“Nothing,” I tell her, which is a lie.
I watch Carlos. Or Bob. Or whatever his name is. I wonder if he ever went to homecoming. Or maybe he’s one of the last people in America who understands what it’s like to never have a date? But that doesn’t make sense, I remind myself, because he has a daughter. We’ve seen her out here with him. So he’s had at least one successful date.
So now I know that there is absolutely no one left in America besides me who understands what it’s like to be without a date, or worse, to be without the hope of dating.
I give Marisol a sidelong glare. Marisol used to understand everything, but now she wants my father to date her mother, and she wants to go to freaking dances and sit with the Jewish clique and forget me.
“You’re sure?” she asks.
“Sure about what?” I toss out the attitude.
“Not going. I think Ryan’s cousin Jared doesn’t have a date.” Marisol’s voice trails up hopefully. “Or at least he mentioned that to me before.”
“That must have been one long conversation.” Today is the first day Marisol ever mentioned talking to Ryan, but now she was using words like before?
“Why?” she looks confused.
“For him to feel comfortable enough to mention his lonely, half-retarded cousin.” I watch her shift uncomfortably on the grass. “I’m just saying he must have felt extremely comfortable with you.”
“Well…” She picks nervously at a weed.
“Well, what?”
“Ryan’s been calling me since the middle of October.” She doesn’t lift her eyes from the weed.
“That’s like a month ago,” I say slowly.
“I know.”
“So you’ve been keeping this from me. Why?”
I search her face for clues. When did we become the type of best friends to keep things from each other? What happened to our truth nights, to knowing everything? Why the secrets?
“I don’t know.” She shrugs her shoulders. “I don’t want to keep stuff from you. Just, lately, I want to do stuff. I want to go out. And you always want to stay in.” She lifts her eyes back to mine.
I don’t know what to say. I mean, what can I say? It’s kinda true. But it’s not my fault that I don’t want to go out. I just don’t like crowds. I don’t like people. People are…well, they can be scary sometimes.
“But why couldn’t you tell me that before?” My voice cracks, just a little.
“I don’t know.” Marisol taps a finger under my chin so that I’ll look at her. “I wanted to wait until…”
“Until what?” I prompt her.
“I thought for sure that Danny would ask you to homecoming. I thought that if Danny asked you, well then you might really go. And we could do something fun for once.”
“Oh.” I’m spinning. My mind is processing like a hundred thoughts but one sticks out: she thinks we never do anything fun together. She’s bored of me.
“We could still go to the dance together,” she says.
“Oh.” There’s not much else to say.
“I just wanted us to belong for once.” Her voice wavers.
“Oh.”
“Is that all you can say?” She snaps.
“No,” I say rather quietly.
The truth is there is a lot more that I could say, like What’s wrong with you? When did you stop liking me, start lying to me? Where are you going? Where am I going? Are we going to stop being…
No, I can’t say that. I can’t even think that.
I study her carefully. I try to think of one moment in my life that she has ever let me down (not hurt my feelings, but actually let me down), and I can’t. So I suck it up. Marisol has the right to be happy, even if it gives me heartburn.
“I think it’s great,” I say finally.
“Really?” She gives my hand a gentle squeeze. I bite my lip to stop myself from saying, Don’t go. Don’t leave me alone.
“Yeah, I really do.”
“Good.” Marisol smiles, and her blue eyes twinkle in the sun. “I’m super-excited,” she says.
“Yeah, it’s great.” I nod my head and force a smile.
But I don’t think it’s great. In fact, I think the whole thing sucks.
THIRTEEN
what about me?
later that afternoon before i meet danny for our afternoon tutorial, I hide out in the girls’ restroom and stare at myself in the mirror. What does Marisol have that I don’t have? Why does Marisol get to have a boyfriend and I don’t? And when did I start caring about these sorts of things?
I try to remind myself that Ryan isn’t Marisol’s boyfriend, that all they’re doing is hanging out. Secretly hanging out. My mind gets stuck on the word secretly. And it’s somewhere along that point that I convince myself that Marisol has a boyfriend, and life as I know it is about to end.
I hate my life. I do.
Do I hate my life?
Well, not all the time, but there are certain moments, seconds of the day that I’m particularly pissed off at God for making my life the way that it is.
The restroom is quiet. I’m thankful for the silence. It’s not often during the day that you can actually hear yourself think. And I use this time to undertake one of the most pressing questions in my current life: what is there for anyone, maybe even Danny, to love about me?
I stare in the mirror and try to see myself through Danny’s eyes. The first thing I do is look into my eyes. Yes, my eyes look like they belong on an owl, but the color is pretty enough, they’re brown with flecks of green.
What about my nose? It’s long and narrow. My dad says that it is Romanesque. Anything that’s Romanesque can’t be good.
My lips are full, maybe too full, like fish lips.
Ugly.
I take my time walking downstairs while I continue to catalog my body.
In the stairwell, I think about my hips. They’re too wide. I’ll probably give birth to twins—that is, of course, if I ever have sex.
I also observe my breasts. Very small, but I think that’s preferable to the watermelons that Pamela Anderson is toting around. Breasts definitely shouldn’t be bigger than your head.
The first floor is empty. I don’t even hear the echo of a conversation. I stop in front of a full-length window display and stare at my reflection in the Plexiglas.
I check out my legs. I’m all about the leg. They’re super-long, which may not be an attribute now, as growing boys can be intimidated by female giants, but in the future they’ll definitely come in handy. One point for me.
I turn sideways, lift up my shirt and admire my stomach. It’s so flat, it’s concave. Boys like a girl with a flat stomach. I’m up to two.
When it comes to my upper arms, I don’t bother to flex. My biceps have always been nonexistent. Although I don’t think I can be penalized for that; biceps just don’t run in my family. My grandmother’s biceps have always hung upside down. But they are skinny, which is better than flabby, right? Okay, I’ll take half a point.
My eyes travel down and around the back. My crown, my glory—my butt. In the Plexiglas, my butt looks very nice. It’s perky, heart shaped, and full. I fill out the back pockets of my jeans completely. A perfect butt should be worth three points alone. I mean look how far J. Lo’s butt has gotten her. I should be so lucky to attract half as many husbands based on my perky cheeks.
Okay. I do the math in my head.
Five and a half points. That’s my total. Which means what? On a scale of one to ten, I’m five and a half. Five and a half? That’s bad. That’s real bad. Wait. No, that can’t be right. I didn’t list ten body parts. The equation has to be equal to the number of body parts being examined or it won’t be mathematically sound, but then again—
A shadow falls across the Plexiglas and startles me. After an involuntary squeal, which I have the feeling that I’ll regret for the rest of my life, I find myself face to glass-face with Danny.
“How…” I fight to gain my composure. �
��How…long have you been standing there?”
Did he see me staring at myself? Evaluating myself?
He lets out a low laugh. “I’ve been here like a minute.” He taps his fingers on the Plexiglas. “What are you looking at?” He stares at the display. “Are you going to homecoming?”
“What?” I try to keep my voice steady. “Why?”
“Um…I don’t know. You’re standing in front of a homecoming display.”
He points toward the window case, and for the first time, I notice what it says inside: FALL INTO FUN ON SATURDAY, NOVEMBER 19. Underneath the caption is a picture of a couple in formal wear posing happily for the camera. Just seeing the camera makes me shudder.
“Oh….” I recover my composure. “Yeah, right.”
“So you are?”
“What?”
“Going…”
“Where?”
“To homecoming.”
“Homecoming?” I reply evasively.
“Susie…” Danny’s smile fades, but his tone is still lighthearted.
I wish he would just drop the whole conversation. I feel like I can barely breathe. What does he care? Unless…but the chances of Danny asking me to homecoming are zilch. He could ask anyone. Why would he want to ask me?
“No,” I tell him. “I’m not…going.”
“You’re not going?” he repeats.
“No.”
“You’re not going to homecoming?”
“No,” I say for the second time, “I’m not.” Why does he insist on making me repeat myself?
“This homecoming.” He taps the Plexiglas.
“Yes,” I say very slowly. “I am not going to that homecoming.”
“Oh,” he says with a smile.
“Oh?” Is he happy that I won’t be there?
“Your eye is twitching.” He leans forward and touches the corner of my eye, where a pulsation has just erupted.
“Can we go?” I ask impatiently.
“Yeah.” He smiles again, annoying me even further.
“Good.” I walk in front of him toward the library.
“Wait.” He lays his hand on my shoulder and I jump. “The library is closed.”
“What?” I drop my bag on the ground. “You’re joking. Why?”
He shrugs his shoulders. “The sign said inventory. But don’t worry, we’ll go somewhere else.”
“We don’t have anywhere else to go.” My eye twitch increases.
“Well, what about Mr. Murphy’s classroom?” he suggests.
I glance at my watch. It’s already after three thirty.
“No, Mr. Murphy leaves at three, unless you make an appointment with him. Maybe we should just do this tomorrow?” I’d much rather be at home right now analyzing every single word that we’ve exchanged than discussing The Scarlet Letter. I mean, really, why would he bring up homecoming?
“Or we could go to your house?” Danny counters.
It takes a second for the question to register. He wants to come to my house? That would be his second visit in, like, thirty days.
The truth is that ever since Halloween, all I can think about is Danny coming over to my house. Danny in my room. But having a fantasy and seeing it through are two different things.
“I don’t think that’s such a good idea,” I say after much internal debate. “My dad’s working at home.”
We lean against a row of lockers. Danny runs his fingers through his hair, and his movement triggers more memories of Halloween. I’m flooded. And I think about touching him.
“Well, how about my house? I live only two blocks away.”
“Oh, I don’t know.” There are so many questions running through my head right now. What if he invites me into his room? What would it be like to see his bed or smell his sheets? What would it be like to know what his comforter looks like or see his closet filled with clothes? That information alone might keep me up late at night. I just don’t think I can handle the pressure of being at his house.
I rack my brain for a foolproof excuse. “I’m not really allowed to go to a boy’s house if my dad doesn’t know him.” I force my voice to sound apologetic. How weird would I feel meeting Dalia or his parents?
“Well, your dad and I met the other day, remember?”
“Yeah,” I say sarcastically, “but that doesn’t constitute knowing.” Heck, I’ve been meeting Danny for more than a month now, and I can’t even tell what he means by a simple question.
“If my dad met your parents, that would probably be a different story, but he hasn’t.”
“Oh.” He leans back against the locker and taps his fingers on his head. I wonder if his fingers give him extra brain power. “Okay, I know. My mom gets home from work at four, so I’ll have her call your mom to explain.”
“You can’t call my mom,” I began, trying to force the next words out.
“Why not?” Danny asks.
“Because…” My mind starts racing. Just tell him the truth, I think. But I can’t. Not yet. “You just can’t,” I repeat.
“Okay.” Danny seems to consider whether he should push that subject, but he doesn’t. “Can we call your dad? You said he’s at home. Right?”
“Yeah, you can call my dad.” We were treading on dangerous ground, and it seemed better to give in than raise more questions.
“We’re just going to be studying, not playing doctor,” he says. And my heart goes a thousand times faster.
“I kn-kn-ow.” I pause to get the stuttering under control. “I wa-as just thinking that I have to be home by six.”
“No prob-buh-blem.” He grabs my book bag off the floor. “Let’s go.”
FOURTEEN
la casa diaz
we walk the first block in silence. i sneak sideways glances at him just to watch him carry my bag. I like the way he retrieved it from the floor, without saying a word. The action was very take charge. I dig that.
“It’s this way.” I follow the right he makes on SW 132nd Avenue, and try to keep up with his long strides. The boy’s leg span covers twice the amount of territory of mine. We make a left on SW 65th Street, and my stomach flips. The path we’re taking is suddenly becoming very familiar to me.
“Have you ever been here?” Danny asks. He points to a man-made canal. My man-made canal! My designated lunch spot!
“Well?” he prompts.
I look around. My Carlos or Bob (or whatever his name is) is sitting on a bench, reading. Ducks huddle nearby, waiting.
“Kind of.” I debate whether to admit that this is my lunch spot. “Marisol and I kind of like to eat here,” I mutter underneath my breath. I look over at Carlos. He’s starting to feed the ducks. “I think”—I say, pointing at the old man—“all he does is feed ducks all day.”
“Huh?” Danny gives me an odd look. He sticks two fingers in his mouth and whistles. The old man smiles and looks up. “Hola.” Danny waves. “Qué pasó?”
“Nada.” The old man says, crinkly eyed, before disappearing behind the wrinkled folds of an El Nuevo Herald.
“What did you say?” I ask. Why didn’t I ever think about saying hello?
“I asked him what he’s up to. And he said, ‘Nada,’ which means ‘nothing.’”
“I know what nada means. I’m a third-year Spanish student. I mean, why did you say anything to him at all?” We approach a mesh fence that leads into a well-kept backyard that seems familiar. I look back toward the old man, only feet away. “Is he your grandfather?” I ask incredulously, because if that’s not a sign from God then I don’t know what is.
Danny smiles mysteriously. “You’ll see.”
We cut through the backyard and enter the house through an unlocked sliding glass door. “Mami?” Danny calls out, but no one answers. “This is the family-room-slash-kitchen. Notice the tile is authentic Italian,” Danny says in a nasal voice. “It’s a postmodern impressionistic Italian Renaissance style.” He gives me a cockeyed grin. “Don’t you think I’d be a great real estate agen
t?”
“No.” I roll my eyes. “But I do think you’d make a great farmer because you’re so darn corny,” I say, which actually makes Danny laugh.
I check out the room. It’s not as large as my family room, but it’s pretty. The walls are painted mango; the floor tile is a light brown. The largest wall is covered with family portraits. In the center is a large oil painting—of Danny and Dalia kneeling at an altar. Dalia is wearing a plain white dress. Danny is wearing a suit. They both look about twelve in the photo.
“Is that your confirmation picture?” I ask.
“Yeah,” he smiles. “Are you Catholic, too?”
“Yeah, but I never actually got to the confirmation part,” I tell him.
I turn back to the wall and study some of the other photos. The wall is practically a visual history of Danny’s entire life: Danny sitting in a tub filled with bubbles; Danny and Dalia at their kindergarten graduation; his parents’ wedding photo; his mom laughing into a camera, holding a big belly.
“Is that your mom when she was pregnant with you two?”
Danny steps closer to look. “Yeah, she was huge.”
“What’s it like to be a twin?” I am curious.
“It’s cool,” he says. “People think it makes you different, but it’s just like having any other sibling. I guess it’s nice to be in the same classes and copy each other’s homework—not that Dalia would ever let me copy anything of hers—but sometimes having a sister can be annoying. Are you an only child?”
“Yeah.”
“Do you wish you had a brother or a sister?”
I consider the question. For a long time after my mother died, I wondered what it would have been like to have an older sister. I thought maybe she would understand how I was feeling, or maybe she could explain to me why things like this happened—why they happened to us. Even if we didn’t talk about other things, maybe we could just play together. Maybe then, I wouldn’t be so lonely.
“I used to,” I tell him, “but not anymore.”
I look from the photos to Danny, then outside to his grandfather reading the paper. I think about his tiny house overlooking the man-made canal with the quacking ducks that crap everywhere. I’m filled with envy.
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