by Carrie Arcos
“It doesn’t matter.”
“Why not?”
“Because I’ve moved on. I had to.”
“What’s her name?”
“Who?”
“The girl you’ve moved on with.”
He doesn’t give me a name because I know there’s no girl.
“If Daisy was the one, she might still be the one, right?”
“It doesn’t work that way.”
“Why not?”
“Because, man, some forevers don’t last.”
And it’s the saddest thing I’ve ever heard Ezra say.
HERE I LOVE YOU
During art class, Mr. Fisher lets me out to work on the mural. We’ve got less than three weeks left before the library dedication, so we have to work quickly. Mr. Fisher has also worked his teacher privilege magic to get Luis out of last period. Now Luis is reclining in an orange chair with his earbuds in, picking a zit, while I outline a section of the mural.
Typical.
I try to focus on my work and forget about my conversation with Ezra last week. Try not to think about what he said and that he might be right—that most relationships don’t last. Because last night, I found her—his Daisy. She was easy to locate. She’s a teacher in Santa Barbara. I sent Ezra the link to her school’s web page. Ball’s in his court now.
After forty-five minutes or so, Mr. Fisher comes in to check on us. “Neruda? A word?”
I get off the ladder and follow him around a corner.
“What are you doing?”
“Drawing,” I say, wondering if this is some sort of a trick question.
“What is Luis doing?”
I shrug.
“Look, he can’t sit there the whole time and just watch you. The goal is that he actually collaborates with you on this project.”
“I was just getting down all of our dimensions.”
“Please let Luis help you. You need to work together if you’re going to finish this in time.”
“Fine,” I say.
Mr. Fisher leaves and I approach Luis. He removes his earbuds.
“Your turn.”
He grins.
“You can take this whole section.” I point to the city on the mock-up of the mural taped to the wall. “I’ll start here.” I point to one of the portraits. “See where I’ve marked the perimeters? It’s loose, so it doesn’t have to be exact, but try to stick to the boundaries.”
He grunts.
“Don’t screw it up,” I say. “I don’t want this to take any longer than it needs to.”
Luis climbs the ladder and flings a little paint at the wall. “Oops.”
“What are you doing?”
“Relax,” he says. “I’ll paint over it later.”
I put my earbuds in so I don’t have to listen to anything else he says.
• • •
We keep working through last period. Greyson stops by before his water polo practice and gives me an approving head nod. He also suggests I may want to think about adding a disemboweled body in the middle of the grass. After another hour, Luis and I make pretty good headway on the mural. This time, I make sure he helps me with the cleanup before he leaves.
It’s almost five o’clock and I remember Callie mentioning that volleyball practice lets out at five, so I have just a small window to cross paths with her. I figure the more I interact with her, the more chances I’ll have at winning her over. And even though our relationship is platonic at this point, I’ve been physically closer to her and stared more deeply into her eyes than any other girl.
In my mind, I rewrite the scene where I’m helping her apply makeup in her bedroom. She starts crying and talking about all the pressure she feels. I say her name. She turns toward me with her eyes all glossy and sad, and I bend down to kiss her. When I pull back and look into her eyes again, they tell me that I’m the one. Then we kiss again and again.
I cross the campus and see Callie walking away from the gym.
Ezra said to be direct and don’t play games, but we’re friends, so I don’t want to come across too strong.
I notice Callie alone and walking quickly. I have to jog a little to make sure that we’ll run into each other. I keep my head down as though I’m going somewhere specific and don’t see her.
“Neruda?” Callie says.
I look up and she waves. Perfect.
“Oh, hey, Callie.” I try to act casual, as if running into her is a total coincidence.
As she walks over to me, I can see she’s wearing her volleyball workout clothes—some black leggings that cut off at the knees and a tank top, knee pads pushed down to her ankles. Her legs are muscular, especially her thighs.
“What’re you still doing here?” she asks.
“I was working on the mural.”
“Cool. How’s it going?” she asks.
“Good. Um, what are you doing?”
“Practice. We just got out.” Her hair is in a ponytail. Her makeup is a little smudged underneath her eyes. I can smell her sweat, which actually turns me on.
“Oh, I didn’t realize you had practice on Wednesdays.” I wonder if she can read my lie.
She waves to some other volleyball players in the distance.
“Yeah. Every day after school.”
“Are you getting a ride with Imogen?” I ask.
“Not today, she’s sick. How did you know I ride with her?”
“You told me, remember? In one of our Q-and-A sessions.”
“Oh, right.”
I shift from foot to foot.
“I could give you a ride if you need one,” I say.
“I was going to walk home.”
“Oh, cool. I guess you’re not too far, right? Like two miles? You could do that easily. You’re in great shape.”
“Ha. Thanks,” Callie says.
If this were a movie, this is the part where it would get awkward. The part where Callie realizes I’m interested in her and she isn’t interested back, so we both pretend that I’m not and then we end up not talking to each other again. So far I’ve managed to avoid the awkward stage with Callie. Maybe she likes me too and is just waiting for a sign that I’m interested in her?
“You’re so funny, Neruda,” she says.
Funny is good. It’s not like she said, You’re a creepy stalker, Neruda. That would be bad.
“So, you want a ride?”
“Yeah, that’d be good actually. But can we stop and get something along the way?”
“Sure.”
Callie gets on the back like she’s done before and holds on to the sides of the seat. As we are about to pull out of the parking lot, I hear, “Neruda!”
Greyson is waving across the way.
“Putting in the work!” he yells.
“What’d he say?” Callie asks from behind me.
“Nothing.” I’m going to kill Greyson.
• • •
We go to the grocery store, where Callie buys a Gatorade, a bag of pistachios, and some stamps.
She opens the bag and eats a couple pistachios. She holds up the bag for me and I take some too. It’s like today is just another day of us as “us,” and we’ve been sharing pistachios forever.
She drinks the Gatorade and offers me some. I take a sip after her, very aware that my lips are touching the place where hers were only a second ago. I don’t even wipe off the rim when I drink.
“I get so hungry after practice.”
She takes another drink and this time she lets out a huge, short but full burp. I can only stare. She laughs hysterically. “Oh my gosh. I’m so sorry.”
Her laugh breaks my stare. Then I start cracking up too, because I don’t think I’ve ever heard a girl burp that loudly.
She’s laughing so hard that sh
e doubles over and the pistachios she’s holding spill to the ground. I immediately bend to pick them up and so does she.
“That was awesome!” I say.
“That was so embarrassing. Don’t you ever tell.” She points a finger at me and tries to look serious, but her face is red and she’s flustered. She starts laughing again.
And all I’m thinking is how perfect she is and that I want this moment to last forever and that I think I might be in love with her. I want her more than anything I’ve ever wanted in my entire life.
“You okay?” she asks. “You’re all pale.”
“I’m good.” But I want to tell her that I’m better than good. That I’m head over heels for her.
“Seriously, please don’t say anything or I’ll never speak to you again once this whole thing is over.”
“I promise. Not a word,” I say, smiling.
“I haven’t even started mine yet, have you?”
“What?”
“The assignment,” she says.
“Oh. No.”
I’d kind of forgotten about the assignment.
“Me neither. I’ve got my title, though. Want to hear it?”
I do, but suddenly all I can think is: What if the only reason Callie keeps asking me to do stuff is because we’ve been partnered on some dumb school project, not because she actually enjoys hanging out with me? It’s enough to make me wish we had met outside of school. That we had run into each other somewhere else, like we were supposed to meet, like this is fate.
“It’s called ‘The Enigma of Neruda Diaz.’”
“Oh,” I say.
I don’t know if her calling me an enigma is a good thing or a bad thing.
“It means there’s more to you than meets the eye. And that’s a very good thing. Do you have a title for mine yet?”
She tilts her head to the side and smirks, waiting for my answer. Beauty. The Girl Who Stole My Heart. The Only Girl for Me. The One I Long to Be With. “I’m not good with titles.”
“Boo,” she says. “Just don’t have it be my name. That’s boring.”
“I don’t think you could ever be boring.”
We finish picking up the pistachios, and she looks at me questioningly.
“Three-second rule,” I say, and eat one myself. She follows with the one in her hand.
“Oh, I forgot to give this to you in class.” She takes out The Poet’s book and hands it to me. “I finished it.”
“And?” I put the book in my back pocket.
“And it’s good. I like the one about tonight writing the saddest lines.”
“How come?”
“’Cause it’s about loss, and I think everyone can relate to that. He’s writing about loving and losing a woman, but it could be about anything really. That’s the one I felt the most connection to,” she says.
“My favorite is the one about being still. But my all-time favorite poem of his is ‘If You Forget Me.’ It’s not in this collection. I’ll show it to you sometime.”
“Cool.”
Callie and I are discussing The Poet. And she thinks there’s more to me than meets the eye. This day can’t get any better. We walk back to my scooter.
“So, um, sorry about the other day,” she says.
“What do you mean?”
“When I got all emotional and stressed. Sorry if it freaked you out.”
“No freak-out here. I get it.”
“You just seem so steady.”
I smile. “My act is working.”
She smiles back, then turns serious. “So, how is everything going with your parents?” she asks.
“Oh, fine. Dad’s going for the husband of the year award.”
“I thought you said he cheated.”
“Yeah, but my mom doesn’t know that.”
“Wait a minute.” She puts her hand on my arm. “Your dad hasn’t told your mom he cheated?”
My skin warms underneath her touch. “Technically he hasn’t even admitted it to me. We basically just avoid each other when we’re home, so it’s not like we’ve had the chance to have a heart-to-heart.”
And I don’t want to either. I don’t want to hear his weak apology. I don’t want to know the why. No why could mend the crack that’s formed between us.
“Wow.” She drops her hand, but I still feel the place where it had been. “I cannot imagine keeping a secret like that. It would be so hard for me not to tell my mom. First of all, I can’t really lie. To my mom especially. I can’t hide anything from her.”
“I think my mom knows something is up. She keeps asking me if I’m feeling well or if there’s something going on at school.”
“Have you thought about telling her?”
“I’m not sure it’s really my place . . . Can we just . . . Let’s change the subject.”
“Okay. Sorry.”
There’s a long pause and neither of us says anything. I hate my dad even more for ruining this moment with Callie.
Then she says, “So, what are you doing for Halloween?”
“No plans.”
I haven’t done the whole trick-or-treating thing in years. Mom likes it when I help her pass out candy to all the kids. She usually plays “Thriller” on repeat and dresses up like a witch. I usually give her a hard time about it, but this year I’ll probably give in. It’s the least I can do.
“Well then, you should come with me.”
“Where?” I ask.
“It’ll be a surprise. Just make sure you wear a button-down shirt and black pants.”
“Okay. But you should know I hate surprises,” I say.
“Oh, come on. It’ll be painless. Think of it as research for your paper.”
“Sure,” I say, and smile. “Research.”
Callie just asked me out.
THERE’S NO FORGETTING
Mom is hanging out with a couple of her friends tonight, so I heat up some leftover chicken and potatoes and head for my room. There’s no way I’m going through the motions with Dad at dinner. I sit on my bed and eat, imagining what Callie might have planned for us on Halloween.
I get a text from Greyson.
DUDE
?
Callie L??
I send him a happy and stressed emoji followed by just friends.
He responds with another DUDE!! and five thumbs-up signs.
There’s a knock on my door.
“Come in.”
Dad enters.
“Is that your dinner?” He nods to my almost empty plate.
“Yep,” I say.
He sits at my desk.
“Neruda, we need to talk.”
I don’t say anything, just silently wish he would go away.
“Last year, things were rough. Your mother and I were going through something. And I know it’s not an excuse, of course, but I’m trying to give this situation the context it needs.”
I stare at him. He’s talking about context as if we’re in one of his courses. He’s hunched over, looking at his hands, playing with his wedding ring. Does he take it off when he teaches so that his students don’t know he’s married? What did he do with it when he was with Leslie?
“I am not proud of what I did, but it happened. It didn’t last long and it’s over now. It already feels like another lifetime ago.”
He glances up at me but quickly drops his eyes to his hands again.
“I ended it and hadn’t spoken with her until she called me completely out of the blue. I’m so sorry you had to hear that conversation. But Neruda, lo juro, I swear it. There is nothing going on between us. I haven’t even had any contact with her for a year now.”
“Why are you telling me this? You should talk to Mom. It’s not right, lying to her. She deserves to know.”
“It
would break her heart if she knew.”
And what of my heart? I want to ask. My heart is a weak vessel, unsuited for betrayal.
I close my eyes because I just want him to disappear now.
“Neruda, I’m sorry. I hope you will be able to forgive me.”
I begin counting in my head. Somewhere between thirty-five and forty, Dad leaves. I open my eyes and stare at the ceiling, let the heat rise and swell around me as warm tears nip at the corners of my eyes. I wipe them away but they keep coming.
THE TRAITOR
In the morning, instead of going to school, I head over to USC. Forty-three minutes later, I’m standing in one of the huge doorways of the Doheny Library. It’s not that I’ve never been here before. Quite the opposite. It’s Dad’s favorite library on campus. I’ve sat in the lounge and drawn the ceiling while waiting for him on occasion. I glance upward at the curvatures and thick wooden beams—the architecture the building is known for. Huge lights shine down over all the tables. I quickly survey the room, hoping Dad won’t suddenly appear. He should be teaching class, unless he’s also lied about his schedule this term.
The room is clear. No sign of Dad, but I remain in the doorway. The checkered floor spreads out in front of me like a large game of chess. I am still.
“Excuse me,” a woman says from behind me, forcing me to move.
I walk with my head down and sit at one of the long rectangular tables. The three other students already sitting there don’t even acknowledge me. They’re all wearing headphones and taking notes on tablets, reading books.
Looking around, I see a couple of women behind the reference desk. They’re wearing name tags, but I can’t make them out from where I am. This is stupid. I never should have come.
I take out The Poet’s book that Callie returned to me and open it so it’ll look like I’m doing something. But instead of reading, I can’t stop myself from looking around the room. Students come and go.
Then I hear it.
“Leslie?”
Someone says her name. Two women hunch over a computer screen. I can’t tell which one is Leslie from here. I stand up. I walk to the counter with purpose. I just want to get a good look at her. That’s all. I want to see the woman who made my dad throw away years of vows and happiness and trust. The one who’s probably off screwing another professor in another department.
