The Secret Side of Empty

by Maria E. Andreu

  We sit together, and he puts his arm behind me on the back of the bench. I snuggle into the nook that this makes.

  “I’m afraid I am not making a very gentlemanly first impression.”

  “Technically this is like your fourth impression, so I think we can start relaxing around each other now. What do you think?”

  “I think yes.”

  I look at him steadily, and he stops trying to pretend like he’s fascinated by the grass and finally looks at me, too. His eyes are green and I am close enough to see flecks of gold and a little splotch of blue on the left side of his left one. And just on the bridge of his nose, imperceptible unless you’re within kissing distance, a smattering of little freckles.

  “You’re . . . you . . . I think you’re pretty cool,” he says. Delaying, I think.

  “I think you’re pretty cool, too,” I say.

  Finally, he leans in. His bottom lip is bigger than his top, so it grazes me first. He just holds it there, but then slowly he begins to plant kisses on my lips, then, finally, a little more. And although the lightning bugs aren’t there anymore and it’s cheesy to think about fireworks, the air is so special and sparkly and everything stops and is so still that it feels like the air itself is exploding in little bursts of happiness.

  For someone who says he hasn’t been with too many girls, he is an amazing kisser. I don’t have that much practice either, unless that whole sixth grade hand-kissing marathon with Chelsea in her princess bathroom counts. But then maybe there is no such thing as good kissers and bad kissers. Maybe there is only finding someone who kisses like you do, and kissing each other, only to then find it breathtakingly good.

  ON MONDAY MORNING, MY MOTHER GOES TO SCHOOL WITH ME. She tells me to ask to speak to the principal. I translate her request to the school secretary. The one who usually hands me the tuition late notices.

  The secretary goes through a narrow door and closes it. She comes back and says, “Sister Mary Augustus will see you now.”

  I’d sorta hoped that she’d be busy.

  I haven’t spent much time socializing with Sister Mary Augustus, and this is a good thing. She is a linebacker of a nun, scary and top-heavy, and prone to nosebleeds during assemblies. She focuses mainly on the troublemakers, the girls who sell pot in the locker rooms and walk out of dances with monster-sized hickeys.

  My mother and I sit down on the low couch in Sister Mary Augustus’s office. She is about three feet above us, Buddhist lama style. I wonder if we are supposed to crouch and never let our heads get higher than hers.

  My mother begins. “I’m sorry to involve my daughter in this, but my English is not very good,” she says in Spanish. She waits for me to translate.

  I do it, reluctantly.

  “That’s fine. She’s getting to be a young woman, and I think she can hear whatever we need to talk about.”

  “It’s about her tuition,” says my mom.

  I fight the urge to run out the door screaming. Instead, I translate.

  “Yes, I’ve been informed there’s a past-due balance.”

  “We can’t pay it,” says my mother. “As you know, we’re illegals and we can’t get very good jobs.”

  I stare at my mother, jaw slack. “Ma, I can’t say that,” I say to her in Spanish.

  She stiffens up her spine and says to me, “You tell her what I said.” I haven’t heard my mother be that directive since the time I used her best lipstick to draw in the hallway and she made me clean every last inch of it.

  So I translate.

  “Yes, I’ve imagined there are some challenges at home.”

  My mother continues, “My husband says we should pull her out of school. She can’t go to college anyway, so he figures there’s not that big a difference whether she stops now or in six months. I disagree.”

  “Me too. I couldn’t disagree more. She is one of our brightest students. It is unacceptable to not send her to school.”

  “I know,” says my mother. “So what can we do about it?”

  “I’m not sure. It’s hardly fair that I let her attend for free when other families are also struggling in these economic times—”

  “I could work for you,” blurts out my mother. I can see by the look on her face that she’s surprised that even came out of her mouth. Working outside the home is a big no-no for her. More accurately, her working outside the home is a big no-no as far as my father is concerned.

  “Well, that’s an interesting idea.”

  “I know how to sew. I’m very good at cleaning. I could do odd jobs around the convent. And the schools.” The nuns run my high school and a small coed elementary school across the street.

  “Yes, I think we could work something out. You can cover her tuition that way.”

  “And my son’s, too,” says my mother. “At the grammar school. He’ll be kindergarten age in the fall. He could stay at the preschool while I work.”

  Who is this creature?

  “Yes, I’ll have to talk to the sisters, but I think we can make this work.”

  Sister Mary Augustus stands up, signaling the meeting is over. Standing up, off the toddler couch, we’re all the same size.

  “I am very glad you came in today,” says Sister Mary Augustus.

  My mother smiles. “Me too,” she answers. In English. They shake hands.

  “Young lady, get to class.” Sister Mary fixes her glare on me and I want to get out of there as soon as possible.

  I walk out single file behind my mom, through the narrow door, past the secretary, out the office door, and to the entrance. My mother gives me a kiss on the cheek. As she’s doing that, and I’m wishing for a natural disaster to end it all, it gets just a smidge worse. Chelsea is walking into the lounge, and sees my mother. And my mother sees her.

  “Chelsea!” says my mother.

  Chelsea walks over and gives her a hug.

  “Que bonita,” says my mom, running her fingertips over Chelsea’s bangs.

  “It’s good to see you,” says Chelsea, and looks like she actually means it.

  “You come to visit me.” My mother picks now to learn how to string a noun and verb together in English.

  “I will,” says Chelsea, and hugs her again.

  “Ma, I have to get to class,” I say in Spanish, and start to walk away.

  “Hold up.” Chelsea catches up with me and waits until we’re out of parental hearing. “What was that about?”

  “You know. Parents. I don’t know.”

  “You okay?”

  “Just some volunteer thing. And my brother starting school next year. I don’t know.” I can really be a terrible liar under pressure.

  This satisfies her. Thank goodness. “So tell me the latest in Adventures with Nate.” I breathe a sigh of relief and tell her Nate stories on our way up to class.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  My phone rings. When my father is home, I turn it off and keep it in the heating vent. But this afternoon he’s working, so I have it on.

  “Hello?”

  “Hello.” Oh, that voice.

  “Hi, Nate.”

  “How are you?”

  “Good. You?”

  “Have to write a paper about some stupid play I haven’t read, but otherwise good.” He laughs. I love his laugh. I’m pretty sure I love the grass that his pant cuffs touch. “So . . . I was thinking . . .”

  “Yeah?”

  “My sisters and I have some tickets to a Knicks game in the city. We have an extra one. Do you want to come? I mean, I figured since basketball is our sport and all.”

  “Yeah . . . sure, that sounds like fun. When?”

  “Friday.”

  “Okay.”

  “Can we pick you up at your house?”

  “I think I’ll be at my friend Chelsea’s after school. Pick me up there.” It’s not that I’m going to keep him from seeing where I live forever. Just for now.

  “M, I wanted to tell you something,” he says.

  “What?�
��

  “I had a great time at the movies. And at basketball.”

  “Me too.”

  “I’m really looking forward to Friday.”

  “Me too.”

  We hang up and I lay down on my futon, stare at the ceiling, and bliss out on replaying that conversation for hours.

  b

  THE FIRST TIME I SEE MY MOTHER DURING A SCHOOL DAY IN HER new capacity as cleaning woman, I am on my way to lunch. I know she’s working for the nuns, but I haven’t had to see her for her first few days here. They’ve kept her in the dim recesses of the convent, where none of us are allowed to go. My friends and I have to pass the convent as we leave our school building to cross the street to the cafeteria, which is in the grammar school.

  I am walking in a group of NHS acquaintances. I spot my mother as soon as we walk out the glass doors. She is in old clothes, baggy sweatpants, and a plaid shirt. I glance at the girls I’m walking with, to see if any of them recognize my mom. They don’t. No one knows her.

  She’s carrying a big bucket in her left hand, the kind that started its life as a five-gallon paint container. Now it holds a squeegee and what looks like a lot of heavy water, from the way my mother is leaning left while carrying it. She is taking little steps so as not to spill it.

  She puts the bucket down and wipes her forehead with the back of her hand. She leaves a streak of dirt on it. Her eyes are closed for a second, and I have a wild idea that if I just speed up, I will be behind her before she sees me. But no such luck.

  She opens her eyes and spots me. She smiles in recognition, like she’s about to say hello.

  I avert my eyes, pretend to listen to something Quinn Ford is saying. I pretend it is the most riveting thing I’ve ever heard. I stare at Quinn’s flaming red hair and little pixie face. Her mouth looks as old as it did in kindergarten. I wonder if they’re going to see a family resemblance between my mother and me, and ask me how I’m related to this cleaning woman. I wonder if I can shield them from seeing her by making myself taller, wider. Or by creating a diversion.

  But I don’t have to bother. She’s invisible to them, like a lamppost or the nun mobile parked in the driveway.

  From the corner of my eye, I can see that my mother realizes I’m not going to speak to her, and she busies herself with her squeegee. I walk by close enough to smell her familiar scent. I can’t tell if I loathe myself or her more. She is doing this gross work for me and I hate her for it.

  Later that day at home, after school, she says, “I saw you at school today.”

  “Oh, really? I didn’t notice you.”

  “No, I know. But if you do, you know . . . I just want you to know . . . If you do, you don’t have to say hello.”

  There’s nothing I know to say in response to that.

  NATE SHOWS UP TO PICK ME UP FOR THE KNICKS GAME IN A BMW. Doesn’t anyone get any other brand of car around here? Chelsea has put me through hair and makeup boot camp and I’m wearing a pair of her Prada boots. I run out of the house and to his car. He walks around and opens my door. He kisses my cheek when he gets in the car. I move my hand up near my face for a second, like I want to protect the kiss on there. His eyes look greener by the light of his sunroof. I resist the urge to stroke his nose freckles.

  “So hopefully I’ll look cooler watching basketball with you than having you whip my ass playing it.”

  “Possibly.”

  “It’s fun. Have you been?”

  “No.”

  “Oh, you’ll really like it then. My dad’s company has a box, so it’s a cool place to hang out even if you don’t watch the game much.”

  “So where are your sisters?”

  “We’ll meet them in the city. Emily’s coming from Columbia, where she goes to school. Becky’s driving in with her boyfriend. Plus I just wanted us to just hang out for a little while. How about we go to Meatpacking to get something to eat first?”

  “Yeah, that sounds cool.”

  He makes two turns and we’re on the highway to New York. I spy the familiar skyline in the distance. It has an air of freedom.

  The first time I lied to my parents, I was fourteen. I told them Chelsea and I were going to study at some friend’s house, but instead we took the bus into Manhattan. We walked around, ate Ray’s Pizza, and bought Marilyn Monroe postcards near Times Square. I was hooked.

  Now my parents don’t exactly know I’m heading in either. But without a phone in the apartment, it works out. Chelsea is my cover.

  Nate says, “So you’re a senior at Goretti, right?”

  “Yes.”

  “What’s that like, only girls?”

  “Hormonal.” I smile.

  “Ha. I grew up with sisters. I know.”

  “What’s it like to go to a school the size of three malls put together?”

  “It’s not that big once you get used to it. You carve out your group.”

  “Yeah? And what’s your group?”

  “Geeky sports, I guess. Not football players, but, like, tennis. We golf, too.”

  “You golf? I didn’t realize anyone under forty was allowed to do that.”

  “I golf with my dad. It’s fun, actually. I’ll take you one day.”

  I wonder how many interloper alarms would go off if illegal little me snuck into a country club.

  “So are you looking to stay in a small school for college then?” says Nate.

  I can’t believe I’m having this conversation again.

  “I’m thinking of taking some time off.” I figure I might get this out of the way, and I’m practicing my new version of this story.

  “Yeah, that sounds cool. I thought about doing that. Emily keeps talking about how great Columbia is. I’m applying there. So if I get in I’ll still be around.” He glances over at me. Is that him looking for my reaction?

  I am filled with a burning to tell him the truth about me. I can’t, of course. But I want to like I’ve never wanted to before. I want to be seen. For real. For the truth of me.

  “What will you do on your year off?” he asks.

  “I was thinking of being a dockworker.”

  He laughs. “Smart-ass.” He puts his hand on mine. “I have no idea what I want to be when I grow up either.”

  His laugh makes me laugh. “Maybe a diamond miner.”

  He seems to like the game. “Ice road trucker?”

  “Shrimp boat captain.”

  By the time we get to Manhattan we’ve talked about his sisters, his parents, my brother, Shakespeare, the Dutch settlement of Manhattan, and who makes the best James Bond. I am beginning to get why boys are so much better in practice than in theory. How is it that I didn’t get myself one of these sooner?

  We walk around the narrow New York streets holding hands. He doesn’t seem to be in a hurry to find a restaurant, and neither am I. I wish we could just stay here like this, walking, never doing anything more, never going home again. We make a turn. The streetlights have come on and the sky is getting dark, the wind kicking up.

  He stops to face me. He pulls up the collar of my coat and asks, “Are you getting cold?”

  “A little.” He puts his arms around me. My heart starts thumping. He pulls back a little and looks into my eyes. The green in his eyes is shadowed now, almost forest green.

  “You’re so pretty,” he says. And slowly leans in and kisses me. I think I may just burst into flames right here on this little street. The kissing doesn’t lose any of its goodness with repetition. A homeless guy shuffles by us and chuckles softly.

  “Let’s find someplace to eat,” says Nate.

  After dinner, we leave the car in the garage and take a cab up to Madison Square Garden. I’ve never been here before. I’ve seen it on TV, but you can’t get a sense of how huge the crowd is. We hold hands to get through it. I like that Nate seems to know the way by heart. We step into a small room with big leather chairs. I never even knew there were private rooms in stadiums. There is a spread of food—wings, dipping veggies, sh
rimp. It’s more food than is in my refrigerator right now.

  A girl that looks just like Nate with longer, lighter hair walks up to us. It’s kind of ridiculous how much she looks like Nate with a wig on. She is in jeans and leather boots and the most enormous scarf I’ve ever seen.

  “Natey, you made it. And this is M.T.?” she says, smiling at me.

  “M, this is my sister Emily.”

  “It’s so nice to meet you. Sometimes people call me Em, too!” says Emily.

  “That’s cool,” I say. “Nice to meet you, too.” I am always looking for people’s angles, but she just seems genuinely friendly. Which instantly makes me feel weird. Or, as Nate would say, awkweird.

  “Emily, is Dad coming?”

  “I’m not sure. Mom said he might try to, but it’s crazy at the office. The Merger.” She says it like it’s a proper noun, and I wonder if someone is getting married at his office or something.

  “Where’s Becks? I didn’t see her at home.”

  “She just texted me. They’re parking.” Emily turns to me, “You’ll like Becky. Even though they’re fraternal, it’s like her and Nate are identical.”

  “I didn’t know you were a twin,” I say to Nate.

  “I am the most interesting man in the world,” he says, putting on the voice from the commercial. “How can you expect to know all there is to know?”

  Emily laughs.

  “Do you want something to drink?” asks Nate.

  “Sure, a Sprite?”

  “Okay. I’ll be right back.”

  It’s just Emily and me. I look out the big glass windows and see how the court looks somehow different than the few times I’ve seen it on TV.

  “Nate is sweet,” she says. I have never seen siblings around the same age be this nice to each other.

  “He is,” I say.

  “He really likes you,” she says. “He never brought that Naomi girl around.”

  I know I’m supposed to say something, but I have no idea what. I observe the speckles on the carpet.

  I imagine for a moment that I could belong with this golf-playing, big-scarved bunch. It’s so silly, of course. I put it out of my mind immediately.