Not Anything

by Carmen Rodrigues

  “My deal,” my voice rises impatiently, “is…YOU…”

  And this is where I stop talking. I stop talking because I want to say, You aren’t even sorry. You aren’t taking my time seriously. You don’t care that I’ve been sitting here like an idiot for the last thirty minutes, while everyone around me thinks that I’m a loser because I’m here—alone.

  But I can’t say that, can I?

  So when I start again, I say, or rather I yell, “You STINK!” which makes every single person in the library turn around and stare at ME.

  Danny is also staring at me. “You’re so loud,” he whispers with a smile.

  “And you’re so stupid,” I whisper back while I gather my things.

  “You’re kidding? You’re leaving again?”

  “You,” I force myself to lean forward, “really stink…and you were late and unprepared. I can’t tutor under these circumstances.”

  “‘I can’t tutor under these circumstances,’” he repeats after me.

  “Don’t mock me,” I hiss.

  “‘Don’t mock me,’” he says in a high-pitched, whiny voice.

  “I don’t sound like that,” I say hotly.

  “Yes, you do.” He raises an eyebrow at me.

  “Screw you,” I burst out.

  “Oh, okay…”

  His tone is playful, but I don’t care. I want to slap him.

  “Well…?” He’s laughing openly now.

  “Well, what?” I narrow my eyes until I can barely see. Why don’t I just walk away?

  “Are you or are you not going to—”

  “Just shut up!”

  “You shut up,” Danny whispers, “The librarian is comin—”

  And that’s when it happens—my first outward moment of temporary insanity. I don’t realize I’ve tossed a hardcover dictionary at him until I see the book flying in slow motion across the top of his head. All I feel is the adrenaline that saturates my brain and encourages me to lean forward to maliciously whisper, “You stink,” before I stalk past the reprimanding librarian and out the green double doors.

  “i can’t believe that you tossed the dictionary at him.”

  That night, I call Marisol and give her a play-by-play.

  “I know! I know!” I screech. I’ve never been so brazen in my life. I am, without a doubt, high on the rush. “I was insane. I was like, ‘Pick your mouth up off the floor, asshole.’”

  “You called him an asshole?”

  “No, but I thought it.” Actually, I didn’t think it, but it just makes my story sound that much cooler.

  “You’re crazy,” Marisol laughs. “Do you think he’ll say something to you tomorrow?”

  “Oh, crap.” I hadn’t even thought about tomorrow. To be honest, I hadn’t thought past my conversation with Marisol.

  “Well, don’t freak out. He can’t fight you. He’s a guy.”

  Well, duh…guys don’t fight girls. Do they? Last year Piper Blythe got into a fight with a guy. He called her a bitch for cutting the lunch line. She called him an asshole for calling her a bitch. He said if the name fits. She tossed her milk at him and the next thing you knew, they were fighting.

  “What if he tries to fight me?” I ask Marisol.

  “Danny? No way,” Marisol chuckles. “At worst, he’ll get Dalia to knock you out.”

  “Thanks,” I say sourly.

  We’re quiet for a couple of minutes. Without the hum of the phone, I’d have no clue that we were still connected.

  “Marisol?”

  “Sorry, I’m having a Gilmore Girls marathon. My mom just bought me all seven seasons on DVD. Hey, does Lorelai ever get with—” Her voice cuts out like she has another call, which is strange because she has her own phone line and, as far as I know, I’m the only person besides her dad who has her number. And her dad never calls.

  “Do you have another call?”

  “No,” she says, sounding distracted, “my phone’s…dying. I…um…have to recharge. I’ll see you tomorrow, okay? Bye.”

  “Yeah,” I say to the sudden disconnection.

  And then I wonder: when did Marisol get a cordless?

  after i hang up with marisol, i’m conflicted. will danny confront me? He doesn’t seem the type, but then anything is possible—just ask Piper. Should I apologize to him? No way. He’s completely obnoxious.

  I dig out my trig book, and this time I try in earnest to study. But I find myself doodling—asteroids falling to earth and little punk girls with heads that explode. It doesn’t take a rocket scientist to figure out that my subconscious is speaking out.

  I toss my book onto the floor and roll onto my back. I really should tidy up my bedroom. It’s piggish.

  “Are you organized?” Danny’s question pops into my head.

  “Always.”

  Yep, I’m a big pretender.

  I’m too nervous to clean, so I pick up my guitar and begin to strum it. I mouth the words to a song that I’m working on. It goes something like this:

  I see you walking down the street

  You’re looking kind of sweet

  I’m wondering if you’ll smile at me and if we’ll ever meet

  Today’s the day I’d like to smile and say hello boy

  But there’s one thing that you really, really need to know

  And that’s about as far as I get. I play a little longer, but I can’t think of anything else. The only thing I can think of is Danny. Why does he keep creeping into my head?

  I put my guitar away in utter frustration and turn out my bedroom light.

  And that’s exactly how my dad finds me—curled under my covers, sighing so exceptionally loud that for once he can’t avoid me.

  “Everything okay?” He stands awkwardly at the end of my bed and gives one of my curls a light tug.

  “Stop.” I move my head out of reach.

  “How’s school?” he asks

  “Fine. Work?” I counter.

  He tries to stifle a yawn.

  “You know, sleep is actually a good thing,” I tell him.

  “I will. Soon.” He smiles, but the smile seems worn. “How was school today? How was tutoring?”

  “Well, actually today I had…” I start, but then I glance up and find him staring absently at the goldfish alarm clock perched on my nightstand table. “A great day,” I finish with as much enthusiasm as I can muster.

  “Sounds like you have everything under control,” he says.

  “Yeah.” I look at his saggy face. I remind myself that I should feel sorry for him. He’s Mr. Robotic. He doesn’t need food. He doesn’t need conversation. He doesn’t need anything, not even me.

  “Dad?” I pull him down onto my bed and rest my head on his lap. I keep his hand in my hand. I watch him, the lines that have settled like canyons across his face. It’s so rare for him to be near me—so rare for him to touch me. It’s like he’s slipping away.

  “Yes?” His breath smells nice, like mint Listerine. I inhale deeply.

  “Do you think we could spend this Saturday together?”

  He tries to pull his hand away, but I hold on. “Susie, you know I’m on a deadline. I’m almost done, but until then, I really should buckle down and finish the manuscript.”

  “Okay.” I mask the disappointment in my voice. I let his hand go and it hovers above my ear. “Well, maybe then?”

  I wait for him to answer, to make a commitment to me, knowing that just like his hand hovers above my ear, the words that I want to hear are there, hovering on his lips.

  But the words don’t come. And maybe it’s selfish of me to want to hear them, but I do. So I lie as still as I can and I hope. Even as he presses his lips against my cheek and shuts my door, I hope.

  SEVEN

  tamara

  in driver’s ed, there are six people to every squad, and although the coach swears that the squads were chosen randomly, I think there must have been some divine intervention at work because about two-thirds of my squad is of equal soc
ial and intellectual atomic structure. But there are differences, too. My squad consists of:

  Tamara—Sophomore class president.

  Bobby—Co-captain of the junior varsity bowling team.

  Luis—The other co-captain of the junior varsity bowling team.

  Jessica—Junior varsity cheerleader. Popular, pretty, and smart. (You know I hate her.)

  José—Not mainstream popular but well liked among the burnout crowd. (My guess is that it’s not really hard to find friends if you’ve got some pot to share.)

  Me—Party of one.

  In this group I do okay. I guess you could say that besides Jessica, everyone’s nice. That’s really more than I had hoped for.

  Right now, I’m waiting for my turn to park in reverse and spending every second of it hoping that José, our assigned squad captain, will get me through the experience. See, José’s like a driver’s ed superstar. He can change lanes, parallel park, stop on a dime—whatever. Our driver’s ed coach eats him up—red eyes and all—because there’s no limit to his driving ability.

  After José finishes, Jessica slides into the driver’s seat and takes off with a screech. She’s a crazy driver, and I don’t know how she got to be co-captain, but I bet it has something to do with her teeny-tiny skirts, minuscule thighs, and glossy black hair.

  “You look worried.” Every now and then Tamara likes to take time from writing in her student government notebook to talk to me.

  “A little,” I admit. Jessica skids to a stop. From across the lot, the coach shoots her a thumbs-up.

  “Yeah, me, too,” Tamara says. And I’m taken aback because in the ten years that I’ve known Tamara, I’ve never once heard her admit to being nervous.

  “You’re nervous?”

  “Yeah, I don’t know what it is, but I just can’t operate in reverse. I get all discombobulated. Ya know?” She shakes her head.

  I sigh in agreement.

  “So,” she says. “I hear you’re tutoring Danny Diaz.”

  “Who told you?” It’s not like I’ve told anyone besides Marisol. And I can’t imagine that Danny Diaz feels the need to broadcast his academic ineptitude to anyone.

  “Oh, you know, somebody…”

  Somebody, I wonder. Or half the library?

  “So…” Tamara smiles, and I notice what straight, white teeth she has. Tamara isn’t conventionally pretty, but when she smiles or talks about things that are interesting to her, you just can’t help but get sucked in. I guess that makes her an unusually attractive person. “Do you know if he has a girlfriend?” she asks rather lightly.

  “What?” I didn’t even know that she knew Danny, let alone liked him.

  “Well…?” Tamara flashes me her aren’t I brilliant smile.

  “I don’t know. We don’t talk about anything besides English.” And barely that. With three meetings behind us (two of them filled with my emotional instability), Danny and I had barely had time to discuss The Scarlet Letter, let alone his relationship status.

  “Hey”—she cocks her head to the side—“do you think you could ask? If you don’t mind…” Again, she smiles.

  “Well, I don’t really think that would be appropriate. You know,” I explain lamely, “a violation of the student/tutor relationship.”

  “Yeah, that’s true, but…it’s not like you’re getting paid. I mean the position is totally volunteer, right? And asking personal questions is how you get to know someone better, which is important to a working relationship.” Tamara closes the deal like a true politician.

  I paste on a stiff smile and debate whether I feel queasy because Jessica has just thrown the car into park or because the idea of Danny with thousand-watt Tamara is nauseating?

  “Susie,” José screams, his body halfway out the car window, “you’re holding up the line!”

  Which seems to always be my problem, I think. “I have to go.” I leap to my feet and take five grateful steps forward before Tamara calls out to me.

  “Susie,” she says, “please.”

  It’s sad, really, because that’s all it takes. One simple please and I freeze.

  “Please,” she repeats again.

  I crumble. “Fine, I’ll see what I can do.”

  “Oh!” Tamara rushes forward and gives me a forceful hug. “Thanks, like a million times. I mean it.”

  “You’re welcome,” I say. And despite myself, I can’t believe how nice it feels to hear those words—thanks and please—from someone other than Marisol. It’s like—

  “Susie, c’mon!” Jose waves me in like an air traffic controller.

  It’s like…driving in reverse with your eyes closed.

  EIGHT

  just maybe…a connection

  after failing my driver’s ed exam, getting a c on my trig test, and debating for the thousandth time whether Tamara and Danny might possibly have a future together, I come to one and only one conclusion: I never want to leave my bed. Ever.

  That is, until my dad decides to attack my bedroom door with the raw force of his writer’s knuckles. Then, I want to get out of bed for the sole purpose of killing.

  “Come on, Susie.” My dad says, followed by two sharp raps on the buckling pressboard. “Susie, get up.”

  Question: if your daughter’s light is out, her door is closed, and other than for the fart that she let rip (and I mean rip) half an hour ago, you haven’t heard a peep out of her for the LAST FIVE HOURS, what do you think she might be doing?

  Answer: SLEEPING. I’M SLEEPING.

  Isn’t it obvious?

  “Susie?” There is a knuckle scrape, followed by an irritating pound, pound.

  Apparently not.

  “Dad,” I moan, “I’m tired!”

  “Susie,” my dad growls, “I’m on a call. You have a visitor.” His tone is short, which is surprising because I never knew that automatic-pilot dads come preprogrammed with two settings.

  “Fine.” I fight to focus on the light slipping underneath the cracks of my bedroom door. “I’m awake.”

  “Good.” I hear him retreat down the hall to the study.

  I glance at Mr. Swims-A-Lot, the neon-green goldfish clock that my mom bought me for my ninth birthday. It’s eight forty-five p.m. School ended at two-thirty, and only now is Marisol responding to my S.O.S. cry for help (one e-mail, two voice mails, and a dire handwritten note scribbled in purple highlighter).

  “Marisol,” I mutter, stopping at my father’s study to listen to his important phone call.

  “Yeah,” I hear him murmur. “Uh-huh. That’s a very good idea. I understand, Leslie.”

  His important phone call is Leslie? Marisol’s mom, Leslie?

  “Marisol,” I say, popping a breath mint into my mouth as I walk through our U-shaped house and step around the corner of the family room and into the foyer, “why is your mom talking to my dad on the pho—”

  “It’s not Marisol.”

  The sight of Danny Diaz standing in my foyer, coupled with the overwhelming smell of his cologne, stops me from talking, walking, or doing anything else.

  “Danny?” I step back into a bookcase. “What are you doing here? I rub my eyes roughly, believing that if I rub hard enough he’ll disappear. “How do you know where I live?”

  “Tamara,” he says simply.

  “Tamara?”

  “Tamara, um, Cruz. We have sixth period SAT prep together…”

  I give him a blank look so he continues.

  “You used to ride the same private bus in junior high…. Her dad teaches at UM with your dad…. You have the same—”

  “Driver’s ed class together. Yeah…I know.” But how did he know? Was he talking to Tamara about me?

  “I asked her where you live because I wanted to come here. I wanted to talk to you.”

  I move slowly toward the living room sofa, keeping my eyes on him at all times. The ceiling fan whirls above us, spreading the aroma of Danny everywhere and filling my ears with a buzzing noise. I shiver. My pajamas—a p
air of boxers and a white wifebeater, sans bra—suddenly seem transparent. It’s like I’m standing naked in front of Danny. I burrow my body into the corner of the sofa, hiding my chest behind an oversized throw pillow.

  “You asked Tamara where I live?” I clarify. Danny nods his head, a hesitant smile threatening the corners of his lips. “But why?” I ask, which is a good question. Why?

  “Um…” Danny sits opposite me on the love seat. “I wanted to…um…you…” He stops abruptly and rubs the side of his mouth. “You’ve got some…”

  “What?” I stare at him blankly.

  He rubs the side of his mouth again, shakes his head, and licks his thumb. He leans forward, cups my chin, and rubs his thumb lightly over my skin.

  “Drool,” he says, chuckling.

  Ten thousand butterflies. When Danny’s finger connects with my chin, ten thousand butterflies explode in my belly. I mean, here he is: Danny, with his face six inches from mine, and all I can wonder is: is my breath mint working?

  “You came here to wipe drool from my cheek?” I try hard to speak without opening my mouth.

  “No.” He leans back and looks at me with those penny eyes.

  “I came to say that I’m sorry for the other day. For the library.”

  “Oh…oh…” My eyes pop open and I can practically feel the eye crud falling out. “That’s why you’re here? Now. In my house? Here.” I’d keep rambling till the end of time, but something, somewhere deep inside me tells me to shut up.

  “Yeah,” he says, shaking his head.

  So this is it? I feel relieved, and I feel something else. Let down? Disappointed?

  “It’s just that sometimes I say what I’m thinking but I don’t think. I just open my mouth and, you know, speak.”

  “Sure.” I shrug my shoulders.

  “I’m not trying to be…” His voice trails off.

  How could I have ever thought he could hit me?

  “Sometimes, I just talk and stupid things happen. Like yesterday, I was telling Dalia about the library—”