Riding the Universe

by Gaby Triana

  “Yeah, reciting the elements, I know.” He smiles, and the Spu-dimples return to render me unconscious. Mon dieu!

  I watch him rush off down the stairs. Even though he is still malevoly for having completely disregarded my attempt at connection this weekend, I think what just happened might actually be considered a breakthrough.

  “Helium. Neon. Argon…” I pause to glare at some of my classmates who are snickering beyond reasonable control. From this angle, they have taken on a different look, like a crowd at a public hanging. “Kryptonite…” I can’t think of which element comes next. All I hear is louder laughter all around.

  Mr. Rooney squints as though I have suddenly become a misty cloud before his very eyes. “Kryptonite,” he says, adjusting his bifocals, “is not on the periodic chart of elements, last time I checked, Miss Rodriguez.”

  I smile nervously. “I meant krypton.” For some weird reason, standing there, providing the class with school-time entertainment, I could only think of two things: one, that this painful moment would be emblazoned in my mind for all eternity; and two, that I was glad Gordon wasn’t there to see it.

  Nine

  Rock finally comes out of hiding, gracing me with his presence right after lunch. It’s a mystery to me how administration has not caught on to his network of girls who not only do most of his classwork for him but forge notes and call in as his mother as well. If only I had people like he does, I could afford to skip school half the year too.

  He catches up to me and presses his lips against my cheek, as if Friday night’s awkwardness never happened. Sometimes I wish I was a guy so I could just pretend important emotional exchanges between people never took place.

  I stare straight ahead. “You didn’t have to ignore my calls.”

  “I didn’t ignore you. I was busy.”

  “I don’t want to hear it.” I block his words with my hand.

  He laughs like a dirty old man. “Trust me, you don’t.”

  And there you have it. “You’re sick.”

  I act like his attitude doesn’t bother me, but obviously it does. How am I supposed to believe anything he tells me when he goes right back to old behaviors like that? Doesn’t he care that he might be picking up germy diseases from his extracurricular activities, or that he might get someone he barely knows pregnant?

  “I meant everything I said the other night, by the way,” he says, taking my backpack and carrying it for me. Girls huddle like groupies as Rock walks by. Pretty girls. Girls who, for all intents and purposes, could get any guy they wanted. But Rock ignores them, his eyes focused on me.

  “I’m sure you did,” I say, scanning the halls.

  “But it’s not enough, right?” He smiles, his lips just barely parted.

  I shrug. I don’t know what to think anymore.

  Am I crazy to keep my best friend at bay like this? Maybe. But the idea of us together is more than a little terrifying. What if it didn’t work? We could never hang the same way again. There would always be weirdness in the air. Or the worst case…we may go separate ways and never talk again.

  No likey.

  Speaking of weirdness, Amber suddenly comes careening down the hall and catapults herself like an Olympic long jumper right onto Vince’s back. I watch Rock’s face carefully. Anyone who knows him the way I do would see his soul imploding right inside his glass skin. Amber is such a bitch—she even looks back at him for a second to make sure he notices.

  But he turns away right as she does and locks his eyes on mine. “I knew it.”

  “I tried calling to tell you, but as usual, you didn’t pick up. Don’t let it get to you.” I lean forward to kiss him somewhere between the cheek and the lips and let it linger. Take that, Amber.

  He laughs and puts his arms around me. And then I’m lifted inches off the ground in one of those crushing Rock-hugs. “And that is why you rock,” he whispers into my ear. I have to punch him so he’ll put me down.

  “Later.”

  “Later.”

  Did you hear the one about the girl who rides a motorcycle to school, and everyone thinks she must be a lesbian because she not only refuses hot guys who fawn over her but also has no real girlfriends?

  Me neither.

  As I sit here nervously waiting for Gordon to arrive, Sabine seems immune to the lesbian rumors. She glances at me anxiously, and I have to use all my willpower not to say, “What?” every time she looks over. She bounces in her seat, checking and rechecking the auditorium door. I tap my pencil against the desk. Tap-tap-tap. Tappity-tap. I hope it’s not raining. I hope Mystery Tarp Putter doesn’t get any more clever ideas while I’m here either.

  Ms. Rath settles everybody down, but Gordon is not here yet. To pass the time, I close my eyes. Sven appears in a halo of snow and ice. Not only is Sven my fantasy ski instructor, but he is a distant cousin of Julio, the dream lagoon tutor. Sven’s sparkling blue eyes work well to eradicate all thoughts of dimpled, invitation-refusing, MIT-bound chemistry tutors from my mind. I lay my head down and imagine Sven carefully guiding my hands over the ski poles, gripping them firmly, demonstrating how he wants me to hold them. We communicate through body language and a series of soft cries. Sven is great because he doesn’t get the least bit cold when he pulls off his parka and T-shirt. He is a Norwegian snow god. Je t’adore, Sven.

  But then Gordon arrives, plopping into the seat next to me, dissolving any plot advancements my Norwegian daydream might have made. “Sorry I’m late,” he says.

  Au revoir, Sven, cheri. I lift my head and peer up at him through tired eyes. “This is a recurring theme with you, isn’t it?”

  Out comes the organizer, the pen, an extra pad of sticky notes. “Let’s go, Chloé. I have to get home to study, and you have to pass chemistry.”

  “What’s the rush? Why must you get home?” I ask, scanning over some new equations and bonus question he’s handed me.

  He moves around his sticky notes as if prioritizing them. Suddenly, after a few seconds, he looks at me and says this: “What are you, my girlfriend now?”

  Ouchies.

  My super-keen senses tell me he is upset. The friendly Gordon of this morning—gone—just like that. He reminds me of an old Rolodex thing my mom is storing in the garage for the day we might need one, except with moods instead of contact cards: pissed, bored, friendly, pissed…and I’m the one with multiple personalities?

  “Well, I do come to you with issues on a regular basis, and you do smile at me in the hallways, so technically, we are seeing each other.”

  He cracks a teensy, tense smile, but that’s it.

  “What happened?” I ask. “Last I saw you, you were in a good mood. Did someone get an A-minus on a test or something?”

  I start on the problems while he just stares blankly down at his organizer without really looking at it. “You know, you can mock me all you want, Chloé, but you’ll never fully grasp how important it is that I succeed in this life. For you, failing might be an option. But for me, it’s not.”

  My mouth wants to drop open. I shoot little laser beams at his hair with my eyes. It does not catch fire. I am disappointed. What is his problem? Why does he treat me like he likes me one second, then like I’m his worst enemy the next? And worse, why am I finding that incredibly sexy?

  “I understand that, Gordon, which is why I want you to relax, or else you’re going to kill yourself worrying about your classes and your grades and everything. Or does this have nothing to do with school?” I wiggle my eyebrows to suggest girl problems—Sabine problems, to be more exact.

  He sighs. “It’s my SAT coming up. I have to do better than last time if I want to make a good impression. Or else my choice of worthwhile colleges is limited. Plus, MIT has an early-entrance exam, which, if I pass, means I can get in before the start of the fall semester. Forget it, I don’t even know why I’m bothering to explain this to you.”

  I narrow my eyes at him. “You know, you keep doing that…that…thing…where you just
assume I’m too stupid to understand what it means to succeed in life. But I do, okay? I just believe that there should also be some room for good things…fun things…because sometimes we die too early.” I pause to collect myself. Calm down, Chloé. “Forget it, I don’t know why I’m bothering to explain this to you,” I mumble, making sure he knows I won’t take that crap from him.

  “Look, I’m just stressed, Chloé.”

  “Which is my point, Gordon. You have to wind down sometimes, or else you fall out of touch with yourself. I tried to help, however, somebody never called me.”

  “I’ll wind down when I’m dead, and I already apologized to you about not calling.”

  “Augh,” I scoff. “That is so Leo of you.”

  Which of these substances will not conduct electricity well when in liquid form?

  How the hell should I know? What do I care, and what makes Gordon the sort of person who can actually teach this to someone? I breathe deeply to release some of the tension in my shoulders.

  We’re quiet for twenty minutes, and strangely enough, it’s not weird anymore. Gordon can snap at me, I can snap at him, but then we just settle into a comfort zone, and all is okay. I’m totally getting used to this relationship.

  “Fine,” he blurts into the silence between us, his head still down. He looks at his watch. “You win. Let’s get out of here.”

  “Huh?”

  “When I say go, pick up your stuff and head for the door.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Just do it. Ready?” He seems a little overanxious for someone about to walk out of class. It’s not like he’s going to rob a bank. Then again, this is Gordon. For him, it’s a big deal. I feel my heart quickening at the spontaneity of his decision.

  I wait for the signal. Whatever he has up his sleeve, I’m game. Besides, what can happen to us for leaving peer tutoring? It’s voluntary!

  “In three…two…” He pauses, glancing at Ms. Rath, who walks into the wings onstage. “One. Go.”

  I gather up my notebook, throw it into my backpack. A couple of kids in front of us turn around. “Emergency,” I whisper, folding down the seat’s writing desk.

  They turn back around just as I’m headed up the aisle, through the EXIT doors, and into the hot sun. So much for those scattered showers. They must be scattered somewhere else. I smile, feeling my cheeks burn. Gordon rushes out behind me, arranging his backpack on his shoulder.

  “What was that all about?” I ask. He looks like he just committed treason against Ms. Rath. “Are you okay? You look a little overwhelmed.”

  “Yeah.” He chuckles. He has a nice bubbly laugh. He should use it as often as possible. “I’m fine. I just needed to get out of there.”

  “Anything you want to share?” We stop in front of Lolita, and I slip on my riding jacket, start braiding my hair.

  “I have two tests tomorrow—calculus and honors physics, and MIT’s early-entrance exam is going to mean nothing if I don’t get at least a fourteen hundred on my math SAT, so I have to study for that too. I’m not a genius, Chloé. I know you think I am. Everyone thinks that.”

  I nod. “Fine, maybe you’re not a genius, but you’re smarter than average, so don’t try to hide it. Still, I get what you’re saying about people making assumptions. People make them about me too.”

  He kicks the sidewalk. “So there you go. See, I have to work really hard to get the grades I get. Emile’s never had to study for a damn thing, you know?” He mutters, lost in thought.

  “Who?”

  “Emile, my brother,” he clarifies.

  “Oh. This is why you made me follow you out here?” I realize it’s a leading question, but I like torturing him.

  Gordon thumbs the belt loop on his jeans. “I guess I owe you for trying to get me out of the house. I know what you’re trying to do, and I appreciate it. Don’t misunderstand me, it’s just…” He pauses.

  “It’s just what?”

  He squints at me, cocking his head slightly. Then he scans the entire parking lot, his answer getting lost somewhere out there. I don’t know what’s at the heart of his stress, but it doesn’t take a real genius to know that Gordon wanted to be alone with me. I just want to hear it. “Where’s this magical hangout place that you must take me to?”

  I smile. Little does he realize what he’s about to gain by going to the Murphys’ dock. “Not far from here. Maybe ten, fifteen minutes. Why?”

  “Do you always ask so many questions? I’ll follow you.”

  “You sure?”

  “Your window of opportunity is going to close if you don’t start leading me there now.” He smiles, walking away.

  “All right, where are you parked?”

  He points to an old tan BMW parked on the street near the office.

  “Okay, I’ll meet you out there, and you can follow me.”

  We’re crossing the tutor-student line and heading into unknown territory. But I think that’s okay, because Gordon fascinates me. I know he’s overworked, way too serious, and even cocky at times, but still…I get the feeling there’s this whole other side to him that I can’t completely see yet. I may not know what it is, but it’s there. And that alone is enough to pull me in.

  Ten

  Private sanctuaries are private for a reason—so one can reflect, loiter, and nap without mothers interrupting to ask that you hang up the laundry before it rots in the washing machine. But Gordon looked so defeated, so tortured standing there, I knew he desperately needed a break, and I don’t know of a better place for one.

  Given our petty arguments, I realize how inconsistent it is to be sharing my sanctuary with him, but inconsistency is consistent with the way Gordon makes me feel. I guess that’s what people mean by love-hate relationships. Like now: I feel strangely hyper as Gordon follows me. Wait, he is still following me, isn’t he?

  I check the mirror. Yep. Still there.

  I turn onto the Murphys’ street, where the weeds grow longer than they should and the houses could use a new coat of paint. I gun Lolita down the road, thrilling at the dip, then turn into the Murphys’ driveway.

  Gordon follows, but I know that dip is just not the same in his car. I pull up to the gravel road leading to the dock and cut the engine. Gordon’s tires crunch over the ground and come to a stop. As I take off my gear, I notice him sitting frozen in his car. That boy has issues. I nod to encourage him. A few feet away, an egret watches us.

  Finally, Gordon gets out and trudges over. “Where are we?”

  The buzz and chirping of a hundred or more insects in the sawgrass welcome me. “Do you mean literally or figuratively?”

  “Any explanation will do.”

  I start down the path, Gordon at my side. “Literally, we’re at an estuary. Figuratively, this is my home.”

  He nods with a smirk.

  “I may as well live here. I’m always here.” We step onto the old planks and walk up to the dock’s edge. The water is slimy brown today. Between the patches, you can see pipefish feeding off the surface slime.

  Gordon stands there, arms folded. “Is this the place you desperately wanted me to see?” He smiles, playfully bumping my arm with his side. Gordon is a big, strong boy, so I nearly fall over when he does this. Not something I’m used to.

  I sit on the dock, dangling my legs over the edge, and lean back. “Make fun of it all you want, but stay here long enough and you’ll see this place is magical.”

  “This place is in desperate need of environmental intervention, is what it is.”

  “The water’s supposed to look this way,” I say. “It’s fresh and salt mixed together. There’s a whole delicate biodiversity thing going on.”

  “I know. I was just teasing.” He sits next to me, blocking the sun. We look out and listen to the sounds of the swamp, taking in nature’s voices, but Gordon still seems uncomfortable. He’s too quiet.

  What would Rock do if he saw me here with Gordon? Probably ask a million questions. Who’s the dude
? Why’d you bring him here? You think he’s hot, don’t you? In my peripheral vision, I notice Gordon peering out at some movement in the water. I take the opportunity to check him out real quick. He hasn’t shaved in a day or two. When he’s off guard, it’s easy to see that Gordon is pretty hot.

  What makes him irresistible at the moment, though, is that he’s here with me. He could be doing his thing at home, studying, playing Sudoku, filling out college applications, but he’s not. He’s making an effort to connect with me, to take me up on my challenge, and to show that there’s more to him than meets the eye.

  “You okay?” I ask.

  He wraps his arms around his knees. “I guess so. I just…I don’t know what I’m doing here.”

  “So go if you’re not comfortable. You don’t have to—”

  “No,” he interrupts, his voice firm with resolution. “I’m comfortable. I am. That’s what I don’t understand. I shouldn’t be comfortable here. Normally, just sitting around would make me feel like I’m wasting time, when I should be taking advantage of every waking moment to advance myself any way I can.”

  “Glad to hear it.” I didn’t want to change Gordon completely, strip him of his identity or anything. I only wanted him to relax a little, so this is good. Really good. “Sometimes,” I tell him, “I sit here and I’m in a trance. It doesn’t matter what’s happened during the day, doesn’t matter what’s going on in the world around me, I just feel calm.”

  “I believe that’s called meditating?”

  “Okay. Forgive me if it takes me fifty words to say what takes you one.” I laugh. He does too.

  I stare out at the water and the ripples on the surface. “But other times,” I say, “I sit here and think about people in other places, living lives parallel to mine. Like, maybe some woman in Afghanistan is right at this very moment searching for her missing children, hiding to save her life, while I’m sitting here like a spoiled little princess, worrying whether or not it’ll rain today or whether I’ll get to keep my motorcycle another year.”