Teófila’s Guide to Saving the Sun

by Cynthia A. Rodriguez

  And that is what their degrees will get me.

  I turn over and reach for my phone. It’s hard to get used to the sleek feel of it, the touchscreen features. My parents fell in love from the moment I opened it, telling me that I was lucky to have such a good boyfriend.

  It felt wrong to accept the phone from Elijah but part of me felt like it was his way of making up for the missed calls and texts from him.

  They were happening with less frequency lately; because as much as I hate college, I hate feeling like I’m talking to myself even more. And these days, where Elijah’s concerned, I pretty much am. Even if I somehow manage to get him on the phone.

  Fame isn’t as quick as he thought it’d be. There are meetings and slow gigs that don’t pay. There are bigger artists who are assholes, and agents who don’t know how to do much more than make a percentage off their clients.

  These are all things I learned from his gripes.

  But his manager, his father, keeps him ready to go at a moment’s notice; even if it means cutting our few conversations short.

  I try not to hate him for it, but I always picture him with a stick in his hand.

  Or up his ass.

  When I pick up my phone, hope fills me. Maybe he sent a text while I was asleep. I smile when I see he did.

  Elijah: Headed to Memphis for a show. Talk to you soon. Love you!

  My news doesn’t feel as exciting.

  Me: Heading to class. Love you too!

  And even though fame is slow, I see the climb in his followers, the change in his look, the way he wears his hair now. I try really hard not to, but I also see the women. I’m no longer in the running with the mean girls at school.

  I’m bearing witness to these women who wear provocative clothing and know what to do with a man like Elijah.

  Because since he’s been gone, that’s how I think of him. As a man.

  I drag myself out of bed, thankful that I braided and wrapped my hair before I went to sleep last night. All that’s left is changing my clothes, brushing my teeth, and grabbing a bagel on the way out.

  All this manages to happen in less than twenty minutes and when I get in the car my parents got me—at a bargain—I immediately roll down the windows.

  The air conditioning doesn’t work and the worn leather seats cooking under the morning sun make it far too uncomfortable, even for the first few minutes.

  And I wonder what Elijah’s riding in.

  Probably something with working air conditioning.

  I’m happy for Elijah.

  I’m so happy for him, I forget to be sad for myself.

  Until I’m in bed alone at night. Those are the moments I remember that I’ve willingly tethered my heart to someone whose sights are now set on a world beyond my reach.

  I couldn’t—and wouldn’t—compete with his dreams.

  The breeze flows throughout the car, all four windows rolled down. I’m grateful that my uncle was able to find my dad this car at an auction. But part of me wondered if it would last the year, let alone the semester.

  I’m stopped at the stoplight and my car is rumbling, cautioning me that my previous thoughts held merit.

  My phone vibrates in the center console and it takes several swipes at the screen before I can successfully answer it. I immediately place it on speaker and rev at the sight of the green light.

  The car’s engine sounds like it’s about to fall apart.

  “Are you operating heavy machinery? Holy shit.” Miley’s voice fills my car and I chuckle.

  “If you saw my car, you’d understand.” I tap my lips and then the dashboard. “But I think I’m starting to love her.”

  “You’re even crazier than when I left you.”

  “I know, right? Livin’ the community college life, riding in a car that could die at any moment.” I sigh. “And to think I gave up the lifestyle of the rich and famous for this.”

  “I’d hardly call that what Elijah’s doing. It looks like he’s on the road a lot.”

  I don’t tell her about the phone he sent me or the fact that I can hardly reach him on it. It’s easier to withhold when she’s all the way in New York City.

  “How’s school?” I ask, looking to steer the conversation away from Elijah.

  As she drones on about professors and classmates and the excitement of the city, I think about what it is I’m actually doing here.

  When we hang up, I decide not to go to class.

  I decide to never go to class again.

  The parking lot is full of students rushing to get inside on time. I don’t want to be that.

  I want to believe in something as big as myself, and even bigger.

  I want to find my anchor and burn it to ash until I’m light as a feather.

  Me: I’m quitting school.

  Minutes pass as I sit in my hot ass car outside where I’m supposed to be.

  Elijah: Now’s not the best time to come with me. Let’s wait until I’m a little more settled.

  I want to call him and scream at him.

  I’m not looking for a savior. I’m looking for a supporter.

  You’d know that if you bothered answering the phone.

  I back out of my parking spot, figuring that if I don’t know what I want in a way that I can convey to others, it’s my duty to find out what it might be.

  29

  SERIOUSLY, FUCK BURNT HAIR

  L ife is tricky. It passes day-by-day while you wait for something, anything, to break up the monotony.

  The sun is scorching as I pull my hair off my neck, using a scrunchie to put it up.

  “I don’t know why you bother to straighten it when it’s hot,” my mom says as we walk along the beach, looking for a place to set our things down.

  “Because you have easy hair,” I inform her. “So, you wouldn’t understand.”

  “Ay, mija, I would kill to have your hair.”

  “So kill me and take it then,” I mutter, hitching up the beach bag’s straps that threaten to fall off my shoulder.

  “Watch your mouth,” she warns me. “That’s not funny.”

  I walk silently, willing the sun to burn me into the ground.

  “I don’t like when you joke like that,” she says.

  “Like what?” I’m playing with fire and I know it. But this, this is what will quell the need to fly away from here forever. The need to grab something sharp and dig into myself, just so I feel again.

  “You know what I mean,” she says. “Joking about death.”

  “Does my depression make you uncomfortable, Mom?”

  She sets her beach chair down and turns to me. “Why’d you come if you were going to act like a pain in the ass?”

  My mom, the woman who’d only ever regarded me in the most patient of ways, is finally tired of me.

  “I’m so sick of my life here.” I drop my bag on the sand, pulling my towel from it and attempting to set it down while the wind blows.

  Her hands grab the other end of the towel.

  “Put your bag down on one corner, each chancleta on those two corners, and your sunscreen on the last one,” my mom instructs me.

  I follow what she says, dropping my sandals on two corners and taking my sunscreen out before pulling my dress off and plopping on my towel.

  “So how are you gonna change it?” she asks.

  I squint over at her, watching her smooth sunblock over her youthful skin.

  My mother is a beautiful woman. And while her skin has thinned and stretched around her eyes and elbows, her hands veiny and her hair thinner, she is the epitome of graceful aging.

  She welcomes time and dances with it fearlessly.

  She is brave and kind and if I am of her, I should be ashamed of myself.

  “I don’t know,” I answer as honestly as I can. “I’m not sure what I can do.”

  “I’m sure you’ll think it’s stupid to say this, but I really think you can do anything. You’re such a strong young lady.”

  M
y mom’s words are so simple, but they remind me of my power.

  Because if I have the power to hurt myself, I should have the power to help myself.

  “Where would I even start?” I stretch my legs out in front of me, loving the warmth and the sound of the waves as they kiss the shore.

  “Start with what you love,” my mom says.

  With what you love.

  Not who you love.

  Elijah’s been gone a year now.

  I’m a nineteen-year-old girl working at a coffee shop. And I don’t drink coffee.

  But I love the energy of it. I love sitting during my breaks scribbling little stories in a notebook or reading a book.

  Maybe I should be a librarian?

  What kind of librarian could I be with a superstar boyfriend?

  Because that’s what Elijah’s fast-growing fanbase is indicating: Superstardom.

  His following has soared from thousands to millions. His Instagram account is full of videos and pictures from shows all over the world, singing new music that he’s cooked up in his time away from me.

  But he never has time to make it home.

  The first time I heard him sing on the radio, I cried.

  I was at my job after being dropped off by my dad because my car finally shit the bed.

  It wasn’t that I was unhappy for Elijah. It just further cemented the idea in me that life is a cycle, and right now, Elijah is at the very top of the Ferris wheel. Meanwhile, I can’t even find any of the rides.

  Still, I sent him a video, my tears accompanied with a smile.

  Is that love?

  Being happy for someone else, even when you can’t find happiness for yourself?

  Hiding your pain for a person who wouldn’t even see it if you painted it neon and wrote it in the sky?

  These days, I’m hiding everything from him. My boring life, mostly.

  I open up my text messages and stare at the one he sent this morning.

  Elijah: I love you.

  Why can’t I feel it?

  Why don’t you come home to visit?

  Why do I only get to see you when video chatting for holidays?

  I’d rather have you than those gifts you send.

  Me: Me too.

  Start with what you love.

  My eyes fall on the notebook poking out of my bag.

  “Want some water?” my mom asks from her seat in her chair. She’s placed a large straw hat on her head, one that would’ve embarrassed me in the past.

  I can appreciate now how lovely she is when she is so comfortably herself.

  “I think I’m gonna get in the water,” I announce, standing. My black bikini rides up a little and I use my fingers to pull the bottoms from where they bunch at the back.

  “That’ll get you some color.”

  I must admit, my skin’s been a little pale this year due to staying inside and working as many hours as possible to save up for a new car.

  But I trust that one day, it will all come together.

  My life, that is.

  My mom smiles and I head down, my feet sinking a little with every step in the sand.

  When I reach the water, I try not to react to how cold it feels, knowing I’ll get used to it. I’m up to my chest when I look back at the beach.

  This is my life; it’s the one I chose. I may not like all of it, but standing here in the water, looking back at what I do have waiting for me on the shore, I know I have more than some. And that more is so promising.

  I tilt my head back and let myself float, knowing full well that my hair is about to be an intense mess when it dries.

  But seriously, fuck burnt hair.

  30

  COME SEE ME SING

  I bet Germany in the spring is beautiful.

  That’s where Elijah is this week. I only know because my recent Instagram stalk revealed a sold-out show, full of women singing his songs back to him.

  And even though I know every word, even though I’d once thought those words were written for me, I don’t sing along, and my heart doesn’t do that stupid pitter pat thing it does. Not until he comes into view, a big old smile on his face, sweat rolling down his smooth skin.

  Now my phone lays face down on my bed, within reach but far enough that I don’t feel like any second, Elijah’s going to turn and look at me and know I’m checking up on him.

  It vibrates and I turn it over, scooting away like it’s going to bite me once I see the notification.

  His name is on my screen and I squeeze my eyes shut, not wanting to read the text but knowing I will. I was delaying the inevitable. But I don’t get up and it makes me feel stronger. I do anything; I pick at the lint on my black jeans, I braid my hair, undo it, and lie on the floor.

  The room grows darker as time passes, and only when the streetlight outside turns on and casts a dim light on my wall, do I get up and grab my phone.

  Elijah: What are you doing?

  Me: Nothing.

  My phone vibrates, this time with an incoming call. I let it ring twice and take a deep breath before I answer.

  “Hello?”

  “Come see me sing, T.”

  Those words belong in that old box I threw away; the one I think about and miss from time to time.

  They aren’t aimed to cut, but they do.

  “What are you talking about?” I ask.

  “I miss you. I miss your smile and your smell. I need you here with me.”

  Need.

  Such a powerful little word.

  No one here needs me. My job doesn’t, my parents don’t.

  Still…

  “Don’t you think it’ll be a little awkward? We’re almost strangers now,” I admit, my ability to track the near two years between us stronger than my desire to fall back into a love that left me behind.

  Even though I’d asked it to.

  Elijah’s chuckle makes me smile.

  “I don’t think we could ever be. Even if we tried.”

  “And what about your fans?” I ask.

  I can almost hear the roar of them inside my head.

  “What about them?” He pauses, and then, “I think it’s time they meet my girlfriend.”

  I’M SITTING in first-class with a glass of champagne in my hand. I wasn’t carded, even though my twenty-first birthday is a few weeks away, and no one seems to care that my hair turned into a monster during my inflight nap.

  My free hand reaches to smooth it, but I know it’s a fruitless endeavor, so I sit back and look around. These seats afford movement, the ability to swivel a bit and lie down. Luxury comes first in first-class.

  It’s a novel idea for me.

  I wondered about what it would be like to not have to worry about money; to be able to spend so much on travel and know there’s plenty more where that came from.

  “How’s the champagne, Miss Morales?” A flight attendant appears, leaning in a little closer than I’d like.

  “It’s fine,” I tell her, wishing her away. It could be the power of luxury, but she moves on, leaving me back to my thoughts.

  My bag is stowed away, but I managed to grab a few things before we took off.

  I’d packed my notebook and a few printed pages, and I wonder when the right time to share the news with Elijah will be.

  I hadn’t gotten too much done in our time apart. But I’d finally done something that made the decision to stay feel like it wasn’t a complete waste of time.

  When I flip through the pages, running my fingers over the ink stamping my strongest words yet, I’m excited to hand them to him.

  To show him love in a tangible way.

  He is written in these words; same as the lyrics he sings to crowds of strangers.

  A lot of those strangers are about to be acquainted with my existence.

  I’d never been to New York, but once I told Miley I was headed there to see Elijah, we decided to have an impromptu meet-up in a few days.

  The fasten seatbelts sign comes on, along with a
ping.

  “Ladies and gentlemen, we are now descending into New York City.”

  The pilot continues on about the weather and thanks us for flying with him, but the nerves I thought I didn’t have are showing up late to the party.

  When another flight attendant approaches me, I grab the flute, chug the room temperature champagne, and offer her a smile that I’m sure looks more like a grimace when I’m finished.

  “Thank you,” I whisper as she takes the glass away.

  This is really happening.

  I don’t know if he’ll meet me there. I don’t know how long I’m staying.

  All I was told was that there was a ticket waiting for me, and not to pack much because he’d have it all taken care of.

  I filled one checked bag, a backpack, and a satchel, full of things I’d want if I never came back home. My mom stood in my room as I did this, tears in her eyes.

  She trusted Elijah; trusted that he’d take care of me. Because I didn’t tell her things that made me sad.

  But my mom, with those eyes that understand and see everything, felt she had to be worried.

  “Call me every day,” she told me before I boarded the flight. “And don’t be ashamed to come back if you need me.”

  Not exactly encouraging. But it made me feel good, going into such an adventurous life, knowing that I could always come home.

  I left all that fear behind, though. At least, that’s what I tell myself. And as we taxi down the lane, I try to find my courage; the one that got me on this plane, the one that fueled me to make it all the way to an unknown city to be with the boy I fell in love with who became a man without me.

  When I’m off the plane, I try to call him. It goes to voicemail as I walk, struggling with my bags.

  I step out of the gate and look around for a beautiful boy with a big smile. I look for cocoa skin and smooth lips. Longer locks on top and expressive eyebrows.

  I don’t see him.

  But I do see a man in a suit, holding up a sign with my name—acute accent included.

  “Miss Morales?” he asks as I stop in front of him far enough that I don’t have to look up too high to see his face.

  I eye him, up and down, taking in his wide girth and serious features.

  “Who sent you?” I haven’t moved from where I stopped, convinced that being in public with him is smarter than just walking off and potentially being kidnapped.