by Anne Dayton
“It’s more on the pastel blue side, and I know we’d talked about a lighter aqua, but I think the greeny hues are too sea and not so beachy. What do you think?” Mom waits expectantly. He stares at her, and I use the distraction to make my escape.
“May I please be excused to do my homework?”
Papá nods, and I breathe a sigh of relief. Polynomials are calling my name, and this time, I really have to answer.
5
The house is finally quiet, just the way I like it. The only light comes from the chandelier above the kitchen table, and the silent shadows make the rest of the house feel calm. I spread my textbooks out on the thick oak table, delivered fresh from Pottery Barn two weeks ago, and pull a pen out of my bag. I lay my papers out carefully, arranging them by subject, then turn toward the kitchen. I pull open the refrigerator door and grab a can of Diet Coke, fill a glass with ice, and pour the cool dark liquid over it. It fizzes and pops, and I take a sip.
I blame my mom for my Diet Coke habit. She would never let real sugar pass her lips, but she drinks this stuff by the gallon. It has no calories, but I’m pretty sure it’s completely toxic, because you just can’t cheat nature like that. I try not to think about it as I sit down on one of the straight-backed kitchen chairs.
First period. Biology. I look my homework over quickly, then clip it into the bio section of my binder. Done.
Second period. French. I skim the textbook and scan my homework, correcting a missing accent in question three. Check.
Third period. P.E. What a waste of time. And by the way, who decided a sport where you knock the ball back and forth with your wrists was a good idea? There’s a reason most sports involve rackets of some sort. It’s called bruises.
Fourth period. Math. Argh. Just thinking about it makes me want to impale myself with a spoon. I can’t go back there. Maybe I can go to the office first thing tomorrow and get them to transfer me to a different class. Mackey didn’t seem like he was going to hold it against me, but everyone else will hold it against me for the rest of high school. Tyler definitely thinks I am the biggest loser since . . . since . . . no, I’m the biggest loser anyone has ever seen. Historic lows.
Okay, focus, Ana. Factoring polynomials. You can do this. I take a sip of Diet Coke, get out my mechanical pencil, and turn my attention to the word problems I didn’t have the guts to face earlier.
I’ve only been working for a few minutes when I hear something in the other room. It sounds like my parents are trying to keep their voices low, which means that I have a job to do. I’m an expert level spy. I’m just waiting for my top-secret recruitment letter from the CIA. They probably want me to complete high school first. Of course, it wouldn’t have to be this way if anyone ever told me anything, but they don’t, and desperate times call for desperate measures. I stand up and tiptoe over to the hallway, where I can hear the murmurs of Papá’s voice, but I can’t make out what they’re saying. I take a few more steps, then freeze when I hear my name. They’re talking about me. I move in closer.
“It’ll devastate her,” Papá says, “and the freshman year is so important in setting the foundation for academic success.” My mother mumbles something, and then Papá continues. “School is more important, Andrea. She must get into a good college, or where will she be?”
The sound of the faucet in their bathroom drowns out my mother’s response, but I wait. I hear something about Maria. Oh no. My mother sighs, and I make out something about insurance. Papá grunts in response; then it all goes quiet. The strip of light under their door goes out, and I know the conversation is over for the night. I sigh and tiptoe back to the kitchen, trying to piece together what I just heard. They still aren’t going to tell me about Maria’s lupus. How can they not tell me? I’m not a child. Don’t they think I’ll notice?
I shake my head, then sit back down at the table. I say a quick prayer for Maria’s health and resolve to find out exactly what lupus is. I’ll look it up on the Internet.
I turn back to my math. I’m halfway through the last problem when I hear footsteps behind me.
“Anita.” Maria walks into the kitchen, her faded pink robe wrapped tightly around her. Her face is traced with lines, and her black hair is laced with strands of gray. She shuffles across the Italian-tile floor in her worn slippers. In our old house, Maria had a small bedroom, but here she has a large room, complete with sitting area, and her own bathroom with a whirlpool tub and everything. But for some reason, I don’t think she likes it too much. In the old house, her bedroom was right next to mine. Now she’s downstairs and I’m upstairs. She flips on the kitchen light.
“How was Survivor?” I ask.
She walks toward the refrigerator. “Predictable.” She digs around in the back, then pulls out a package wrapped in tinfoil. “The redhead should have been voted off, but she’s cute, so . . .” She shrugs, then carefully lifts two tamales onto plates. She wraps the foil around the rest of the tamales, then puts them back into the fridge and puts the plates into the microwave.
Though Maria is welcome to eat the same food as the rest of us—i.e. whatever she cooks for us—she usually skips whatever weird food trend Mom has seized upon at the moment and eats her favorite dishes after my parents have gone to bed. Her tamales are out of this world. Let’s just say it’s a good thing I inherited Papá’s metabolism. I’ve been eating two dinners for most of my life.
Maria pulls a glass out of the cupboard and pushes it against the water dispenser on our giant refrigerator, takes the steaming hot tamales out of the microwave, gets two forks out, and sits down at the table next to me.
“How is the homework going?” She unwraps the cornhusk from her tamale. I consider the question as I watch her gnarled fingers work. If it had come from Papá, I would have simply said it was going great, but I can’t lie to Maria. She can always tell.
“It’s okay.” I slam by math book closed and slide my plate toward me.
“What’s wrong?” She blows on her tamale.
What’s wrong? Where do I even begin? Everything is wrong. I hate this place. I hate my school. I hate not knowing anyone. I hate that Riley is beating me in math. I hate that Maria is sick. I hate that God is letting me down.
“Nothing.” The woman is probably dying, for goodness’ sake. I can’t complain to her about some stupid cheerleader making my life miserable.
She studies my face for a moment, and I force myself to smile. She shakes her head. Obviously, she doesn’t believe me.
“They love you, Anita,” she says, then takes a sip of water. “They love you more than anything.” I unwrap the cornhusk from my tamale and steam warms my face. Coming from anyone else, that statement would have sounded like it came out of left field, but Maria has this eerie way of making conversations flow according to her own rhythm. Somehow I follow.
“I know.”
She has a bite, then lays down her fork. I take a quick sip of my Diet Coke.
“I do too,” she says quietly.
I take her hand. Is now the time to ask her about the lupus? She smiles, then stands up and pushes her chair against the table quietly.
“I think I’ll finish this in my room and let you get back to work.” She picks up her plate. “Good night. There are more tamales in the fridge if you want them. Don’t stay up too late.”
“Good night,” I say. She shuffles across the tile, flips off the light, and disappears into the shadows.
6
The game tonight is Marshmallow Wiffle Ball. I usually prefer the kind of game where I can just hide and watch other people be embarrassed (because that’s all youth group games are anyway, just various ways to embarrass you), but despite the humiliation inherent in team sports, at least when everyone has to play the game, you don’t end up just sitting alone. I seem to be doing a lot of that these days. It’s impossible to hit a marshmallow past first base, for the record.
My parents did not ask me where I would like to go to church. They did not ask me if I w
anted to be involved in the youth group with a bunch of kids who have known each other since nursery school. They believe dropping me off here on Sunday nights is their parental responsibility, so here I am. Riley isn’t here tonight, and I can’t decide if I’m relieved or disappointed. Maybe a little of both.
As Judy, the youth pastor’s wife, gathers up stray marshmallows and herds us into the folding chairs set up for worship time, I quietly take a seat in the back row and look around. The youth room, with its high, sloped ceiling and wide floor, used to be the main sanctuary at Seaview Community Church, but they recently built a brand-new main building, complete with padded oak pews and a soundproof cry room. And even though the youth room has been transformed into a space that screams, “Please please come to church, kids,” with its plywood stage, ratty couches, and foosball tables, there’s still a sense of peace that pervades it when Fritz, the youth pastor, finally gets everyone to quiet down.
Worship is my favorite part of youth group. When I’m singing praise songs, that’s when I feel the surest that God really is out there. I mean, not that I doubt it. Okay, well, dirty little secret here, but maybe I do lately.
Of course, it doesn’t hurt either that Tyler leads worship with his band, Three Car Garage. He’s wearing baggy jeans and a tight black T-shirt that shows off his broad shoulders, along with a green A’s hat and Reef flip flops. He’s tan and built, and his shaggy blond hair falls over his eyes a little. Tommy Chu, the drummer whose hair always looks greasy, bangs his drumsticks together, Dave Brecht the oddball bassist plucks one string, and Tyler begins strumming a chord and singing. Thankfully, Tyler didn’t laugh and point at me when I came into the room tonight so I’m guessing he doesn’t even know I’m in his math class. I’ve never been so thankful to be invisible to a boy.
I pull my eyes away from him and try to focus on the words, which are projected onto a screen at the front of the room, behind the band. I’m doing a pretty good job losing myself in the music, but just as we get to the chorus, I hear a loud bang and turn around in time to see Riley McGee, along with another freshman girl named Tanya, giggle and stumble into the room. They laugh as they make their way toward the rows of chairs. I smile at Riley. She meets my eye, then turns away as if she hasn’t seen me. She and Tanya fall into chairs on the other side of the aisle.
They’ve accomplished their goal. Everyone is looking at them. Leave it to Riley to show up fashionably late to church.
I try to ignore them and focus my thoughts on singing, but it’s difficult when I can see Riley flipping her blond hair around out of the corner of my eye. She’s wearing a short denim skirt, a tight white cotton top, and a chunky yellow beaded necklace. Maybe I should get one of those necklaces.
The band fades out the final lines of the first song, and I refocus my eyes on the front of the room. I have to remember why I’m here. It’s not to pick up fashion tips.
As Tyler begins to play again, I see him smile a bit, and I suck in my breath. Shaking my head and closing my eyes, I begin to tune the world out again and find a sense of peace.
I hear a snicker. My eyes fly open, and I turn toward the sound. Tanya is looking at me and laughing. I look back at the screen and try to focus my eyes on the sharp edges of the letters, but then I hear it again. Tanya, laughing. I don’t even have to turn to know who she’s laughing at, but some masochistic force compels me, and I look at her. Her straight, dark hair lies in a shiny sheet down her back, her face twisted in a sneer. She pokes her elbow into Riley, but Riley doesn’t turn. Tears well up in my eyes, but I look away before Tanya can see me cry. I’m not that low. Not yet.
We sing a few more songs, but my heart isn’t into it anymore. Adults always say you’re welcome at church no matter who you are or what you’ve done, but they never tell you how to convince everyone else that you’re welcome. Apparently being the new girl, on top of accusing the wonderful and amazing Riley of cheating, is something even Jesus can’t help me overcome.
After the last chords fade away, the worship team quietly puts their instruments down and moves to the back of the room. Fritz jumps onto the stage, clapping to get us riled up to learn about God, but for some reason I glance back at Tanya and Riley again. Tanya is not looking at me for a change, but Riley and I catch each other’s eyes for a quick moment. The look in her eyes is loud and clear: It didn’t mean anything; we are not friends.
***
As soon as the final amen is said, I slip out the door, slide under the eave, and stand out of the rain to wait for Mom to come pick me up. It’s good that it’s raining. It’s stupid, I know, but I always feel like Jesus feels my pain when it rains. Though I guess Jesus has more important problems to worry about right now than me, like you know, world hunger and stuff.
I keep hearing noises from inside, running and high-pitched squeals and the clang of cymbals being hit by someone who doesn’t know how to drum, but I prefer the soft patter of rain on the roof above me. I stand right next to the door, but no one who comes out seems to see me as they breeze by.
I look at my watch. Youth group ends at seven thirty, but Mom always comes a little late, which is annoying because I have a few hours of studying left to do tonight. The raindrops hit the pavement and pool in shallow puddles in the parking lot. I practice looking deep and brooding, just in case anyone notices me.
Fifteen minutes later, Mom still isn’t here, and since my parents won’t let me have a cell phone, I can’t call her to see what’s wrong. The noise inside has quieted, and more kids are dashing from the youth room across the parking lot to waiting cars. Tanya and Riley squeal as they walk outside and scream and laugh as they run across the lot to Matt Hershey’s beat-up station wagon. Matt is a senior who drives his parents’ discarded car, but even I know it’s an honor to get a ride as a freshman. They blast the radio, but the rain deadens the noise as they peal out of the parking lot. It’s not like I’m allowed to ride in cars with boys anyway.
Something has got to change. I’m tired of being an outcast. Maybe I need to be more proactive. I’m not about to go up to just anyone and ask if they want to be my friend, but it’s definitely time to do something about this situation. Maybe I should see if that girl Zoe wants to have lunch sometime. She might not be my first choice of friend, but beggars can’t be choosers, right?
The gray sky darkens, and I wonder what to do about a ride home. Do I go back inside and find an adult and tell them I’ve been abandoned? Do I ask if I can borrow someone’s cell phone? I could call Papá. He won’t be happy about having to come out and get me in the rain, but I suppose he’d have to make the trip. I decide I should probably just head back inside and find one of the leaders, but as I start moving, Tyler walks out of the building. Let me rephrase that—walks out of the building with Stacy Meeker, the long-legged senior.
I know it’s stupid, and I know I never had a chance with him anyway, and I know he doesn’t even know who I am, but for some reason it still feels like I’ve been punched in the gut. I twist my hair up into a ponytail to give my hands something to do, then take it back out again. It’s heavy and thick, and never seems to do what I want. Why does my mom do this to me?
Out of the corner of my eye, I see Tyler lean in and give Stacy a hug. She smiles and walks calmly to her car, then climbs in and drives away. He watches her go, and I die a little inside. As her car leaves the parking lot, Tyler seems to realize for the first time he’s standing in the rain. He quickly jogs back under the eave. I look down, unsure what I’m supposed to do. He’s standing about four feet from me. Can he hear my heart slamming around in my chest? Does he see me? Should I say something?
I bite my lip and examine my shoes. Safer not to say anything. It’s hard to hate yourself for saying something stupid if you don’t say anything at all.
Tyler sneezes. There, it would be rude not to say bless you. But when I open my mouth, only a tiny squeak comes out. Did he hear that? I clear my throat, then try again.
“Bless you,” I say quie
tly. Tyler turns to me, as if surprised to see me standing there. His eyes are darker blue than I thought.
“Thanks.”
For a moment, I’m not sure who he’s talking to. I’m used to being invisible. But then I realize that I’m the only one there, so I nod. The soft drum of the rain is comforting somehow.
“Do you go to my school?” He runs his hands through his hair to shake off the rain. His forearms are really muscular. I’ve never been attracted to a guy’s arms before.
He’s really talking to me. I gulp and work up my courage to answer.
“Uh huh.” I try to smile, but my lips stick to my teeth. “I—” He looks at me, waiting. “We have math together.”
He nods. “Tyler.” He sticks his hand out, and I stare at it for a second before I realize I’m supposed to shake it. I reach my hand out. His hand is soft and warm and a little wet. I let go quickly.
I stare at him. He clears his throat. All of a sudden it feels very private under this eave.
“Ana!” I say quickly as realization dawns. He was waiting for me to say my name. Oh jeez I am totally messing this up.
He smiles slightly. “Nice to meet you.”
“Yeah.” I smile and wait for him to respond, but he doesn’t say anything. I listen to the rain.
“So,” he says, clearing his throat. “Are you new?”
“We just moved here.”
“Cool.” He nods, staring at the parking lot again.
I wait for him to go on, but then a bright pair of headlights turns into the parking lot. I make out the silver outline of Mom’s Lexus as it comes toward us. Of course. Now that I don’t want her to come, she does. She has a real gift for ruining my life.
