Not Anything

by Carmen Rodrigues

  “You told your sister about yesterday?” My heart pops like a firecracker. The catch. This was the catch. Danny Diaz would never hit a girl. He has his sister for that.

  “Well”—he takes off his baseball cap—“it was kind of hard to hide this at the dinner table.” He leans forward to show me the quarter-sized knot on the top of his head.

  “Dinner?” I say. “Like with the entire family?”

  “Yeah…” Danny gives me a strange look.

  Question: is it more shocking to find out that you’ve maimed one of the hottest boys in your school? Or that the hot boy sits down to have dinner with his family?

  Answer: I wasn’t sure.

  “Wow. I did that.” Without thinking, I touch the knot and feel terribly guilty (and slightly satisfied) when Danny flinches.

  “Yeah, did you have to choose the unabridged dictionary? Couldn’t you just have used your pocket Webster?”

  “Ah, you’re a funny guy,” I whisper.

  “Is this supposed to be funny?” Danny reenacts the hit in slow motion. I can’t help but laugh.

  “I guess so.” His dimples appear. I want to rub my finger in the indent.

  “You’re lucky. I actually considered using the Encyclopedia Britannica.” I pause. “Letters A–G.”

  He runs his hand protectively over his skull. “That would have hurt.”

  “What did you tell your sister?” I am curious. I’ve never had my name pass between the lips of the socially elite.

  “I told her about what happened. What you said, and what I said, and well”—Danny looks down at his hands before speaking—“I don’t know. I just told her some stuff.”

  “Oh.”

  “So why did you throw the book at me?”

  Good question. Too bad I didn’t have one good, rational answer to give to him.

  “I don’t know. You really smelled, and you were mimicking me, and you were there with this I don’t care that I’m late attitude. I just wanted to…” I trail off. It’s obvious from the knot on his head what I wanted to do.

  “Well, I couldn’t help stinking. The showers really weren’t working. And being late…sometimes the coach keeps us late. And, I was a jerk mimicking you like that, but I was just playing.”

  At this point, he could tell me that he likes green eggs and ham. I don’t care. I’m stuck somewhere between understanding that our knees are touching and that he, too, washes his face with Neutrogena. I can smell it on him.

  “So…” he says.

  “So…”

  “I’m sorry.” He looks me straight in the eye. “I’m going to try to do better. I’m going to try to be prepared and not stink.”

  “I’m sorry, too,” I mutter, looking away.

  “What?” He leans in closer.

  “I’m sorry,” I repeat in a clearer yet equally low tone.

  “Hey, no problem. Just, if you don’t mind, stand over there,” he points at the wall and grabs a book off the coffee table, “while I throw this at you.”

  I smile and he smiles back—penny eyes, dimple indents, bright white teeth and all. He smiles back, and I feel ridiculous because never, in my entire life, has it felt so good to see someone smile.

  Which might explain why I suddenly blurt out, “Do you have a girlfriend?”

  He tilts his head to the side and considers me. Even though I am holding my breath, I tell myself that I really am asking this question for Tamara.

  “No. Why?” His eyes seem to challenge me to admit that I like him.

  “Um…” Tell the truth, something deep inside whispers. “Um, because Tamara wants to know.” I regret the words as soon as they leave my mouth. Why did I just point out that Tamara likes him? Who wouldn’t like thousand-watt Tamara over ten-watt me?

  “Tamara?” He doesn’t seem surprised. “So, we’re cool?”

  “We’re cool,” I reply, watching him walk to the door.

  “So, I’ll see you in school tomorrow?” His hand pauses on the doorknob.

  “Yeah.”

  “Cool.”

  “Cool,” I repeat.

  After he leaves, I flick off the living room light and sit in the dark. I watch the shadows dance as random car lights flood the room. In the dark, everything changes. Just like me.

  NINE

  lots and lots of candy

  “how do i look?”

  Marisol’s mom, Leslie, is a psychologist, and she’s usually 100 percent confident, except for tonight. Tonight, she keeps asking how she looks. It’s really annoying because the whole conversation sound like listening to a CD for the millionth time. It’s like this:

  MARISOL: Mom, you look great.

  Time passes.

  MARISOL: Seriously, Mom, you look perfect.

  Time passes.

  MARISOL (with a really bad French accent): Mom, you are tres fabulous.

  And it’s true, Marisol’s mom does look fabulous.

  Tonight is Halloween. The night that Marisol and I rent all the Halloween movies from the video store, curl up on the family room sofa, and eat all the candy that we’re supposed to be passing out to the neighborhood kids.

  Even without all the candy (okay, slight exaggeration), I’d still have fun on Halloween. Marisol and I dress up every year. Last year, we were the two crotchety old men from Waiting for Godot. This year, we’re paying homage to Lewis Carroll. I’m Alice and Marisol’s the Mad Hatter. Very appropriate, I told her.

  “Do you think this outfit is too skimpy?” Leslie asks, indicating that we’ve moved on to the second phase of the evening: The am I a slut or what? portion.

  Ever since Marisol’s parents got divorced, Leslie has spent Halloween night worrying that she looks slutty, which would be equivalent to calling an Amish girl a whore.

  See, Leslie’s super-big on respecting yourself and your body. That’s not to say that she doesn’t make the most of her assets. The woman has buns of steel. She runs every day and takes spinning classes three times a week. She says exercise and shopping are her forms of therapy. She keeps inviting me and Marisol to speed-walk at the mall. Me? Speed-walk at the mall? As if. But Marisol…well, Marisol is on the fast track to becoming a junior shopaholic. And her butt looks pretty tight, too.

  “Well?” Leslie takes another spin in front of us, and both Marisol and I try not to giggle. Last year, Marisol’s mom was a cop, and this year, she’s a construction worker. Both outfits were tremendously skanky before Leslie spent twelve hours modifying them. Now they were absolutely puritanical.

  “Mom, please.” Marisol pops open the first three buttons of Leslie’s blouse. “They’re just breasts. Let them breathe.”

  “I don’t know…Susie?”

  “You look great.”

  “Yeah? Thanks. I wonder what your father will wear.”

  Which shows how little Leslie knows about my father. “He’ll wear Dockers and a polo shirt.”

  “Dockers and a polo shirt? You think?” Leslie asks no one in particular.

  Leslie invited my father to her friend’s annual Halloween party because (as Marisol put it) she’s concerned that my dad spends way too much time alone (i.e., he’s about to crack up and shouldn’t we pull an intervention?). Whatever. Anyway, the real surprise was that Daddy Dearest said yes.

  That’s right. Yes.

  I’m assuming that this is his way of thanking Leslie for helping him research his latest novel. It’s a psychological thriller about blah, blah, blah. (Okay, I never really pay attention to what he’s writing.) But still, I have to give Leslie props. I can’t remember the last time my dad went out, even with me.

  “You told your dad to be here at seven, right?” Leslie asks for the twentieth time.

  “Uh-huh.” Actually, I told my father seven fifteen because Leslie is notorious for being late, and my father is notorious for being overly punctual. I figured if I fudged the numbers, the imbalance of their two personalities would even things out. Clearly, I was wrong. It’s now seven thirty, and Leslie�
�s still standing by the window hoping to spot him.

  “Do you think I should call? Oh, wait. There he is.”

  I glance out the window, and sure enough there’s dear old Dad dressed in beige Dockers and a white polo shirt with a sheepish grin on his face.

  “Sorry.” My father apologizes when I greet him outside. “I lost track of time…writing.”

  “Uh-huh. Is that for me?” I grab for the Godiva bag he’s clutching to his chest like a safety blanket.

  “Actually”—he deflects my hands and plants an awkward kiss on my cheek—“I had trouble deciding what to wear. Leslie said to wear a construction hat and faded jeans, but I don’t own faded jeans.”

  “But you own a construction hat?”

  “Anyway, I’m a college professor.” He points to a pencil tucked behind his ear and a super-tiny edition of Wuthering Heights nestled casually in his back pocket. “What do you think?”

  “Very original.”

  “Yeah?” He seems relieved.

  “No.” I shake my head at him.

  “Well.” He peers over my shoulder as the door opens behind me. “We’re about to find out.”

  “There you are.” Leslie stands behind me and gives my shoulder a light squeeze. “You’re normally so punctual. We were starting to get worried.”

  “I’m sorry—”

  “No, don’t be.” She pinches his arm playfully. “I’m teasing. What do you have there?”

  “This”—my dad thrust the Godiva bag at her—“is to thank you for your invitation.”

  “Oh, no thanks needed,” Leslie says, opening the bag. “I’m just so glad you could come. Wow, Godiva.” She smiles brightly at him. “Thank you. That’s very nice.”

  “Well.” My father clears his throat the way that he always does when he’s extremely nervous. “Let’s just say that I haven’t been invited out in a real long time. Thank you,” he finishes quietly.

  “I’m glad you could make it, Joe.” Leslie touches his hand lightly. “And I like your costume,” she says sincerely. “The book is a nice touch.”

  “Is my mom flirting with your dad?” Marisol whispers to me.

  “I don’t think so,” I whisper back, my stomach suddenly turning. Is Marisol crazy?

  “It looks like flirting to me. And I think your dad is flirting back.”

  “That’s not flirting. That’s being polite.”

  “No,” Marisol says sweetly, “that’s flirting.”

  I follow Marisol’s gaze. What is she seeing that I’m not? Two grown adults can go out to a coed gathering without it meaning SOMETHING. Yeah, sure, my dad was still standing in Marisol’s foyer wearing the same sheepish grin he walked in with. And, sure, Leslie’s hand was lingering uncomfortably close to my dad’s hand so that if they sneezed, they might accidentally touch. But when did that constitute flirting?

  OMG, are they flirting?

  “Okay, girls.” Leslie kisses Marisol gently on the forehead and hugs me tightly. Which totally pisses me off. Not at Leslie, but at Marisol. I mean, how could Marisol imply that her mother—her wonderful mother—might try to steal, I mean flirt with, my dad?

  “Okay. Susie”—my dad pats me twice on the back—“be good, and don’t eat all the candy.”

  “I won’t,” I promise, grabbing him by the collar and unexpectedly digging my face into his shoulder.

  “Oh, okay.” My dad places two more awkward pats on my back. “Okay.”

  “Remember, don’t let any strangers in the house. Don’t open the door for anyone who doesn’t have children, and”—Leslie smiles at the both of us—“no boys.”

  “Okay, Mom.” Marisol shoves them toward the door.

  “And lock the—”

  “Door,” Marisol finishes, slamming the door shut. “Finally.”

  “Finally,” I repeat.

  “Boys,” she says.

  “As if.”

  “So, our parents, huh?”

  “Whatever,” I mumble, looking out the window. My dad is helping Leslie into the passenger side of his car.

  “Let’s put in a movie,” Marisol yells from the family room.

  “Coming,” I yell back, but I can’t…not until they’ve driven away.

  TEN

  a definite connection

  “i’m ready to quit.”

  One hour later, Marisol and I have handed out nearly three-fourths of the candy, and I’m having the time of my life. All the little kids love my costume. They keep calling me Alice and tugging on my blond wig.

  “Why?” I’m totally not ready to give up the fun.

  “’Cause,” Marisol whines. “We’re not going to have enough candy for all the movies. And I’m sick of seeing kids that we know from school.”

  Marisol does have a point there. So far we’ve seen at least ten kids from OG. Some were actually trick-or-treating, which was ridiculous, so we didn’t open the door for them. And others were with a younger sibling. Lisa, a girl from my trig class, showed up with her niece.

  “Yeah, well they haven’t all been so bad,” I say, adjusting my wig. “Lisa was nice. But you are right about the candy. We’re running out.” No leftover candy was a possibility that I had not considered, and one, I was sure, that I could not live with. “Okay, we’ll do just one more.”

  “You’re getting off on this Alice thing, aren’t you?”

  “Just one more. Think of the kids!” I grab my belly and moan. “Those poor, chocolate-deprived, sugar-starved, middle-class kids.”

  “You’re crazy,” Marisol says laughing.

  “And you”—I slap her oversized hat off her head—“are mad.”

  “Funny,” Marisol says dryly.

  “I do try,” I respond as the doorbell rings. “What?”

  Marisol is eyeing me most suspiciously, and I know why. For most of the night, we’ve been arguing over candy distribution. Thanks to quick feet and fast reflexes, I’ve done 70 percent of the distribution, not that Marisol hasn’t put up a fight. She’s got a fast right elbow, and during our last encounter I took a blow to my side. I’m still slightly in pain, but when Marisol screams, “Doorbell!” and leaps for the basket of candy on the dining room table, I can’t help but spring into action.

  “My turn, again,” I yell tauntingly, snatching the basket from her hands. She grabs my blond wig and sends me tumbling backward, managing to catch the basket in midair before it hits the floor.

  When I finally get the door open, I’m out of breath and holding Marisol at bay with one hand. “Trick or treat,” I tell a bouncy strawberry-blond mini-person wrapped in a pink tulle ballerina outfit.

  “Trick or treat,” Marisol whispers weakly behind me.

  “Is that your monster?” I ask the girl, pointing to a six-foot green-eyed monster standing behind her. The little girl nods her head solemnly and then thrusts a plastic pumpkin basket at me.

  “Ooh, you remind me of cotton candy,” I tell her, and she does. From her pink bun to her pink dance slippers, she seems fluffed up. “You’re very bouncy,” I tell her, noting the way she hops from side to side. “Good dance moves.”

  “Let me look,” Marisol jumps up and down behind me.

  “Are you going to be nice?” I whisper.

  “Yes,” she answers reluctantly.

  “Okay,” I open the door wider, and Marisol squishes in beside me.

  “What’s your name?” I ask the ballerina, kneeling down.

  “Lucy.”

  “How old are you, Lucy?” Marisol asks.

  “I’m five.” She holds up five fingers with one hand.

  “Wow,” Marisol says. “You’re a big girl. Is that your Daddy?” Marisol asks, pointing to the monster.

  “No, that’s my cousin.”

  “Okay, well, do you want to say something?” Marisol prods.

  “Uh-uh,” Lucy shakes her head eagerly.

  “Trick or treat,” I whisper as a reminder.

  “Trick or treat,” Lucy says. “I gotta pee.”
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br />   “Oh, you’re going for a trick,” I tell her. “That’s clever. Well, here’s your treat anyway,” I pat her bun. “Should we give one of these to your cousin, Lucy? Would you like one, too?” I ask the silent monster. “That’s a good choice,” I tell him when he picks the mini Snickers bar.

  “I want one, too,” Lucy yells. “I gotta pee!” She bounces faster than before and squeezes her legs together.

  “That’s a funny trick,” I tell her, shaking my head at Marisol.

  “Why does she keep doing that?” Marisol asks pointing at her.

  “I don’t know. Are you trying to show us a new dance?” I ask.

  “Maybe she’s stretching out?” suggests Marisol.

  “Or maybe she stepped in an ant pile?” I hypothesize.

  “Or maybe,” interjects the monster, “she really has to pee.”

  “Spoilsport,” Marisol and I yell at him.

  “Do I…?” I stare at the monster. Something in his muffled monster-voice seems oddly familiar.

  “Lucy,” the monster reprimands, “I told you to go before we left.”

  “That voice,” I whisper to Marisol, “is really familiar.”

  “I really gotta pee,” Lucy says, putting her hands between her legs.

  “Can she use the bathroom?” the monster asks.

  “Sure—”

  “Hold on.” Marisol puts her hand out like a crossing guard. “Give us a minute,” Marisol says before slamming the door shut. “What if this is a total setup?”

  “The girl has to pee,” I tell Marisol, trying to pull the door open.

  “Don’t you think that monster looks suspicious? And if you recognize his voice, maybe he’s one of the jerks from school.”

  I look at the monster through the peephole. He really does look suspicious, but, then again, what monster doesn’t? And why do I recognize his voice? I peek out for a second look. Lucy is no longer bouncing frantically, she’s crying.

  “She’s crying,” I tell Marisol. “I really think we should let her use the bathroom.”