by Amber Hart
“Watch the game or I’m going to sit between your friends,” I say playfully.
“The hell you will,” one of them says. “I don’t have a death wish.”
I laugh. Javier lets his hands rest on my legs.
“This isn’t over,” Javier whispers to me.
I can’t erase my smile.
“No, it’s not,” I confirm.
It’s only just begun.
16
javier
Two days.
I remind myself how long I have left at the beach. White sand and crashing waves and Melissa. I need to make it count. I need to spend as much time as possible with her because I don’t know what will happen when I leave.
I offended Melissa when I asked about Faith the first time she came to my room. That much was clear by her quick departure afterward. Lately, I’m trying not to make the same mistake. I’m working on pushing the thought of Diego to the outskirts of my mind when I’m with Melissa. And honestly? It’s not that hard anymore.
Now that I feel her touch.
Now that she’s held my hand.
Now that I’ve practically branded her as mine in front of my friends.
At first, I only knew the day in the water. I remembered the Melissa that was attached to Faith. I didn’t think of her as separate.
I do now.
And it makes all the difference. I wonder about her stomach. I think about the way she gets a look of absolute terror anytime anyone touches her there. Like the guy I hit. I could have killed that guy. And reality is, it’s not cool to touch any girl that doesn’t want it, but especially not a girl that I’m starting to fall for.
I need to know what Melissa’s hiding. I need to know more. I need to gain her trust. Two reasons. One, I want her to know I like her. Two, I need to ask about Faith again. The Faith part can wait a little longer. But not much longer.
“Mr. Reyes, would you like to participate in this discussion, too?” asks my summer school teacher.
Reyes, the name passed down from mi papá. The name that doesn’t match Diego’s. Good thing. MS-13 will never know we’re related. Not without close inspection. Diego’s mamá and mi mamá were sisters. We took our fathers’ names. This difference might save my life.
“Would you like to participate in this discussion?” I fire back at the teacher. “ ’Cause most of the time it seems like you don’t wanna be here either.”
I smile. It’s the truth. He wants to give me a hard time for zoning out? He’s not one to talk.
The teacher tenses. Hands on his desk, looking me in the eyes.
“I’m not the one failing,” he says. Smiles back.
Asshole.
“And I’m not the one who has nothin’ better to do with his time than sit in this boring class. At least I was ordered to take this class. What’s your excuse?”
“That’s it,” the teacher says. “Get out. I’ll be sending a message to your parents later.”
Gladly. I grab my books and leave. I’m not looking forward to mi mamá getting that message, but it’s already done. I’ve got something planned for today, anyway.
I jump in my truck and turn the key.
Just a few more classes, I remind myself.
And then it’s over.
“Where are you taking me?” Melissa asks, hopping into my truck.
“The gas station first,” I say.
She laughs. “I agree to go on a date with you and the gas station is your idea of a good time?”
“No.” I grin. “I’m takin’ you to the gas station because I had summer school at dawn o’ clock and I didn’t have time to fill the tires with air and check the oil. This is an old truck.”
“Do you usually do this before every date?”
She’s messing with me. I like it. “No, because I don’t date.”
Melissa arches a brow. “You don’t date?”
“Well, depends on what you see as datin’,” I reply. “Parties. Late nights at clubs. That sort of thing.”
“And we’re doing what?”
“Going somewhere—” I pause, trying to think of the right word. “Nicer.”
I don’t know what to call the place I decided on. Fun. Different. A date during the day. That’s big for me.
“Got it.” She smiles. “So you’re taking me on a real date.”
Her smile twists me up.
“Something like that,” I say. “Did you bring what I asked?”
Melissa opens a purse that reminds me of a zebra, all patchwork stripes.
“This one should work.” She hands me a CD. “But just in case you don’t like that one, I have another.”
“Mixed?” I ask.
“Yep.” Her seat belt clicks. “I’m not sure what you’re into.”
I’m into you.
“Can you tell me again why we need a CD?” she asks.
The CD player was the one new investment that I bothered to put into this old truck.
I shift into gear. “Because you’re coming on a road trip with me.”
“So you needed good music to listen to?”
“Exactly.”
I make a quick stop at the gas station to check the tire pressure. Add air. Check the oil. It’s fine. I hop back in. Put the CD in.
“You can learn a lot ’bout a person by what type of music they listen to,” I say.
And that’s the point. I want to get to know Melissa better. We have two hours. There and back. No other distractions. Windows down. Radio up. We ride.
“I want to know you better,” I say.
“You sure?”
The way she says it digs at me.
Why wouldn’t I want to know her?
“Do you not want me to?” I ask.
“You may not want to,” she mumbles.
I hear every word. Her fingers find the volume knob and turn it up like it can drown out her worries. The beat plays.
“Nice,” I say.
I recognize the first song. It’s in Spanish. A guy singing about how the heart has no face. Doesn’t matter what you look like on the outside.
But the next song throws me off.
“Country?”
Melissa doesn’t seem like the country type.
“Lyrics.” Is her only response.
I listen carefully. It starts off talking about lightning across the sky. The sound. The image it creates. I picture the swollen clouds. Hear thunder in the beat.
It’s saying something about a girl’s daddy.
And I know. I know then that Melissa is letting me in without actually opening the door. If I want to listen. If I pay attention. There’s a storm coming in this girl’s life. The singer sounds like she’s in pain with every word. It talks about sins.
I have sins, too.
In the song, the windows burst with the force of the wind. The wind screams at her to take cover because this thing that’s coming is way bigger than she can handle alone. And this man called Daddy is the force that brought the storm.
And this girl?
She’s Melissa.
I’m sure of it.
If this song is her way of letting me in, then I already know one thing: Her dad is bad news. He hurt her. I’m not sure how. Emotionally? Physically? There are so many different types of hurt. But her pinched look and clenched jaw makes me wonder if she’s fighting a memory. Most likely of him. If I’m reading the song right. If I’m reading her right.
I think I am.
Before I can say anything, the next song plays. Upbeat. Not anything like the tone of the last one. And I’m lost in this song, too, because Melissa is telling me so much. If I speak, I might miss the words that tell her story.
The song says she’s still into a guy.
The corners of my lips tug into a grin.
Does she mean me?
I take my eyes off the highway for a moment. Find Melissa staring directly at me. She winks. I laugh.
She’s brilliant because after such a heavy song, she spring
s out with this and we’re both smiling. Knowing, but not talking. I shouldn’t have to shift for a while so I grab her hand.
When the song ends, a new one with an acoustic guitar plays. It’s interesting. It talks about comparing scars. I think Melissa might know about scars in the way that I know about scars. The kind that cut you up inside and make you bleed internally and no one ever knows because you don’t let them in. Those kind of scars.
Then it says something about holding hands and I look down at our fingers. Together. So different. So right.
And this here, now, this is life. How it’s meant to be, I think.
I’ve never done this. Listened to music with a girl.
Another country song comes and a laugh slips out of my lips because I don’t know any other time that I’d listen to country music. And the craziest? I think I might like it a little bit.
“Can’t believe I’m listenin’ to country,” I say.
“You wanted to know,” she replies. “Here you go.”
So the songs are about her life.
Her other hand, the one that I’m not holding, hangs out the open window of my truck. Her head lolls back on the seat. Eyes closed. Sunglasses on. Mi hermosa.
The next song is summery and free. Melissa moves her hand through the air like a wave. A smile yanks on her lips. The song says that the guy looks like bad news, but she’s got to have him anyway.
I can’t get enough of this girl who gives me one dose of serious with three parts fun.
“She’s gotta have him, huh?” I say.
She watches my grin. “Yes.”
We stay like this. Driving. Sometimes holding hands. Breaking when I need to shift gears. We pull off of the highway two hours later. We listened to both CD’s. And part of the first one again.
“Did every song mean something?” I ask as we drive into the parking lot.
Melissa looks around. “Yes.”
“So those lyrics,” I say.
“Are my life through other people’s lips,” she finishes.
I jump out and open Melissa’s door for her.
“Will I ever know your story through your lips?”
She shrugs. “Will I ever know yours?”
“You’re avoidin’ the question,” I point out.
“Because you already got part of me now,” she replies. “I expect a CD with songs that describe you next time.”
I smile. “Deal.”
We walk to the entrance.
“The zoo?” Melissa asks. “You’re taking me on a date to the zoo?”
She likes it, I can tell. Her hands get fidgety and she rocks from side to side. We approach the ticket booth.
“Not just any zoo,” I say. “This zoo is ranked best in the US.”
And I’ve never been. I don’t know, I thought maybe it’d be something Melissa would like. I was right, I guess, because she wraps her arms around me and says, “Thank you.”
I buy two tickets. They’re feathery light in my hand like they can fly us away from our problems.
For a few hours, I believe they can.
17
melissa
Water shoots out of a manatee fountain like a rocket taking off. Everywhere I look, kids play in fountains. Some in their swimsuits, some in regular clothes. The fountains look refreshing on this baking day. I wonder if we’d be allowed in them. I wonder if Javier would have the guts to run through them with me.
I’m pretty sure he would. Because he’s fearless like that. Because he doesn’t seem like the type to care what people say or how they’d look at us, two teenagers making the best of a moment.
Javier grabs a map from the directory. Unfolds it. It’s bent and pleated. I can already imagine using it like a fan.
“Where do you wanna start?” he asks, showing me the map.
I pull my hair into a high bun. Study the map. The zoo is huge. Primates and reptiles. Petting areas and shows. Restaurants and shops. Even a few rollercoasters.
“I have no idea,” I reply.
Javier studies the map, too. “Left or right?”
“Left,” I say automatically. “Wanna start there and work our way around?”
It’ll take hours.
“Sí.”
We take off in the direction of an animal that smells like a farm. I wrinkle my nose. Pigs rolling in mud.
“Let’s see the bird show,” I suggest.
We’re walking down a path called Zoo Boulevard. I’m struck with how normal I feel. For the first time in a while—since the diagnosis, since my best friend left—I feel normal.
Like in this moment, I don’t have cancer.
Like for these hours, Javier is mine.
I don’t want to share him with grief. Usually, I feel Sorrow’s presence radiating off of Javier like a heat wave. Muggy and suffocating and so, so heavy. But now Javier is smiling.
“The bird show doesn’t start for fifteen minutes,” he says.
“We can wait,” I suggest.
Something grabs my attention. A child. He’s holding his mother’s hand, ice cream in his other palm. But he’s letting the ice cream melt because something else has captivated him.
What’s more important than ice cream to a child?
I’m lost in his face, his mouth open in wonder. I follow the direction of his pointing finger. A zookeeper is walking down the path, an owl on her shoulder. The owl is bigger than her head. Colored every shade of brown. Its feathers reflect the sun like oil. The owl doesn’t move, save for the blinking of its eyes. But it’s there and it’s real. The boy can’t believe how amazing this is, says his expression.
It’s heading toward us.
“Come with me,” I say instinctively, taking Javier’s hand.
I grab my camera.
The zookeeper stops. The bird walks down her arm. Stops on her wrist. As long as the flash is off, the zookeeper allows people to take pictures with the owl on her hand. I wait patiently for three people in front of us to finish.
It’s our turn. Javier puts an arm around me just as I lift the camera and snap a photo of us with the owl. Our first photo ever.
Memories.
I look at what I’ve captured. The owl, eyes open and clear. Me and three-fourths of Javier’s face. The other part is cut off by the edge of the screen. It’s perfect.
The zookeeper moves on to other people waiting for their chance at a photo. I wonder if it will be their first picture with the person next to them, too.
“Let’s get a snow cone,” I say. I’ve spotted the solitary cart serving flavored ice. I’m already dripping sweat.
I check out the flavor selection. It lists interesting names like Rainbow Melon, Lime Banana, Peach Apple. Things that I wouldn’t have normally thought could go well together.
Like me and Javier.
“I’ll have a Strawberry Coconut,” I order.
Javier thinks about it a second, then says, “Lemon Grape.”
With our weird flavors, we sit on a bench and wait until it’s time to see the bird show. Ice melts in my mouth. Numbs my tongue. Gives me a brain freeze and red fingers. Javier’s tongue is purple. I laugh. Snap a picture of him.
“Lucky yours is red,” he jokingly says.
I can’t eat it fast enough. Ice melts into cold, flavored water.
“You see that couple?” Javier asks.
“The ones in the big hats?” I try to figure out which couple he means. There are a lot of people here.
“No, the girl in the pink shirt and the guy with the backward hat.”
I shift my gaze. Spot them. “What about them?”
Javier wraps a napkin around the bottom of his snow cone so it doesn’t drip onto his clothes. “What do you think of them?”
“Am I supposed to know them?” I ask. “Do you know them?”
I don’t recognize their faces, though they seem to be about our age.
“Nope,” he answers. “But she’s Latina and he’s a gringo.”
Like us, but backw
ard.
I wait to see where Javier is going with this.
“What do you think about them mixing cultures?”
“Obviously,” I say, running a finger down his arm, “I think it’s fine.”
Is Javier asking if I care that he’s Latino? Because I don’t.
“I think it’s beautiful, even,” I add.
“Some people wouldn’t see it that way,” Javier says.
“And some people don’t like strawberry coconut snow cones either.” I shrug. “People like different things. That’s allowed.”
“True,” he replies. “But what happens when those people go further than not liking it? What happens when they discourage it?”
He leans away from my face. Glances far off.
“Then we don’t make them eat strawberry coconut snow cones and they don’t tell us how to live our lives.” I try to make a joke out of it, but Javier is serious.
His shirt slips down his shoulder just a bit and I catch a glimpse of his tatted up chest. Some people don’t like tattoos. Some people don’t like mixed cultures. I’m wondering what that has to do with us.
“Some people,” Javier says, locking his eyes with mine. “Even hate it.”
Does he mean someone in particular? Because it seems like there’s more to his comment. It’s in the way that he won’t drop it. In the way that he seems bothered by these people that aren’t us.
“Who hates it, Javier?”
“I don’t know,” he replies.
And my first thought is: He’s lying.
His eyes are closed off and his hand is slack in mine.
“I don’t care who sees us together,” I tell him.
Maybe he needs to hear me say it. Because by this point, I know that Javier must be talking about more than that couple. What he’s really talking about . . .
Is us.
It smells like rain is coming.
Bossy clouds force the sun to hide behind them. The sky changes from cobalt blue to ashen gray. I don’t feel any rain, but the horizon tells me that it’s imminent.
My legs are tired from walking for hours. We’ve seen monkeys and snakes and hippos and zebras and bears and lions and penguins and basically every animal that the zoo has to offer. I’ve even fed a giraffe, its long tongue like sandpaper against my skin.