“Oh,” he says, “so you don’t want to go? Do you?”
I vigorously shake my head no—because that’s not true, I do want to go. I mean, I’d want to go, if someone like Danny asked me.
I mean, sure, before today, I didn’t even really know about homecoming. I didn’t even really know about guys asking girls out. I mean, I knew that guys asked girls out. Of course, I knew that. But I never knew that guys asked girls like me and Marisol out. But now that I know that girls like Marisol (and, therefore, girls like me) could get asked out to things like homecoming, I definitely want to go. I don’t have the power to articulate it, but I definitely want to go.
“Susie?”
“Yes, Danny?” Okay, this is the moment. This is the moment. I try to focus, so I can get it right this time.
“You can stop shaking your head no. I get it.”
“Huh?”
At first, I don’t understand what he’s saying.
“You,” he says, and he physically grabs my head to hold it in place, “can stop shaking your head no. I get that you think homecoming is a stupid, elitist event. Okay?”
And then I realize the whole time that I’ve been shaking my head no, but meaning yes, Danny thought that I meant no. I just said no twice to the same question! I’m retarded. Clearly, I’m retarded.
In the kitchen, Mrs. Diaz finally turns on the faucet, and just the sound of water running makes me cough, my throat is so dry. A little farther off, a door opens and slams shut, and I can’t help it; my head automatically shoots up at the sound, and I hear Danny say, “Dalia’s home.” Then he shifts a few spaces away from me and stops talking and picking altogether. And I realize that it’s over. The moment is gone. I blew it.
I look over my shoulder. I can barely speak; my throat’s like sandpaper. “Will she come in here?” I ask, and then I move more than a few spaces away, I move a mile away from him, because if he’s going to reject me, then I’m going to reject him, too.
“Probably.” Danny shakes his head and squints his eyes at me, but his voice stays pretty neutral. “But first, she’ll change and call her boyfriend. You’ve never met Dalia, right?” he asks, rubbing his temple.
I shake my head no, and this time I actually mean no. I’m also pretty sure that now is not the time for intros. I just want to go home. I just want to go home and wallow. Danny’s not going to ask me to homecoming, that’s obvious. “Can you—can you get my stuff?”
“Yeah.” Danny looks slightly put out, and I wonder if maybe I misjudged him AGAIN. But then he says, rather roughly, “Yeah, I guess we’re…done.” And then I know that I didn’t.
When Danny leaves, Mrs. Diaz FINALLY brings me a huge glass of water that I suck down in one sip. I try to calm myself by watching her bustle around the kitchen. It doesn’t work.
“Here you go.” Danny comes back a few minutes later and hands me my things. “Oh, and”—he produces two CDs from behind his back—“I burned these for you.”
“Huh?” I shake my head.
“It’s the Beatles,” he says, like I’m slow, and he’s grumpy.
He burned ME a CD? If I believed for a second that signs existed, I might say this was a sign—THE SIGN. But that seemed impossible.
“Remember two weeks ago you told me you liked them?”
I think back to two weeks ago, but I only vaguely recall a conversation where maybe—in passing—I mentioned that Marisol and I kind of liked old-school stuff like the Beatles.
“I made one for you and one for Marisol.” He shrugs. “My parents have a huge Beatles collection, so…” He stops. Then he mutters the rest, like it’s all one big word: “Ijustwantedtothankyouforhelpingmeonthattestandforotherthings.” He shoves his hands into his pockets.
“Yeah, well it’s…” I take a deep breath and go for it. “Sweet.” And when he looks up at me and smiles, sort of, I think, maybe I can do this? Maybe I can turn this around?
I’m about to set my book bag back on the floor when he says, “I guess I’ll see you next week?” And then he turns and opens the sliding glass door.
“Oh,” I hesitate, because now I’m unsure. I walk toward the sliding glass door, not really ready to leave, but not really sure what to say so that I can stay. I’d like to tell him how much his CD means to me; how special he has made me feel; and that I’m absolutely sure that if he were to ask me to homecoming, I’d say yes. And that’s when I find myself saying his name.
“Danny?”
“Yeah?” He smiles, and his eyes seem so gentle and open again.
“I…” I struggle to speak. I struggle to get past the doubting voice in the back of my head that says, how can Danny ever like someone like me? How can Danny like someone who’s not anything?
“Yeah?” Danny says again.
“I just wanted to say—”
In the background, I hear Dalia talking to Mrs. Diaz. Their voices are coming closer and closer. My heart beats faster and faster. Danny hears them, too. He looks over his shoulder and takes the slightest step away from me.
“Yeah?” he asks for the third time, and maybe it’s me, but I think he sounds a little impatient.
I try to read him, but I can’t. I can’t, and that’s when I stop trying because the answer is so obviously clear. I say, “Oh, nothing. Just thanks. Thanks for everything.”
And then I leave, wishing that—despite the most embarrassing consequences—I might have had the courage to say more.
SIXTEEN
catfight
the next day in driver’s ed, i sit in my squad line and think about everything Marisol had to say the day before. I think about wanting to fit in. What makes that so important to Marisol or even to me?
I’ve always considered myself logical enough to know that after high school none of these people will matter. But because I’ve spent pretty much the last eleven years with them, I can’t help but wonder if maybe that’s a lie. What if they always matter? What if later on in life—just like now—I don’t fit in? Does Marisol feel that way, too?
“Let’s go!” Jessica nudges me with her shoe. José is absent, so for today, she’s squad leader. We’re parallel parking, which according to Coach Brown, is the eighth wonder of the world.
I shake my head. “I don’t feel well.”
“Well…” she says snottily, “I didn’t ask for the explanation. Come on, Bobby, you’re on!”
“God,” Tamara says after Jessica’s dragged Bobby away. “I can’t believe that she and I have to be on the same homecoming court. She’s such a super-bitch. I can’t believe that Danny ever dated someone like her.”
“What?” I turn around so quickly, I nearly get whiplash. “What did you say?”
“Yeah,” Tamara’s eyes widen gleefully. “You didn’t know? As soon as Danny got here last year, she snatched him up. They broke up in August, I think.”
“How do you know?” I strain to sound disinterested.
“Everyone knows, and Danny”—she drops her eyes slyly—“told me last night when he came over to my house.”
“Danny…came…to…your house…last night?” I repeat slowly.
“Yeah.” Her smile is so bright, I’m almost blinded. “We’ve been studying for our SATs together since right before Halloween. You know”—she leans in so that I can smell every crevice of her peppermint breath—“ever since you told him that I wanted to know if he had a girlfriend.”
“Oh.” I don’t know whether to claw her eyes out or pound my head into the cement for being such an idiot.
What did Danny say when he gave me the CD? Thank you for helping me with my test and for other things… By other things, did he mean hooking him up with Tamara?
“Yeah, I really, really wanted to thank you. I can’t believe it. He’s like super-super-hot! Don’t you think? Anyway,” Tamara continues, “I’ve been dying to tell Jessica, but I haven’t had a chance. I can’t wait to see the look on her face!”
The clouds clear and the sunlight highlights Tamara�
��s honey-colored tones. Next to my pile of frizz, her hair is bone straight. Jennifer Aniston straight.
What was it that Danny said about my Alice in Wonderland wig? You look so different… I guess I did—I looked more like Tamara.
“Oh.” Tamara rolls her eyes. “Look who’s coming.”
I look up to see Jessica approaching. Her jet-black hair blows in the wind as she struts toward us like the whole world is watching her—or at least every guy in our class. If Danny is into bitchy, gorgeous girls with mammoth breasts, I can see why Jessica appeals to him.
“When Jessica gets here,” Tamara whispers in my ear, “ask me who invited me to homecoming. It’ll be totally funny.”
“Who invited you?” My stomach drops a thousand feet. “Who invited you?” I repeat.
Tamara rolls her eyes. Again. “Just ask…Here she comes.”
“Let’s go.” Jessica nudges Tamara with her foot. “It’s your turn.”
“Sorry,” Tamara says politely, “but Susie was just in the middle of asking me a question, so you’ll have to wait.” She turns back to me and says very loudly, “What was your question?”
“What?” I feel numb.
“Your question…” Tamara smiles sweetly, but her eyes are slowly narrowing. “Remember?”
Jessica plants her hands on her hips and looks down at us. “Can you hurry this up? You’re holding everyone up.”
Tamara pinches me. “C’mon,” she hisses.
“Looks like you’re ready, so let’s go.” Jessica taps the top of Tamara’s head like she’s tapping a table.
It seems impossible that Danny would go out with either of these über-bitches. But, apparently he would. He would go out with them, but not with me, never with me.
“Actually,” I say suddenly, “I do have a question.” I stand up so that I tower over both of them. “Tamara, when did you become such a bitch?”
I glare down at Tamara. Her mouth drops open and she stares at me with a dumbstruck expression. Behind me, Jessica bursts out laughing.
“You think this is funny?” I turn toward Jessica. Then I look back at Tamara, still staring up at me, her jaw glued to the floor. “You two deserve each other.”
“What?” Jessica stops laughing. “What did you say?” She takes a step toward my face like she’s about to hit me, and I seriously debate backing down. Adrenaline is pumping through my veins. I’m totally shaking from the inside out. But it’s like I can’t stop myself. It’s like having an out-of-body experience or something. All I can think is what evil bitches Tamara and Jessica really are.
“Jessica—” Instinctively, I step back. “Tamara has something she wants you to know.”
Jessica turns toward Tamara and hisses, “What?”
Tamara stares up at us, quivering.
“Tamara, tell us who you are going to homecoming with,” I command.
Tamara looks from Jessica to me and then back to Jessica, completely aware that she’s being sabotaged.
“Who are you going with, Tamara?” Jessica kicks Tamara’s thigh.
“Ouch!” Tamara is stunned, utterly stunned.
“Well, who?” Jessica kicks her again. “Who?”
It’s like watching a cat about to be eaten by a dog, only worse.
“I’m going with Danny…” Tamara stutters. “Danny Diaz.”
“Excuse me?” Jessica crouches over Tamara. “Excuse me,” she coils her head like a snake. “You’re going where with Danny?”
“She”—I enunciate my words carefully so Jessica will get the full impact—“is going to homecoming with Danny Diaz. Your ex-boyfriend.” Then I take ten steps back and wait for the sparks to fly.
And they do fly. There’s glistening hair going everywhere.
It takes exactly thirty seconds for Jessica’s screaming and Tamara’s shrieking to draw the attention of the entire class.
“What’s going on?” Bobby sidles up to me as the rest of the class starts to crowd around.
“I think,” I say with a smile, “I just ignited the first catfight of the year.”
“Two homecoming princesses tearing each other’s clothes off.” He scoots closer to the action. “Cool.”
“Yeah.” I turn back to look. “Definitely cool.”
SEVENTEEN
first dates
“what are you doing here?”
At about six p.m. on Friday, my father wanders out of his bedroom and finds me curled up in a ball on our family room sofa. My dog, Mogley, is snoring soundly at my feet.
“Watching TV.” I flip through the channels, but nothing pops out at me.
“I can see that,” my dad says. “But why are you watching it here?”
“Because I live here.” I know that it shouldn’t be this way. I shouldn’t be sarcastic. But it is so much easier to give my dad attitude than to admit the real reason why I’m not at Marisol’s house, enjoying my usual Friday night rental-movie fest. The REAL REASON is that Marisol sucks. And she has a new boyfriend. And she sold me out for her new boyfriend and a $65 ticket to see Coldplay live at the American Airlines Arena.
“Okay…” My dad sits next to me on the couch and pats my knee. “What are you going to watch?”
“Why?” I stop channel surfing, surprised to find him somewhat settled on the sofa next to me. “Aren’t you going to write tonight?” I ask.
“You know.” He sighs. “I don’t think so. I’ve been writing for the last twenty days straight, and I think I’ve hit a mental roadblock.”
“So, you’re not going to write?” I repeat.
“No, I’m not.” He props his feet up on the coffee table. “Wait.” He taps my leg. “Go back to Bravo. That looks interesting.”
I turn the TV back to the Bravo channel and set the remote aside. The sofa ripples as my father sinks farther into the cushions. I stare at him watching the TV like I’m witnessing firsthand an alien invasion. When he actually chuckles at the program, I’m nearly convinced that I’m in the middle of a Steven Spielberg film.
“Do you want me to see if there’s a movie coming on?” I ask, my heart skipping a beat.
“You know,” he smiles over at me, “that would be—”
The sound of our phone ringing prevents him from finishing his sentence. “Let me get that.” He gets up to grab the phone in his study. While he’s gone, I scroll through the DirecTV menu. There’s an Alfred Hitchcock film coming on next at eight p.m. My dad loves Alfred Hitchcock.
“The Birds is on at eight,” I tell him when he comes back. I scoot my legs closer to my body to make more room for him on the sofa. “Sit down,” I say when he keeps standing.
“I’m fine.” He stares down at me. “That was Leslie on the phone.”
“Yeah, is everything okay?” The way my dad keeps standing there, staring at me, is starting to make me nervous.
“Oh, yes”—he perches on the edge of the sofa—“everything’s fine. Leslie called because a friend gave her tickets to the New World Symphony tonight. She wanted to see if I’d like to accompany her.”
Leslie was asking my father out on a date? Again?
“What do you think of that idea?” he asks in a neutral voice.
“What do you mean, what do I think of that idea?” I’m not exactly sure what he expects me to say. Does he want me to tell him not to go? Because that’s what I think—that he shouldn’t go.
“I haven’t been to the symphony in years. Not since…”
The end of his sentence hangs in the air like the laundry my grandmother puts out to dry. He doesn’t have to finish it. I know what he’s going to say. He’s going to say that he hasn’t been to the symphony since my mother died.
“Do you want to go?” It seems like the right question to ask.
“You know”—he runs his fingers through his hair the way he does when he’s torn over something—“I’d really like to hear a clarinet tonight, and a bass, and maybe even a piccolo…but Alfred Hitchcock—well that’s a classic.”
; “And,” I tell him, “You can watch a classic forty times and still get something from it.”
My dad gives me an odd look. “Your mom used to say that.” He sits on the sofa and stares blankly at the TV. His body is straight. “Maybe I’ll tell Leslie no.” He stands up and heads for his study.
“Wait.” I call him back before I’m even sure what I want to say. “We can always rent The Birds.”
“Oh…” He looks really indecisive. “So I should go?”
I pause. There’s no doubt in my mind that I’d rather eat my own toenails than let him go out with Leslie. But I also don’t want him to stay here with me out of pity. “You should,” I finally say, “do what you really want.”
“I think”—he runs his hands through his hair again—“that I would like to go.”
“Then go,” I tell him.
“I’ll go,” he says, turning to leave.
I turn back to the TV and start surfing the channels, again. I listen to his phone call through the din of the television.
And even though it hurts to admit it, he sounds excited on the phone, which is great. Really. I should be happy for him, I guess.
It’s just that his excitement barely matches the excitement I felt a moment ago when for a minute I thought that maybe, just maybe, he might actually have room in his life for me.
that night i wait for leslie and my father to return. in some weird, perverse way I want to witness the end of their date. I want to see if he’ll kiss her.
I try to occupy my mind by tearing Leslie apart. It’s a hard task because I really, really like Leslie, even if she is totally different from my mom, and I can’t understand why my dad is attracted to her.
First, she’s agnostic. My mom was a devout Catholic. Secondly, she’s completely too topical for my dad. My dad is an intellectual. He reads The New York Times and The Economist. True, Leslie has a large reading list, but it ranges from Allure to Vanity Fair.
I pull back my vertical blinds and stare out onto our street. The full moon is beautiful, a perfect white circle tangled up in wispy gray clouds. In the moonlight, our street looks peaceful, and I think about what it’s like to have lived here for the last fifteen years. Except for Marc Sanchez being an absolute idiot, it’s been really nice.
Not Anything Page 8