by Gina Calanni
The chips are loud. I peek at Brandon and he is watching me. I nod and clear my mouth.
“These are tasty.”
“Yes.” Brandon takes another bite but his eyes remain on mine. I’m warm all over and I’ve barely had a sip of my sangria. He is heating me up with his dreamy blues and I’m acting like a dog in heat. How is he doing this to me?
I can’t let myself fall like this. I don’t even know him. He might be one of those guys that comes on strong till the deed is done and then poof, they’re gone. Like my daddy. Although he stayed around for a few years… but still in the end he was gone.
I glance at Brandon; his eyes are still on me… but is he really seeing me? Is he seeing more of me than this moment? Am I more than an entertaining evening? Or a friend? The idea of being Brandon’s friend is nice but something inside of me is quietly whispering, what if? Is it possible? Do you think he might actually be into you as something more than a classmate? I take another bite of the nachos. The flavors are exploding in my mouth. All these spices and cheese that have melded over the chips to create the right crunch. This recipe works, but how many trials took place before the perfection occurred? Before the chef decided it was good. The nachos had been made. No more tests needed to occur. The right batch had been discovered. The right amounts of each ingredient had been determined and without a doubt each bite would be worthy of another.
Would I be able to recognize when the right person had come along and it was time to quit trying to perfect the spin on things? To let it go and simply be happy?
Chapter Eight
I don’t have a huge assortment of clothes. But for painting it doesn’t matter what you’re wearing. With this in mind, I pull on my old cut-off shorts and a yellow T-shirt I got on sale at Target. There’s a buzzing noise, and I swipe my phone off the nightstand. “Hey, Mama, how are you?”
“Sahara, I was about to send out the police searching for you. How come you haven’t been calling your mama? You know I raised you better than that.”
“Mama, I have been calling you.”
“Now, don’t you sass your mama. I haven’t gotten any messages from you.”
“I know, Mama. Did you turn off your answering machine?”
“My what?”
“The answering machine, Mama. Remember it’s the box next to the phone with the tape?” I can see it clearer than day in my mind. I bet she pulled the cord from the wall by accident. She has always been a bit on the clumsy side.
“Oh…” The sound of her house slippers slapping against the laminate floor in our living room crosses through to my cell phone. “Well, shoot, it was unplugged.”
I’m glad I’m not in front of her because she would surely be upset about my eye roll. My mama is big on manners and respecting one’s elders.
“All right, now that we’ve got that settled, what’s been going on, how’s my baby girl?”
“I’m good, Mama; the training is going real good. Ms. Myra is real sweet to me. Except… Mama, I’m kind of concerned about her.”
“What do you mean, baby girl?”
“Well, she just seems weak, like maybe she might be ill.” I take in a deep breath.
“Sahara, mind your business now. If Ms. Myra ain’t feeling right that’s for her to share, not for you to go poking around and causing her extra stress. She is an elderly woman and might just be tired.”
I figured my mama would say as much but I can’t help but worry about Ms. Myra. The other day I saw her alone in the kitchen grabbing the back of a chair as if she was catching herself from fainting.
“Yes, Mama. I’ll mind my business.”
“Speaking of, you know that school, Eagle, has been calling daily. Shoot. That’s right, that’s why I pulled that darn machine off the wall. Every day they’re calling for you. Can’t talk to me, just want to talk to you.”
“Oh, I don’t know why they would be calling you, Mama. I’ll fix that first thing tomorrow.”
“Be sure you do. I don’t like those messages on my machine. All right now. I’ve got to get back to my knitting; got a big order for the hospital to finish.”
“Okay, Mama, I love you.”
“All right, Sahara, be sweet.”
“Yes, Mama.”
The silence is sadness in my ear. I do miss my mama. We’ve never been apart before and now we’ve been apart for weeks. My heart burns a bit on the inside. I want this, this bigger life. I just wish my mama wasn’t so far away. Hearing her voice brings me back to when she would kiss me goodnight. She’d whisper “sweet dreams” in my ear and turn the light off in my room. The only glow was from the moon and stars. My mama told me they were my very own nightlight; that they were watching over me, because I was going to be something as bright and pretty as the night sky. That was before my daddy left. Everything changed after that. I didn’t forget my mama’s words. But they were never spoken again. Not after my tenth birthday. Here I am, thirteen years later, up to my ears in debt and most likely a fake degree. I’m so far from bright and pretty, I can’t hardly walk straight. I’ve never had issues with my heart beating too fast but now, every time Eagle Online is mentioned or flies through my mind, my blood races like I’m at the climax of one of those slasher films. And I’ve never even watched one. But I’m spooked and on edge. I’m coasting on borrowed time and money. Which is the worst place to be, emotionally. My tank of inspiration is running on fumes. My mama’s ray of sunshine left a long time ago and the tiny bit of light that was left that gave me some inspiration and confidence that I could be something bright and pretty is chugging along in a desert of nothing. I am becoming the real Sahara: a vast space of empty, dry, boring sand with no real prospects of achieving anything amazing.
I’m not sure about the pretty part, but I still intend on being something special. I’ve got to study later today; we have a big test tomorrow morning and I plan on getting a good grade. All of my grades at Eagle Online were As. And now they all seem like a big A for a big joke. Were the grades real, or were they fake, too? I’m struggling with all of this and trying to keep my head above swamp water, shoving off the water moccasins and catfish; those suckers will scar you for life. Ask my cousin Monica, who got herself a two-inch bite mark on her ankle from swimming in the lake. Not me, though. No siree. All those things trapped in a big hole. I’d rather swim in the ocean. Though I’ve never been, other than the one time in elementary school when we went to the Texas coast. Everyone complained about how it wasn’t as nice as other beaches. But all I saw was this vast open blue of possibilities.
I step out into the hallway; the sounds of a sick person are coming from the bathroom. I rush to the door and stop for a moment. My mama warned me to mind my business but my mind is telling me to ask if Ms. Myra is okay.
“Ms. Myra, are you all right?” I’m ashamed to go against my mama’s wishes but I can’t not ask if she is all right; it seems like the wrong thing to do.
More sounds of sickness tumble into the toilet bowl, followed by flushing. The door opens and Ms. Myra taps my arm.
“I’m fine, Sahara, just getting old.”
“Can I get you anything? Some tea?” I follow after her into the living room. She slides into her comfy, light-blue rocker and lifts her feet onto her pillow-top footstool.
“Some chamomile tea would be nice, thank you.”
I take off into the kitchen and put the kettle on the stove. I find her chamomile tea and place it in her cup. From the sink drawer I grab a thin kitchen towel and wet it. I bring the damp towel to Ms. Myra.
“This might feel nice on your head.” I offer it to her.
“Thank you.” Ms. Myra reclines in her chair and lays the towel on her forehead. Her skin is pale grey. To say I’m not worried about her would a big whopper and I’m not inclined to be telling lies.
I slide back into the kitchen and finish making her tea. By the time I bring it to her, she is asleep in her chair. I take the afghan from the back of her couch and lay it over her legs
and stomach.
A knock on the door breaks the silence of the room and my fears of Ms. Myra’s illness. She reminds me of our neighbor, Dorothy Jones, who had cancer. Same bathroom sounds and the pale, grey skin. I swallow and head for the door. Nothing can fix this situation. It’s like I’m drowning in sorrows of debt, being an imposter, and knowing something just isn’t right with Ms. Myra, and I have a bucket with a leak as to answering any of these issues. I’ve got nothing. Zip. Zero. Nada. I’m on a boat that’s sinking and I have no signs of rescue. I take a deep breath and open the door.
Brandon is standing on the other side wearing a big grin and a white T-shirt and blue jeans.
“Hey.”
His grin fades. “You said noon, right?”
I blink. I’m having a hard time separating my thoughts from my reality. I nod.
“Yes, that’s right.” I step outside the door. I glance down at the wood-planked porch.
“Is everything all right, Sahara?” Brandon grasps my arm.
I focus on the big maple tree in the yard. Its leaves are shining golden and brown. I wish I could run off this porch and climb up onto one of the branches. I’m sure that wouldn’t go over well; Brandon doesn’t seem like the kind of guy who goes after girls that climb trees… especially if those girls happen to be grown-ups.
“Yes, well, actually, it’s Ms. Myra – can you keep a secret?” I focus on his face.
“Sure, what’s wrong?”
“Ms. Myra… I think she might be really sick. Like, disease sick.”
“Whoa, what makes you think that?”
“Well, she was just puking up in the bathroom and now she is passed out in the chair. She doesn’t look good, Brandon.” I brush some hair off my face, just realizing that I didn’t check my face again to make sure I looked okay, yet now I don’t even care. All I can think about is Ms. Myra.
“Do you want to take her to the hospital?” Brandon places both his hands on my arms and they slide down to my hands.
“I don’t think she would go for that.” I shake my head.
Brandon pulls me into his chest and hugs me. And for some reason I start crying. Tears are streaming down my face and I try to stifle my sobs. I most certainly do not want to cry in front of Brandon or anyone for that matter. Shoot, no one has seen me cry since my daddy left. But for some reason Brandon’s arms around me are providing some sort of comfort zone for me to release my feelings and let go. I’m overcome with emotions. I can’t believe I’m so upset by this. I care for Ms. Myra, but I’ve only known her a few weeks… and now the possibility that she might be sick is tearing me up inside.
“I’m sorry.” I speak into Brandon’s chest.
He runs his fingers through my hair. It’s probably the nicest thing anyone has ever done for me. My mama wasn’t one for consoling. She is always reminding me to keep my chin up and forge on and be better than I think I can be. Except, when I left, she questioned why I would want something more than Dairy Queen and Mexia… something more than small-town life, living with my mama.
I swallow. “I don’t know what’s come over me.” I pull back and Brandon leans down and kisses my head.
“Even tough girls cry sometimes.” Brandon reaches for my hand and kisses it. “It’s okay to be sensitive.”
I wrinkle my eyebrows. Brandon thinks I’m tough? Like, in a good way or in a tomboy way? That doesn’t seem romantic. I can tell he is not the kind of guy who wants a girl that’s like a man.
“Sahara, I meant it as a good thing. You seem to hold everything in and it’s okay sometimes to let others know you might need something.”
“I don’t need anything,” I say faster than I can stop myself from speaking.
“Really?” Brandon raises an eyebrow at me. “Not even a hug?”
I roll my eyes. “I suppose I could use a hug from time to time, especially if it’s as nice as the one you just gave me.” The corners of my mouth pull up.
Brandon’s eyes sparkle down at me. “Let me give you another one then.” He wraps his arms around me and I couldn’t be happier. So at ease. Like being in his arms will wash away all my worries; if only it were that easy.
He squeezes me tight and kisses my head. “Whatever shampoo you’re using, don’t ever change it.”
I laugh. “It’s Fructis.”
“Well, it must be your pheromones mixed with it.” Brandon exhales.
“All right.” I giggle. “I suppose we ought to get to painting, especially while Ms. Myra is resting. Who knows when she will be ready to leave the house.”
“Yes, ma’am, but promise me one thing?” He grabs my hand.
“What’s that?” I raise my eyebrow at him.
“If you ever need a hug you’ll let me know.” His hand is warm against mine and he squeezes my fingers. Almost as if he is trying to set a memory in mind so I won’t forget about this moment.
“I will,” I let fall from my lips. I wish I had said something funny or smart, but those two words just slipped out, like my brain was on a break. I let go of his hand and make my way to the garage. Ms. Myra has a small, one-car garage that barely fits her 1980s Buick. I’m not sure where she keeps the paint or if Brandon can even squeeze in-between the car and the walls. Nonetheless he is at my heels.
“Do you actually know where the paint is?” Brandon’s voice is filled with laughter.
“Yes, well, Ms. Myra said the paint was in here.”
“I don’t see how – there’s barely enough room for us.” Brandon squeezes my side and I let out a shriek.
“Brandon Rollins, don’t you dare try any funny business in here.” I push past the car and around the front, trying to keep out of Brandon’s reach.
“Sahara Smith, if I wasn’t listening so well I would think I might have missed the pleasure in your voice.”
“What are you talking about? The only pleasure I’m looking for is finding these paint cans.” I bend down and shift some boxes around. The garage is dark. Apparently, one of my things to fix is the dead bulb. The only light is coming in from the door, which is not much given the shade from the trees. Brandon squats down next to me.
“Sahara, is this some sort of trap to get me in a dark corner so you can plant one on me?”
I let out a laugh. “Brandon, you sure do have an overactive imagination. Are you sure you are supposed to be on the business side of things? I think you might be better suited to being a product developer and making up flavors or something.”
He tugs on my hair. “I could make up a flavor for this moment. I’d call it Strawberry Sun-kissed Darkness.”
I grin and cast my gaze at his dreamy blues. “What would that taste like?”
“This.” Brandon cups my chin with his hands and his mouth presses down on mine. His tongue passes over my lips and our tongues dance in strawberry fields forever. Forever. I can’t remember a kiss that has lasted this long.
Brandon pulls me to my feet and runs his fingers through my hair. My heart is beating so fast it hurts. I roll my lips together.
“You’re gorgeous.” Brandon kisses my head.
I’m swooning all over the place. This Homecoming King guy and me, Sahara Smith, just exchanged the best kiss of my life. I feel like a fool. Like maybe I’m being played, or he only wants this one moment and then he’s gone and I’ll be left empty and alone. I swallow. I have zero confidence in a happy ever after, I know this. I’m sure it’s a reflection of my childhood and in this instance it is probably true. But I can’t go there. I can’t step out on this limb and watch it fall.
“Hey, are you okay?” Brandon lifts my chin up.
I take a deep breath. “We need to get this painting done.” I pick up the can from the back shelf and hand it to him. I have to cover up the faded floor of Ms. Myra’s porch. I said I would, and it seems like I need to cover up my own emotions as well or I’ll be fading away into a sea of misery. Brandon’s dreamy blues, strong jaw and funny jokes are not enough to sway me off my own porch of security. I
need to focus and get the job done that I’m here for. Passing the training class and keeping Ms. Myra happy. I open the paint can and dip my brush in. Brandon’s eyes are on me. I know this without glancing up. My insides are heated. Simmer it down, Sahara. You are not here to get wrapped up in a temporary guy. Everything about Brandon or the idea of Brandon is temporary. Like a sparkler on the Fourth of July. Sure, it’s pretty to look at while the flame is lit and little sparks are flickering all about. Might even give you a big grin. But that sparkler won’t last and soon you’ll be standing there with a black stick in your hand and a trail of acrid smoke.
Chapter Nine
I am scrambling to make it to the factory part of the building. I am a tour guide today with Brandon.
“Hold up there, hon. Can we have a word?” Mary, the woman from the bathroom, is reaching out to me. Not just with her words but her hands are gripping onto my elbow. She’s stopping me from arriving on time. I do not have a minute to waste with her, or anyone for that matter.
“Um, I’m kind of running late.” I flex the veins in my neck as if that will help give her an idea about how important it is for me to not stop and chat.
“That’s fine sugar, just… I heard you and Brandon have been spending time together, and well… I thought I might be better to give you more than a soft warning.”
I jerk back. What in tarnation is going on? “What do you mean?”
“Well, Sahara, he’s not who you think he is or who he is trying to be. He comes from old money. Money that is spent at country clubs, not Dairy Queens. He only ever dates the girls that hit the debutante circuit. And not that you aren’t prettier than a bluebonnet in the spring, but Sahara, you are different. I mean this in the nicest way possible, but you don’t come from the same type of background as Brandon.” She squeezes my arm. “Honey, I wouldn’t think anything of it, but I was good friends with his mama, and I know this boy is up to something, and I’ll be darned if I sit back in silence.”
I swallow hard. Harder than I’ve ever swallowed before. It makes no difference. It’s like the air has been stripped from every possible corner of the room. I can’t breathe. I can’t think. I can’t speak. Everything is gone. I’ve been kicked deeper than I would have thought possible. Or have ever pictured. I struggle to gasp. Take in a breath. Feel breath. Something.
