijah crosses his yard and hops in the car, out of breath. “Go, go, go.”

  His smile forces my foot to press the gas and get us the hell out of here.

  “What if they take one look at me and laugh?” My hair is long and curly down my back. I used some of my mom’s hair products, so it isn’t as frizzy.

  Elijah eyes on me make me nervous.

  “No one’s gonna laugh at you. I promise.”

  My black T-shirt’s sleeves are rolled up and I’m wearing the shortest denim shorts I own.

  We head downtown to one of Elijah’s favorite spots and my hands are sweaty against the steering wheel.

  Of course, I’ve never been there. It’s a bar and I’m not even eighteen. But Elijah assures me he can get me in. And it is the last thing on the list. I’d hesitated to even jot it down, but it felt like the perfect cherry on top. He’s mentioned this place more than once and while he’s never invited me, I always chocked it up to his belief that it’d be a wasted invite. Usually, it would be.

  “I can’t wait to introduce you to my friends.” He reaches over and squeezes my hand.

  Elijah shows me where to park and I tug at my shorts as we head toward the building with a short line forming outside. I can hear the steady thump of bass beating from where we are.

  “Ready?” he asks, taking my hand in his.

  I nod, too worried my nervousness will make me throw up if I open my mouth.

  He pulls me along and when we make it to the door, the bouncer barely looks at me. Elijah drops my hand to clasp the guy’s in front of us. They do some kind of half hug thing and then we’re walking inside.

  It’s dark and everyone’s crowded around the bar.

  Some people approach Elijah and he attempts to introduce us but the music’s too loud. I hold out my hand to shake theirs, but Elijah grabs it and tucks it into his arm.

  When they walk away, he whispers, his voice hot and close, “They don’t need to touch you.”

  Something about it makes me smile in a way that I’m thankful Elijah’s too busy scanning the area to see.

  I probably look as crazy as I feel.

  Elijah orders us drinks, and I ignore the way the bartender smiles at him. He’s only seventeen, but in
this light, I notice the hair on his chin and the brilliance of his smile.

  He turns and hands one of the drinks to me and I ignore the bitter taste of it as he grips my hand and leads me to the corner where there’s an area to sit.

  This is what Elijah does while I sit home, watching movies or reading books.

  I see some of his friends from school and they wave at me as they sit around us. I don’t know them well, but they’ve always been nice.

  The guys are sitting around with their girls and I wonder who Elijah usually brings with him. I wonder what version of Elijah these walls have seen.

  When there’s only ice in my glass, a woman is pushing another glass into my hand. I shake my head and look at Elijah, who takes it, smiles at the woman, and hands her a few bills.

  “That’s her job, T. Don’t worry.” His other hand goes to my thigh. “I won’t let anything happen to you.”

  I grab the drink from him and feel his friends’ eyes on us. His hand is still on my thigh as I drink, relaxing into this easy euphoria.

  “How do you feel?” he asks, interrupting my slow slink into peace.

  “Is this what being drunk is like?” I nearly shout.

  He laughs and shakes his head. “Tipsy, babe.”

  Babe.

  It makes my tongue feel heavy. It stops my procession into elation.

  I stand and glance around the room. When I catch sight of the restrooms, I gesture toward them. Elijah starts to get up but I’m already on my way, ignoring him.

  Once shut inside a stall, I let myself sink to the floor.

  Time stretches on its own and I do nothing to track it. But at some point, the bathroom door opens, and I know it’s Elijah.

  “Sitting on the floor. Not the best sign,” he says as he opens the stall door.

  I look up at him, a smile on my face.

  Do I look how I feel? I worry it’s written on my face, so I hide it behind my hands.

  “You’re my favorite person in the world.” The words are muffled but I peek through my fingers to see if he heard me.

  His smile mirrors the one I’m hiding.

  “Why are you hiding from me, then?”

  Because you called me babe.

  But I shrug instead, dropping my hands.