He laughs, but continues to drive and plugs in a tape deck converter for his ipod. “Here,” he says, handing me the little black mp3 player. “Find Sweet Jane by the Cowboy Junkies.”
I take it, and sort through his songs finding the one he wants.
It’s a slow sweet classic, and the woman’s voice instantly makes me feel more comfortable. Her lyrics give purpose to my silence, and I allow myself to stay quiet and listen without feeling pressure to be chatty.
He must sense me relaxing a bit because he gives me a knowing smile. He has perfect, white teeth and the most kissable full lips I’ve ever seen. I like that he isn’t a chiseled block of muscle and that his black curly hair is a little messy. He’s a band geek, through and through, which keeps him from being out of my league.
“I live on Maple Street.”
He drums his hands on the steering wheel, and I notice the masculine strength in them. His fingers are long and squared off at the tips with clean short nails. I don’t know why I notice those kinds of details, but I do. Perfect teeth and good-looking hands are my own personal test for how sexy a man is.
“I was hoping you’d forget to tell me.”
He glances over at me, waiting for my laugh, but I completely miss the joke or the attempt at flirting. Whatever it is, I completely flop.
“Oh,” I half-laugh uncomfortably. That’s it. That’s all I say. Oh.
I’m so embarrassed when he pulls up to my apartment that I hardly let him get a word in as I say goodbye.
“Okay. Thanks for the ride. It was really nice. Thanks. See you later.”
I shut the door mid-sentence, but he lets me go, waving at me through the window with that same smile, like I’m the most interesting thing he’s ever seen.
* * *
I tell my mom all of it. I’m incapable of keeping anything from her, but I like it that way.
“He’s not the super jock smokin’ hot kind of cute, but more like that comfy boyfriendy cute, you know?”
Mom nods, holding her grin behind the smirking line of her tight lips.
“What?” I ask, crossing my legs on our olive green thrift store sofa. “Am I talking about him too much?”
“Yeah, but I like it.”
A rerun of Friends is playing in the background. I’ve seen it a million times so I’m not paying attention.
“Did you give him back his sweater?” she asks.
“Yeah,” I laugh. “I kind of miss it.”
“That’s creepy.”
I can’t keep the smile off my face. “I know! I’m a creep.”
“So do you think he likes you?”
I get a sick feeling as I ponder that question. “You don’t think this is like some Carrie teenager prank thing do you?”
“No,” she waves a hand at me. “You’re beautiful and sweet. Who wouldn’t love you?”
“Oh God.”
She glances out the window for the fifth time since I’ve been home. It’s starting to get dark.
I sigh, getting nervous too. “Where the hell is she?”
“Probably basketball practice, right?”
I shake my head. “She didn’t tell you she got kicked off?”
Mom’s shoulders sag, and her features mimic the defeated slope of her posture. “No. She didn’t tell me.”
“She’s probably just hanging out with a friend,” I say.
“Probably,” she murmurs, sipping her merlot as she stares out the window.
We sit in silence for a while, both quietly convincing ourselves Lucy is fine, but there’s always that dark whisper of possibility that something is wrong.
“Okay, just one more thing,” I say trying to distract her. “He’s got these lips that are...I don’t know. They’re perfect. Oh, and he played this song in the car. I can’t remember what it was called, but it made me feel like...I was in a movie—”
Someone knocks at the door, and Mom and I look at each other. I already know what she’s thinking. I can see thoughts of my sister in her worried eyes, and I’m imagining the same things. Back home in Massack we might not have worried so much, but in some strange city, unimaginable threats seem possible.
I rush to the door, terrified it will be a policeman or someone carrying her mangled body in their arms.
My throat hitches as I reach for the knob.
It’s Josh.
I have no idea how long I stand there saying nothing.
“Hi,” he says, peeking around me to give a shy wave to my mom.
I glance back at her and widen my eyes enough to speak a silent Oh. My. God. Then I close the door behind me.
“Hey, what are you...what’s up?” I ask, failing in my attempt to act casual.
My backpack is in his hand. “You forgot this.”
“Oh. Thanks.” I take it and balance its weight on the tops of my feet. “So how’d you find my apart—”
“And then I thought, it’s Friday,” he interrupts, bobbing a little on his tiptoes with both hands in his pockets. “We don’t have school tomorrow. Maybe you... maybe we could go somewhere?”
It’s in that moment, alone with the crickets, as we breathe the cold dusky air between us, that I realize he’s as nervous as I am.
“Yeah,” I say, trying to tame my smile. “Yeah, sure. Let me just put this...” Everything is rushed in my excitement. I step back in the house to drop my bag and shut the door, leaving him to wait outside.
Mom looks at me with a thousand questions, and I do a spinning run-in-place happy dance, before miming to her that I’ll be back later.
She nods, shooing me out the door, and I meet Josh in the entry.
“So where do you want to go?” I ask, trying to abate the anxiety that’s making me sweat.
“I don’t know. Let’s just see where we end up.”
His car smells like oil and the faintest hint of cedar-wood, just like his sweater. I wish I could record the smell, or trap it somehow.
“Here.” He hands me the ipod again, but this time I feel a little more comfortable. “Your turn. Pick something.”
“Like, anything?” I scan the artists. “I don’t know if I recognize any.”
“Lucky you. I’d kill to hear some of those songs for the first time again.”
I skip through a few as we drive, looking up every so often to see where he’s heading, but I don’t know the place well enough.
“Neutral Milk Hotel?” I laugh at a band’s name. “What the heck is that?”
“You laugh, but it’s pure gold. I promise.”
I’m skeptical, but I click.
He’s right. It’s magic. I smile, feeling like I’ve just been let in on some kind of musical secret, and as we drive, he writes the first few lines of our story with the lyrics of his songs.
CHAPTER 23
Lucy
SIXTH PERIOD DITCHING BECOMES a thing. I figure, Dani’s right, if we’re going to get an A anyway, why not have fun at the end of the school day? Her apartment is a lot like ours. The building is rundown and dated, but the street is cute. I follow her up a set of wooden stairs and through a dirty white front door. It’s poorly lit inside. There’s only one window on the left as you enter through the living room. A dark hallway to the right leads to the bedrooms.
She flips on the lights and sets her backpack on the scuffed-up maple coffee table in front of their brown suede sofa. I do the same and crash into the couch, turning on the TV.
“What do you have to snack on?” I ask, already feeling at home with her.
She opens the cupboards and pulls out a tray of Chips A’hoy cookies. “Dude, I’m gonna get so baked and eat this whole thing right now.”
I’ve never been high, but I’ve seen people smoke. She sits down next to me, putting the cookies on her lap, and takes a glass pipe from her pocket.
“You had that at school?” I ask, shocked.
She shrugs. “Yeah. Nobody’s checking my pockets. They don’t care.”
“They would if they found it.”<
br />
“Whatever.” She opens an old black and grey plastic film canister and shoves a nug into the bowl of the pipe. I can almost taste the sticky skunky smell of it.
She lights it and takes a hit, holding it in as I watch.
“Want some?” she asks with a held breath that comes spilling out in a chain of coughs.
I shake my head. “I’d probably have a bad trip or something.”
She acts like it’s the funniest thing she’s ever heard, and her deep belly laugh makes me smile at her. “What?”
“I don’t think it’s possible to have a bad trip on weed.”
I eye the pipe skeptically.
“You want to shotgun?” she asks. “That way you can feel what it’s like without getting roasted?”
“What’s shotgun?”
“I take a hit and blow it into your mouth. It’s kind of like...less harsh.”
Her glossy eyes have started to narrow, wrinkling at the edges with her perma-smile.
“You don’t have to. I don’t care,” she says. “I’m taking another one, though.”
I watch the smoke stream through the clear pipe as she sucks it into her lungs. She holds it in, raises her eyebrows at me.
“Fine. Okay,” I say scooting closer with a rush of nerves and excitement.
She takes my cheeks in her hands and gets really close. I pucker my lips, as if I’m sucking through an invisible straw and she breathes the hot smoke into my mouth. Her lips don’t touch mine, but the sensation is almost like a kiss. There isn’t romance or sexual tension in the way she does it, yet I still feel closer to her. Like we’re sisters.
I blow out a puff of smoke, much weaker than hers, and immediately relax into the subtle tingle it brings on.
“Did it work?” she asks.
I wait. “I don’t know.”
“Just take a real hit.” She hands me the pipe and coaches me as I suck smoke through the glass tube. “Don’t forget to inhale it.”
As I do I feel it catch in my throat and start coughing uncontrollably. She bites her tongue and smiles. “You’ll definitely feel it now.”
“How will I know?”
She shrugs. “You’ll just know. You’ll feel it. It feels good.”
I take a deep breath.
“I think I do. I really like breathing...in. You know? Breathing feels really good.”
She coughs out her next hit. “Yep. You’re fucked up.”
“No, I’m serious,” I say through an unstoppable string of hiccupped laughter.
The doorbell rings.
I get quiet. “Shit.” We both stare at the door in silence. “Who the fuck is that?”
“I don’t know,” she whispers.
“Were we laughing really loud? Do you think the neighbors can smell it? Do you think they know?”
She starts sniffing the air. “Maybe.”
The sniffing sets me off, and I cup my hand to my mouth to keep my laughter silent.
“Shut up!” She slaps my arm. “What if it’s the cops?”
The knock comes again, louder.
I’m convinced it’s the cops.
“Dani! We can hear you. Open up.”
Dani collapses briefly into the couch. “God! It’s my boyfriend.” She sighs out her relief and jumps up to let him in.
“Shit, Paco,” she says, answering the door. “We thought you were the cops.”
I stay on the couch as her boyfriend walks in with a friend in tow. My eyelids are heavy, almost tired, and I lick my teeth trying to get the dry feeling out of my mouth. I have no desire to move from my spot, so I don’t get up to say hi or introduce myself.
Instead I watch the three of them as they talk, like they’re in a movie. I don’t hear a word they’re saying. I’m too busy analyzing the two new male figures infringing on my comfort zone. Both of them are Mexican, like Angel. So is Dani, I tell myself, trying not to let that single fact sway me against them.
Dani’s boyfriend is the shorter one. He’s got a cap of black hair that hugs his large head. He’s not the cute one.
His friend is tall and toned with light brown, almost golden hair that hangs to his ears. His skin is a seductive caramel-tan. There is a silver stud just below his lip that makes it pout in just the right way, but I don’t care that he’s cute. I want them to leave.
I don’t know if it’s the pot or what, but I swear the friend hears my thought. I put my head down quickly as he flashes me a glance.
“Hey, what’s up,” he says, sitting down on the other end of the couch, as far away from me as possible.
The deep rolling purr of his voice makes me look up. It pulls at my interest in the same hypnotic way a foreign accent would. “Hey.”
Dani and her boyfriend are busy tickling and flirting, which puts this guy and I in a weird spot. I watch the two of them kiss and whisper for a while, hoping she gets the hint. She doesn’t.
“I’m Gabe,” he says, without looking at me in the meat-hungry way I expect him to. Instead, he reaches for the remote. “Can I change it?”
I realize the TV is playing reruns of Saved By the Bell. “What, you don’t like this show?” I tease, trying to seem comfortable.
He laughs quietly, and switches it to a basketball game on ESPN.
We watch the game in silence, and it’s not the silence that bugs me, it’s the kissy smoochy sounds coming from the armchair next to the window. It sets my nerves on end in a way it shouldn’t. I try not to think of Angel. Try not to feel paranoid and dragged down by the weed, but I’m stuck in this spot on the couch and itching to leave at the same time.
I let out a sigh without realizing it, and Gabe gives me a sideways glance.
“I can change it back if you’re not a basketball fan.” The offer is sincere, but I don’t care what we watch.
“No it’s fine. I like basketball. I used to play.”
“Used to?”
My eyes drift in his direction, but only for a second. “I got kicked off the team.”
I can feel him looking at me, but I keep watching the game.
“Why?”
I shrug. “Punched a girl in the face.”
“No shit.” He laughs to himself with his eyebrows raised in shock. “Pinche guera loca.”
I look straight into his deep amber eyes. “Why does everyone call me that?”
His smiling face withdraws into an apologetic frown like he wasn’t expecting me to understand Spanish. “What? Loca?”
“Guera,” I say, flashing back to San Jose. “It’s my nickname.”
He shrugs. “’Cause you’re white.”
I turn back to the TV. Same name, different city. I can’t escape it.
“My name is Lucy,” I say, making a point to be rid of Guera.
He doesn’t say anything at first, and I think he’s gone back to the game, but then he smirks to himself.
“Lucy.” He glances at me. “I like that better. It reminds me of Luz. Luz means ‘light’ in Spanish.”
I know what luz means, but I’ve never made the connection. I like it, too.
“So you think I’m loca, huh?”
“No.” He shifts uncomfortably and scratches his neck. “I meant it in a good way. Like you’re kind of a crazy white girl.”
Not a good recovery. I don’t know whether to be offended or to laugh in his face, but the weed makes me too lazy to be mad. “I just don’t do fake, so yeah, I guess that does make me kind of crazy sometimes. If you like me, you’ll love me. If you hate me, then yeah, I’ll probably punch you in the face.”
“I like you. I like you,” he says, hands up in feigned surrender.
I smile, but I’m not ready to be liked by any boy, no matter how cute or charming.
“Yeah, we’ll see.”
* * *
And I do like him. He is shy and quiet, and never gets too close to me or says anything that makes me nervous. In the weeks that follow, he and Paco show up at Dani’s every day during our sixth period ditch. They’re se
niors in a continuation school that gets out earlier than the high school, so it works out perfectly.
We blast reggaeton music and make homemade salsa and guacamole. Dani teaches me how to make corn chips out of tortillas. The boys speak Spanish to each other and Dani pretends not to listen, but whispers every word of it to me as we make food in the kitchen. That’s how I find out he likes me.
“What?” she asks, confused by the way I’m glaring at her. “I thought you’d be happy he likes you. Don’t you like him?”
I take a sip of my beer. Nothing goes better with fresh chips and salsa than beer. I use the excuse to drink as a way to stall, and finish off my second bottle.
“I...no. I don’t like anybody. I don’t want anybody to like me. I just—”
“Are you gay?”
“What? No!”
“It’s okay if you are. I’m cool with that.”
“I’m not gay, okay?” I wipe a hand over my face. The numbing buzz of the alcohol makes me feel a little floaty, but the conversation is sobering. “There was a guy before. He really fucked me up. I don’t want to talk about it, but I’m not over it. That’s all. That’s it.”
She holds her hands up like I’ve got a gun pointed at her. “Okay. I get it. No boys. Sucks for you.”
The secret knowledge of his crush irks me for the next hour. I drink too much because of it, and every friendly joke is taken too personally.
I sit on the couch, hugging my knees as the three of them play Cards Against Humanity. They laugh to the point of tears, but I’m angry so I don’t care why they’re laughing. Gabe liking me ruins everything. This perfect group of friends I’ve found is as good as over, so why bother.
“So, you think Luz is a quiet drunk or a sad drunk?” Gabe says too loudly, trying to lure me into their game.
“Shut up, Gabe.” I take a swig.
“Definitely mad drunk,” he corrects, leaving their game to peek under my bowed head.
I lift my eyes to glare at him.
“I’m not sure I’ve ever seen a drunk Luz. I don’t know if—”
“I said, SHUT UP, Gabe.” I stand and push him, wobbling into a dizzy stumble as I trip over my backpack. He doesn’t fall, but watches me struggle to my feet. I grab my bag and head for the door.
As I open it, Gabe catches my hand at the top of the staircase. “Hey, you’re drunk. You shouldn’t walk home by yourself.”
Carry Me Home Page 11
