Goodbye, Rebel Blue

by Shelley Coriell

  At Nate’s house, he plants me in the large sunroom where we painted bird decoys and goes to find his aunt, leaving me alone with the creepy statue in the corner, the one with angel wings and a sword.

  “That’s Saint Michael the Archangel.” The youngest Bolivar stands in the doorway. “He protects us against the wickedness and snares of the devil.”

  “Marco! Rebel so does not want to talk about the snares of the devil.” It’s Little Miss Vogue. Today she wears a red felt hat tilted across her forehead and a gray sheath with red boots, very 1920s.

  I nod but give Saint Michael my undivided attention.

  The felt-hat girl sits on a chair next to me. “How do you get the blue color so bright?”

  Saint Michael is grinding his foot into some guy’s head but managing to look saintly.

  “And how do you keep your hair so shiny and healthy looking? Are all those waves natural?”

  Girl with Red Hat reaches out a hand, and I duck. “Go away.”

  “It’s my house.” She crosses her right leg over her left and swings a red boot. She stares and swings. Swings and stares.

  “Exactly why are you watching me?” I ask.

  The swinging stops. “You have panache.” The little girl’s eyes grow wide and shiny, like Macey’s when she digs through peaches. “You have style and flair. People notice you.”

  “I don’t give a damn about panache.”

  “Which makes it work even better. It’s the juxtaposition of who you are on the outside with who you are on the inside. It totally works.”

  I can’t believe I’m sitting next to a ten-year-old who uses the word juxtaposition. And panache. “What’s your name?”

  “Carla Gabriella Maria Soltera Bolivar. Everyone calls me Gabby.”

  “Okay, Gabby. I’m going to be honest with you. With all your staring, you’re bugging the shit out of me.”

  “You shouldn’t swear.”

  I jump. The littlest Bolivar sits in a chair on my other side.

  “And you shouldn’t run around in your underwear,” I say. Today’s tightie whities are sprinkled with dump trucks.

  He sticks out his tongue and runs away.

  “People must stare at you all the time,” Gabby says. “You’re beautiful.”

  I’m not tall and leggy like Cousin Pen and the Cupcakes. I’m not elegant and put together like Aunt Evelyn. And I don’t have that adventurous, windblown look my mother pulled off. Even with the blue streaks, I have average brown hair with average waves and average brown eyes.

  Before I bemoan my less-than-average chest, Nate walks in with Tia Mina. She strokes her chin as she glides in a half circle around me. “You could do well at the tango. You short, but all legs. You have attitude. Passion.”

  “I have a pain-in-the-butt bucket list,” I say under my breath.

  Nate hides a chuckle behind his hand.

  “Yes, I teach.” She claps her hands and leaves the room, waving over her shoulder. “Take off shoes. I be back.”

  I kick off my flip-flops, and they make a happy, clacking sound as they hit the tile floor. “I like this dance already.”

  Nate slips his hand along my back and guides me to the middle of the floor, his tennis shoes making soft, shuffling sounds, his palm firm and steady, as if there is nothing unusual about escorting girls with blue hair to tango lessons. A warped laugh builds in my chest, and I’m about to let it loose when Tia Mina walks back in, a pair of strappy black heels dangling from her fingers.

  “For you,” she says.

  I wave off the offending creatures. “No, thank you.”

  “But Nate is so tall,” Gabby says. “With the stilettos, you’ll fit better in his arms.”

  “I can’t walk in heels, let alone dance in them.”

  Gabby crosses her hands over her chest. “It’s not a true tango without heels.” Tia Mina nods.

  Out of the corner of my eye, I catch Nate’s arched eyebrow. “Fine. I’ll wear the heels, but please note, I cannot be held liable for any bodily damage I cause to anyone in this room while in these shoes.”

  “I’ll risk it.” Nate’s voice is a low thrum, his fingers warm against my back.

  After I put on the heels, Tia Mina shows us how to create the frame. I rest my hand on Nate’s rock-hard shoulder. I can see why he’s one of the baseball team’s superstars. Nate’s hand settles at my waist. He must feel the butterflies stampeding in my midsection. Tia Mina joins our free hands, palm to palm, just like that moment in his dad’s truck when we were surrounded only by darkness and the brush of each other’s breath. My hand trembles, as if I’m going through nicotine withdrawal. Nate is steady, poised.

  “Slow … slow … quick, quick … slow.” Tia Mina claps her hands. “Got it?”

  Nate nods. I don’t. The movements are fast and jerky. My feet tangle, and I fall, my tailbone smacking the cold tile. “That would be slow … slow … quick, quick … crash,” I say.

  Nate helps me stand. We go through the movements again, Nate confident and encouraging. I step on his toes. I step on my toes. At one point I step on Gabby’s toes.

  “You don’t go to many school dances, do you?” Gabby asks.

  I ignore her. When I manage to make it across the floor without stumbling, Tia Mina announces we’re ready to try it with music.

  “And this,” Gabby says. She thrusts a red bushy flower made of paper under my nose.

  I wave off the monstrosity. “I am not going to hold a flower between my teeth.”

  “Don’t be a dork, Rebel. It’s for your hair.” Gabby’s nimble fingers slide through my hair as she pins the flower behind my ear.

  “Perfect,” Nate says as he takes me into his arms.

  And for a single moment as I look up at him, I’m not a trapezoid, I’m not a misfit. I’m perfect.

  Tia Mina puts on music, and Nate and I move about the room, sometimes gliding, sometimes falling. Each time, Nate scoops me off the ground with his big, strong hands. I watch his feet, focus on his fingers pressing into my back and guiding me. Nate sweats, a tiny pool at the collar of his T-shirt, but he’s the type of guy who looks good in sweat. He lifts my arm and spins me. Then he pulls me to his chest, his heart thudding against mine. His breath fans my neck as we arch back. The room blurs around the edges.

  “Not bad,” he says, his lips against my ear.

  No, not bad at all.

  Tia Mina claps her hands. “Basta!”

  “But I was getting the hang of it,” I say.

  She points to my high heels. “Feet need rest.”

  For the first time I notice the sharp pain on my heel where the strap digs into what feels like a blister. To say Nate has the power to distract me is an understatement.

  I pull away from Nate and slow my breathing. “Check. Another bucket-list item complete.”

  Nate lowers his face toward me. “That was not about the bucket list.”

  So arrogant. So cocky. So true.

  “YOU HAVE CARBURETOR PROBLEM.” A MAN IN NAVY overalls points to Nova, who is parked in front of the Bolivar house. The man has Nate’s thick, dark hair, although sprinkled with gray at the temples, and Nate’s dimples. He wears bandages on three knuckles of his right hand.

  I switch off Nova’s engine and hop off my scooter. “That’s what Nate said.”

  Nate’s dad unlocks the toolbox in the back of his old truck and takes out a short screwdriver. “My boy, he smart. Going to make money with head, not hands.” Mr. Bolivar shows me his hands, the knuckles thick and covered with scabs, his fingertips cracked. He lifts the side case off my scooter and uses the screwdriver to turn a knob. “Natanel’s going to get MBA, run big business, make big money.”

  I picture Nate in his dark suit the day of Kennedy’s funeral. He looked good but not comfortable, tugging at his shirt as if it didn’t fit right, jiggling his shoes as if they were too tight. I’m not sure if I can see him running a boardroom, but I know that whatever Nate chooses to do, he’ll do it well. He
can tutor and tango and flip my world upside down. And today he’s going to install curved roof tiles on mudflats to serve as itty-bitty condos to protect baby sea swallows once they hatch, and I’m going to help.

  “Now try it.” Mr. Bolivar points the screwdriver at the ignition. I turn the key, and Nova hums. He pops the side case back on and climbs into his truck. I watch him pull away, taking note of how nice it feels to be on the other end of a random act of kindness.

  Inside the house Gabby waits for me in the entryway. “Nate’s at baseball practice. He called and told me to tell you his coach is making them all work another hour.” She grabs my hand and pulls me to a sofa in the family room, giving me no time to concentrate on my disappointment. Stretching out on the back of the sofa, she pinches a lock of my hair between her fingers. “So how do you get it so blue?”

  I tug the hair from her hand and try to glare, but she looks silly as her eyes cross in concentration. I laugh. “You’re not going to leave me alone until I tell you, are you?”

  She props her chin on her palm and gives me a cheesy grin. “Nope.”

  “You have patience, right? I mean, you’re not one of these give-me-a-friggin’-ice-cream-cone-now-or-I’ll-scream-my-head-off kids, are you?”

  She slides off the back of the couch, her head dipping in a frantic nod.

  “Where’s your mom?”

  “At work.”

  “Tia Mina?”

  Gabby drags me to the kitchen, where Tia Mina is helping Nate the Younger pull a tray of flan from the oven. “May I kidnap Gabby?” I ask.

  “Have her back by Monday morning, or the nuns at Our Lady of Sorrows Elementary School will cry.”

  Gabby squeals. “Where are we going?”

  I lead her out of the kitchen. “You, Carla Gabriella Maria Soltera Bolivar, are going to experience a random act of kindness.”

  Outside in the Bolivars’ driveway, Gabby climbs on the back of Nova, and I swear.

  “What’s wrong?” Gabby asks.

  “I only have one helmet. We can’t ride with one helmet.” Her bottom lip quivers, and I want to kick myself. “I’m sorry, Gabby, but there are some rules that can’t be broken. Everyone needs to wear a helmet.”

  Gabby jumps off the bike, and I’m worried she’ll throw herself to the ground in a tantrum, but she runs into the house. Less than a minute later, she rushes out with a helmet, brandishing it like a trophy from the regional track-and-field meet. “It’s Tia Mina’s. She drives a sand rail.”

  “Of course the aunt who tangos also drives off-road vehicles,” I say with an almost straight face.

  “Tia Mina has done a lot of things since Tio Rogelio died. She rode an elephant, met the Pope, and swam with sharks. She says when she dies and goes to heaven, she wants to meet Saint Peter at the gates with no regrets.”

  Interesting. Another bucket list. I try to live fully and passionately in the moment without a bucket list, but maybe other people need one to get them started. Call me rebellious or daring, but when I die, I’ll be a corpse with no regrets.

  I put the helmet on Gabby and tighten the strap. I wonder if Kennedy had any regrets that day she drove off a cliff and crashed into the rocky sea. I imagine most people who die in accidents have regrets or unfinished business on Earth. Maybe that was the case with Kennedy. Maybe that’s why I keep hearing her voice.

  I pop my helmet onto my skull, knocking some sense into my head. Kennedy is not some kind of spirit caught between worlds, because the afterlife does not exist.

  I help Gabby onto the seat and show her where to put her feet. As I climb on, she wraps her arms around me, her body snuggling against mine. A strange tremor shakes my torso. This is the first time someone has been on my scooter with me. Shaking off the startling realization, I turn the ignition and take off.

  At the bungalow, I march Gabby through the living room, where Pen and a few Cupcakes are making rah-rah signs for an upcoming track meet. Pen drops her paintbrush and watches me with narrowed eyes.

  “Chill, Pen. I only eat little children on days with full moons.”

  In the bathroom I point to the toilet. “Sit.”

  Gabby parks her squirming butt on the lid. I rummage through the cupboard under the sink and pull out a plastic basket. Gabby hugs her hands to her chest, and I freeze. If happiness had a picture in the dictionary, it would be Gabby’s face. As I often do these days, I think of Kennedy. I wonder if this is why Kennedy chose to do so much good, to see these kinds of faces.

  I clear the sudden thickness in my throat, reach into my hair basket, and take out a small bottle. “Here’s the secret. No-frills store-brand dye from Bella’s Discount Beauty Supply. Aisle three, bottom shelf. Electric Blue #1111. On sale days you can get it for eight ninety-nine.”

  “Eight ninety-nine.”

  I take out another bottle. “But before the hair dye you need to bleach out your natural color for the blue to take.”

  “Can you do it on my hair?” Gabby flips her thick fall of black, waist-length hair.

  “No.”

  “Why not?”

  “The nuns at Our Lady of Sorrows will kill me, if your parents don’t get to me first.”

  “No, they won’t. Nate likes you, and Mom and Dad like all of Nate’s girlfriends.”

  I set the bottle of bleach on the counter and take out a tiny fan brush, plastic gloves, and foil. “Exactly how many has he had?”

  “Girlfriends? Lots. Everyone loves Nate, but none of them have panache, like you.” She squints her eyes and presses her lips together in her cheesy, butt-kissing grin. “So dye my hair. Pleeeeease.”

  “Not until your parents agree.”

  She scrunches her nose, and I can see the gears in her manipulative little brain whirring. “If they say yes, will you dye my hair blue for me?”

  “Sure, but I want it in writing.” I snap on the gloves. “In the meantime, I’ll show you on a piece of my hair. That way you can do root touch-ups yourself after I do the initial dye job. I don’t want you to end up with orange hair. Or worse.”

  She nods gravely. “Or worse.”

  I dig through the basket and find a narrow comb. “You want a straight, sharp section of hair. This gives the most dramatic flair.”

  “Dramatic flair.”

  I swallow a laugh. “Now for the bleach.” I settle a foil beneath the hair strands.

  “I think Nate and you should go to prom.”

  I uncap the bleach. “I think Nate and I should continue to paint rubber birds.”

  “I’m serious. He likes you. I mean like likes you.”

  “When applying the bleach, the secret is to fan out the hair. That way you’ll get more even coverage.”

  “He looks at you. You know, in that way.”

  “It’s a long and tedious process.”

  “And he—”

  “Gabby?”

  “What?”

  “Shut up or you won’t get blue hair.”

  She brings her thumb and forefinger to her closed mouth, twists, and pretends to throw away the key.

  When Gabby and I get back to the house, Nate is sitting on the bench in the entryway, fresh from the shower, tying his tennis shoes. Drops of water pool on the tips of his hair and dampen the collar of his polo, while other water droplets slide along his collarbone, making his bronze skin glisten. Nate has his own brand of panache.

  “Sorry I’m late.” He stands and gives his head a wag. Droplets fly through the air, and I breathe in the clean smell of Nate. “We had the baseball practice from hell.”

  “A hell of your choosing,” I say as we walk to the driveway.

  “Thanks for the brutal honesty.” Nate grins as he slides a long, muscled leg over Nova.

  I freeze in the middle of the driveway. We’re supposed to go to the mudflats to put in shelters for the baby chicks, a process that involves half-buried ceramic roof tiles, which should not require the need for any skin contact. “You want to take my scooter to the mudflats?”
r />   “My dad took the truck.”

  I rock back on my heels.

  “Is there something wrong?” Nate asks.

  Not much. Just that we’re about to get on a scooter, and you may very well wrap your arms around me and press your chest against my back.

  What are you afraid of?

  I rub the center of my forehead. There are no such things as spirits. There are no such things as spirits.

  Nate reaches for my hand and pulls me toward him. Up close I can see the dampness spiking his lashes.

  “Rebel, is there a problem?”

  No lies.

  The words brush the back of my neck in a whisper. I spin, searching for a blond perky ponytail. Of course I see nothing but Nate’s empty driveway. Enough crazy. I grab Tia Mina’s helmet and thrust it into Nate’s stomach. “The problem is, you need a helmet.”

  At the mudflats, four other members of the 100 Club are waiting, and I’m thankful for them and the endangered sea swallows—anything to take my mind off the feel of Nate’s legs around mine on the drive to the preserve. Nate directs club members to put up the chicken wire on the fence posts he’d set up last week. He explains that the fencing will keep out predators and human foot traffic. Then he takes me to a small mound of ceramic roof tiles.

  “You and I will wedge these tiles into firmer sections of the mudflats.” He thrusts a tile into a mound of banked earth. “Instant chick condos.” Nate grins, his smile so wide and white, it takes my breath away. The lack of oxygen has apparently killed a few brain cells, because I can think of nothing to say. I grin and nod.

  Lucky for me, I don’t have to say much over the next four hours as construction on the nesting site continues. All afternoon Nate and I dig and construct and clear weeds. From one of the other club members I learn that Nate’s spent more than a hundred hours on the site. A guy like Nate cares. He cares about endangered birds. He cares about good grades, the Del Rey School baseball team, his family, and me.

  Me. Nate cares about me. A strange wave of something light and electric washes over me, and I steady myself on my shovel.

  After the last ceramic tile is in place, I rinse my shovel in a shallow inlet and take it to Bronson’s Mustang. Nate stands at the trunk—shirtless—loading the supplies. A small gold cross dangles from a chain around his neck. Mud streaks his arms and legs, and sweat dampens the waist of his sporto shorts, a look that totally beats his funeral suit. I almost drop my shovel before I can slip it into the trunk of Bronson’s car.