Now let’s pause for a second in our conversation here for me to explain the emotions I was experiencing when she said that. I fell in love all over again. Only this time I pictured our wedding. Crazy. Stupid. Over the top. I know all this, but in that moment, I left my body. I was on some other plane of human existence, and while there I saw our wedding day. I saw Annalise waiting at the end of the isle dressed like Jean Grey during the Dark Phoenix saga—minus the evil—and I was Cyclops, my whole narrow vision focused on the splendor of her mutant beauty. One day our son would be named Nathan, though the world will know him only as Cable.
Then I snapped back into reality.
"So, they have 4 tickets. It's a long story but this was a thing Pete and I were going to do, but somehow it became a Pete and Lindsey thing. Anyhow, do you wanna go? It's next Saturday."
"I'd love to," she said. "I'll have to tell work, but I'm sure it'll be fine."
"Great, it’s settled. But also. . ."
"Oh, there's more?"
Here it went. Oh shit.
"Yeah. Afterwards they wanted to go to dinner. Kind of like a double date."
"Sounds good. I love eating in the city."
"And then. . ." I kept stopping myself. It was a sure fire way to sound as shady as possible.
"And then?"
"And then he and Lindsey are making hotel reservations at a place that's not too far from the convention center"
"That sounds really romantic," she said. That gave me the confidence I needed to get the last sentence out.
"I agree. So how would you feel about. . . I mean, it wouldn't be too weird if you and I. . . Do you think. . ."
"Logan Santiago, are you asking if I want to get a room with you?"
"You make it sound so dirty."
We both started laughing uncontrollably, and I actually felt much better that I had finally asked her, but then I realized that she hadn't actually answered me.
"I'd love to," she said. "I'd absolutely love to."
No words had yet been invented to explain how I was feeling, a weird mixture of relief, happiness, disbelief, and anticipation that I didn’t know what to do with. It was like my body was electrified, and I didn’t know what the hell to do with myself except to say, “That’s awesome, we’ll have a good time.”
“I know we will,” she said back, smiling.
At once I forgot about how she came out of her house, or how frustrated I’d been with her not communicating with me. I forgot it all because we were going to Comic Con next week, and I was just generally in a good place. We drove around and talked for a bit, and everything seemed to be normal.
The next few days at school were as normal as normal got, save for me getting to spend time with my. . .wait for it, girlfriend! We all got to hang out at school now, which was incredible in and of itself, and while it in no way made school enjoyable, it made it much more bearable. And I loved seeing Anna around my friends. Scratch that, my friend. She was funny as hell. Her impersonation of ghetto Spanish girl, specifically, was not to be missed. It was a hidden talent. Had there been a reality talent show for impersonating ghetto Spanish girls at the time, Anna would have been the Kelly Clarkson of that shit. If there were Oscars for it, she might have given Daniel Day Lewis a run for his top-hat wearing self. When she got into it, she embodied all those characteristics that I found abhorrent when they were real. Yeah, you're picturing it right, don’t worry; hoop earrings (always gold, always big enough to jump small agility trained dogs through), tight little shorts (whether summer or not), curly hair that looks wet all day no matter what, and that particular brand of don't-mess-with-me-or-I’ll-cut-you attitude radiating in every direction. Now even though she came from what you’d call the wrong side of the tracks, she was in no way ghetto, but she played it on TV. Nailed that shit perfectly, mostly when engaging in one of her favorite recreational sports—making fun of the girls at school who were really like that.
She didn't much like other girls. Like at all. We'd be hanging out in the cafeteria before school, just me, Anna, and Pete. Girls would walk by who I knew from class and I'd give a little lazy, under caffeinated morning wave and say what's up. About five to ten seconds later, usually with said girl still within ear shot, Annalise would look at her phone and give a low-key 'whore' declaration. Wait, who, I'd ask, so-and-so? Nah, she's not at all, I'd tell her. Then I'd get the eye. Actually what I really got was the eye-brow. Anna's right eyebrow had some crazy dexterity, ‘cause she could raise that shit up like some angry, inverted half-moon, and when she did she made this intense eye contact that signified that I’d messed right up. Oh, really, she’d say, well how exactly would you know she's not a whore? Cue Consuela.
I named Annalise's ratchet alter-ego Consuela after an inside joke Anna and I had about how it was such a stereotypical Spanish name, yet no one actually knew anybody with that name. I mean, someone did, obviously, but we sure didn't, so it worked as a ratchet alter-ego moniker. Now, when Consuela made her entrance onto the stage, boy, you were in for a real treat. I'll break it down for you, it went something like this:
"Giiiirl, that bitch tried it, she tryyyd it, walkin' round in them little-ass shorts like it’s the middle of July when she knows Christmas lights still hangin’ on people houses. . .girl, get ya life!" Now, to picture what she looked and sounded like you have to imagine some physical gestures that go along with that accent and those dragged out syllables. The hands. The hands were critical. When Anna went full Consuela, she'd wave her left hand in semi-circles next to her head, with her fingers touching; her head would jerk side to side for emphasis, usually about the 'get' part of her favorite expression, 'get your life.' We’d all break down laughing, mostly because she was spot on about whatever girl she was impersonating, but also because we all had dark senses of humor.
But back to my defense of ‘whore’ before. I knew I messed up the second I said it. Now Anna was mostly making me sweat just to do so, but I learned that messing up with her was something like eating undercooked pork at a friend’s barbecue—it didn't hit you right away, but about 12 to 24 hours later you would realize that something was horribly wrong (was that scratch always on my car), you'd then retrace your steps (oh, shit, I called her a bitch when we had that argument), assess the damage (where the hell did my watch go, it was my grandfather’s), and finally the acceptance that you'd have to just ride that shit out.
Like another time, same basic setting as before, when I made the novice, tactical error of calling another girl pretty. Actually, let me amend that. What I really did was fall into a trap. You know the one: she'd fake compliment some female passer-by, and then ask if I agreed or disagreed. Now, here's where my relationship inexperience showed itself. My thought was to agree with her point of view to show support, only Anna wasn't testing my support, she was testing my loyalty and sincerity. Big difference.
Oh you think that girl's pretty, she'd ask all innocent. Now I know what you're thinking even reading that—how could our boy be so stupid, right? Clear as day where that question is going. It wasn't stupidity my friends, it was inexperience. See, 17 year old Logan was not yet schooled in the ways of calculated females who can lay verbal traps in plain sight and still have you fall into them. And not those humane traps that kill you quickly, either, the ones that pierce you at the ankles, leaving you alive and flailing in pain until you die a slow death. So how did dumbass, never-had-a-real-girlfriend Me reply? You guessed it. Yeah, she's very pretty, I’d say. Sometimes I’d even add my own modifier just to naively show how much I agreed with Anna.
Let me explain what happened from there, if you haven’t guessed already. You know that scary eyebrow raise your mom used as an intimidation tactic to get you good and scared when you did something wrong? Yeah, Annalise's eyebrow raise made your mom's seem like a warm massage delivered by cherubs high on weed. "Oh, she's VERY pretty, huh? That ho?" Ummm, I guess, I’d say, but the time for explanation had clearly ended because when a Spanish girl has her eyebrow
arched over her rage-filled brown eyes like an upside-down U, best to internalize that the fight is over and you have lost. Word to the wise: don't ever sound like you're trying to defend the girl who your girl is calling a ho (or any other anger-induced pejorative her salty ass can come up with), just doesn't end well. You’ve been warned.
"OH, so she's a really nice person AND she's very pretty? I see. Say no more. Say nooo more." At that point I should've followed that advice and literally said no more, but the stubborn part of me just couldn't let stuff like that go, even with Anna. I reiterated my disagreement with Anna's assessment of the girl, and I got a second eyebrow-lashing. I could defend myself against these kind of feminine assaults simply by looking away—like avoiding looking directly at the sun or not sitting too close to the TV when you were a kid; but Anna was a guerilla—trained in all manner of non-conventional warfare, and if you put up a solid defense against one attack, that's exactly when the secondary and tertiary attacks would come, and there were only so many defenses you could put up. Oh, okay, she said, so you're saying she's prettier than me? No no, I'd protest in my full reactionary glory, that's not what I meant. Now, Anna knew damn well I didn't mean that, and that I didn't even say that, but once she had me on the defense she had already won our little game.
Sometimes she got fake mad. She'd text me "ouch" when I'd say things not even meant to make her feel some type of way. Like the time I told her she wasn't sweet. Well, actually, she texted me and told me that she was the sweetest, to which I called swift and accurate bullshit. You're not sweet, I told her. Got my requisite "ouch". Had to explain myself. No no, I told her, that's a good thing, trust me. How is not being sweet a good thing, she asked. It was a valid question, but I had an answer. I always had an answer. Here's why, I told her, you're thinking 'sweet' is like 'nice' - like they're synonyms. They're not, trust me. When you say that about a girl you're describing her disposition, not her actions, I tried to explain. The sweet girls were those giggly, kinda dumb, overly innocent girls who were waiting around to have the sweet victimized right out of them. You aren't sweet, I told her. If you started smiling all the time and thinking the best of people I'd shake the hell out of you and demand a drug test. Got my smiley face emoji back, she understood. No, no, she wrote, that's not me. Thank god, I told her, and then I got shit for using the lord’s name in vain. I mentioned that she was Peruvian right? Catholic as they come? Thought so. Just checking.
“Pete,” she said in her normal voice as we all sat around waiting for the dregs of first period to come. “Solid idea on the anniversary. I applaud you, Sir.”
“Thanks, Anna, tell your boy. He’s still salty about the whole thing.”
“No, I’m all good, man,” I said. “All makes sense. The force has balance.”
“Look at Mr. Chill over here,” Pete joked. “You must be having a positive effect on him; he’s usually up for a fight when it comes to this topic.”
“I don’t know what could have ever changed his mind.” Anna was being coy. She knew exactly what had changed my mind – the promise of being there with her. I was so psyched about it that it almost superseded the excitement I had for the event itself. I felt like I was maturing as a person when I wanted the girl over the signed books and panels. I was growing up.
“Well, whatever it was, I’m sure it’s due to you. And we’re happy to have you there with us.”
“Are you kidding? I’m the happy one, and I don’t get to say that often. Thanks again for the invite.”
“You’re welcome.”
First period came. Then second, and before I knew it, ninth. The days went faster when I was with her; their passing hours seeming less like a prison sentence and more like what I needed to do in order to spend time with her afterwards. As we headed into the late winter I felt generally lighter. Mom was having some good days, the horizon line of school was foreseeable, and I was about to go to Comic Con with my girl.
That’s right, let me say it again, with my girl.
Nine
Where two nerds escort their girlfriends to nerd Heaven.
We stood in line for thirty minutes before getting inside what was, at that point in my life, a nerd's Mecca. Literally. It was the holy land, the sacred space where geekdom hosted its annual pilgrimage. The gaming and comic fans were in full force, dress-up optional, and we tried to hit every possible stand, signing, and panel.
The whole day was greater than great. That doesn’t even do it justice. Whatever combination of letters or words expressed the heights of what a person can feel, that's how I felt being in the city with everyone. Pete and I were among our people, me especially, but being in that place with Anna was an unlocked bonus stage of an experience. I knew that comics weren't her thing, but if she wasn’t having as good a time as me I never knew it. She was the ultimate supportive girlfriend, and she seemed to really be taking in the experience. If you’ve never been, there’s a LOT of walking around at Comic Com, like, a lot a lot. If you measured it you probably had half a marathon's worth of nerd travels. So after an hour or so we stopped to map out our next moves and take a few deep breaths.
"I'll be right back," Anna said to me suddenly.
"Okay, no problem."
She went off on her own, disappearing quickly into the crowd, and I really had no idea where she was running off to. I assumed she had to go to the bathroom or something, but Lindsey didn't do that weird female thing where she offered to go with her, so who knew? In the meantime Pete and I checked out a counter that was selling classic X-Men figurines so expensive that we each would have had to sell a kidney on the black market to even afford one of them.
"Holy shit."
"I know," I said. "These prices are nuts."
"That's not even close to the right word for how much that Magneto one costs. Who the hell can spend that much on a little statue?"
"Rich people."
"Who?" he asked. "Everyone here is like our age?"
"Okay, then rich kids I guess."
"These aren't collectibles, they're investments."
"Yeah, I'm not into investing in statues. Even if I had the money I wouldn't spend it on these."
"Then what?"
"What do you mean?"
"Like, if you had the money, what would you spend it on?"
That was a great question, but it was also an easy one. "Simple," I told him. "That copy of Wolverine number 1 signed by Frank Miller and Chris Claremont that I saw back when we first walked in.”
“Damn, that’s a good choice.”
“Thank you. But this is all hypothetical. I pooled all of my funds for dinner and the hotel.”
“Same. I’m just here for the experience. And I have to say, I’m having a good time.”
“Me, too,” I said. “But what about the girls? Do you think they’re just humoring us?”
“Oh, totally. But isn’t that what boyfriends and girlfriends are supposed to do for one another?”
“You’d know better than me, man. I’ve only had one.”
We stood around for a little while just sipping our water bottles and looking at more stuff we could never afford, and before too long Annalise appeared behind us and yelled “Boo”, and tapped me on the shoulder.
“Shit, you scared me,” I said, laughing. “Where’d you run off to?”
“Bathroom. Lines were crazy but it moved super-fast. You boys in the market for statues?”
“Only when we take our company public,” Pete joked. “Before that I don’t think we could scratch together enough money for even the head of one.”
“I think you could do the head. You guys don’t give yourselves enough credit.”
“You’re right,” Pete joked, looking at me. “You wanna go in on a Professor X head?”
“Only if you wanna go straight home after this with no food.”
“Got it. Screw Professor X. Let’s move on.”
The next few hours went by like they were minutes. Nerds everywhere, being cool by not b
eing cool at all. It was a blast, and after we did even more walking and window shopping it was time to bounce and head to dinner. Pete had decided to do his best impersonation of a grown up and actually made reservations at some restaurant he found on Yelp. Some Italian joint that sounded nothing short of delicious, and to be honest we could have grabbed a dirty water dog on the street and I would have been happy. I was on cloud nine. But, alas, we wouldn’t be dining on disgusting hot dogs; we were going out for a legit meal in the city.
The problem with being so far in my own head was that I didn’t think of the food issue. Excuse me, issues. It never even occurred to me that Annalise might not have something to eat at wherever we went. I’d outsourced the whole thing to Pete, probably because I secretly wanted to forget all of the bizarre food related issues Anna had, but one thing I knew for sure was that steak probably wasn’t on the menu.
When we got to the place my first thought was how underdressed we were. Thank God we weren’t in Legend of Zelda costumes or something crazy, it would have been dirty water dogs all night, because no respectable place would have dared seat us looking like that. As it was, the place wasn’t overly fancy, but we were easily the youngest and most casually dressed people in the place. I noticed, but I didn’t really care. I always thought that in a situation like that, everyone in the place would turn around and look at us in our Jeans and judge us, or that the waiter would speak in a snobby accent and treat us like crap. See, movies again. They ruin you. In reality no one cared about us because they were busy eating their own dinners.
We felt like real adults. It was kind of weird. Pete and I had money to pay, we pulled out the girls chairs, the waiter handed us menus. Adults. Dinner went way more smoothly than I thought. I stared at Anna like a weirdo because I was waiting for her to have some serious menu struggles. I was terrified that our waiter, ill-informed in the ways of Annalise, would tell us about some special that was a soup, followed by her near gagging at even the mention of her culinary kryptonite. But it never happened. Apparently pasta was ok. She liked pasta, and our dinner went off without a hitch. It was great to eat with everyone after such a great day. Afterwards Pete and I split up the bill and paid, and we went outside to get cabs to the hotel.
Away From Here_A Young Adult Novel Page 14
