I look at Marlena and my trying to hide my feelings goes out the window. “I can’t believe you’re leaving. It’s so damned depressing. What will I do without seeing you every day?”
“Don’t worry. After my eighteenth birthday I’ll come here for work. I promise.” She whispers, “Nothing will ever separate us.”
I shake my head. “That’s six hundred years from now. Can you imagine not kissing or making love for that long?”
“Uy, Scrunchy. It’s a year and seven months from now.” She averts her eyes from me and stares out the window. Marlena’s not the expressive sort who likes to reveal her feelings and opinions to anyone but me. But right now, her cool, distant and introspective demeanor feels as if she’s pushing me away. I mean, it’s the last time we’ll see each other in ages. I’ve got to get her to stay close.
I scoot down to where Hairy Taxi Guy can’t see me and whisper to her, “Okay, okay. I’ll wait for you till my teeth fall out and I turn into a wrinkled prune.”
A bunch of guys pass us in a Jeep blasting disco music. They’re holding hands and having a blast, like they just don’t care.
Hairy Taxi Guy throws them a bird. “¡Maricónes de mierda!” He tries to repeat it in English, “Focking fags full of sheet!”
I slouch down with my knees up on the back of the passenger seat. “What a prince.”
Marlena looks into the rearview mirror to make sure Hairy Taxi Guy isn’t looking at us or trying to understand our conversation.
Finally, she opens up.
“It’s so much easier when no one knows about you, Scrunchy. Our sexuality shouldn’t be in people’s faces anyways. I love it that our relationship is secret. It makes us more passionate about trying to find time to be with the other. When you don’t sleep over, we have to hide just to kiss.” She smiles. “Hiding makes everything extra special. What we’ve got is so beautiful. I wouldn’t change it for the world. I bet people in relationships like ours last forever.”
I look at her incredulously. “You wouldn’t want to ever hold my hand in public like everyone does?”
“Nope. I know if you could you’d change me just like that.” She snaps her fingers and her bracelets clink-clank all the way down to her elbow. “Can’t you see how it makes us so much more desperate to be together?”
“I think we’d be that way no matter what.”
Marlena is somewhat of a tortured soul. She wishes she could be free of feeling terrified about anyone finding out about us. “In my next life,” she once told me, “I want to come back with an all gay family. I’d like to live in an all homo world without a single straight person in it.”
Recently I let her know I had an urge to become politically active against bullying. She freaked and said, “All we need is for you to draw attention to us by becoming one of those crazy raving separatist lesbians.”
She lifts her hair up from her neck, lets it loose, and down comes a cascade of curls. I take a good look at her and my world spins. Unless I visit her, I won’t see her beautiful face for almost two years.
I grab my sketchbook from my shoulder bag. “I’m going to sketch you one last time. I won’t be able to do it again till la luna drops from the sky.”
She throws me a smile that is so warm and tender. I wish I could stick it in my pocket so I could keep it forever. “Great.” Her eyeballs roll over to Hairy Taxi Guy, then to me. “But just act normal.” I knock off my sandals, remove my seat belt, lean my back against the door, and put my feet on her plump thighs. Now I have a reason to stare at her without Hairy Taxi Guy thinking I’m a weirdo homo.
I outline her profile with my charcoal pencil: her sunken eyes, a nose that broke when she fell off trying to ride a bike, the delicate shape of her lips, her round chin, elegant neck and a big puff of hair. I fill in details: her cheekbones pop out, her hair becomes wild tumbling locks, her thick eyebrows and long spidery lashes come alive in smudges of wavy browns. I even catch the way she’s looking away, so Hairy Taxi Guy doesn’t get any ideas.
A deadly silence falls over me as wind funnels in through the windows.
As I take my colored pencils and color everything in, words flash in front of me. They crash deep into me like wild waves, inspiring me to add the final touches:
Luminous. Anxious. Dire. Tender. Lush. Breasts. Plump. Caresses. Humid. Radiant. Melancholy. Languorous. Tears. Shoulders. DON’T GO! Desolate. Drenched. Collapsing. Arms. Emerging. Soaring. Moist. Mouth. Breath. Sea. Dripping. Coiling. Nibbling. Wet. Bewildered. Liquid. Breathless. Sliding. Moist. Panic. Sobs. Thistles. STAY HERE WITH ME! Trembling. Desperation. Soaking. Laughter. Hungry. Soft. Succulent.
I’ve drawn pure beauty.
I pat her thigh with my foot. She looks my way and I show her the sketch. She throws me a sweet grin and goes back to being her pensive self.
I guess Skype, texting and e-mailing will have to do for a long while. I’m buying a video phone with a large screen today. Looking at each other’s faces will give us the strength to overcome anything, especially Rick’s distractions.
Traffic is thrashing by. Cars are zooming from lane to lane, swerving fast in front of us.
I cross my arms over my chest and eye Marlena suspiciously. “I’m sure you’re wrong about what you said yesterday and I can come visit you.”
Last night, while lying in each other’s arms (Marlena’s aunt thinks I sleep on the pullout sofa in Marlena’s room) Marlena said, “There’s no way you can come visit me. My parents will figure it out.” Those words startled me.
No one had ever been allowed to sleep over at Marlena’s house when she lived with her parents, except me. Her family and I got along well. Our moms were always talking and exchanging magazines and recipes.
Her sweet dad was threatened whenever a boy who wasn’t Rick called her. He’d put on a fake, rugged voice to announce a lie while she spoke to the guy: “Rick is on his way here, Marlena. You don’t want your boyfriend waiting outside for you too long, do you?”
I, of course, was thrilled—her father staved off boys interested in dating my girlfriend!
She leans against the car door and sticks her elbow out through the window. I think she’s hiding something from me. Lately, since her brother Arturo left, it’s as if she’s keeping a major secret inside her, but she won’t talk about what’s bothering her, no matter how much I ask.
Minutes pass and she doesn’t say a word. It’s so quiet you could hear a mosquito pee.
“It’ll be weird if you visit me in Puerto Rico. I have fifty-two cousins. They won’t leave us alone a second. We won’t have a minute of privacy.” She sighs. “I don’t want to talk about it now; it’s too stressful.”
It’s insane she’s opting to not see me for those lame reasons. I try to let it slide. I know she’s in as much turmoil as me and I don’t want to make things worse.
A song comes on about Juana Palangana—Bedpan Juana—who looks like a banana. I can’t bear seeing my Marlena so sad. I try to make her laugh and rotate my hips in my seat, snap my fingers, and make beatbox drum sounds with my mouth, Gún-dún-dún-gún!
She cracks a loving expression. “Hey.” I jut my chin in the direction of her fingers and whisper lightly, “Are those my fingers?”
She wiggles them, throws me a shining grin, and whispers as low as if we were in church, “They’re all yours.”
“If they’re all mine, then I want them to stay here with me. Don’t take them back to Puerto Rico, please.”
She looks down at her delicate hands with a wilted expression.
I know what she’s feeling. I get that she doesn’t want to leave, but she has to. I guess my bugging her to stay is like rubbing vinegar on a cut. But still, I hate that she hasn’t found a single way for us to see each other. And she didn’t fight to stay, either, like she did last time and won.
We’re inching our way through Little Havana’s Calle Ocho’s Parque de Dominó, where tons of men and a woman are playing dominoes and drinking cafecitos. The sugary
smells of guarapo and mamey shakes seep into the taxi.
“The Castro family, those bastards!” a round-bellied man screams to a shriveled up viejito. The little old man looks like a heap of leather under a sombrero. Loud domino sounds slap around the tables.
Now I say something on my mind I left for the last minute. I despise talking about things that bother me right away. I let them simmer till they’re just about to explode inside me.
“Mar, please don’t keep dating Rick. You know he’s in love with you.”
I’d never go out with a guy or another girl while involved with Marlena. I feel upset knowing he’s back in Puerto Rico, waiting for her to arrive, and I don’t count.
Her look turns so intense it practically throws me off my seat. “I’ll have to date him. If I don’t, my family will become suspicious.” I see anguish in her face. “You know I love you and only you. I’ll be with you forever. There’s nothing to worry about.”
As if I shouldn’t be concerned about Rick the Dick being desperate to get into Marlena’s pants. She’s not into guys at all. If you ask me, she’s playing with fire.
She keeps talking about why she has to see the damned guy. It’s not upsetting because she’s faking it with him. Part of why it bothers me so much is because no one considers our feelings, as if she and I don’t have a right to be together. Rick gets to have her in public. I don’t.
“Well, have a blast with Rick. Maybe I’ll go out with Syrio, a friend of Soli’s who thinks I’m fascinating and scorching.”
“Really?” I guess I caught her attention.
On occasions, like when Rick was visiting her, I was known to improvise. I felt compelled to tell her that unless she dumped him, I’d date this one or that one. She’d say, “Don’t! If you do, that’s the end of us. You know I’m only seeing him so people will never find out about us. I’m doing it for us, so we can be together. I’m pretending to be into him. Please don’t mess things up for us. I love you with all my heart.” I stopped giving her anxiety or risking losing her for good.
“Yeah,” I tell her now. “He’s a long-haired guitarist who wants to become a zoologist. He writes his own lyrics and is planning on traveling the world during summers doing odd jobs. And even though he’s straight, he volunteers for homeless gay kids.” She knows that would be my type of person.
She coughs and clears her throat. “Well, that’s nice.”
“Nice?” This isn’t the response I want from the girl of my dreams who never wanted me to risk our relationship by starting to date other people.
She whispers something barely audible. “Go out with him. Make him your boyfriend so your mom will let you back home.” She sounds like a different person. “Try being his girlfriend; it’s not a big deal. It’s so easy. Your mother will think you like him, and she’ll stop giving you a hard time.”
I’m biting my thumbnail. Marlena has always taken a strong dislike to guys I’ve thought were handsome or whom she wrongly thought liked me.
Out of nowhere, she sighs deeply and changes the topic. “There’s something I haven’t told you.”
“That you’re coming back soon, and we’ll live together forever?”
Her face contorts into a sorrowful expression and her eyes become watery. “I wish.”
“What then?” I sit up straight and face her.
“My brother found my journal. That’s why he left early. He took it with him to Puerto Rico.”
“What?” I feel my heart pounding in my chest. “Why didn’t you tell me?”
“I wasn’t about to spoil our last days together. I didn’t want you to worry like I was worrying. You’ve been through enough.”
Marlena’s diary is far worse than any text she’s ever written me about our times together. In her journal, she writes her most intense feelings, desires and poetry about us in our most intimate moments.
I look out the window at the whirling gray streets, wondering if this craziness will ever stop. “Arturo swore he wouldn’t tell anyone if I quit seeing you.”
I feel a glimmer of hope in my heart. “You lied and promised, right?”
“Yes, but he texted me this morning that he’s changed his mind. He’ll tell my parents, but no one else.” She closes her eyes as if in prayer. “I tried calling him back but he wouldn’t answer the phone. I’ve texted him dozens of times but he won’t respond.”
“How can we make him stop?” She should have learned from what happened with me. One thing I’ve gathered from all this is that private texts and e-mails must be written in code.
“It’s not in our control.”
“I hope he never tells your uncle Marco.”
“Don’t worry. He won’t. Arturo said the more people know, the more my name will be smeared. He says he’ll kill me if I get a bad reputation and Rick finds out.”
“He better not touch you.”
I feel scared for Marlena. Arturo is a big, argumentative guy known for verbal outbursts. He’s so intimidating and irritating that I find ways to leave when he’s around.
“There’s nothing we can do. We’ve lost. I wish I’d never written those texts or anything about you in my journal.”
“We haven’t been beaten if we still love each other. You never think outside the box. What’s wrong with you? We can find a billion ways to stay together.”
She speaks in a sad, low tone. “It’s impossible. We’re doomed. We’ll never be able to see each other again. Arturo said my mom is going to stop paying for my cell phone. He said I won’t be allowed Skype or a video phone.”
“We’ve got e-mails, IMs, chat, Facebook—”
“Arturo is changing our home phone number. He’s making my parents stop paying for my e-mail service too; he’s gone crazy. We won’t be able to contact each other anymore.”
“You can use your friends’ laptops.”
“No way. I won’t risk them finding out about us.”
I shut my eyes really hard and rub them. “You can e-mail me from the library or text me from a friend’s cell.” There are so many quick solutions. “We can IM every day. I’ll save money and buy you a BlackBerry, iPad, iPhone, whatever you want, and pay for the monthly fees from here.”
She takes a big gulp and whispers so low I must force myself to listen. “They’ll search me and find it. I can’t deal with this. It’s too hard. I’m not strong like you.”
“Don’t talk like that.” I stare out the window, at the fluffy clouds. They always soothe me, but it’s not working right now. I glance back at her. “Listen, just lie and promise your parents you’ll never communicate with me for as long as you live.” I rub my face with my hand. “I know they’re really religious. Tell them their favorite guy, Jesus, was all about loving people like prostitutes and sinners. Let them know if Jesus pardoned Mary Magdalene, they can forgive you.”
It’s strange how some people follow a series of myths in the Bible, written by men over two thousand years ago, that weakens them and makes them followers instead of free thinkers.
“Oh, Shai.” Her seriousness makes my stomach ache. “Arturo read me parts of my diary where I talk about how much I love kissing your entire naked body . . . and the way you . . . we . . .” she doesn’t finish her sentence and takes a deep breath. “He said he’s going to read every detail to my parents. Can you believe it?”
“What a sicko.” Memories of Fart Face reading my texts to the class crash into me. It’s a double-whammy of burdens stitched together making a senseless string of more troubles for us to become untangled from.
“Everything’s changed. Nothing will ever be the same. I’m sorry I didn’t tell you about the diary sooner.” She looks gently into my eyes. “How can we stay together with them knowing and without things getting worse?”
“Just stay. Don’t go back.” I rub my temples. I’m getting a huge headache. “Don’t board that plane. We’ll figure out a place for you to live.”
“I can’t do that. Arturo will come find me.” I see sadness et
ched across her face. “I’m trapped.” She wrings her hands. “I know my mom will hound me twenty-four hours a day now. She’s neurotic about anything gay.”
Ignorance sucks. Parents are so inept sometimes. They should be worried about their children’s well-being, not intimidating them or hating them for being who they are. I’d like to put up a colossal sign outside their home stating, LOVE not H8.
I look away from her. How could she not want to find ways to ever see or talk to me again? What’s gotten into her?
“You’re breaking it off?”
“I don’t want to, but what else can we do?” Her voice is meek. I know she doesn’t mean what she’s saying. She’s just terrified.
“We’ll figure something out.”
“Okay,” she says, but she doesn’t sound convinced.
I feel sorry for Marlena. I know what awaits her is hell. If anything, we should be upset with her brother and my teachers. Don’t we live in the United States, the land of the free? Aren’t there laws about privacy to protect us? Just because we’re teens, can’t mean we don’t have civil rights.
I look out the window and remember last night. We scanned her uncle’s neighborhood from the roof one last time. The wind howled as we sat with legs crossed, holding hands in silence. We kissed and kissed and kissed. I’ll never be able to do that with her again.
We get to the airport, inch up the ramp, and park. “Gracias.” Marlena pays Hairy Taxi Guy. We dart into the airport, push through the crowds, and before you know it, it’s almost time.
I see a sign on a bathroom door that says “Fresh Paint. Do Not Enter.” We walk in, lock the door behind us, and rush into a mandarin-smelling stall. “I love you with all my heart and soul.” She caresses my hair and face with the gentlest touch in the world. “I’ll miss you so much. I’ll die without you.”
“I love you with all that I am.” I hold her face in my hands and fill it with soft kisses. “I can’t wait till you come back.”
Her voice cracks. “I don’t think I’ll be coming back. I’m serious. You’ve got to believe me. I won’t be able to handle being with you here. It’ll be too stressful.” She breaks down into sobs.
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