“Food will be here in less than an hour. Heard you like Mexican, Darian. There should be plenty to choose from, so you can mix and match, make it whatever you want.” Oh my God, why is she trying so hard? And is her outfit part of a Mexican theme? It’s like she’s never met another living person before.
“That sounds great,” he says.
“Dari, Mom. Not Darian,” I correct.
“Oh, I’m sorry. Dari. Like milk. Got it.”
Oh my God!
“What is that short for?” she asks.
“Dariomauritius,” Dari mumbles.
She tilts her head to the side like a puppy hearing a new whistle for the first time.
“That name is like a work of art,” she declares. Dari kind of looks down bashfully. This is definitely a side of him I have not seen before.
Mom sits across from us and sips from her ever-full water bottle.
“So? Dari? What is your favorite subject in school?” Did she just do a Google search called appropriate conversation topics for your teenager’s guests?
“Art, I guess. I don’t really like school,” Dari answers.
“I don’t blame you. The idea that everyone should be taught the same way because it saves time and resources is ludicrous. And it’s the main reason American children will always trail behind their Asian counterparts,” Mom finishes, punctuating the thought with a large gulp of water. I can’t believe she’s talking about this.
Oh, no. She isn’t finished.
“Well,” she begins, “not all of Asia, of course. Things aren’t so great in East Timor. China and Japan are really the ones. These days.” She finally stops talking. She has this weird expression on her face, like the time when she felt forced to lead the Passover seder. By now, Dari looks rather stricken. I can’t tell if he’s bored or scared, but he’s clearly not enjoying himself.
For the first time in my stupid brain, I wonder if inviting Dari over to my house after hanging out with him once was such a good idea. Maybe I shouldn’t have gotten so excited. Now we’re all uncomfortable and I don’t know what to do and it’s my fault.
“Savannah,” Dari says so suddenly and casually, I jump.
“Uh, yeah?” I can tell Mom is a little thrown by his ease with her name too. She did offer it to him, though.
“Lily told me you’re writing another book. What’s it about?” My mother’s eyes light up as if some sparklers just went off in her skull.
“You really want to talk about that?”
“Yeah,” he says, and he means it. I sink a little in my seat. I don’t even know what my mom’s book is about.
“It’s different from my first book. I consider it more of a . . . a philosophical conversation then a self-help guide. It’s actually sort of the opposite of self-help in some ways. Using some research from my brother Raymond’s work in Africa, my experiences in South America, and recent work I’ve encountered detailing the cycles of poverty and violence in this country, this book is about how healing the self isn’t enough to heal the world. My first book was called Heal Your Beautiful Self, Grow Your Beautiful World. This book is intended as a response, and it keeps evolving. I try to give logical and intuitive arguments for how we can reach beyond ourselves to literally end the widespread suffering in the world. If we want to.”
We are quiet after she finishes. She inspects the nails on her left hand. She does this when she feels especially vulnerable.
“I didn’t know that,” I say quietly.
“That sounds revolutionary,” Dari says.
My mother smiles at Dari, a surprised smile, and her cheeks turn a little red. Maybe she doesn’t receive compliments often enough.
“Well, that’s sweet. I appreciate that. But the problem is I’m struggling to finish it and my publisher isn’t very happy with me right now.”
The oven timer dings, and Mom takes the brownies out. I’m sure they’re Duncan Hines or Toll House or something, but they smell delicious anyway. So much so that the aroma lures me into the kitchen to soak up as much of it as I can. For some reason in this moment, as Mom places the brownies on the counter to cool and then shakes her hand in pain because the cloth she used as a pot holder wasn’t thick enough to keep her from burning herself, I almost want to cry because I’m struck by how much I love her. I don’t even know why.
She looks up at me then.
“What’s up?”
“Nothing,” I say.
She nods toward the counter. “Ghirardelli. Only the best!”
I kind of half hug her. It’s stiff and she’s totally confused, but it’s the best I can do.
* * *
Dinner was delish. Nobody beats Casa Verde. The conversation wasn’t bad either. We talked more about Mom’s book, and she asked Dari about his artwork. He didn’t say too much, but seemed pleased that she asked. Mom brought up my relatively dormant songwriting. It’s not much of anything these days. I think she just didn’t want me to feel left out.
Then we started playing Scrabble. When I brought it out, Dari giggled to himself for some reason. He was mostly bad until he got a triple word score on “redux,” which I found impressive and which made me jealous (or envious, whichever one makes more sense). But then he quickly thanked us and got up to leave. He said he’d see me tomorrow and he hoped we could do this again sometime and he was gone. Mom and I kept playing because it seemed odd to just stop.
“I like him, Lily. He’s such an interesting person,” Mom says this as she lays down an O, an X, a G, an E, and an N. I already had the Y out there. Damn. Only my mother would find that word.
“How did you do that?”
“Did you hear what I said? I really like him. He’s a catch.”
“I know. I like him too.”
“Duh,” she says playfully.
“We’re just friends, though, Mom.” This is true enough, but it’s not the whole truth. The whole truth would include the fact that he has the body of an Adonis and I’ve imagined him without a stitch of clothing on more than once this evening. But he’s officially only my friend. I have to be cool with that.
“He seems very wise for someone so young,” she says. “He is your age, right?”
“Yeah,” I answer, though I hadn’t thought about it before. He’s in my grade. How different can our ages be?
“Does he ever talk about his family?”
“Not much. He doesn’t like to.”
She nods, a slight wrinkle of concern developing on her forehead.
“Well, he’s welcome here anytime. Make sure he knows that,” she says, as I grapple with three As, an O, two Is, and an R.
“Thanks, Mom,” I tell her. Instead of taking my turn, I go into the kitchen and grab my third brownie. I consider doing some homework before going to bed.
“Lil? You think I’m a cool mom. Right?”
I come back into the room and try to deduce where this line of questioning is headed before I answer.
“Uh, yeah. Why?”
“Well. I was just thinking. I know you really don’t want to come with me to the wellness retreat—”
“Mom. I swear to you: I will be fine by myself. I’m not gonna . . . try anything. You seriously don’t have to worry.”
“I believe you. But I might feel a little more at ease if . . . maybe your new friend stayed over that weekend.”
I just about choke on a brownie chunk. “Wait. You want me to ask Dari to spend the weekend here? Nights included?” I ask in the most obvious way possible to make sure I’m not hallucinating and she didn’t just enter a momentary fugue state.
She fiddles with her Scrabble tiles for a few seconds. “Mm-hmm. Lily, I trust you, but I don’t want you to be alone. And I don’t mean to boast, but you may have noticed that my intuition about people is nearly impeccable.”
Except the ones that impregnate you and disappear.
“I feel nothing but good vibes from Dari. He’s genuine. Thoughts?”
“I’m just surprised. I can ask him.
I guess.”
“Good. Do it and tell him his folks can call me and I’ll explain everything.”
“Like . . . you’ll tell them you want Dari to babysit me for a weekend?
She presses her lips together, knowing she misspoke and unsure of how to proceed. “No. Just that this is a safe environment for their son and he’s invited with my full support.” She lets out a little sigh and glances up at me, looking for some sign of approval.
“Cool-ish?”
“Coolish,” I tell her, though I have no idea if this will be cool or not. I just hope Dari isn’t frightened by the invitation.
“It’s nice to see you happy,” she says.
I think about that for a second. Happy? Yeah. Right now, I’d say I am happy. I smile and nod in agreement.
“Do you think you might want to try talking to a therapist?”
My smile vanishes. Why would she bring that up now?
“I know it hasn’t been that successful in the past, but if we do some serious research this time to find the right fit—”
“Where is this coming from?” I remain calm.
“I just think you’re in a good place right now and I want you to stay there. I’m not pressuring you.”
That’s funny, because this feels distinctly like pressure. I say nothing. I hate the idea of talking to some judgmental “doctor” about all my problems when I know they don’t give a shit and they just want to make as much money from me as they possibly can. Then they’ll just give me more pills that make me feel tired and tired of life. They never fix anything.
“Can you try it? For a month. Four weeks. And if you absolutely hate it and see no good that can come of it, you can quit. But you have to promise me that if you don’t absolutely hate it, you’ll give it a chance. What do you think?”
The last time we had this discussion was about a week before school started. It ended up with tears and yelling and me punching the cement wall in the basement laundry room hard enough to leave marks. On the wall. But then again . . . it’s possible that she’s right. Possible. I guess I am in a “good place,” because I don’t feel angry now. I feel resistant and annoyed. But not angry. I don’t feel the need to punch anything. Her deal actually sounds doable.
“All right, Mom. But only if I can leave after a month.”
“If you”—and at the same time we both say—“absolutely hate it.”
Somehow I manage to make “axe” on the board, and then I go into the kitchen to load the dishwasher.
“I can do that,” Mom says, joining me.
“It’s fine, Mom.”
“Is it?” She watches me anxiously, fidgeting with her fingers.
“I’m not mad. I’ll do it. I’m not mad,” I assure her. She then smiles and kisses my hair. It must be exhausting for her. Any time she has an idea, she has to prepare for whatever crazy reaction I might have. It’s not just about me, though. Mom could use a friend too. Or someone she trusts enough to talk to who isn’t me.
SPANISH FLY
The light in the hallway is fluorescent and indescribably ugly. What’s worse is its insistent brightness. There is no spot on earth that needs this much light. It is not a hospitable atmosphere. Dariomauritius has been sitting on the floor outside his apartment for the better part of an hour, waiting for his father to shut off the television and go to sleep. Once he is asleep, few things can awaken him. Dari has done this before, though it’s been a while. He just has to wait it out.
Propped against his knees is his sketch pad. He practices contour drawing, which he doesn’t love. But under the circumstances, this method is ideal: the pencil must stay on the paper until the line has found its end. A human figure, for example, only requires about seven solid lines in total. The less the pencil moves, the less noise it makes. He barely breathes, and he certainly doesn’t move anything but his wrist. The only sounds that can be heard are the maddening hum of the light and the occasional footsteps on the stairs. No footsteps come near him. No danger of anyone saying hello. Though he usually isn’t in danger of pleasantries from strangers.
Izzy is a bitch, he thinks to himself. He immediately feels guilty. Of course she had to leave. Nobody wants to stay here. And now he’s on his own with the old man.
He can handle himself, but it takes a lot of energy. A lot of patience. Will he always have enough?
After a few moments of working on the hands, he hears the faint white noise of the television from inside cease. He looks up, stops drawing, stops breathing. For a few seconds. He hears the kitchen sink. His father’s ritual: glass of water before bed. The faucet shuts off, and there is a moment of quiet. Then he hears his father’s footsteps as they head toward the back bedroom. Dari smiles and starts to breathe softly. The homestretch. At last.
And then his phone rings. Dari drops his sketch pad with a clatter and fumbles nervously through his pockets, trying to grab it and silence it. Why the fuck didn’t he turn it off before? He’s able to stop it after three rings. He stands perfectly still, not breathing, not blinking. Until the door opens.
“Dariomauritius. Nice to see you this evening.” The old man smirks. Pure evil. Dari slumps inside. So close. So close.
“Thought you would just sneak to bed?”
Dari says nothing.
His father leads him into the kitchen and gestures for him to take a seat. Dari remains standing.
“Well? I’m waiting for an answer.”
“I need more freedom.”
His father is briefly perplexed. Then that man laughs like he just watched Key and Peele’s “I Said Bitch” sketch.
“You want me to give you more freedom? I suppose you see yourself as a slave.” He barely gets the words out, he’s laughing so hard.
Dari sighs, trying his best to draw from the patience well within himself. He decides to try reasoning.
“Would it be possible to at least discuss my curfew?” Dari carefully asks.
“I don’t see why,” his father answers. “You’ll just defy whatever I say. It’s your nature.”
“No, I won’t,” Dari unconsciously touches the dreadlock that got maimed the last time he tried to talk to his father.
“When you start obeying me consistently, I will consider altering the rules. You have not proven to me that you deserve such consideration.”
“What time did Izzy leave?”
“If you’d cared about that, you’d have come home earlier.”
“Do you care?” Dari asks, feeling bold.
“I beg your pardon?”
“Do you care that everyone leaves you?”
The freezer door. A little blood, but not much. His father is fast. Dari didn’t see the rise of the arm nor did he feel the impact of the punch. He did feel his face bash into the freezer door. And he now feels the blood seeping out of his lower lip where his teeth ripped into his flesh.
“Apologize to me.”
Dari wipes at his mouth, still seeing the proverbial stars. In his momentary haze, he wonders what freezer doors are made from. Is it hard plastic? Can’t be. Magnets can stick to it. Does that mean it’s metal? What the hell kind of metal looks like that?
“Son? Apologize to me.” He says it softer this time. Dari stares at him.
“You should apologize to me.” He says it quietly, but with authority. He is not proud. He does not feel defiant. He feels tired. So tired he can’t help but be honest. The old man is astounded and something else. He tries to cover it up, but it’s there. For a millisecond, maybe a nanosecond, he is afraid of his son.
“I swear I don’t know where you came from.” But then he quickly shakes his head, eager to contradict himself. “No. I do. This is your mother’s influence. You are her son,” he says as though it were the worst, most despicable thing a person could be. “She had the devil in her and now you have it in you.”
Dari almost laughs. The devil? For real? But he maintains his seriousness and stares at his father. His father stares at him. Neither of them willing to bu
dge or back down. It is a staring contest in hell. Time slows. Dari imagines the moon moving all over the sky at this moment, the second hand on the clock spinning around and around, hours passing. Days. The men have reached an impasse.
“Go to bed,” his father finally stammers.
“I’m not tired. You go to bed.” Dari does not stammer. He has found his deep reserve of patience. He is prepared to stand here all night. The longer he looks into his father’s eyes, the more he sees. The more anger and resentment and confusion and heartbreak. His father is a dreadfully unhappy man, and no one likes him. This is no major surprise to Dari, but looking into his eyes something does surprise him: His father knows no one likes him. Dari begins to feel sorry for him for the first time in his life. Not sorry enough to back down. Never that sorry.
Resisting defeat with all his might, his father finally just shakes his head.
“You are a great disappointment to me,” he proclaims and then skulks off to his bedroom and closes the door.
Dari swishes some water around his mouth and spits blood out in the sink. He feels calm. Not shaking from terror or euphoria. He just feels calm. He feels like he can handle whatever he needs to handle. He feels like the baddest ass that ever lived. Not in a puffed-up, arrogant way. It just feels like a fact. Like discovering that water is wet.
He checks his phone and sees one missed call. It’s from Lily. She also sent a text.
Hope u don’t get in trouble. Had an awesome time tonight. My mom digs u. He laughs quietly. He’s glad she called. No more hiding in hallways. Like a pussy.
* * *
A new face peers at him.
Alone in the art room, Dari works on a large piece that Ms. Spangler is allowing him to store there. Drawing comes naturally to Dari. He generally gives it as much thought as he gives breathing. Painting is different. It asks more of his hands. It’s more mysterious. It makes him work harder. At nine feet tall and six feet wide, this is the largest canvas Dari’s ever painted. He built it from objects he found all over the city. Two broken window frames, several stray plywood platforms, and some two-by-fours he found in a Dumpster. Took him almost two months to build the damn thing, and then his super caught him with it in the basement and had a piss fit. He still can’t believe Ms. Spangler had no problem with him keeping it in the art room, considering he’s a new student and all. Most folks are scared of tracking in bedbugs.
The Truth of Right Now Page 7
