Danger in the Library
“Sometimes, I just talk and stupid things happen. Like yesterday, I was telling Dalia about the library—”
“You told your sister about yesterday?” My heart pops like a firecracker.
“Well”—he takes off his baseball cap—“it was kind of hard to hide this at the dinner table.” He leans forward to show me the knot on his head.
“Wow. I did that.” Without thinking, I touch the knot and feel terribly guilty (and slightly satisfied) when Danny flinches.
“Yeah, did you have to choose the unabridged dictionary? Couldn’t you have just used your pocket Webster?” His dimples appear. I want to rub my finger in the indent.
“What did you tell your sister?” I am curious. I’ve never had my name pass between the lips of the socially elite.
“I don’t know. I just told her some stuff. So why did you throw the book at me?”
Good question. Too bad I didn’t have one good, rational answer. “I don’t know. You were there with this ‘I don’t care that I’m late’ attitude.”
“Sometimes the coach keeps us late.”
At this point, he could tell me that he likes green eggs and ham. I don’t care. I’m stuck somewhere between understanding that our knees are touching and that he, too, washes his face with Neutrogena. I can smell it on him….
NOT anything
CARMEN rodrigues
THE BERKLEY PUBLISHING GROUP
Published by the Penguin Group
Penguin Group (USA) Inc. 375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014, USA
Penguin Group (Canada), 90 Eglinton Avenue East, Suite 700, Toronto, Ontario M4P 2Y3, Canada (a division of Pearson Penguin Canada Inc.) Penguin Books Ltd., 80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England Penguin Group Ireland, 25 St. Stephen’s Green, Dublin 2, Ireland (a division of Penguin Books Ltd.) Penguin Group (Australia), 250 Camberwell Road, Camberwell, Victoria 3124, Australia (a division of Pearson Australia Group Pty. Ltd.) Penguin Books India Pvt. Ltd., 11 Community Centre, Panchsheel Park, New Delhi—110 017, India Penguin Group (NZ), 67 Apollo Drive, Rosedale, North Shore 0632, New Zealand (a division of Pearson New Zealand Ltd.) Penguin Books (South Africa) (Pty.) Ltd., 24 Sturdee Avenue, Rosebank, Johannesburg 2196, South Africa
Penguin Books Ltd., Registered Offices: 80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England
NOT ANYTHING
This book is an original publication of The Berkley Publishing Group.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental. The publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party websites or their content.
Copyright © 2008 by Carmen Rodriguez.
Excerpt from A Little Something by Carmen Rodrigues copyright © 2008 by Carmen Rodriguez.
All rights reserved.
BERKLEY® is a registered trademark of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.
BERKLEY® JAM and the JAM design are trademarks of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.
ISBN: 978-1-1012-0677-5
An application to register this book for cataloging has been submitted to the Library of Congress.
For David
CONTENTS
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
ONE
the yearbook picture line
TWO
danny diaz
THREE
a quick f.y.i.
FOUR
helping danny
FIVE
my m.i.a. d.a.d.
SIX
two wednesdays later
SEVEN
tamara
EIGHT
just maybe…a connection
NINE
lots and lots of candy
TEN
a definite connection
ELEVEN
truth or dare
TWELVE
secrets
THIRTEEN
what about me?
FOURTEEN
la casa diaz
FIFTEEN
a part of the family
SIXTEEN
catfight
SEVENTEEN
first dates
EIGHTEEN
the mall
NINETEEN
interlude
TWENTY
loneliness
TWENTY-ONE
apologies
TWENTY-TWO
amends
TWENTY-THREE
la casa diaz, part ii
TWENTY-FOUR
falling
TWENTY-FIVE
relationships
TWENTY-SIX
moments
TWENTY-SEVEN
elation
TWENTY-EIGHT
thanksgiving
TWENTY-NINE
saturday
THIRTY
sunday, the memorial
THIRTY-ONE
fragmented sunday afternoon
THIRTY-TWO
big fat liar
THIRTY-THREE
dad starts to wake up
THIRTY-FOUR
the aftermath
THIRTY-FIVE
marc
THIRTY-SIX
the other holidays
THIRTY-SEVEN
the missing
THIRTY-EIGHT
the invisible line
THIRTY-NINE
sisters forever
FORTY
an intervention
EPILOGUE
junior year: a new beginning
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
I lost a close family friend in the months before I began writing Not Anything. What surprised me the most about my grief was that it was so vast. It didn’t hit all at once, instead it appeared at the most inopportune times—the red light two blocks from home, the bathroom at work. I found from talking to more-experienced mourners that my grief would last for years. And eventually—if I made the effort—I could learn to adjust to its quake.
It was then that I began to write Not Anything, a novel in which a teenage girl struggles to deal with the loss of her mother five years before, emotional isolation from her father, high school, and the intimidating task of falling in love at the tender age of fifteen.
This was an ambitious project for me, and from the novel’s conception to the point of publication, I received tremendous support. So without further ado, I’d like to thank:
Caren Lissner, for giving me my first writing gig, encouraging the writing of this novel, and offering me sound advice.
My teachers—specifically Mrs. Johnson and Mr. Strickland (Sun-set Senior High), and Dr. Berry and Mary Jane Ryals (FSU)—for helping me to become a better writer and human being.
All the kids I went to high school with for giving me stories to tell and romances to re-create.
YA authors Stephanie Hale and Bethany Griffin, for navigating this unpredictable journey with me. Your feedback and encouragement mean the world to me.
All the YA authors at [email protected], particularly Alesia Holliday (a.k.a. Jax Abbott), for starting this group.
Agent Rachel Vater, for being kind enough to pass along my manuscript.
My own determined (and insanely gorgeous) agent Zoe Fishman, for reading said manuscript, declaring it loveable, and taking on the tremendous task of finding it a good home! Infinite thanks!
The rest of my Lowenstein-Yost Associates family, particularly Barbara Lowenstein and Nancy Yost, for embracing my work and launching my career.
Kate Seaver, my editor at Berkley Books, for believing in this story, giving me my first big break, and not suggesting that
I change the title or the ending. I applaud you!
Allison Brandau, Kate’s solid right hand, for answering all my “newbie” questions with a cheerful attitude.
Prescott Tolk, comedian extraordinaire, for pushing me “to reach for the moon.”
Michelle Civile and Brian McCann, for being the two best “civilian” friends a girl could ever have. I love you both so much.
And, most important, to my family: Mom, for taking me to the library and telling me that you loved me; Natalie, for the unique bedtime stories that fed my imagination; my real-life Suzi, for always pushing me forward. You are my “best-est” friend and my reader of choice; and Walter, for surviving a family of bossy girls and loving us, despite our shortcomings.
I’d also like to thank my extended family: John, Trevor, Isiah, Savannah, Jenna, Nathanial, Grandma Monse, and Grandpa Ramón. Your personal stories are mine to tell.
And to David Jason Ashworth, whose tragic death led me to write this story: you are missed. Always.
ONE
the yearbook picture line
holding up a school line is dangerous business.
The worst part is that I’ve done all that I can to make this experience end. I’ve given Fred, the photographer, the slight curve-of-the-lip-closed-mouth sneer, the half-open/half-closed-mouth grimace, the mysterious-faced Mona Lisa, and anything else that might possibly pass as a smile, and…nothing. We’re on our fourth shot, and he keeps saying that he’ll take my yearbook picture over and over again until I smile—get this—happily.
The problem is that I haven’t smiled for a yearbook picture since the fourth grade, and I’m pretty sure that it’s not going to happen now. But that’s not going to stop me from having a panic attack. That’s my specialty. I’ve been having those since the sixth grade. And here it is—
Shortness of breath
Pain across my chest
Uncontrollable body movements
“Just breathe, Susie,” Marisol whispers from the opposite side of the room.
“Yeah, dipshit, breathe,” Billy Wilson adds from behind her. “And stop looking so stupid!”
“God.” Marisol gives Billy a dirty look “What is your problem?” She turns back to me and says, “Just think of…” before she takes this God-awful long pause that hangs there for all eternity. This gives Billy several more opportunities to make funny faces at me, so I tell myself to tune him out and think. Think. What can I think of?
I can think of…stupid songs. Like? Just what makes that little ole ant think he’ll move that rubber tree plant?
No. No. No. I haven’t sunk so low that I need to pep myself up with silly, encouraging songs.
What else?
I guess I can think of…Marisol? Like what’s up with the long pause? Okay, unsafe territory.
What else? What else?
I can think of…my father? But what do I know about my father? Of course I know him, but what do I know about him except for the fact that he’ll spend less than ten minutes a day talking to me because that’s enough time to catch up on my very unimportant life. Again, unsafe territory.
What else is there? Who else is there?
My grandma? I love her, but she keeps forgetting my name.
What else?
What’s the point of my high IQ if I can’t think under pressure?
Wait. Wait. Something’s coming.
Something is… Yes! I can think about my next class. Mr. Murphy’s class, a.k.a. English class, a.k.a. my favorite class at Orange Grove Senior High. And right now we’re reading Pride and Prejudice. Ah, Jane Austen.
Yes! This is a safe one! I love Jane Austen. And I like Mr. Murphy. He’s always nice. Like last week when Jason Solocone made fun of the way I pronounced, or should I say mispronounced—
Ca-raaap!
Mr. Murphy was so nice to me last week that I agreed to begin tutoring for him. Today? TODAY!
And here comes the twitch—right back where I left it. And here come their voices—right back where I left them, only now they’re like wind-tunnel voices. I feel like I’m going to keel over from the weight of everything. Everything is slo-mo and excruciating.
Marisol says, “Gaaaaawd, I duuuuunno. Just smiiiiile allllreaddddy.”
Billy says, “Seeeeeee, Daaaaannyyyy, sheeeee’s tootaallyyy twiiiitchiiiing—”
And it’s after that exchange that I try to find something to hold on to so I don’t go and blow away with the wind. I think, Danny? Isn’t that the name of the guy that I’m tutoring? And it is, so I start to list facts about him in my head because sometimes listing things that are concrete makes me feel calm. And right now, I need to feel calm.
So here are the facts about Danny Diaz. He’s:
A junior
A varsity soccer player
Extremely popular
A twin—His twin sister is Dalia Diaz, the only junior to ever be named head of the school’s dance team, the Sun-Kissed Girls.
The list is super-short. I have to go over the facts several times before the wind tunnel disappears, and I can look past Billy Wilson—and his manic need to destroy any shred of self-confidence that I have—toward the guy standing directly behind him. The one watching me. And I wonder if it can be? (Because that would be too much of a ridiculous coincidence.) But can it be?
And that’s when our eyes lock and the guy-who-might-be-Danny says gently, “Just smile, Susie.” And then he does the strangest thing, the least expected thing. He smiles at me.
I mean, I think he smiles at me. I can’t be sure because everyone’s speaking all at once.
Billy says, “That’s what I’m talking about. Feisty dykes. That’s hot.” Then, he blows me a kiss.
Marisol says, “Just smile,” for, like, the twentieth time.
The photographer says, “Hold on, just got to change the battery.”
By the time I let my eyes drift back to the guy-who-might-be-Danny, his face is such a complete void that I’m not even sure he smiled at me at all.
“Okay.” The photographer pops the new battery into his fancy digital camera. “Let’s try that again.”
And so that’s what we do. We try it over and over and over again. And I never get it right, because I can’t smile.
TWO
danny diaz
when i’m nervous, i laugh. that’s a fact. the first time it happened was when I was nine. I was peering into my mother’s coffin when, just like that, I laughed.
Not that my mother’s death has anything to do with this.
Yeah, I feel nervous. Yeah, I want to laugh. But that’s where the similarities end. Like I said, my mother’s death is in no way equal to this stupid meeting. It just reminds me of her funeral, that’s all. That happens sometimes. My brain makes weird connections like that.
See, it’s like even though it hasn’t happened yet, I know how bad this meeting—this tutoring situation—with Danny Diaz is going to turn out. I know because I know. That’s all. I know because I know how boys are with me. I know how boys are with me because…well, where do I start?
Marc Sanchez.
Marc Sanchez is my neighbor, and I hate everything about him. I hate when his stupid friends pick him up in the morning. I hate when he hangs out under the palm trees in front of his house with his stupid girlfriend. I hate when I see him sneaking out to the side of his house to smoke pot.
But you want to know what I really hate about Marc Sanchez? I hate that I know everything about him. I know that he’s got a birthmark shaped like the state of Texas on the back of his thigh. I know that the scar underneath his eyebrow is from when we were seven and he fell off his dad’s truck. (Okay, I pushed him, but we were playing.) I know that the freckles on his face—yes, those twenty thousand freckles—don’t just stop there. They go everywhere.
But you want to know what I really, really hate about Marc Sanchez? That one day Marc woke up and had a thought that went something like this: “Today I’m going to ignore Susie and act like she doesn’t ex
ist.” And that’s pretty much what he did. It was the end of our fourth-grade year and, like that, I disappeared.
“Well…” Mr. Murphy clears his throat. “Danny, may I present to you Miss Susie Shannon. Susie,” Mr. Murphy turns to me, “may I present to you Mr. Danny Diaz.”
Before we get started, you should know four things:
I like Mr. Murphy. He’s the only teacher I have at OG who doesn’t see me for me.
Mr. Murphy lives for introductions.
The guy from the yearbook line, the one who might have been Danny, has, in fact, turned out to be Danny.
If my life were turned into a Shakespearean play, it would be performed as a tragedy.
“Danny,” Mr. Murphy continues informatively, “transferred here from Austin, Texas, last year and seems to have fallen behind. That’s where you come in.” Mr. Murphy gently touches my shoulder. “We need to get Danny back on track, so I’d like for you to visit with him for an hour each week until the end of the grading period. How does that sound?”
“Fine,” I mutter, because what else can I say or do? I mean, I want to point my finger at Danny and screech, “You smiled at me! I know you did!” But I’m pretty sure that if I did that, both Mr. Murphy and Danny would think that I’m crazy (which I might just be), so I tuck my hands into my pockets instead.
“Good.” Mr. Murphy rocks back and forth on his heels, and I can tell he’s pondering his next words. “Danny…” He turns to Danny with a nod of his head and says seriously, “I trust you will approach your time with Susie with the same care that you approach the soccer season.”
“I promise,” Danny says solemnly, nodding back at Mr. Murphy.
“Good. Why don’t you two take the first fifteen minutes to get to know each other?” He adjusts his pink tie so that it lies neatly against his charcoal-gray shirt. “Friendship is an essential part of the tutoring process. I’ll be next door if you need me.” He clicks his tongue. “Carry on.”
Not Anything Page 1