“No!” Sookie laughs self-consciously, looks to me. “It’s not, right?”
I shrug.
“It’s not,” Sookie insists.
Diego inspects the party items crowding the kitchen counters—chips, sweet and salty pastelitos, a half-empty bottle of wine. He takes a swig of the wine and hands the bottle to Jade. She waves him away.
“Maybe we should . . . beat it, beat it,” Diego says.
“Beat it, beat it . . . ,” Jade harmonizes, but nobody moves.
Because we’ve come to another realization tonight: that this is not the life we imagined for our missing Sally. The life we imagined included a better house, a better family, everything better. We had constructed an elaborate lie, in which Sally sailed off into the sunset unharmed by her losses, when what really happened was Sally left everything she knew, every anchor to her happiness, to trudge through the abyss alone.
We’re somber when Mrs. Blake reappears, juggling a gift box, a rose-filled vase, and an empty wineglass. I rush forward to take the vase. Diego rescues the box. Mrs. Blake clings to the wineglass. When her hands are mostly free, she sighs and tops off the glass. Then she takes a large gulp and sighs again.
“Let’s see,” she says, centering the vase and gift box on the table. “Perfect.” She takes another big gulp.
“Pretty, Mrs. Blake,” Jade says, her voice unnaturally high.
“Ms. Martin,” she corrects. “My maiden name . . . I took it back after the divorce.”
We exchange looks that say: This is getting worse by the minute. I’d like to sneak out the front door now.
But it’s Sookie, always Sookie, who regains our equilibrium. She says, “Ms. Martin, the flowers are beautiful.”
Ms. Martin smiles gratefully. “You only turn eighteen once and . . . and . . . we missed it. I missed it. I . . . I completely forgot. The real day, that is. With everything that’s been going on . . .” She glances around at the house. “Anyway, there’s a rose for each year of her life.”
We admire the roses, the buds still tight, a few petals straining to bloom.
A car door slams outside, and Boone’s boisterous voice urges Sally up the walkway.
“I guess we’re staying,” Diego whispers.
“Life is what happens to us while we are making other plans,” I say, quoting Allen Saunders. Old Mrs. B taped that life lesson to our janitor’s closet wall a few weeks back.
“I don’t like that quote,” Sookie says as we crouch in the dark behind the dining room table. Collectively, we inhale our breaths, and when the door swings open, we yell, “Surprise!”
Middle School
12. ALWAYS
ERIKA’S KISS LANDED ON THE side of my mouth. One-quarter lip, three-quarter chin. No big deal. And not my fault. “She kissed me” is what I said to Sally afterward.
But did I take it in for a second? Two? Three?
Was I curious, caught up in the whole shift from barely noticeable to kissable?
Maybe.
Probably.
The Monday after the kiss, Sally brought me a bag of Hershey’s Kisses. “In case you need some today. There’s a lot to choose from. I got the variety pack. You can try them all out.”
That Tuesday, in the cafeteria, she tripped me. When I hit the floor, she snapped, “The floor can kiss it and make it better.”
On Wednesday she tried ignoring me.
But on Thursday, as we printed out our English papers in the school library, she finally started talking. “Look, Erika likes you. Sookie was right. She is all ‘love eyes.’ So, admit it. And admit that you wanted her to kiss you.”
But I didn’t want her to kiss me. I couldn’t have predicted that end to tug-of-war if I’d tried.
“Then why didn’t you push her off you?”
“I was surprised, and anyway, it was like here.” I pointed to my cheek. “Not here.” I pointed to my lips.
“It was here,” Sally said, and placed her index finger on her lip and the middle, on the skin beneath her lip. “If you moved your head, it would have been here.” She moved the two fingers square onto her lips.
“Nope. It would have been here.” I put two fingers square on my cheek.
She glared at me. “You’re avoiding the question. Do you like her?”
“Too much noise. If you want to make noise, go back to the cafeteria,” called Old Mr. B from the circulation desk.
Old Mr. B was our school librarian and the man who gave Old Mrs. B the last name Banks. If she hadn’t married him, her name would have been Old Ms. D for Dumas. But as of middle school, they had been married for almost forty years. The fact that our school librarian was married to our city librarian always cracked Diego up. Every time he stepped foot into our school library, he’d be like, “You know how Old Mr. B met Old Mrs. B? He checked her out.”
“Sorry, Mr. Banks,” I called out, and looked at Sally with a big smile.
“Why are you smiling?” she hissed.
I shrugged, even though I knew why. I was smiling because she was jealous, and if she was jealous, then she didn’t just like me; she really, really liked me. And if she really, really liked me, then I could ask the thing that I had been wanting to ask.
“You’re being really creepy,” she said.
Smile got bigger.
“Stop!” Her voice rose again.
“Sally Blake and Marco Suarez,” Old Mr. B called out. “You need to take that outside.”
“But we’re sorry,” I called back.
“Outside.”
“See?” Sally said, obviously frustrated. “See?”
She stood, and I popped up behind her, grabbing my books.
“What are you doing?”
“He kicked us both out.”
“No.”
“No?”
“Yes.”
“Which is it?”
She walked ahead, pausing every now and then to give me a dirty look. Outside, I began to laugh.
“Why are you laughing?” She turned to me—arms wide, palms up.
“Why are you so pissed?” I asked.
“Because . . .”
“Because what?”
“Because you’re kissing two girls, and one of them is me.”
In that moment I had more courage than ever before. I grabbed her hand and tugged her close enough to feel the inhalation of her breath.
“What?” she whispered.
“I like you. I keep telling you that, you know.”
Her eyes darted to the side, and her mouth formed a stubborn little line. “That doesn’t mean anything if you’re kissing Erika too.”
I moved closer, until my lips were next to hers. One-quarter lip, three-quarters cheeks. I waited to see if she would move away, but instead she moved closer. Her hand squeezed mine. She looked at me with big gray eyes.
“Only you,” I said. And even though I knew that dismissal bell would ring at any moment and the tribe would come pouring out of lunch, I held us there a little longer. I let my hand curl around her waist. I let my lips inch along hers until we were four-quarters lip to lip.
One hundred percent. Together.
Sally leaned in to me, our bodies aligning, not perfectly, but close enough. And I said the thing that I had been wanting to say all along.
Will you be mine?
Not just to the dance.
But for always?
I used that word, “always.”
“Always?” she said.
“Always.”
Senior Year
13. WE WIN
AFTER WE YELLED SURPRISE (AND what a surprise it was!)
After Ms. Martin went on and on about the good old times.
After Boone gave us the death stare because he knew he had not invited us.
After Sally, wide-eyed and nervous, blew out the birthday candles.
After the cake had been cut and the birthday presents opened: a gift card from Ms. Martin, a BuLiMaL (BUDDHIST LIVE MANY LIVES) poster from Boone, an
d a voter’s registration application from the supply that Sookie keeps in her Dodge van—because you never know when I’ll run into someone who isn’t registered!
After all that, we declared the ceremonial festivities over, and Ms. Martin took a fresh bottle of wine and headed to bed. We sat in Sally’s backyard and tried not to think about the crying attack that had hit her in the middle of cutting her cake and had gone on until Boone had led her away with, “Hey, Sally, let’s go to your room and get you right again,” Ms. Martin trailing behind, a hand nervously fluttering in the air.
DIEGO
That was . . . Wow.
JADE
Yeah, and . . . and, like, really sad.
SOOKIE
Yeah, this is . . . not what I thought it was going to be.
DIEGO
This is, we win life.
JADE
And not in a good way.
Diego pointed to the church pamphlet stuck to the refrigerator door. Circled in a bright marker were times and dates for a divorce support group. Scribbled beside the circle in Sally’s familiar bubbly handwriting was one declarative sentence: Mom, please go to this.
“And that”—Sookie pointed to the recycling bin in the corner of the kitchen, overflowing with empty tin cans, milk cartons, and wine bottles; she sighed heavily—“at least three or four?”
“Wow,” Diego said again. “Her recycling game is strong though.”
I glanced at Jade, who looked a little teary-eyed. “I get it. Like who wants to tell anyone about this? I might have disappeared too.”
And yet the night went on. Diego snuck a few more sips off Ms. Martin’s stash. Sookie took stock of the rest of the house, and I checked the text messages on my phone while we waited. Erika had texted me an hour ago.
Erika: 0 tips. 2night sux.
Me:
Erika: so bored, on Pinterest. Just wanna b out 2 meet up. Where R U?
Me: surprise-ish bday
Erika: 4?
Me: Sally
Erika: ex Sally?
Me: ex bff
Erika: + ex
Me: ?
Erika: . . .
So Erika wasn’t happy about tonight.
When they returned, Boone suggested we sit on the back patio. One by one we dragged the dining room chairs outside. A small neighborhood kitten appeared, and Sally pulled him onto her lap, stroking him until the purring became as loud as an engine.
We pretended that everything was okay—maybe we did it for Sally; maybe we did it for us. But the more we let go of the past, the more Sally came out of her shell. Eventually, we were talking about safe subjects, like last-minute school projects, prom, and the colleges we’d selected.
“I’m staying here,” Jade says. “Florida International.”
“And I’m going to be a management trainee,” Diego says, all confident, tugging on his fitted khakis.
“You look good in those,” Jade reassures him.
“Hmph,” Diego says. “Good-boy pants are tight. I feel like I’m murdering all my future sons.”
“Why didn’t you take them off after work?” Sookie asks.
“Method actors stay in character.”
Sookie rolls her eyes, but the rest of us laugh.
“So where did you get in?” Jade asks Sally.
“Um, UM. I got a scholarship.” We nod because we remember that this was the plan, since Mr. Blake had once run for UM.
“So, you’re running for them?” Jade asks.
Sally clears her throat, looks surprised that I didn’t tell them.
“I stopped running,” Sally says.
There’s that collective gasp again—Diego’s at the tail end of it with his high-pitched trill, so high that Boone chuckles.
“It’s not a big deal,” Sally says. “I stopped a while ago. I got a merit scholarship. Turns out when you’re in need with a photographic memory, you’re a pretty likely candidate for a merit scholarship.”
Diego shakes his head, always fascinated by Sally’s photographic memory, always testing her with ridiculous requests: Recite “The Star-Spangled Banner.” Name all the countries in North and South America. What did JFK say to Coretta Scott King when he called her?
I could see him working up to a question now. His forehead wrinkles, and then he spits out, “Last sentence of the Declaration of Independence.”
We had been asked to memorize the Declaration of Independence for extra credit in seventh grade.
Everyone laughs, except for Boone, who says, “What?”
“Just watch,” Diego instructs as Sally closes her eyes. For a minute she looks peaceful. Her mouth begins to move as she remembers. Then, with eyes still closed, she slowly recites, “And for the support of this Declaration . . . with a firm reliance on the protection of divine Providence, we mutually . . . pledge to each other our lives . . . our fortunes, and our sacred honor.”
Diego claps like a kindergartener. “Wow!”
Sookie and Jade also applaud. When Sally meets my eyes, I do something unexpected. I give her the Suarez wink. Flawlessly executed.
Sally laughs, an honest-to-goodness laugh.
“But seriously, look at this.” Diego holds up the last slice of cake for us to admire. “You know, Sals, Sookie is really into your little baby rolls. But that’s not creepy, not even a little bit, right, Sooks?”
“Wait. What?” Sally’s forehead ripples, little lines of confusion form like a mountain range across her skin. But her smile deepens. Maybe it’s because Diego called her Sals. He’s the only one who ever did.
“It’s not creepy. Haven’t you guys ever thought a baby was so cute you could literally gobble up his chunky thighs? Like . . .” She scrunches up her face like that overexcited squirrel and goes, “Nom, nom, nom, nom.”
Cannibal, Diego mouths, and we bust out laughing, especially Sally, who laughs until tears roll down her face. She says, “This night is so weird and spectacular. Isn’t it weird? Us together again.”
Silence follows, because the conversation suddenly got deep. I offer up a lifeline, because the lightness feels too good to wash away. “Life’s weird. But that’s okay.”
“True,” Diego says, and chuckles, shrugging his shoulders like, What are you going to do?
Sally takes a deep breath, her eyes a little glassy. “I know that when I left . . . The way I left was . . .” She takes a few more deep breaths as her lips form silent words: one, two, three, four . . . She stops at ten instead of one hundred, and then aloud she says, “It was . . .” Sally lowers a vibrating hand to her belly “I—”
“Not you.” Boone interrupts, his knee bouncing up and down. “Dad.”
Sally nods, eyes wide. “Dad . . . ,” she begins again, and my phone chirps—the sound of my mother’s ringtone.
“Sorry.” I send the call to voicemail.
“Our dad—” The phone chirps again, and everyone looks at me like, What the hell? But the phone won’t quiet. It goes: chirp, chirp, chirp.
“I’m sorry.” I pull the phone from my pocket. “Mom?”
“Marco?” Her voice is small, nearly breathless. I hear noises in the background: an ambulance siren. My heart speeds up.
“Mom? Where are you?”
“I’m at the hospital,” she says. “It’s Pop.”
• • •
“Marco!” At the hospital, Mom rushes up to hug me, squeezing extra tight. I hold on too. A few minutes ago I was with the tribe, in Sookie’s van, rushing past every yellow light while Sookie sang under her breath the Mi Sheberakh.
“What is that?” Jade asked, rubbing her jaw.
“It’s a prayer, kind of, for your dad’s healing,” Sookie said, giving me that I’m sorry look. But all I could think about was how the day had gone: s’mores at Sookie’s house, a surprise birthday party at Sally’s house, and now Sookie was saying some kind of Hebrew prayer for my pop.
How did we get here again? Pop hurt. Pop almost dy—
I shake the thought
away and pull Mom in closer. “Where’s Pop?” I ask when I let her go for good. We stand in a room of sorts—one wall, three curtains. Next door, I hear a patient cough. A man asks, “Do you want more water?” Across the hall is a little kid about the twins’ age with an arm freshly wrapped in a neon cast. And in front of me is my mom, who left home dressed for sleep: yoga pants and a grubby T-shirt.
Her voice shakes when she speaks. “They took him for tests, but he’s awake. We think . . . He, um . . . The doctors think he had some sort of a seizure when he was in the shower, and when I found him, he was lying on the floor with a . . .” She takes several deep breaths. “A gash here.” She touches the right corner of her head. “He needed stitches for that.”
I also take a deep breath, trying to find space from the feelings that push up inside me. That will have to wait for later. Right now I need to help Mom gather facts and make decisions. “But he’s here now, and that’s good. The doctors will set him right. What did they say?”
“They’re running tests—right now it’s a CT scan to make sure there’s no bleeding in the brain and . . .” She pauses, trying to think of the right terms. “An EEG because of the seizure.”
“Where are the twins?”
“Mrs. Banks has them.”
I stare at the empty bed; my need to do something is strong. “So, now we just, what?”
Mom holds up her arms helplessly. “We wait.”
• • •
They wheel my father into the room around midnight. I’m texting with Erika, who checked in after work, and the tribe, who went back to Sookie’s house to hang out. Mom sleeps in the chair beside me, but the minute the attendant says, “Here you go, Mr. Suarez,” she jumps upright and blinks into the light. “Sammy?”
“Mom, he’s here.” I squeeze her shoulder.
“I’m here,” Pop echoes, reaching for her hand. Once they’re linked, the lines ease from their faces, their breaths deepen.
Pop, though, looks a mess. His hairline’s been shaved. An inch of his forehead is covered with gauze. Slumped in his wheelchair, he seems as fragile as Mom’s voice on the phone.
After the attendant helps him into bed, Mom tucks him in, making sure that he’s warm. That he doesn’t need water or ice or—
The Universal Laws of Marco Page 12
