Not Anything

by Carmen Rodrigues

  Danny grabs an apple from a nearby fruit bowl and takes a large bite. “You want a bite?” The apple is so close I can smell it. I nearly die from the thought of our lips touching the same spot.

  “It’s good,” he says, pushing it closer.

  “You know,” I push the apple away, “that’s how Adam got Eve into trouble in the first place.”

  “I thought it was the other way around.”

  “Only, if you believe the lies of a patriarchal society,” I reply smoothly.

  “See,” he smiles, “that’s what I like about you. You’re quick on your feet.”

  He winks, and I feel myself glowing.

  “So, do you want to see my bedroom?” Danny moves toward the hallway.

  I shouldn’t be surprised—I’ve read enough Seventeen (exactly two issues) to know that it doesn’t matter what a girl looks like, a guy always wants to show her his bedroom—but I am.

  “Why?”

  “Because…” Again, Danny gives me a strange look. “That’s where my desk is.”

  “Oh.” My cheeks turn red. Silly, silly me.

  “Coming?” Danny calls from the hallway.

  I take a deep breath and follow.

  an hour later, danny’s mom comes home. we hear her singing in the kitchen long before she shows her face at Danny’s bedroom door. For the past sixty minutes, we’ve been engrossed in the ending of The Scarlet Letter. I’ve stationed myself and the novel on the floor, while Danny lies on the bed flipping through the CliffsNotes.

  “I hate reading,” he tells me for the umpteenth time.

  “Really? I can’t tell.” I fold the page and set the book aside. “I think I can read just about anything, except horror. I can’t stand those books.” I stand and stretch. An hour of reading out loud coupled with in-depth analysis is enough to make my body ache. I bend over and touch my toes. When I straighten up, I notice Danny is watching me.

  “So do you think you’re ready for your test?” I ask awkwardly.

  “Huh?” He shakes his head. I can tell I’ve caught him off guard.

  “Are you ready for your test? Or do you think we need to keep studying?”

  “Oh, I’m sorry. Yeah, I think so. You know,” he says, suddenly, “you’re really bendy.” His face is flushed.

  “I used to take gymnastics when I was little.” I sit at the edge of his bed and draw one knee to my chest. My butt hurts from the hard floor.

  “Why’d you stop?” he asks.

  “I don’t know. I just did.” Which is a lie. The truth is I stopped because after my mom died, my dad kept forgetting to take me.

  “So you feel prepared?” I ask again.

  “How could I not be?” He shakes his head. “You’re intense when you study.”

  “Well”—I make a grave face—“I haven’t earned my reputation as a geek for nothing.”

  “Yeah,” he agrees, laughing. “I knew geeks were good for something.”

  “Yeah,” I say, but I can’t help but feel a burn. Did he just insult me, or is that supposed to be a compliment? Should I even care? I mean, look where I am. I’m at his house.

  But still…

  “Do you think I’m a geek?” I venture.

  The look he gives me, plus his awkward silence, says it all.

  “I don’t mind,” I begin.

  “Come on, Susie—”

  “No, it’s okay.”

  I stare at the walls of his room, anything to avoid him and his…lack of protest.

  His room is typical. It’s a little messy; there’s a swimsuit edition calendar hanging on the wall. A shelf is filled with collectible Star Wars action figures, and there are classic film posters everywhere—Scarface, Lord of the Rings, Star Wars, E.T., The Breakfast Club.

  “Why do you have so many posters?” I pretend to study the E.T. poster. I remember the first time my dad rented that movie from Blockbuster. I cried for days.

  “I want to be a director,” he says rather earnestly.

  I look back to him, sitting on the bed, picking the lint from his comforter. I never thought about Danny beyond the context of his being cute and popular. I never thought about his dreams and aspirations. I just thought about how I was beginning to feel about him. Knowing this made me see him a little differently. To be a director, you had to be creative. I never even thought that side of him existed.

  “Marisol wants to be a movie critic,” I tell him.

  “You know what I like about movies?” he says. “I like that we get to see into these characters who are awkward and shy and sometimes they’re everything that we feel like on the inside. But instead of hating them like we do in real life, we love them…We want them to be happy. Have you ever seen a John Hughes film? He directed The Breakfast Club and Sixteen Candles.”

  “Puh-leeze,” I tell him. “Blockbuster practically has me on their VIP list. I’ve pretty much seen everything John Hughes ever did. And I’m a really big Molly Ringwald fan,” I confess.

  “Me, too.” He shakes his head, and curls fall every which way. I can’t take my eyes off him.

  “What do you want to be when you grow up?” he asks.

  “I don’t know.” I lean my head against the wall and act like I’m considering the question. The truth is I do know. I’ve always known. I want to be a songwriter. But I’ve never shared that information with anyone besides Marisol. “I think I…” I almost change my mind, but, once again, I decide to take a chance. “I think I want to be a writer.”

  “Oh,” Danny says. “That’s cool. Like your dad, right?” he asks.

  “No, not exactly…Hey, how did you know my dad’s a writer?”

  “The same way you seem to know so much about my grandfather.” He arches his eyebrows, rolls off the bed, and stands in the doorway. “We’d better call your dad before he starts worrying.”

  I had forgotten that lie and the time. I smile at the idea that my father might be remotely aware of my absence.

  “Let me just go tell my mom, okay? I’ll be right back.”

  When he’s gone, I walk over to his bed and lift his pillow to my nose. I inhale deeply and then place it back in exactly the position that I found it. He smells just like I remembered. Like Zest and Neutrogena. I walk back over to the wall with posters and lean against it. I reach into my shirt and pull out the heart-shaped rose quartz that Marisol bought me for my last birthday. It’s supposed to bring me good luck. I place it between the palms of my hands and make a wish.

  I wish that Danny will be able to one day see inside me and know how I feel. Then I slide down the wall and wait for his return.

  FIFTEEN

  a part of the family

  “susie, this is my mom. mami, this is susie shannon.”

  Mrs. Diaz is a petite woman with long brown hair and big brown eyes. I’ve seen her a few times before with Danny’s grandfather, but at the time I had no idea who she was, and I’ve never seen her up close. Now I see that she’s about the same height and weight as a junior high student. She’s maybe five feet and looks like she barely weighs a hundred pounds. I try to imagine how she carried twins to term and can barely get past the idea that she was ever pregnant.

  “Susie?”

  When she says my name, I stand. I tower above her, making her seem even more dwarflike. “Mrs. Diaz.” I extend my hand to meet hers, but she pulls me forward and gives me a kiss on the cheek.

  “I’m happy to finally meet you,” she says. “Danny has told us so much about you.” My heart skips two beats at the idea of Danny discussing me with his mother before I realize that she’s being polite, and I tuck my fantasies away.

  “These heels are killing my feet.” Mrs. Diaz steps out of her shoes and shrinks two inches. Forget dwarf. This lady is a hobbit.

  “Where do you work?” I ask, trying to avoid calling my father for as long as possible.

  “I work for the Department of Children and Families.”

  “Oh…” I decide to stall for more time, so I force myself
to ask one more question. “Do you like it?”

  “Well, let’s see…” Mrs. Diaz sighs wearily. “I go to work every day and meet lots of abused children and disillusioned families. Oh, and on days like today I get to stay more than an hour late. It’s loads of fun.”

  “Oh,” I say, and then I stare at my fingernails. It’s one of those awkward moments that I hate.

  “But”—Mrs. Diaz places her hand on my forearm, and I wonder if she senses my self-loathing—“I wouldn’t give it up for the world. Thanks for asking. So we should call your dad. It’s nice to see a parent so concerned.”

  Danny hands me his cordless phone. I dial my number, hand it over to Mrs. Diaz, and say a little prayer that she won’t mention my father’s “rules.”

  “Hi, Mr. Shannon? This is Mrs. Diaz, Danny Diaz’s mother. Danny Diaz, uh-huh, that’s right, Susie is tutoring my son…. I’m fine, and how are you? Great.”

  I listen closely to the conversation, but try to appear unconcerned by looking around the room casually. Next to me, Danny starts to hum something, but I can barely hear him over the thump, thump, thump of my heart.

  “Oh, he’s doing wonderful. Mr. Murphy thinks he won’t need to be tutored after Christmas. Yes, well, the reason for my call is that the school library was closed today and that’s where Susie and Danny normally meet. Danny suggested that they come to our house to study. I just wanted to make sure that was okay with you. Yes, uh, okay. Yes, well, thank you. Would you like to talk to her? Yes, she’s right here. One moment…Susie?” Mrs. Diaz hands me the phone. “He’d like to speak to you.”

  after several white lies to my father, i join danny and his mom in the family room. I find them chatting and laughing, and the strange thing is that she’s completely into what he’s saying.

  They make a cute pair. At first, she seems too plain-looking to be his mom, but there are lots of similarities, too. They share the same oval face, defined cheekbones, and angular chins. And there’s something else, too. There’s something about the way she looks at me, like I could confide in her. It’s the same look that Danny gives me, too.

  Above them, a picture of Danny’s father hangs on the wall. He’s handsome like Danny, with the same curly hair and penny-colored eyes. I wonder how this handsome man got together with such a plain, little woman. But maybe it’s like Danny said—maybe we’re all the same person on the inside? Maybe that’s what his dad saw in his mom? Maybe he saw her from the inside out?

  I clear my throat to let them know I’m standing there. Their smiles invite me to join in, but I listen quietly. They continue to talk in front of me, and it makes me feel like I’m part of a family. I rarely feel that way, except when I’m with Marisol and her mom.

  “Thanks for calling my dad, Mrs. Diaz,” I say after a few minutes.

  “Oh, you’re welcome. Danny says that you’re pretty much done studying for the day, so we were thinking that maybe you could stay for dinner.”

  My heart leaps at the invitation, but my gut tells me to take it slow. Just the thought of asking Dalia to pass the salt makes me queasy, and I start to doubt if Danny even wants me to stay. What if his mother is just being polite? I look at his face. His expression is vague.

  “Oh, I’d like to, but,” I repeat my earlier excuse, “I’ve got this thing—this project, and I have to be home by six.”

  “Oh, yeah,” Danny says. “I completely forgot.”

  “Oh.” Mrs. Diaz sounds disappointed. “Well, maybe another time? I know Danny’s father would love to meet you.”

  Danny’s father would love to meet me? My stomach flip-flops.

  “I know!” Mrs. Diaz says with a smile. “We have plans for this weekend, but why don’t you have dinner with us next Sunday?”

  “Um…” Again, my heart jumps at the invitation. Again, I’m filled with doubt. “I don’t know—”

  “Oh,” Danny laughs, “here she goes again.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?” Mrs. Diaz asks.

  “Mom, Susie doesn’t like going places. I practically had to drag her here to study.”

  I smile shyly because it’s true.

  “Okay,” I say reluctantly. “Next Sunday will be fine.”

  “Good. We’ll have dinner at seven p.m.,” Mrs. Diaz says decisively. “You can come over at six fifteen. That’ll give you and Danny some time to hang out.” Mrs. Diaz nods her head. “What do you like to eat?”

  “Cuban food?” I take a shot in the dark.

  “Good answer”—Mrs. Diaz laughs—“because my father won’t have it any other way. So, we’ll see you next Sunday at six fifteen p.m.”

  “Six fifteen,” I repeat shakily.

  “Wonderful.” Mrs. Diaz claps her hands together in excitement. “I’ll look forward to hearing your version of homecoming. Dalia and Danny always have opposite views on school events. It’ll be nice to hear from a third party.” Mrs. Diaz squeezes Danny’s hand lovingly.

  “Actually,” I glance down at my feet. “I’m not going.”

  “Oh, I thought that—” She stops short and exchanges a look with Danny. “I mean”—she clears her throat—“I assumed that you would be going, too. Dalia made it seem like one of the biggest events of the year.”

  “So, you’re going to the dance?” I ask Danny

  “Um, yeah…” He seems embarrassed to admit it. “Dalia persuaded me. She’s a homecoming princess and all.”

  “Oh,” I say. I can hear the letdown in my voice, and I hate myself for it. Why am I so stupid? Why do I feel like somebody just slapped me with a huge disappointment stick?

  “Of course, Dalia and Danny bought their tickets ages ago,” Mrs. Diaz explains. “Dalia was worried the dance would sell out. She’s got the whole thing planned, down to a by-the-minute itinerary.”

  “Yeah,” Danny says. “It’s ridiculous.”

  They keep talking, but it’s not like I really hear them. I’m still being hit over and over again with the big, fat disappointment stick. I’m surprised I’m still standing, the beating I’m taking.

  “Is something wrong?” Mrs. Diaz places her hand on my arm. “Your eyes are all red.”

  Great.

  “Oh, no.” It’s a struggle, but I make my voice sound calm. “I’m…fine.” If fine means that I want to hurl. Why did I let myself feel so accepted in Danny’s home, when the truth is that I’ll never fit into his life?

  “I don’t know.” Mrs. Diaz places a hand on my forehead. “You look flushed. Why don’t you sit down, and I’ll bring you some aspirin and water.”

  I start to protest, but Mrs. Diaz shoves me on the sofa before I can finish my sentence. Then she rushes off, somewhere in the vicinity of her bedroom, leaving Danny and me sort of, kind of, alone.

  “Are you sure you’re okay?” Danny sits next to me on the sofa. He tries to put his hand on my forehead, but I dodge it, leaving his hand hanging awkwardly in the air before he slowly sets it down on the sofa.

  “Yeah.” My voice is terse. “I’m fine.”

  Why am I so transparent?

  Danny gives me a look, like he doesn’t believe me. But I guess he decides to change the subject, because then he says, “I like your pendant.”

  I look down. My pendant is resting on the outside of my shirt.

  “It’s cool.” He lifts it up. “That’s a crystal, right? What’s it for?”

  His hand brushes against my collarbone, and my heart does this crazy pitter-patter thing. “What do you mean?” I look away, angry at myself for not being able to control my reaction to him.

  “Well…” Danny stops, and then starts again. “I just mean, aren’t crystals supposed to, like, stand for something?”

  I shrug my shoulders and stare off into the kitchen. “Marisol gave it to me…so…” I mutter, rather lamely.

  He rubs it between his fingertips. “It’s nice.”

  “Yeah, thanks.” I breathe deeply. Even though I refuse to look at him, I can feel the heat escaping through the pores of his f
ingertips.

  “Susie?” He starts tugging on the chain, and doesn’t stop until I finally look back at him. He lets the necklace drop back onto my chest. “Are you sure you’re okay?”

  His face is sincere, and it melts my iciness a little.

  “Yeah,” I say a bit more subdued. “I’m fine. Really.”

  “Good.” He gives me a sweet smile. “’Cause I want to ask you something.”

  Ask me something? Ask ME something?

  And that’s when I start praying with my eyes open. It’s ridiculous and utterly girly, but I can’t help it. I start praying: Please ask me to homecoming. Please ask me to homecoming. Please ask me to homecoming.

  “Yeah?” It’s about all I can get out right now.

  “Well,” he starts out, and suddenly he seems less confident than I’ve ever seen him before. He’s looking down at his knee and picking at his jeans. In the kitchen, I hear his mother start making all kinds of noise, and I wonder, how long does it take to find aspirin and get a freaking glass of water? And why won’t she go away already?

  “I just,” he continues, still picking away at his denim jeans, “I just…Um…”

  Why is he so nervous? My stomach tightens. Could it be?

  “Yeah,” I prod, unusually bold.

  “Um.” He looks up, and I nod. Finally, he says, “I just want to know what you think about homecoming.”

  “Well—” And despite the fact that I want more than anything for him to ask me to homecoming, I can’t stop the knee-jerk response that railroads out of my mouth. “It’s kind of lame and elitist, don’t you think?”

  Crap! Why did I say that? I mean, I think it’s true, but why did I actually say it aloud? Am I so used to being excluded from these types of events that my self-protective responses have become automatic?

  “Oh.” He starts to pick at the lint on the sofa. “Oh,” he says again. And then he just shakes his head, like now it all makes sense to him. Only I don’t want what I’ve said to make sense to him. I want him to ask me the question all over again, because clearly I answered it COMPLETELY wrong.