Crazy Messy Beautiful

by Carrie Arcos

  NOT ONLY THE FIRE

  Mom reaches across the table and pushes some of my black hair aside to get a better look at the bruise that’s formed above my eye.

  “You’re lucky. That could have been a real shiner,” she says.

  “How does the other guy look?” Dad asks. He turns the music down a little, some Víctor Jara song.

  “Worse,” I say. I don’t know that for sure, but it makes me feel better.

  Dad must be missing Papi today—that’s the only time he plays Jara. The songs are old, folky, and guitar driven, and Jara’s deep voice is full of sadness tonight. Dad belts out the chorus in Spanish and hands Mom a glass of red wine.

  He gives me a kiss on the top of my head and sits down next to me.

  “What did Luis do exactly?” Mom asks.

  I’m embarrassed to say, so I take a bite of my sandwich.

  “You can tell us.” She and Dad watch me while they eat.

  That’s the thing with my parents; they’ll just sit there and wait for me to tell them what’s going on. Since I’m an only child, they don’t have anyone else to interrogate or invest in. And, as Dad would say, hiding doesn’t help. Everything eventually comes to light.

  I take a big drink of water. Stall. “He drew boobs all over one of my pictures and laughed about it.”

  “All of this is over boobs? Adónde la viste!” Get out of here! Dad chuckles. He sobers up when he sees my face.

  “It’s not just the drawings,” I say. What I don’t say is: It’s the every day, sitting next to Luis, putting up with his crap. Hearing his comments and stupid high laugh. Listening to his loud nose breathing. Having to be in that class in the first place. All of it. “He’s just a jerk.”

  “You’ll be dealing with people like Luis your whole life. You can’t go around hitting them every time they deserve it. You have to be better. To rise above, cachai?” Dad says.

  Dad always says cachai when he’s trying to make a point. It’s like saying “you know?” or “you understand?” And sure I know, but I don’t understand.

  “Sometimes you have to stand for principle,” I say.

  “I get that, but what’s principle without love?” Dad asks.

  I’m not in the mood for one of his speeches about loving my enemies or whatever it is he’s trying to say.

  We eat in silence for a few moments. Then Mom asks, “Did you at least get a good hit in?” A sly smile creeps at the corner of her mouth.

  I smile back. “Yeah.” I can usually count on Mom to be on my side.

  “Good. Maybe next time he’ll think twice about messing with you.”

  Mom winks at me and pulls Dad in for a kiss.

  It’s weird watching them sometimes, but I’d rather have parents who are in love than not. I’ve been around other parents whose dislike for each other is palpable. Most of my friends’ parents are divorced and remarried.

  My parents met in college at some house party. Mom actually came to the party with some other guy, but that didn’t stop Dad from making a move. He walked right up to her, in front of the guy, and said, “Eres la mujer más linda que jamás he visto.” You are the most beautiful woman I have ever seen.

  It wasn’t the most original line. I would have added some flair. Something like, “Your beauty is like the dawn, illuminating everything and breaking me into day.”

  It’s a line I am waiting for the right moment to use.

  Regardless, Mom fell for him. They dated for two years and got married when Dad was in grad school.

  “I want you to apologize to your teacher and this Luis tomorrow, first thing,” Dad says.

  I grunt.

  “What’s that?” Dad says.

  “Fine,” I say.

  • • •

  Later that night, we watch TV together. Mom’s legs are curled up underneath her, snuggled up against Dad. He plays with her dark curly hair, and his bare feet, crossed at the ankles, are up on the coffee table. They’ve been this way as long as I can remember—not afraid to show each other affection, no matter who else is around. I used to think it was gross, but now, well, it’s still kind of gross, but I can see how it might be nice too.

  At some point during the show, Mom’s eyes close. The sharp daytime lines that trickle from the corners soften.

  Dad soon gives in too and falls asleep with his mouth open. I don’t think we’ve ever finished a show without one of them conking out. The soft moonlight glow of the TV spills over them, sending shadows like shifting craters across their faces. I draw them in one of the sketchbooks I keep at home and make a mental note to get my other book from Luis first thing tomorrow—if he hasn’t ruined it beyond repair.

  I add light to the dark places underneath my parents’ eyes and on their cheeks and wonder if I’ll ever be like them, if I’ll ever find my one great love. It already feels like I’ve been searching forever.

  Dad shifts his position on the couch, opens and closes his mouth, gives a heavy sigh.

  A guy can hope.

  THE QUESTION

  When I approach Mr. Nelson’s classroom the next day, he is standing outside with Luis. They’re obviously waiting for me, so I take my time walking.

  Mr. Nelson nods to the two of us. “Gentlemen.”

  Luis faces me. Since Luis’s dark hair is short and spiked in the front, he can’t hide the pale bruise forming underneath his right eye. I didn’t realize I’d hit him that hard or even in the face. I resist the urge to grin.

  I hold out my hand. “Sorry,” I say.

  He shakes it.

  “Yeah, me too.”

  “Good. Now come inside and take your seats.”

  “Yes, sir,” we both say.

  “Hey,” I tell Luis. “I want my sketchbook back.”

  “What makes you think I have it?”

  I give him a look like really? But he just shakes his head. And I know he’s telling the truth for once because he’s not gloating or anything. He walks into class first; I follow slowly behind.

  The other students eye my table expectantly, as if they want Luis and me to get into it again. But Luis sits with his arms crossed, and I face the board.

  Mr. Nelson holds up a red tin coffee can and says, “We’re going to play a little game today. I’ve written half of your names on pieces of paper and put them in this can. Now the other half, whose names I didn’t put in here, I’m going to call you up in a moment and ask you to pick out a slip of paper and read the name you’ve chosen out loud. After that, I’ll tell you what we’re going to do.”

  He begins calling names in alphabetical order, starting with Callie. She stands and I notice that her maroon tights are torn in the back. She fishes around for a long time before pulling out a name.

  “Traden Lee,” she reads. Heads turn toward Traden’s empty seat.

  Mr. Nelson holds out his hand for the strip of paper. “I didn’t account for the absentees. Go ahead and pick another.”

  She plunges her hand back in and takes just as long, which makes Mr. Nelson sigh and remind her that class is only fifty-three minutes long.

  She says, “Okay, Mr. Nelson. But all choosing takes time, you know.” She pulls out a piece of paper. “Neruda Diaz.”

  It could be worse. I could have gotten Luis or Josh or Manny, the guy with the worst BO.

  When everyone has a partner, Mr. Nelson writes on the board, Two truths and a lie.

  Then he says, “I want you to tell your partner two truths and one lie about yourself. Then you’ll each take turns guessing which one is the lie. You have ten minutes. Go.”

  The sound of scraping chairs and stomping feet fill the room as people move to get to their partners. I just have to swivel a little in my seat to come face-to-face with Callie.

  We stare at each other. She is not going to make this easy.

  “
You wanna go first?” I ask her.

  “Um, okay, sure.” She twirls a piece of hair around her pen as she speaks, which is weird because she normally just stares straight ahead, looking angry and bored.

  “One—I’ve been surfing in Costa Rica and Hawaii. Two—my cat died when I was eight and we had a funeral for her. I dug up her left paw and kept it hidden in a jar so I could see how long it took to decompose. Three—I’m allergic to peanuts. It was once so bad that I couldn’t breathe and had to be rushed to the hospital.” She cocks her head at an angle. “Which is the lie?”

  “I’d like to think it was the second because, no offense, that’s kind of disturbing. But that’s true. And the third is also true. It’s the first.”

  She purses her lips. “Not fair. What gave it away?”

  “The lack of details and your voice. The first one you rushed, like you wanted to get through it as fast as you could. It just rang false to me. And, sorry, but you don’t seem like the surfer type.”

  She nods slowly. “Very observant. Okay. Your turn.”

  I think for a moment. “One—last year I was bit by a rattlesnake when we went hiking in Joshua Tree. It hurt like hell, and I still have a scar above my right ankle. Two—my best friend is an ex-convict who has spent the last ten years in prison. Three—I used to run track in middle school and always wanted to be a sprinter, but I was better at long distances, the eight hundred in particular.”

  She stares into my eyes. For the first time I notice hers are sandy brown with golden flecks fanning out from the irises. Her lids are rimmed in blue and there is glitter on them. I try to memorize the texture and colors so I can draw them later.

  “The second one’s the lie.” She sits back and folds her arms over her chest, certain of it.

  “Time’s up,” Mr. Nelson says.

  “Truth,” I say.

  WHO ARE YOU

  “So, how many of you were able to guess the lie?” Mr. Nelson asks.

  I raise my hand along with only a few other people. I’m surprised. Most people are horrible liars.

  “You guys come to class every day, sit next to the same people, share the same space. But how many of you really know one another?”

  As I look around the room, the answer is clear: not at all. I know a few things because, like Callie said, I’m observant. Like, I know that Josh wears the same shoes every day, thick black sneakers with a worn-off label. I know that Isobel is dating Marcel; he always drops her off at the door and gives her a good-bye hug. I know that Ernie has a speech impediment, so he sits like a ghost in the back of the room and tries to disappear. And Luis, well, I know Luis more than I’d like to. I could probably offer one small fact about almost everyone in the room, but not much more beyond a one-line description. And no one knows me.

  “I think my experiment today proves that most of you don’t really know one another at all. So here’s your assignment.”

  There’s immediate chatter and the shifting of bodies in seats.

  “I’d like you to do a research project on your partner. It is up to you to determine what angle you want to write it from, but I’d like you to go a little deeper than simply where they’re from and how many siblings they have. You’ll want to generate some questions and interview each other. For example . . .”

  He turns to the whiteboard and writes with the red marker.

  “What’s the thing that scares you the most? If you could only save three possessions from a fire, what would they be? What’s your favorite childhood memory?”

  “Can we switch partners?” Josh yells out.

  Shannon, his partner, says, “Yes, please?”

  “Nope. That’s why you randomly picked the person. Call it fate. You are supposed to get to know this person. Now I want you to spend some time creating ten unique questions of your own. You can only steal one of mine.” He puts on some classical piano music, which is supposed to relax us and help us focus.

  Callie and I start with Mr. Nelson’s question about our biggest fears. Well, I have to start because she’s just sitting there. Silent.

  “For me, I would hate to be eaten alive.”

  She nods. “Typical. Which animal?”

  “Shark. It’s why I don’t really enjoy swimming in the ocean. Shark attacks are rare, but they still happen.”

  “Yeah, but hippos are actually more dangerous than sharks. And lions and cheetahs,” she says.

  “But we don’t have any of those here.”

  “I’m just saying if you’re in Africa. Anyway, I hate those manholes. Every time I see one, I have to walk around it. It probably sounds totally irrational, but I’ve always been terrified of things hiding down there.”

  “Like rats?”

  “No, more like evil aliens or huge slimy creatures. They’re plotting how to come to the surface and kill us all. Actually, if we combine our fears—being eaten alive by zombies hiding inside a manhole—that would be the worst.”

  Callie seems totally sincere, so I nod, even though horror movies aren’t my thing and she is clearly crazy.

  “Because they’re alive and their intestines are spilling out and they’re screaming.” Callie doesn’t sound repelled by the killings at all. She sounds lit up by them.

  “We’ve probably got a better chance of being hit by a car than having to deal with a zombie apocalypse,” I say.

  “My cousin was killed by a drunk driver last year.”

  I feel like a jerk and don’t know what else to say, so I spend the last of our ten minutes drawing a street with a manhole. Callie watches silently as I create a blob oozing out of the top of it.

  “Okay, class,” Mr. Nelson says. “Time’s up for now. Make sure you get your partner’s contact information so you can meet up outside of class. Since this is a research project, you aren’t going to get time to work on it here.”

  He actually seems giddy, like this is some big social experiment that will forever change our lives or something. He doesn’t realize that most people will wait until the day before it’s due, talk for fifteen minutes on the phone or at lunch, and write the paper that night.

  Callie and I stand up and exchange our numbers. She takes my information with the same slightly bored stance she always has in class, leaning against the desk.

  I start to turn away when she says, “So, you never told me your lie.”

  “Oh. The rattlesnake bite. I’ve never been to Joshua Tree.”

  She nods.

  I try to get one more good look at her eyes, for drawing purposes.

  “What?” she asks.

  “Nothing,” I say, and look away.

  “Oh, I almost forgot.” She reaches into her bag. “Here.”

  She hands me my sketchbook.

  I stare at her. Why does she have it?

  “Uh, thanks,” I say, holding it to my chest, suddenly feeling exposed.

  “I looked through it.”

  “Whatever.” I flip through the pages out of instinct. Everything looks the same as before.

  “You really draw everything. I saw my hand on the table in there.”

  “Oh yeah, I was just—”

  “It was good. You’re really good at drawing people.”

  I find the page that Luis defiled and grimace. There’s Autumn’s face and, beneath it, two round melon-sized breasts. “I didn’t make the, you know, I didn’t—”

  “What, the boobs? Yeah, I figured. Autumn is pretty and nice. We had a class together last year.”

  “She was just sitting there, so, you know, I didn’t have anything else to draw.”

  Callie gives me a small smile as if to say yeah right. I’ve never seen her smile before.

  “By the way, I was happy you kicked his ass. Luis. He needed it,” she says.

  “I just caught him by surprise.”

  “No, you
had some moves. And he’s a good wrestler, so that’s no easy thing.”

  I shrug.

  She throws her backpack over her shoulder. “Do you have trouble taking compliments?”

  “I don’t know.” I don’t normally get compliments, well, except from Mr. Fisher about my art. And from my parents.

  “You’re deflecting. That’s what my therapist calls it.”

  “You have a therapist?”

  Callie starts walking toward the door, and I follow her outside. It’s loud and crowded with the lunchtime rush of students. I have to walk closely to match her pace and lean in a little to hear what she’s saying.

  “After I walked in on my mom sleeping with my ex—I kind of freaked out. I broke tons of things, threatened to hurt myself.” She holds out her arm, showing a scar across her left wrist that I hadn’t noticed before. “Anyway, Mom moved out and Dad sent me to therapy. It’s not bad, it’s just . . . weird.”

  Callie doesn’t stop walking until she reaches one of the few trees on campus and stands beneath it. She faces me. “How did I do?”

  “What?” My head’s still spinning from her confession.

  “Did you believe me?”

  “Wait, that was all made up?”

  She grins again and watches my face intensely, which makes me stumble backward a little.

  “Very good,” I say.

  “I worked on the details.”

  “That was fast.”

  “Not now—while we were doing the questions. I’m actually pretty slow. I ‘can’t finish tests in the allotted time,’” she says, using air quotes, her voice switching to that of a formal evaluation. “I also ‘can’t answer a question about what I’ve read on the fly, can’t organize’ . . . and so on.”

  I nod. I’m very familiar with the concept of being a slow test taker.

  “So your mom . . .”

  “Oh yeah, no, she didn’t sleep with my ex. She’s actually a therapist herself. Try growing up with someone who’s always making you go deep and find the root behind why you do things.”