Emily Goldberg Learns to Salsa

by OSTOW, MICOL

  Lucy sits in the living room with a paperback in hand. It’s cracked open and she marks the place with her finger, but she’s not even looking in the general direction of the book. Instead she stares off into space, impassively. I don’t know about Ana’s sixth sense—I mean, I probably wouldn’t put money on it—but something’s up. No doubt about it.

  I contemplate going over to Lucy and saying something. What, I have no idea—the last thing she’d want would be sympathy from the gringa. But it’s not like I don’t have some sense of how she must be feeling.

  Boys. Do relationships always suck?

  Things were never sucky with Noah exactly, but they were sort of . . . bland. It’d be nice to have real feelings, strong feelings for someone—as a person more than just a romantic entity.

  I’ll bet that Lucy has real feelings for Rafael . . . which in turn leads to the suckiness.

  So unfair, life.

  Inexplicably, at the notion of “real feelings,” Ricky’s face pops into my head. It’s gone almost as quickly as it appeared, leaving me dazed.

  Huh? He makes me laugh, true, but no matter what, I’m still technically with Noah. At least until we actually get in touch with each other and decide that we aren’t. Ricky has nothing to do with that, and anyway, this is about Lucy.

  Lucy and her romance woes. Not mine.

  Lucy snaps out of her trance. She shakes her head, dog-ears the page in her book, and closes it. She places it on the coffee table and looks up, in the process making inadvertent eye contact with me. I look down. When I look up again, she shoots me a dirty look, rises, and stalks off to her bedroom.

  I decide against approaching her about Rafael, for obvious reasons. Better safe than sorry.

  Ten

  On Wednesday my mother and I go to the art museum in Old San Juan. Much of what there is to see in Puerto Rico, culturally speaking, at least, is in Old San Juan. Coming from New York, this place is a little smaller scale than what I’m used to, but I have to admit, it’s a nice way to spend an afternoon. The bright, bold paintings, most of which are by native artists, are appealing.

  I think of Ade and Isabelle at the Washington Mall and how humid it must be. If nothing else, I definitely have the best summer weather here. I bet my hair kicks their hair’s ass. I mean, if hair had an ass or whatever.

  It’s cold comfort, but less so than I would have thought a few weeks ago.

  Mom is different too. I can’t pinpoint the exact moment that it happened, but whatever she was looking for out here, she seems to have found it. Maybe it had to do with reconnecting. She felt guilty about leaving her family behind when she went off to college. That would make sense. Now she’s made those connections whole again.

  We’re home in time for dinner, natch, but Lucy has a surprise for me. “Ricky’s coming over tonight,” she says.

  I flush. I haven’t spoken to or about him since my spontaneous spazzy thought of him last night, which of course Lucy would have no way of knowing. I feel self-conscious even still.

  “He wants to go see—” She names a summer blockbuster action movie that opened the weekend we left, star-ring a hipster-come-lately dressed in tights and a cape. A superhero thing.

  It’s a few weeks old back in New York; I’m sure Noah has already seen it. We would have seen it together if I were, um, there instead of here.

  “They have cheap tickets on weeknights at the place down the street,” Lucy explains.

  “Who’s going?” I ask, as though I’m seriously curious about the guest list. Which I sort of am. But only for one reason.

  “Pia, Teresa, Ricky, me. You,” Lucy says pointedly. “Ramona has to watch her baby brother.”

  She doesn’t offer up any suggestions as to where Rafael might be or what he might be doing other than seeing the movie with us. I don’t ask.

  Since that slight glimmer of warmth that I saw back at the mall the other day is all but gone, I choose to give Lucy space, both literal and emotional. I like my head where it is, attached to my neck.

  The movie theater is dingy and much, much dirtier than the antiseptic mall-type multiplexes that have threatened to overtake the Westchester County landscape. But the tickets are five-fifty. Five-fifty! In Westchester the weeknight matinees are seven dollars. It’s too bad they are so far behind with their movie releases in San Juan or I’d spend every night here, even with all the gum underneath the seats.

  As we take our places, Ricky asks if I want anything to eat. I’m not hungry at all, but I have an almost Pavlovian response to entering a movie theater: I’m instantaneously overwhelmed by a craving for popcorn.

  I nod, dig into my bag for some cash. He pushes me off. “I’ve got it.”

  I’d rather he not—it’s too date-like—but he’s gone before I can protest further. He asks everyone else what they want, which at least makes him seem less like my own personal cabana boy, but they demur. Lucy rolls her eyes. I have utterly failed in winning her over.

  “I hope the line’s not too long,” I say, trying desperately to fill the awkward silence. “I don’t want him to miss the coming attractions.”

  Teresa laughs, flips her long blond hair over one shoulder. “Don’t worry, movies here start on Puerto Rico time. Like everything else.”

  She means late; this much I know.

  “Even the commercials won’t start for at least another”—she frowns at her watch—“twenty minutes.”

  She’s right: fifteen minutes later Ricky’s back with popcorn and a Coke the size of a swimming pool. I’m slightly disappointed that it’s regular, not diet, but I don’t exactly feel right saying so. “I love this actor,” Ricky tells me, which surprises me somehow. I didn’t figure him for the last-action-hero type. I’m a little surprised to find that I even considered his “type” at all.

  “He’s Noah’s favorite too,” I say reflexively, because he is. But why bring up Noah now? The name floats out of my mouth, into the air, and drops like an anvil with a thud. At least, in my head it does.

  “Noah?”

  “The boyfriend,” I clarify.

  “Ah,” Ricky says. If he’s in any way bothered by the mention, he’s covering really well. I myself am completely confused. What sort of weird, reverse speech impediment caused me to bring up Noah? No clue. Perhaps it’s worth thinking about, but just then the theater goes black and a trio of boldly dressed Latina women fill the screen, trilling about their favorite soft drink. The movie has started, or at least the commercials have. I need to pay attention. Put all thoughts of Noah—and Ricky—out of my mind.

  Focus, I tell myself sternly. Hot guys in tights, after all. That should help get my mind off anything. I cross my fingers and stick them into the pockets of my hoodie, where no one else can see this furtive bit of superstition.

  Ricky is one of our two drivers, Lucy the second. Through some bizarre confluence of the cosmos, Ricky decides to ignore the fact that driver the second is actually my host for the summer and would therefore make the more-logical choice of chauffeur. He offers me shotgun. Lucy makes a pissy face—and says that Teresa needs to get home early. She’s obviously suggesting that Ricky make it his priority to get Teresa home posthaste.

  “If that’s the case,” Ricky says, undeterred, “then you should take her. I want pizza.”

  “Ooh,” I say impulsively. Pizza sounds fantastic. I don’t care what the Puerto Rican interpretation of the classic Italian fast food is; I just know that I want some, and I want it now.

  I also don’t care that Lucy is shooting daggers at me. Well, I don’t care much, anyway. It’s been a while since I’ve gone for a late-night munchie run. It’s a very suburban thing to do. Ade and I would split cheese fries. I wonder, do they have cheese fries in Puerto Rico? If so, would Ricky share them with me?

  “You’re hungry?” Ricky laughs. I nod. I feel like a cartoon character whose thought bubble is visible to the entire viewing audience. I’m seeing Lucy trussed up as a turkey or decorated in slices of pepperon
i. I wasn’t hungry before the movie, that’s true, but sharing popcorn with Ricky seems to have awoken some sort of latent appetite.

  Ricky laughs, as he always does when he’s sort of seeing through my thoughts.

  Again, I’m surprised to have an “always” thought about Ricky.

  “Then it’s settled.” He turns to Lucy. “You can take Pia and Teresa home. Emily and I will get pizza.”

  “But—”

  “Do you want pizza too?” Ricky asks. It’s a smart tactic: she can’t brat about it if he includes her. Then again, knowing Ricky, it probably isn’t a tactic as much as just him being an all-around thoughtful guy.

  Lucy opens her mouth to reply—something tells me she’d rather gouge herself in the eye with a knitting needle than send me out for pizza with Ricky alone—but before she can answer, Teresa jumps in. “No way, Luce. My mom’s going to kill me if I’m any later, and you promised if I came out, you would get me home in time.”

  Lucy seethes. Her eyes narrow into tiny slits, but she acquiesces. A few moments more and I’m strapped into the shotgun seat of Ricky’s car after all. Lucy and her friends pile into Lucy’s car. I wonder briefly what I’ve gotten myself into, and I have a feeling, as Lucy’s car pulls smoothly out of its parking spot, that she’s wondering the exact same thing.

  Pizza in Puerto Rico isn’t all that different from pizza on the mainland. At least, not if you go to Pizza Hut. It’s nice to know that franchises are the same all over. Nice in sort of a scary way, that is. In the event of a nuclear holocaust the only things left standing will be cockroaches, Starbucks, and chain restaurants. It is a comforting thought.

  Ricky and I share a pie, half veggie, half pepperoni. I’m not a vegetarian and I’m certainly not kosher, but the fluorescent orange hue of the pepperoni makes me shudder. I try not to gag as he shovels the entire half pie down his throat at warp speed.

  “You must have a crazy metabolism,” I say.

  He grins and wipes a smudge of grease off his chin. “What? I’m a growing boy.” In that case, I think, he has a lot more growing to do—he’s just barely bigger than I am—but it’s endearing, definitely.

  “Noah would never . . .” I trail off. What is wrong with me? Why do I constantly need to bring up Noah? Do I have some sort of mental disorder, like those people who are in car accidents who forget how to say everything except for one word? Super.

  My entire thought, FYI, is, Noah would never eat half a pizza without worrying about the fat and calories. Does that make me like Noah more or less? Interesting question.

  “Is he a wrestler or something? I thought those were the only guys who watch their weight,” Ricky says.

  “No,” I tell him. “He’s not. I guess he’s just . . . vain?”

  As I say it, I realize it’s true. And also that it bothers me a little bit. I try to laugh it off. Ricky is kind enough not to press.

  “How did you guys leave things for the summer?” he asks. So much for not pressing.

  I toy with my fork, dragging grease trails across my plate. “We didn’t.”

  Except for our extended game of phone tag, that is.

  “I mean, I guess we didn’t come to any decisions. Why would we? We didn’t know I would be away all summer. So I guess . . . that means . . . things are still . . . on,” I say with a complete and total lack of confidence.

  “But?” he leads.

  “But it’s weird,” I admit. “We haven’t really been able to talk—it’s been total phone tag—and the thing is that next year, I’m going away to college and so is he.”

  “To a different school.”

  “Yeah. I’ll be at Brown, in Rhode Island. He’s going to Northeastern, in Boston.”

  “Not too far apart,” he says. At my look he says, “What? I’m not allowed to know some things?”

  “What about you?” I ask, tired of being in the hot seat.

  “What about me?” he asks, adopting an innocent posture.

  “What about you and Lucy? You two never got together?” They have such a familiarity with each other that it’s hard to believe they never did. Also, it would explain her annoying possessiveness.

  Ricky shrugs. “We did.” He looks sheepish. “But that was back in elementary school.”

  “Oh, you were like her fifth-grade boyfriend?” I tease.

  He blushes. “Something like that.” He sighs. “Rafael came to our school in sixth grade, and that was it.”

  I whistle. “Really? They’ve been together that long?”

  “Oh, yeah. They’re the real deal. They get each other.”

  I can see what he means, even from the little time I’ve spent with the two of them. What’s more is that he doesn’t sound at all wistful or jealous, just matter-of-fact. Which is cool. I’ve never had much luck with platonic guy friends myself. Which begs the question of what Ricky is becoming to me.

  “What are your friends doing this summer?” he asks, and for some reason, I’m surprised that it even occurs to him to ask. It’s a nice reminder that I do have friends, a place where I belong. That I seem like the type of person who would have those things.

  “Road trip,” I say, struggling to keep my voice neutral. “They’re probably”—I check my watch as though their itinerary is printed on its face—“halfway to Chicago right now.”

  “You were supposed to go with them?” It’s a question, but one that he knows the answer to.

  I nod. “Yeah. But then . . .” I trail off. Then my grandmother died. A fact that still hasn’t hit me with the appropriate gravitas. At the time it was unfathomable that I would reschedule my summer for a woman I’d never met, a woman I’d been led to believe didn’t mean all that much to my mother. A woman who, I had deduced, my mother left behind to pursue a different lifestyle. But now . . . now it’s hard to picture myself in the backseat of the car with the girls. The image in my mind is growing blurrier with every day that passes. True, Lucy hasn’t exactly welcomed me into the fold, but I feel, in some odd way, right, right where I am.

  “But then I came here,” I finish lamely. I pick up the leftover crust of my pizza, contemplate taking a bite, and decide better of it. I put it back down on my plate, push the plate aside.

  “Well, the great outdoors will always be there,” Ricky says, wisely leaving off the part where my friends and their itinerary may not be.

  I’m suddenly homesick and overly full. I shake my head, take one last sip of diet soda. Yak. Diet Coke tastes like chemical sludge. I don’t know why I drink it. I guess it’s just something that girls do.

  Ricky senses my abrupt change in mood. “Ready to go?” he asks graciously, as though it had been his idea all along. I am overwhelmed by his perceptiveness, adore him just a little for it.

  We toss our trash, step outside. The air in the parking lot is crisp, cleaner than the dingy environs would suggest. His car, a “spunky” two-door Ford Escort that has definitely seen better days, is on the far side of the lot. We cross the blacktop briskly, my flip-flops making a smacking sound that punctuates my every step. I can’t think of anything to say that wouldn’t be stupid. The moment feels pregnant, tense, brimming with potential and unspoken promises. I can’t put my finger on why.

  Ricky comes around to my side of the car, leans past my body to open the door for me. It’s an old-school gesture, charming. Noah’s car has automatic locks, which I guess shouldn’t preclude chivalry but somehow does.

  Ricky turns the key in the lock, pulls at the handle, opens the door just enough so it sits just slightly ajar, waiting for me to get in. Then he steps back.

  All at once Ricky is standing upright and I realize that he is very close to me. So close that I can smell him, mostly shampoo, a green, earthy smell that is distinctly masculine, mingling with a sharply sweet, antiseptic odor. Aftershave? His breath reverberates off my cheek softly. He is looking at me, a sidelong glance out of his peripheral vision. It’s a look that I recognize but vaguely, like I’m seeing it through a soft-focus
lens.

  Quickly, almost instantly, Ricky’s face has dipped in toward mine. In a flash it registers—he is trying to kiss me!

  I’m stunned, but not surprised. Confused, but eager. Hesitant, but racked with guilt. I have no idea what to do.

  I dodge just in time, shrinking backward. It’s awkward. Ricky has to stop himself from tilting too far forward. He pauses mid-swoop, straightens again, coughs for good measure. He looks over my head, behind me, off to one side. Anywhere but my eyes. Which is a relief and also torture.

  “Sorry,” I say. It sounds tinny and pathetic, suspended between us in the thick air. What was refreshing a moment ago has become cloying, suffocating. What am I sorry for? Any number of things. But the apology can really only do so much. It doesn’t dispel the awkwardness.

  Mercifully Ricky says nothing, only circles the car back to the driver’s side. He gets in, buckles up his seat belt, and I do the same.

  The ride home is one of the longest of my life. For once I wish Ricky were more of a traditional Puerto Rican driver—faster, more aggressive. He pumps the brakes for every yield, cranes his head methodically at every turn. I fidget, twisting the rings on my fingers, fiddling with the zipper on my bag.

  I am desperate for someone to say something, for something to happen. But all that happens is that Ricky decides to try the radio. Something, anything, to kill this hideous silence. My bright pink elephant is here with us right now, balanced precariously on the hand rest, trumpeting loudly between us. The radio explodes into a burst of static quickly replaced by a blaring remixed beat. Ricky coughs again, turns it off. I want to laugh and choke back the impulse wisely, but not without effort.

  He signals; we turn onto my street. Well, of course it’s not my own, but somehow I’ve come to think of it that way. He pulls into my (there’s that word again) driveway and puts the car in park. He leaves the engine running.