Teófila’s Guide to Saving the Sun

by Cynthia A. Rodriguez

  “Why haven’t you answered my calls or texts?” she asks.

  My cramped legs give out and I flop back on my ass, expelling air in a huff. “Didn’t feel like talking.”

  “Yeah, I bet that’s all it was,” she says, grabbing at anything green and ripping it from my mom’s precious garden.

  “I already pulled the weeds from that side!” I shout, getting ready to swat her hand away.

  “When did you become such an asshole to people who are trying to help you?”

  “If your help comes with strings attached, you can keep it,” I tell her, my words too rapid to think on.

  Miley stands so quickly, I have no choice but to scramble up in reaction.

  “Strings attached? Are you fucking kidding me?”

  Your frustration has nothing to do with her, I remind myself.

  But a target is a target and what’s mounting inside of me needs to be released before I lose my damn mind.

  “You think you can tell me what to do. That you can buy me—your quiet little poor friend—clothes. That this makes you a good pers…”

  “Fuck you,” Miley yells, lifting her finger to point at my chest. “I’ve only ever wanted the best for you.”

  “What you think is best for me.” My arms are crossed and hers are spread.

  She is open to speak, and I am a wall.

  I’ve been like this for the last two weeks, too used to the disappointment of being turned away to be anything else.

  Elijah’s pain is so unfamiliar to me. He dresses it up prettily, and lets it sit between us.

  And when I attempt to introduce myself to it, he pretends it doesn’t exist; like I’m shaking hands with a phantom.

  There’s more smoking, more hiding, and less feeling.

  Only Elijah and his pretty pain know what’s really going on in his world.

  “I’m sorry,” Miley offers. When I don’t say anything, she steps toward me. “I don’t mean to smother you or make you feel like you’re my poor friend who needs to be taken care of.”

  “It’s my fault,” I mumble before my face transforms, falling into a pit of sadness where I can only taste my tears.

  “Oh, no.” She pulls me into her embrace. “No, baby. You’re okay.”

  But am I?

  My sadness is burden enough.

  Elijah’s is enough to break me.

  “How did you hear about it?” I ask, pulling away and dusting my hands off on my shorts.

  “There were a few posts about it. I guess people are pissed that nothing’s been done.”

  “What can anyone do? Nothing really happened, according to the police.” Even as I say it, I know it’s a lie. What happened created a fear that ran so deep, it intertwined with my veins and made a home inside me.

  “How’s he handling it?”

  “He isn’t,” I tell her, squatting to weed again.

  She joins me on my other side, watching me for a moment before digging her beautiful hands into the ground.

  “He’s in Atlanta, doing god knows what. I don’t know what I’m supposed to do.” My words break up the silent but hard work.

  “Sometimes it helps just to have someone on your side,” she tells me, her teeth gritting from pulling what I’m sure isn’t a weed. “I can’t tell you how many times my bravery came from knowing you’d be there to have my back if it all went to shit.”

  I fall back on my butt again, this time placing my hands behind me.

  The grass is soft, the sun is shining. I’m alive.

  There’s so much to be celebrated.

  Miley glances back at me with a smile on her face.

  All the while, the words troubled times ring in my ears.

  I HAVEN’T HEARD from Elijah since yesterday.

  His Facebook page shows updates and pictures that make me want to roll my eyes. An image of smoke curling from his parted lips stares back at me from where I stand in the kitchen.

  He has an Instagram account now.

  lijahwill

  His followers already range in the thousands, although he only follows forty-seven people.

  I go to every single account, thirsty for the information he won’t share.

  Most look like they’re either singers, rappers, or behind-the-scenes in the music industry.

  Some of them seem to have more decorative purposes, their voluptuous bodies on display.

  Scrolling through pictures of a particular account, I land on a photo with a familiar face in the background.

  It was taken a few days ago.

  He’s standing behind a group of women posing for the photo. His smile is beautiful as he talks to someone. I can only see their hand and notice the bright red polish.

  I am questions and comparisons.

  How does he know any of them?

  What has he been doing?

  Do they know the part of him that I thought was saved for me?

  I create an account.

  tjumpedoverthemoon

  I’m about to follow him when the front door opens.

  “Mom?” I call out, certain it isn’t her. She just left for my aunt’s house.

  Heavy steps sound like they’re headed toward me and I look around for a weapon. The knives mock me from their place clear across the kitchen.

  But Elijah steps through the archway, a smile on his face bigger than any of the ones I’d recently seen. “They signed me, T.”

  Three words and a letter. That’s all it takes to make me feel like everything is about to change.

  “I knew it would happen for you,” I tell him, my smile matching his.

  He rushes to me, his arms tucking under mine to lift me into a tight hug. “I can’t believe it,” he says into my hair.

  He’s spinning me around in excitement and all I can wonder about is the way my world feels like it’s circling the drain.

  Because he’s so ready for this, and I’m so ready for him to do this.

  But we aren’t ready for this.

  “And you’ll come with me, right?” he asks, slightly out of breath.

  I’m still dizzy from swinging to coming to a sudden halt. “What do you mean?” I ask, pushing my free curls from my face.

  It’s lame; an attempt to get him to explain himself while I come up with the best response internally.

  “What do you mean, what do I mean? I want you to come with me, T.” He steps back and I panic at the sight of his frown. “You don’t want to come?”

  “No, I…I just don’t know what I’m even doing here yet.” My brain is scrambling, trying to find a way to diffuse the situation before it blows up in my face. “I don’t know if I’m going to school. I don’t know if I’m getting a job. I don’t want to just pick up and go right now.”

  “You’re going to turn down the adventure of a lifetime—and supporting your boyfriend—because you don’t know what you want to do with your life? Make it make sense.” His arms are crossed, and his voice has gone cold.

  “We’re still so young…”

  And this relationship, in its current state, can’t sustain us traveling the world together when I can hardly trust you.

  Maybe this is my pretty pain that I dress up and pretend isn’t there when it’s the biggest thing in this kitchen.

  But I don’t want to go, simply to keep an eye on him.

  And I don’t want to lose my identity in him. Not when I’m finally finding myself.

  “Fuck this, man. I thought you’d be happy for me,” he says.

  “I am happy for you. Does it have to be shitty that I just don’t want to follow you around the world until I know what I want to do with my own life?”

  This is us now; loud tones and defensive words. Less sex and more screaming.

  “Let me take care of y…”

  “I can take care of myself!” And while it’s the first time I’ve ever heard myself say it, I believe it. With my whole heart.

  It hits me almost as hard as the door slamming behind Elijah when he storm
s out.

  27

  GONE

  I don’t know that there’s anything more daunting than having to sit alone with your thoughts.

  No distractions, no one else to talk to.

  Unless you’re a fan of speaking to yourself.

  The sun isn’t out yet, but I’m sitting on my front step, waiting.

  Waiting for an end or a continuation. A promise or a regret.

  I don’t know what’s coming my way, or how it’ll be served. But I’m here, pretending to be ready as my mind plays decisions and ideas over and again.

  You could pick up and leave. What else do you have going for you?

  My head shakes, as if I’m telling myself no.

  And if things don’t work out, you’ll be headed right back to the nothing you left behind.

  Besides, it isn’t like the two of you are on sturdy ground right now. Maybe he needs to leave and reset. Maybe that reset will…

  My thoughts come to a halt as Elijah’s car stops in front of my house. I can see someone else in the passenger seat; his father, I’m sure. I offer a wave to the man I’ve only ever heard about, never met.

  His response is a lift of his hand before ducking his head down to the cell phone in his other hand.

  Elijah has his jawline and lips.

  Those lips are wearing a smile as he steps out of the driver’s side of the car and heads toward me.

  It’s been two days since he burst into my kitchen with the good news. In that time, we’ve had minimal contact.

  Until last night, when he sent me a text to say he was leaving and wanted to see me before he did.

  He didn’t use the words “to say goodbye” but when it’s understood, does it have to be verbalized?

  “Good morning,” I say, as cheerfully as possible. I worry I sound like a crazy person and I know the disheveled braid in my hair doesn’t help my cause.

  There’s a mist in the air that I’ll miss once the sun comes up. It gives hazy cover to my sadness, the world seeming grayer than usual.

  This is my Elijah headed toward me. This is the one I’ve known most of my life. The one who watched me read books and trip over the idea of loving myself.

  The one who loved me when I thought it was the hardest task of all.

  Excitement vibrates off of him, bringing him back to his former self; just in time to leave me.

  “It isn’t too late to change your mind,” are the first words he says, just before sitting next to me. His hands are so close to mine, but we don’t touch. “There’s room in the car and I’m sure getting you a seat on the flight wouldn’t be impossible.”

  Here he is, offering me his world again.

  And here I am, denying it in favor of creating a life of my own.

  No matter what it may look like.

  “You have to understand that…you love me now. You want me now. What if that changes?” I ask him.

  I don’t think I could survive it.

  I peer over at him, catching the weak rays of the sun peeking over the horizon.

  “I don’t see a world where I’m not in love with you, Teófila.”

  But if we could see everything imaginable, what kind of life would that be?

  I think back on having my cards read and what I was told.

  I never thought the two of us would be here; in love and one of us leaving.

  “I will never regret having you and knowing you. I just…I need you to support this the same way that I’ve always supported you,” I say.

  It doesn’t feel good to remind him of what I’ve done, like we’re keeping score. Still, this is the only way he’ll truly understand.

  Sometimes blind faith is needed.

  “Will you come see me?” he asks, as if this is over for me.

  “Of course.” I don’t want to say it. I don’t want to ask him to wait for me, to never indulge in another woman, to keep from doing whatever it is he feels like he needs to do.

  “Do you think…” he starts. And then, “I’m not ready to let you go.”

  The space between us is about to get a lot bigger, so I make quick work of erasing the inches between our fingers.

  “I don’t want anyone else,” I confess. “I don’t know if that will change. But right now, I only want to be yours.”

  Elijah scoots closer and in our contented silence, the sun rises. His warmth is something I’ll always remember.

  And I hate how this feels a lot like goodbye. Because if it isn’t goodbye to him, it certainly is goodbye to the people we are in this moment.

  “I’ve gotta go,” he announces after another few minutes. “But we’ll talk once I’m settled in.”

  He stands and I hold onto his hand, unwilling to let him go so easily. He looks back at me, still wearing a smile. This one looks like hope.

  “I love you,” I tell him. The boy I always loved in so many ways, in every form he’s been since the day we met.

  “I love you,” he says.

  I close my eyes as he presses a kiss to my forehead and then my lips.

  “Call me if you change your mind,” he adds.

  I keep them closed as he walks away, gets in his car, and drives away from me.

  This isn’t sadness.

  This, I fear, is breaking.

  IT’S BEEN a day since Elijah left. And I never thought love could feel like this. I didn’t think the love I had was the hurting kind.

  I never knew that the more I loved, the more I tried, the more I would feel like I no longer had control over anything, let alone myself.

  And with Elijah gone, I wonder where the best parts of myself went. If they packed themselves up in his suitcase, along with his T-shirts and underwear. Or if they were lurking around somewhere, waiting for me to get out of bed and start my life.

  So, I got out of bed.

  And landed in Miley’s backyard with a bunch of drunk former classmates.

  Music is bumping all around, but I’m still sitting on my front step, watching the person I love drive away.

  Call me if you change your mind.

  It would be so easy. And there’s this part of me screaming, I should be with him right now.

  As I glance around at the people dancing and singing, I know that I at least have to give this life—my life—a solid chance before I do anything as crazy as leave with Elijah.

  “Quit sulking,” Miley says, shoving a glass in my hand. “He’s gone. You didn’t want to go with him. Understood. So, what happens now?”

  “What is this?” I ask her, eyeing the clear liquid, my lips in an unimpressed line.

  “Ah ah. Less talky, more drinky.” She tips the glass I’ve lifted to my mouth and the bitter taste fills it.

  “Is there anything other than alcohol in here?” I sputter out.

  Her head shake is proud as she sways in her bikini and sarong. Bright colors that show off her spray tan. “You need to get happy. Because this is my going away party!”

  At the sound of her loud words, people around us cheer and I glance across the pool in time to see Terrence pushing a girl from our class in it.

  “He seems to know how to have a good time,” Miley says, her smile a little too toothy for my liking.

  “You know I’m not looking for…that.” I set the glass down as I squat to sit at the edge of the pool, putting my feet in.

  Miley follows me, leaning her head against my shoulder. “Not like you guys are together,” she says, and it stings.

  “We are together.” My words are firm, like I’m trying to believe them myself. As if making them sound powerful will then give them power.

  “Didn’t sound that way to me. Have you heard from him yet?”

  Bodies are dancing, mouths are laughing.

  I am sulking.

  “He said he’d call me when he settled in.”

  When I glance over at her, she’s on her phone.

  “Looks like he’s settled in all right,” she tells me, pushing her phone in my face.

 
; Drunk Miley wants sober T to push her in the water, it seems.

  But I ignore the urge and take a look at his latest post.

  It’s a picture of the Hollywood sign with the caption, “My new home while I record my first album. Hit me up with things to do!”

  The first comment is from a girl telling him to come over.

  It’s a spiked end to an already cracking whip.

  “It’s like you want me to be upset,” I tell her. I can’t say anything else as I set her phone down and look at how the light in the pool makes my legs look blue.

  “Dude, I want you to snap out of it. You could’ve gone with him, but you said no. So, live with the no, don’t just exist with it.”

  She can’t be serious.

  “It’s been a day, Miley. Shit.”

  “Okay, okay. You’re right.”

  She’s leaning on my shoulder again and even though I want to push her away, I can’t. Not when I know we’re in our last few days of being together in this way.

  “You could always come with me,” she says.

  “I know I could. But I need to figure things out for myself. Which is why I’m turning you both down.”

  Miley kisses my cheek, wet and noisy, before getting up to jump in the pool. I wipe away the water that’s splashed my face and ignore the warmth in my belly from the alcohol she fed me.

  Everyone’s leaving.

  I said I wanted to figure things out for myself. And now I’m on the precipice of knowledge that will guide me through the rest of my life.

  28

  I HATE COLLEGE

  “Y ou’re gonna be late, mija.”

  I’m convinced that the worst way to wake up for college is with your mom’s face smiling so close to yours that it looks distorted. She stops shaking me and stands.

  “Mom,” I groan out, rolling over.

  “What? I just wanted to make sure you were breathing,” she says, patting my butt before walking out of the room.

  It’s my third week and this is what I know: College is just an extension of high school. It’s bullshit. There’s no way these professors are happy with their lives, in the way that I aspire to be. And I know this because they look less enthusiastic to be there than I am.

  That is existence.