Not Anything

by Carmen Rodrigues

  He unzips his book bag and takes something out. Then, like it’s the most natural thing in the world, our hanging out with no previous plans, no specified reason—he slumps down onto the floor, sits Indian style, and starts reading something. I look over my shoulder to see what it is. He’s reading The Picture of Dorian Gray. It’s the next book on his list. He must be getting a head start.

  I study his face while he’s reading—his thick, black lashes and mocha skin. I think about the conversation we had after I played the guitar at his house on Sunday. I had made fun of him for owning so many Star Wars action figures.

  “But they’re classics. There’s a difference,” he told me.

  I asked him who he would rather be, Han Solo or Luke Sky-walker?

  “Han Solo,” he said.

  “Why?” We were sitting on his bed, close enough that I could smell his Zest. “’Cause he gets the girl,” he replied, hitting me softly with a raggedy teddy bear.

  “But Princess Leia wasn’t that pretty,” I told him, grabbing the bear, pulling it out of his reach.

  “She was to him,” he said, snatching the bear out of my hands and hitting me on the head with a furry leg.

  “Is that all that matters?” I asked, reaching for the bear, but ending up with my hands grabbed and pulled over my head.

  “What?” he said as we struggled. His face was inches from mine and I could smell the faintest bit of mint. His teeth were really, really white.

  “Let me go, I can’t breathe.” We were too close. I might have twitched.

  “Okay, but first”—he pulled my hands behind my back so that our chests were pressed against each other and I could feel his heart beating—“I have to tell you something.”

  “What?” I whispered. My voice caught in my throat.

  “That,” Danny whispered back, “you are pretty to me.”

  “You’re acting strange.” Danny’s real voice cuts through my memory. I realize he was pretending to read his book.

  “No.” I grab a reference book and slide down onto the carpet next to him. “I’m not.” But I am. I wonder if I should tell him about my mom’s memorial service this weekend. I wonder if I should share that with him.

  “Yes, you are.” Danny’s eyes fall down to my lap. He reaches across the space between us and tilts the reference book up so he can read its title. “The History of Automotive Mechanics?” he says, trying not to laugh. “Strange.”

  I look at the spine of the book. Sure enough, it is The History of Automotive Mechanics. Then I flip it over so he can’t see the title. Not that it matters anymore.

  “I just wanted to look at something in here.” I clear my throat. “That’s all.”

  “Yeah.” He reaches back for the book. “Let me see.”

  “No.” I hold on tightly. “Leave it alone.”

  “Fine.” His hand falls away from the book and rests on my thigh.

  “Um.” I look down at his hand, waiting for him to move it. But he just leaves it there, like it’s the most usual thing in the world for him to have his hand resting on my thigh.

  It’s so intimate, what he’s doing. So casual. It warms me up. I’ve never even held hands with a boy before, and I wonder how it would feel to have Danny’s hand wrap over mine. Would it create the same burning sensation that I am feeling now? Like my thigh is being eaten alive by acid. Would my hand get lost inside of his? His hands are large. The veins protrude like thick green highways that disappear beneath the neat edges of his Abercrombie & Fitch T-shirt.

  “Susie?” Danny stops short, and I think that it feels so good to hear him say my name. I wish he would say my name over and over and over again.

  “What?” I feel a tingle in my belly that stretches down to the soft space between my thighs.

  “Susie, sit closer to me.” His voice fades away, like clouds that disappear after a summer rain.

  “Why?” I whisper.

  “Because,” he says, like that’s reason enough.

  “No,” I answer back, because a because is definitely not reason enough to do what he is asking me to do.

  “Susie—”

  “Stop saying my name. I’m right here.” But please don’t ever stop saying my name.

  “Susie.” Not my name followed by a question mark. But my name, period. “Fine.”

  He picks up his book, pretends to read again. I read The History of Automotive Mechanics. I flip open to the middle of the book and start to learn about the sixties.

  “Are you really reading?” he asks a few minutes later.

  “Yes.” I peer at him over my three-hundred-plus-page book, which I noted several seconds earlier is the first volume in a three-volume series. “You?”

  “No,” he says, “I’m not.”

  “Well,” I keep my voice light, even though my heart is thump-thump-thumping away, “what are you doing?”

  “I’m watching you read.”

  “Oh.” Oh.

  “Susie…” He scurries closer to me. His jeans make a rubbing noise along the carpet, and then his face is next to mine. He is tracing my face with his breath, inhaling my scent with his lips. “Susie,” he says, because, apparently, saying my name is enough to tell me everything he’s trying to tell me. And maybe it is. Maybe.

  “Danny.”

  And then, in the library, our bodies as close as possible, we kiss. Very, very, slowly.

  “you kissed him!”

  Curled up under the covers of Marisol’s bed, I describe every single taste I felt as Danny’s tongue entered my mouth.

  “It was sweet, like corn.”

  “I bet you it was,” Marisol says. “I saw someone eating corn in the cafeteria today.” Marisol sits upside down with her legs on the bed, her back on the floor, and her butt somewhere in between.

  “So? What did he say afterward? And why didn’t the librarian catch you? She would have sent you to the office.”

  “I don’t know. He didn’t really say much and then Dalia showed up suddenly and took him away. They had to finish a science project they were working on.”

  “Did Dalia catching you kissing?” Marisol asks.

  “Yeah, kind of. And then he said, ‘I’ll see you tomorrow at lunch.’” Like I have enough patience to wait for lunch tomorrow?

  “Tomorrow at lunch? He wants to eat lunch with you. Well, that’s huge.”

  “I know,” I squeal, burying my head in her pillows. “I know.”

  “The only problem is that we eat lunch at the canal. We don’t eat at school.” Marisol shrugs like she’s saying oh well. I think she’s still a bit bitter about giving up her new lunch routine (eating with Ryan in the cafeteria) to rejoin me in our old lunch routine (eating together at the canal).

  “Well, he can come, too.” I don’t care if Marisol is inconvenienced. I remember homecoming. I look at her and she remembers it, too.

  “Fine.” Marisol gives me a look. “He can come, too. But on Wednesday, you are either eating lunch with me and Ryan in the cafeteria or you’re eating by yourself.”

  “Fine,” I tell her. And for the first time in a long time, I am happy.

  TWENTY-FIVE

  relationships

  walking to the canal the next day, danny and i are very, very awkward. Thankfully, Marisol does all the talking.

  “It’s going to rain big-time,” she says, pointing at the dark clouds. “There better not be any lightning.” She looks at Danny. “I’m petrified of lightning.”

  “Yeah?” Danny says. “Well, isn’t Florida like the lightning capital of the world?”

  “It is,” I say, which is pretty much my entire contribution to the conversation.

  Then Marisol talks about her first-period class (chemistry) and moves all the way to sixth period (algebra II), and Danny and I listen and listen and listen.

  “Do you know Ms. Morris?” Marisol asks Danny. She walks between us, trying to connect the distance that has left us one hundred miles apart in a two-second radius. “She’s crazy.
She made us do fifty math problems in class yesterday without being able to resharpen our pencils. She says the noise irritates her and that our parents can afford mechanical pencils. Then she got mad when the entire class only made it to problem twenty-two before their pencils were dull. You should have seen her face….”

  She waits for us to laugh, but we don’t. “It was really funny.” Marisol plops down on the grass and unwraps her sub. “I guess you had to be there.”

  Danny and I stare down at Marisol. I’m waiting for Danny to sit before I sit. And Danny is waiting for something. What it is, I don’t know.

  “You know,” Danny says, listening to the thunder rolling across the canal, “I live right over there.”

  “Which one is it?” Marisol asks, looking nervously at the sky.

  “The one with the three mango trees.” He points five houses over. “Right there.”

  “Do you have a microwave?” Marisol asks, when lightning cracks overhead. She holds up her chicken parmesan, nervously. “This is cold.”

  “I do,” Danny answers rather redundantly.

  “Let’s go.”

  we make it to danny’s house before the rain hits.

  “Wow,” Marisol says ducking in through the sliding glass door. “That’s going to be bad.”

  The three of us stand in the doorway, watching the rain pour down. Lightning zigzags across the sky.

  “Maybe we shouldn’t use electrical appliances.” Marisol stares at her sub. I can tell she’s wondering whether the sandwich is worth being electrocuted.

  “Here.” Danny takes it from her, tosses it in the microwave, and turns back to me. When the microwave dings, he hands the sub back to Marisol and she takes it to the family sofa, where she’s already started reading the first of ten Us magazines stacked on the coffee table.

  “Marisol’s addicted to Us,” I tell Danny.

  “So is Dalia. She’s got a subscription.”

  Danny and I eat at the bar. He sips noisily from his glass of water, but I don’t mind. I like knowing that in some way he is flawed, even if it’s a little flaw.

  “That really does look bad.” Danny nods his head toward the sliding glass door. Outside the rain is falling sideways, with lightning cracking every five minutes.

  Danny looks at the clock on the microwave. We have thirty minutes left for lunch. “I don’t know if that’s going to stop,” he says.

  “Maybe we should check the Weather Channel,” I suggest.

  “I vote for the Weather Channel,” Marisol screeches from the sofa, visibly rising when the next bolt hits. “Definitely Weather Channel.”

  We settle in front of the TV. Marisol moves as deep into the sofa cushions as humanly possible.

  “Oh, tornado watch,” Marisol announces over the announcer. “That’s not good.”

  “No, not in this county,” Danny says, trumping Marisol. “Palm Beach and Broward,” he reads.

  “But hello?” Marisol’s voice is filled with dread. “Lightning. Do you want to walk in that?”

  “We could try. We have twenty minutes to make it,” I point out. And then the television goes black.

  “Electricity went out,” Danny observes.

  “Where is your grandpa?” I ask. “Maybe he can drive us?”

  “Aunt Ana’s day.” Danny ruffles his hair with his fingers. “We should stay,” he decides. “That’s bad. Hope nobody has a test or anything.”

  “Nope,” Marisol says, wrapping a knitted blanket from the corner of the couch around her, and pulling her Us magazines closer. “I’m good.”

  “You?” Danny asks me.

  “Nope,” I say. “But won’t we get in trouble?” I’ve never actually skipped before. What if my dad finds out?

  “Maybe,” Marisol says, “but look at that.”

  “Yeah,” I say, looking at the rain falling sideways, and the water on the canal growing a little choppy, “look at that.” I guess some things are just out of my control.

  TWENTY-SIX

  moments

  “how long?” danny watches me through hooded eyes. he says the rain always makes him tired.

  The carpet in Danny’s bedroom is soft. We are lying side by side, not touching, yet sharing each other’s space. In the family room, Marisol reads on, oblivious to all that I have learned about Danny.

  “Three weeks, but it sucked. I had to stick a pencil in it because it itched so much. And then, one time, I had Marisol scratch underneath it with a short ruler, and we lost it. It just slid right to the middle and we couldn’t get it out.”

  Danny laughs, and I smile because he thinks I’m funny.

  “Look. There you go again, proving you can smile.”

  “Shut up.” I turn on my side to face him. “I told you I can smile.”

  “Yeah.” Danny smiles back at me. “I remember that.” He turns on his side. “Okay, check this out. One time I broke my ankle, and I had to wear a cast, and Dalia thought it would be funny to shove M&M’s down it while I was sleeping. When I woke up I thought something was in there but I didn’t know what. I just felt like there were all these small balls in my cast. So,” Danny laughs, “I went outside to get my mom and she was talking to my grandfather. By the time she got to look at my ankle, the M&M’s had melted and there was chocolate oozing onto my toes.”

  “You and Dalia really like each other, don’t you?” I ask.

  “Yeah, we’re twins, so that goes a long way.”

  “I wish I had a twin,” I tell him.

  “You do.” He smiles sleepily. “Marisol.”

  We stop talking for a while, lie back, and listen to the rain. I think of a list of questions that I would like to ask Danny:

  Where were you born?

  How old were you when you lost your first tooth?

  Who was your first kiss?

  Why did you invite Tamara to homecoming instead of me?

  Do you want me to be your girlfriend?

  Why did you kiss me in the library?

  Could you tell that you were my first kiss?

  Do you really think I am pretty?

  Why won’t you hold my hand?

  Beside me, Danny seems less bothered by the unknown and more willing to meditate to the hypnotic pulse of the thunderstorm. He breathes deeply and then, without warning, there is a twitch. A quick movement of his hand followed by a lifting of shoulders. I roll on my side to watch him. He is sleeping, mouth open, drooling. His hand a second away from mine.

  I decide to take the plunge.

  I scoot toward him until I can scoot no more, and then, very quietly, I roll myself into his arms.

  an hour later, i roll over on my side and collide with a solid object. I open my eyes and find myself nose to nose with Danny.

  “Hey,” he says casually.

  “Mm-hmm,” I mutter.

  “You fell asleep. It’s two thirty.” His breath curls around my face, and I want to nuzzle farther into him. I’ve never been this close to anyone in my life.

  “Mm-hmm,” I mutter. My eyes fall shut and I’m dangerously close to falling back to sleep.

  “You have to go.” He nudges me. “School’s out. And my mom gets off work early today.”

  “Oh crap.” I stand.

  “Slow down,” Danny says. “You’ve got fifteen minutes.”

  “But what if your mom finds us here?” I run around the room, looking for evidence that I’ve been here.

  “What are you looking for?” Danny asks lazily from the floor.

  “Evidence.” Pieces of me, I think. “Where are my socks?” I ask perplexed.

  “On your feet.” He smiles up at me as if I’m insane.

  “Oh.” I stare down at my socks. I wonder if they’ve just returned from the witness protection program.

  “Where’s Marisol?”

  “In the bathroom,” he says. “I just saw her walk in there like two minutes ago.”

  “Oh, okay.” I step over Danny and race toward the sound of water splashing.


  “Hey—” Danny moans from the floor. His hand snakes out and grabs hold of my ankle. “Wait,” he pleads.

  “But I have to leave before your mom gets home.”

  “I know,” he says gently. “But this will only take a second.”

  “What?” I shake my ankle from his reach.

  “I like you,” he says quickly. I stop in my tracks.

  “I—” My words falter before they leave the starting gate. I try again, but I can’t think clearly. Words are not part of this.

  “She likes you, too,” Marisol says from the doorway. And then with a wicked smile, she grabs my hand and drags me to safety.

  TWENTY-SEVEN

  elation

  “i have something to tell you,” marisol says. we’re sitting on my bed, wrapped in separate comforters, half talking, half lying around and being lazy.

  “What?” My voice is muffled by the pillow. I’m still a bit sleepy.

  “Well, when I had that talk with Danny during homecoming while Tamara was in the bathroom,” she says, “I might have given him the impression that you liked him.”

  “Marisol…” My voice is calm, but I’m not. At least not inside. “Tell me exactly what you said.”

  “Nothing.” She lifts the comforter over her face so that one eye peeks out. “I just thought that it was so obvious that you two liked each other and well…I wanted to move things along for you. Are you mad?” she asks hesitantly.

  “Mad,” I huff. “Mad,” I repeat more deflated. Why should I be? Danny liked me. I couldn’t have asked for better results.

  “Just tell me everything you told him.”

  “Okay.” The blanket slides off her face and she shimmies up, so that she’s sitting straight. She pulls her wet hair into a bun and uses a rubber band from my nightstand table to secure it. She clears her throat. “Okay, first I asked him whether Tamara had asked him to homecoming or if he had asked her.”

  Is it possible that he didn’t even ask her?

  “Well, he had asked her.” Marisol touches my hand, her way of softening the blow. “But he also said it was a direct result of you”—Marisol points her finger at me accusingly—“telling him that Tamara liked him. Otherwise, he would have never thought of inviting her. And then he said that he really wanted to invite someone else.”