by Ann Angel
Here’s how that happened: We’re in Biology, okay. Dissecting-a-frog day. I’m done super-quick. Wolfie is by himself in the corner. I show Mr. Rios my specimen, get a pat on the back and another A. Mr. Rios says, “Want to help out a struggling classmate?” I go and stand by Wolfie. He says, “I just keep thinking Froggie isn’t goin’ a’courtin’ anymore, is he?” I say, “Want me to?” And he says — and it was so courtly my knees got kind of weak — “If you wouldn’t mind.” So it was ventral side up, pin those little arms and legs down, three quick cuts. “There you go.” He’s too cool for a high five. He just extended one semi-grubby index finger; I touched it with mine and something like electricity shot through me.
I never have to tell Wolfie when my Mom is gone. He just knows. I open the back door, he slinks in and stops so I can pour milk into a saucer for him, and then we go up to my room. We sit on the floor, his head in my lap. Mostly I pet him. Nobody has touched him in years and years. Sometimes he sleeps, shudders a little. His arms and legs churn. He whimpers. A couple of days ago when he woke up, he took my hand, kissed it, showed me on his phone some trick called a Dark Slide where he’s on this rail like six feet off the ground and somehow his feet are on the bottom of the board, the part where the wheels are, and he grinds along like that until he kicks out and nails the landing. Then he says, “I did that for you.”
Of all my boyfriends, Wolfie is the only one who calls me on the phone and howls. I love that. It’s like he’s just outside my window in the moonlight, so I’m not really alone.
Alberto doesn’t howl like his heart is broken. We’ve never even been on a date. (My mom says she really doesn’t trust musicians because Dad played with a tribute band and toured a lot.) But I see Alberto at school, and he and I manage to talk on the phone constantly. He’s very passionate. He says I’m Juliet, he’s Romeo. I’m Beauty and he’s the Beast, I’m Rose to his Jack and Catherine to his Heathcliff. He calls, his voice all husky, and says, “We can never be together.” I choke back a sob as I say, “I know.” I’m only half pretending. Our relationship is all yearning. Brought together by circumstance, torn apart by fate.
Here are the Circumstances: the same school, the same Spanish 1 class. His beautiful eyes with the longest lashes I’ve ever seen on a boy. His gorgeous accent. Here’s the Fate: He’s Hispanic; I’m not. He’s Catholic; I’m not.
After my mother called his mother, I did get to go to his house right after school once to work on a dialogue for our teacher, Ms. Quinones. His parents were really nice, but his grandmother (abuela) sat in the corner, glared at me, and crossed herself about a hundred times. I never felt so Anglo in my life. Or like such a pagan. Our innocent dialogue took on a deeper meaning. It could have been written with a fiery quill, smoke rising from the parchment at every syllable.
¿Cómo estás? How are you?
(Desperate, burning with unrequited love. You are all I think about.)
¿Qué estás haciendo? What are you doing?
(Staring out the rain-streaked window. Lying sleepless in the night, clutching your picture.)
Tengo hambre. I am hungry.
(Hungry for your love, the sound of your name, the touch of your lips.)
Hace mucho frío. It’s very cold.
(Never in my heart, beloved. It is always summer there.)
The stuff in parentheses is what my English teacher calls subtext. I’m surprised everybody in the class wasn’t fanning themselves when Alberto and I were presenting our dialogue.
Alberto is kind of a relief from my other boyfriends, who can get a little physical, if you know what I mean. I don’t blame them because I’m pretty and popular and know how to put together interesting outfits that are super-cute despite what some skeevy girls in my class say.
With Alberto I can just kick back in my jammies. He calls me every night, puts the phone down, and raises the trumpet to his lips. Then he plays “The Power of Love,” and “Love Will Keep Us Together,” and “I Can’t Stop Loving You,” and “Endless Love,” and finally something he makes up on the spot, something just for me, something low and breathy, something wistful and ardent, something I could listen to all night long. But ten o’clock is his bedtime.
After we hang up, I’m in a funny mood. I don’t want to, but I can’t always help myself. I get out my dad’s picture. You know what? I can’t exactly remember what he sounds like anymore. His voice, I mean. When he does call, will I know it’s him? All that makes me want to cry, but I don’t. I text Rory. He’s a night person and likes to talk on the phone.
The day I met Rory I was at REI buying sunglasses. He was climbing that wall they’ve got there and so focused I didn’t think he saw me, but the next day at school he stopped me in the hall. He always looked ready to go right up some rock face — tight T-shirt, cargo pants with a carabiner or two hanging from the belt loops, Keens, a cool little goatee with a lot of red in it, and a Mother Earth tattoo on his suntanned shoulder.
He smiled (great teeth, BTW) and said, “What if we go hiking sometime.” You’d think the last thing I needed was another BF, but I heard myself say, “Okay, and if you want to go climbing instead, I’d be up for that.” He shook his head. “I don’t climb outdoors anymore. I tried minimal impact for a while, but there’s always impact. Chalk, worn-out ropes, bolts in the rock face, even poop.” Maybe TMI with that last item, but it totally fit in with how natural he looked, so I said, “How’s Saturday?”
Mom likes it when I exercise, so when I said that I was going hiking, she was all “Wonderful, Stacy. Good for you!” Not that I’m fat or anything, but everybody in the world could stand to lose a few pounds, right? So I rode my bike to the trailhead at the top of Lake Avenue and met Rory.
He wasn’t from LA, so he didn’t know the story of Queen Califa and about how California was named after her or how she led a bunch of Af-Am Amazons who had these griffins that were trained to kill any man they saw. So I told him.
He said, “That’s just a story, right?”
I said that yeah, it was just a story, and he didn’t have to worry because I wasn’t an amazon and my griffin was locked up at home.
When we secured our bikes, he threaded the chain around his crossbar and then mine until we were locked together. He had this sly smile, and that little beard made him look kind of mythological. I wondered if his ears were pointy under all that hair. I hoped he wasn’t a satyr but just a gung ho environmentalist, because if there was a pop can or granola bar wrapper on the ground, he picked it up.
We’d just stopped to get our bearings when I looked around and said, “Follow me.” I led us right off the trail, weaving in and around, climbing a little, scrambling a little, until we came to this grove of trees. It was unbelievably quiet and peaceful. The trees, all of them, swayed together even without a breeze. They were beautiful in a kind of absentminded way, which means they didn’t have to try like I have to try just so people will like me.
“How’d you know about this place?” he asked. I said that I didn’t know. I just had this feeling.
We sat down for a while. My phone rang and I checked it. I hate when I’m with somebody and he does that, but I can’t help it. How pitiful is that? It was just one of my BFs calling because I make him, probably, and not even because he wants to. So I started to cry. Rory was really nice and I liked crying in his arms and his hands only roamed a little and when I said I should probably go home he said he understood and would call me. Which he did. And does.
Which brings me to Marco, who was never really a BF. He was more like the last straw.
After fifth period, I was walking by the auto shop (we have Voc Ed), and one of the gearheads draped over this rust bucket looked up and said, “Hey, cutie. Want me to get your motor running?”
I just looked at him and said, “Gee, it’s true, isn’t it? Gasoline fumes really can give a person brain damage.”
That just made him start gunning the engine of that piece of junk he was working on, so there was this R
Rrrrr, RRRrrrrr sound track in the background, and I just knew he and his whole crew had seen the entire Fast & Furious franchise way too many times, guzzling Mountain Dew and looking all radioactive from Cheetos.
Just then this big guy slid out from under the car on this little wheelie thing and got to his feet. Marco (he had his name on his coverall) said to me, “They’re not the greatest conversationalists in the world, but they’re harmless. Let me apologize on their behalf.” Six foot two easy, a spotless blue coverall with the collar up, motorcycle boots, and he smelled like lemons. I told him I could take care of myself, and he said, “I don’t doubt that for a minute.” And that was that.
And then — wouldn’t you know it. Ten minutes later, out in the parking lot, my bike had a flat tire. I was about to just walk it home when Marco appeared. Again.
He said, “Flat or just low?”
I said, “Probably just low. It’s been doing that.”
“I’ve got a pump on my Huffy. Sit tight.”
Five minutes later, I was good to go. I said, “Thanks.”
“Want to chill tonight?”
It’s funny. I didn’t really want to, but I was used to saying yes to boys. So I said it.
He suggested, “I’ll come by your house.”
“No. I’ll meet you at the Dairy Queen.”
After dinner I told my mom I was going to just ride my bike a little. I started for the door, then turned around, and blurted, “Did Dad ever keep his promises to you?”
She took a deep breath. “Why this all of a sudden?”
“Did he? Like when you were first married, anyway?”
“He was a good-looking guy in a band. I tried to be realistic.”
I leaned on the couch. “He told me he’d call me.”
She reached for me. Her hand was warm from holding a teacup. “He always knew what to say. He just usually didn’t mean it.”
I leaned in and hugged her. “I’ll be right back.”
Ten minutes later, there was Marco, talking to some boys who checked me out. When I cruised up, they slunk away.
Marco asked me if I wanted a Blizzard or some chicken strips, but I said that I didn’t.
“At least get off your bike.”
I shook my head. “I shouldn’t have said I’d meet you.”
“Really? What’s wrong with me?”
“Nothing, I guess. Except you’re older and my mom doesn’t want me going out with older boys.”
He just laughed. “Since when do you pay any attention to her? Alan’s fifteen, and you make him take off his shirt so you can play some kind of game. Wolfie’s sixteen, and he said —”
I yelled at him, “They told you that? They talked to you about me? Well, I don’t care what Wolfie said. I’m sorry I promised to meet you. That’s all I came to say. I’m going home now.”
Then Marco called me a name.
I rode like the wind! I know that’s a cliché, and I know my English teacher would mark me down for it, but it was how fast I was. Then I just sat outside the house on my bike until my heart stopped beating a thousand miles an hour.
When I finally went inside (I didn’t cry; I wasn’t going to cry!), Mom was sitting on the couch drinking tea out of a big blue cup.
“Are you okay, honey?” she asked. “You look really hot. You’re not sick, are you?”
I shook my head. “I’m okay. I just rode fast.”
“Do you want to watch TV with me?”
I took a deep breath. “Okay, if you want. Can we make popcorn? I’ll just go to the bathroom and come right back.”
I didn’t go to any bathroom. I went into my bedroom, got Dad’s picture, found a pair of scissors, and cut it into ribbons. And then slivers. And then confetti.
When I was just about finished, my phone rang, but I let it go to voice mail. I told my mom I’d be right back, and when I say something like that, I totally mean it.
Back in my old life, Jason was the craziest thing in it.
Okay. Almost the craziest thing. The real true craziest thing? I try not to talk about it. Or her. Ever.
Today, Jason is waiting in the parking lot of my new school in my new town where Dad and I moved to remake our lives after my mother did what she did — a story I never repeat, to anyone. I even changed my first name so nobody would put two and two together and say, “You’re her daughter?”
When I come outside, slinging my new red backpack over my shoulder (the backpack’s woven with hemp because I cart around so many books these days — not schoolbooks, just stuff I like to read), he’s slouching casually against his car, arms crossed, looking unbelievably hot with that sandy-blond windblown hair. Girls glance at him as they pass, putting extra swing in their hips.
His eyes meet mine.
Sweat breaks out in a thin line over my upper lip. My heart beats so fast, I feel like I’m running uphill.
I start to walk the other way, quickly, but he jogs after me.
“Beth,” he calls. “Hey, Beth!”
I keep walking until he grabs my arm and spins me around.
“Why are you ignoring me?” His green eyes are eager, too eager, like he’s about to burst with some secret. I know that look well, from back when he was my boyfriend.
“My name’s not Beth,” I say. “It’s Joy.”
“Beth, Joy, whatever. I don’t care what you call yourself; I know who you are,” he says.
My throat aches with unshed tears.
“C’mon, it’s me. Jason. Just . . . could you say hi or something?”
Passing girls give us curious looks. I know what they’re thinking: Why her? I’m the nothing new girl, barely noticeable. I’ve made a couple of friends, but I’m not insane like I was in my old life. Get this. I’m making As and Bs now. When I’m not studying, I spend all my time reading novels. Or practicing piano. Piano. I never knew I’d find music so liberating.
I’ve started running in the mornings before school, too, even though the air is growing crisp and soon snow will fall. Now my lungs hurt because of the altitude, not because I’m inhaling.
I’m nothing like the way I was at home.
Actually, this is home now. And I like it. I like the new me. I like the quiet and the solitude. I like being a good girl. I like the freedom in all of that.
My friend Angie catches my eye. Everything all right? she mouths.
I nod and she waves before heading left to walk home. Usually, we walk home together, talking and laughing. Carefree, the way I always wanted to be, before.
I suppose I don’t deserve to feel so free. But I do.
I look at our feet — my torn Chuck Taylors, Jason’s brand-new Nikes. He’s standing extra close, closer than a boy who’s supposed to be a stranger stands. His clean-boy smell, with hints of the expensive shampoo and gel he uses, threatens to overwhelm me with longing.
So I don’t protest when he pulls me into a hug, his arms circling my waist and his lips pressed against my hair. God, I missed him.
“You never said good-bye,” he whispers.
I melt a little then, enough to pull back and look up at him. He’s tan and ripped — obviously he’s been spending time in the gym — but I focus in on the white line across the bridge of his nose. That scar is part of the life I left behind. He got that broken nose defending me from some creep. It’s a reminder of everything I lost. Jason. My mom. The two people who knew all the bad things I did and . . . well . . . they loved me anyway.
Crap. It’s true. They loved me anyway.
But I had to save myself. And it’s true; I didn’t say good-bye. Dad and I just packed up and left one day without telling anyone. Honestly? It was a good feeling.
“I’m sorry,” I say. And I am. Sort of. I’d do it again, though. They loved me — but they were the reason I’d done all those bad things in the first place.
He tucks a strand of dark hair behind my ear. “You cut your hair,” he says. “I like it. It’s sexy. A different look.”
“Why are you
here?” I ask.
He leans in then, his lips tickling my ear as he whispers, “I know where your mother is.”
My heart lurches. The question pops out before I can help myself: “Where is she?” I follow this with a quick “Who sent you?” Is this a trap?
“Nobody,” he says, and then when he realizes I don’t believe him, he says, “Your mom. She’s the one who sent me.”
For a beat, we’re both silent.
That’s never happened before. When Jason and I were together, one of us was always talking. Maybe it was the loose lips of stoners, or maybe we were never truly comfortable enough with each other to be quiet together.
Finally I break the silence. Awkward, feeling my way through this blind. “What makes you think I want to see her?”
To get away from what happened, Dad and I moved from Albuquerque to this small town in the mountains. We left a fancy brand-new two-story house. Now we live in a little adobe that was probably built when the Spanish were colonizing New Mexico. I exchanged a big-city high school for a tiny-ass high school where everybody’s known one another since they were in diapers. Except me. But that’s okay. I don’t mind being the new girl as long as nobody pays too much attention to me.
“Why wouldn’t you want to see her — after everything she did for you?” Jason asks. “For us?”
When people here ask about my mom, I just say, “She’s not with us anymore.” And that’s true, even if they take away a different meaning from the truth. But I let the misunderstanding ride because it’s easier that way, easier if they think she’s dead.
I mean, what would they say if I told them the real story? That I dragged my mom into drug dealing? That now she’s on the FBI’s Most Wanted list?
The truth is, this is the nightmare I’ve been dreading. Dad and I have never talked about it — what we’ll do if Mom manages to find us. Of course, Dad doesn’t know the whole story. He doesn’t know what I know. That I’m the reason she’s on the run. That everything she did, she did for me.
