Crazy Messy Beautiful

by Carrie Arcos

Instead of the words, he offers a sad smile and points his finger at me. “You ever do anything stupid, I’ll kick your ass myself.”

  I shove my hands in my pockets and grin.

  “So what’s going on? I can tell there’s something bothering you.”

  I tell him about the conversation I overheard my dad having with Leslie.

  “I don’t know what to do,” I say.

  “Well, I think you have two choices: Ignore it and hope that things’ll take care of themselves. Or confront him and see what he has to say. But I’ll tell you, man, secrets are insidious things. The truth wants to be found out. At least that’s my experience.”

  I hang my head. Suddenly it all feels unbearably heavy.

  “Listen,” he says, “you’re in a tough position, but you don’t have all the facts. It could be just some big misunderstanding. If I were you, I wouldn’t say anything to your mom just yet. You don’t want to hurt her unnecessarily.” He puts his hand on my shoulder and squeezes. “Sorry, man, that’s a lot to handle.”

  And now it feels like there’s something in the back of my brain that wasn’t there before. Some bug burrowing—irritating and present.

  “Yeah, it’s okay,” I say, as if maybe just saying the words will make it so. Maybe if I ignore it, it’ll go away.

  “Well, I’m here if you need to talk.”

  “Thanks.” That’s the cool thing about Ezra. We can talk like that and it’s not weird. We don’t have to play video games. He doesn’t ever make me feel stupid for bringing something up. He’s the only person, besides Greyson, I can say anything to without worrying he will freak out or get offended. And he tells me things too. We’ve got each other’s back.

  “By the way.” He gets up and hands me a book, Residence on Earth, by The Poet. “I just started this. Have you read it?”

  “Some of it.”

  Ezra says, “It’s good. Here, check this one out.” He turns to a page marked with a small yellow sticky tab and reads one out loud called “Walking Around.” It’s about this man who is angry and tired of being a man, tired of simply surviving, wanting his life to mean something.

  “It’s powerful,” I say, making a note to look up and read the poem again later. Residence on Earth is considered the best of The Poet’s later works. I find it a little too heavy and depressing, though, because it’s about death and how everything is decaying.

  Ezra closes the book and puts it back. “I never thought I’d be so into poetry. If they had taught Neruda in school, I probably would have paid more attention.”

  “Yeah, I know what you mean.” They still don’t teach him, at least not in any classes I’ve had.

  “How’s your art coming along?” he asks.

  I show him my sketchbook. He comes to the end, where there are a couple attempts at Callie’s eyes.

  “Who’s this?”

  “Just some girl from school. We’re partners on a research project.”

  Ezra nods. “So what’s next?”

  “What do you mean, what’s next?”

  “With the girl. The one who’s a season.”

  “Oh, Autumn.” I sigh. “I gave her Twenty Love Songs.”

  He whistles. “That was ballsy.”

  “Yeah, well, it didn’t go as planned. She pretty much said she doesn’t like me like that.” Or probably at all.

  “So you’re out?”

  I shrug. “I don’t know.” Truthfully, I don’t know how to proceed with her. At this point, I would usually just add her to the list—number eight. My heart feels a little heavy at the thought.

  “Girls worth pursuing always take work. I asked Daisy out four times before she finally agreed to hang out with me. How many times have you asked Autumn out?”

  “Technically I haven’t gotten that far. To the asking-out part.”

  Ezra laughs. “Oh, man, you haven’t even given this your best shot.”

  “Well, what would you do?”

  “I’d start by actually getting to know her. What does she like?”

  I try and think about what I know about Autumn, and it’s embarrassingly shallow. The point is I want to get to know her better. Isn’t that the point of dating?

  “I think she plays clarinet.”

  “Maybe you could ask her to a concert. Or you could draw her something. How many guys does she know who can draw like you? Play up your strengths. She’ll be impressed.”

  “I’m not very impressive when it comes to girls.”

  “You only need to be to one.”

  I think about this for a moment. He has a point. “Maybe,” I say.

  “Go for it. Women are attracted to confidence in a man.”

  “Autumn’s not the kind of girl that you just ask out. She’s beautiful.” And perfect. Like a painting.

  “Look, Neruda, if you want, wait for her to give you a sign. A little nudge of encouragement that she’s into you too. Like maybe she waits for you after class. Or maybe a friend of hers comes up to you and says something. Maybe it’s a smile. Whatever. You’ll know it when you see it. But, man, when you see it, you’ve got to take it. You’re young, what have you got to lose?”

  When older people say that, I think they mean it to sound encouraging. But how can it be when some risks feel so big that the very act of taking them feels like you might lose everything?

  “Oh, I don’t know—just two more embarrassing years left at school, running into her at random moments, feeling completely demoralized by her rejection.”

  “Possibly,” Ezra says. “Or maybe she’ll turn out to be the greatest love of your life.”

  I brighten a little, considering that.

  “Don’t play it safe. Taking risks is not for the faint of heart.”

  “Yeah,” I say. But I’m still not sure how to handle the whole thing.

  “I’ll make you a deal,” he says. “If you talk to Autumn, really put yourself out there, I’ll think about contacting Daisy.”

  “You will?”

  “Yeah,” he says.

  We shake on it.

  Who knows? Maybe there’s something to be said for a little persistence.

  On the bus ride home, I get a text from Callie.

  Did you ever have a recurring nightmare as a child?

  I text her back, No, but I dream of chile sometimes.

  I’ve never been, but I feel like I know it through Papi’s stories and The Poet. In his poetry, the descriptions are so vivid. I’ve been to the forest and the beaches he writes about many times in my imagination.

  You mean chili? The food?

  No, the country.

  Oh, haha cool

  She doesn’t say anything more, but I’ve got a forty-minute bus ride left, so I send her a text to keep the conversation going.

  What about you?

  Sometimes, I’m lost in a department store. I’m stuck in the clothes hanging on the rack. I can’t get out.

  Scary, I type.

  Yeah

  A text comes in from Dad: Chinese takeout okay for dinner tonight?

  I don’t answer him. I spend the rest of the ride home typing and deleting snarky responses, thinking about Dad and trying to remember if he’s been acting strange. If there have been details that I haven’t paid attention to. Any signs I might have missed.

  But I’ve got nothing.

  If Dad is cheating on Mom, he’s been a pro at it.

  It makes me feel sick.

  • • •

  I get off the bus early, giving myself a farther walk home than usual. Something to help clear my head.

  As I’m heading up the driveway, Dad calls out, “Hey, Neruda, want to shoot some hoops?”

  “No, thanks,” I say. “I’m tired.”

  I brush past him and keep my head down.

 
Dad’s not the only one capable of lying.

  THE MORNING IS FULL

  The next morning, Mom and Dad plan to go out to breakfast and hit up a farmers’ market. She wants me to join them. Instead, I pull the I’ve-got-tons-of-homework-and-I-really-want-to-do-a-better-job-in-school card. I rarely use it, so when I do, it works very well. Mom sees it as a sign that I’m taking responsibility. Dad doesn’t even press me to go like he normally would. Another sign of his guilt.

  When they leave, I head right for his office. Dad’s laptop sits on top of his desk. His Gmail is already open. It takes me two seconds to type in the name Leslie and a slew of emails from someone named Leslie de Prieto pop up. I start with the most recent. A thank-you email for a job recommendation he provided for a position at the USC library. I scroll through the list. They’re all dated from last year.

  The old picture of Papi and The Poet on Dad’s desk unnerves me. It’s like they’re watching, judging. I turn the picture facedown. They don’t need to see this.

  I scroll and find a few emails about some mythology class Dad taught. From what I can tell, she was the corresponding TA.

  The emails are chatty and friendly, but not romantic or anything incriminating. Then I stumble upon one with the subject “Re: PS.” It’s a love poem, and I recognize it instantly. Dad’s hijacked the words of The Poet, claiming them as his own, giving them to Leslie, twisting them into something dark and ugly.

  I spin around in his chair, wondering if he’s got anything else on Leslie tucked away.

  Dad’s a meticulous keeper of all things paper. I scour the books and files and folders on his desk. I open one of the drawers. Inside are his most recent class files, dated and color-coded.

  I sift through the papers—some are his notes and assignments, some are student papers. Why he keeps a hard copy of everything is a mystery to me.

  I comb through file after file until I finally come across a purple folder from last year’s mythology and literature course. And then I see it.

  On the class roster is the name Leslie de Prieto, circled and highlighted in yellow, with TA next to it.

  Her contact information is on another page. Quickly, without really thinking about it, I call the number.

  After three rings, a female voice answers. “Hello?”

  The voice is soft and a little breathy, as if she had to run to answer the phone. The voice is real and steals my own. I’m mute. I have no idea why I called or what I should say.

  “Hello?” she asks again.

  I open my mouth, but no sounds come out. Then there’s an irritated sigh and a sharper “Hello?” followed by a click.

  I stare at Leslie’s name on the paper for a moment, then take a picture of her information with my phone and leave the folder on top of Dad’s desk.

  ODE TO BROKEN THINGS

  After a pretty crappy night’s sleep, the last thing I want to do is sit in class after class all day long, so I’m actually happy when Mr. Nelson tells us we’re going to be doing something different, something to “build a sense of community.”

  “High school is hard,” he says. “You should all have each other’s backs.”

  We give him a collective stare, not even an eye roll.

  “Today we’re going to play Ultimate Frisbee. And tomorrow, you’ll have a writing assignment based on your experiences.”

  Even though there will be writing involved, I don’t care. Anything to get me moving and to forget about my dad and the female voice on the other end of the phone sounds good to me.

  When we get on the football field, Mr. Nelson divides us up into two teams. The other team scores on us in the first three minutes, so it’s a little stacked in their favor, but I don’t care. I just want to play.

  When my team has possession, I race past Josh until I’m open, and call out to Traden. He passes me the Frisbee. I catch it and stumble two steps forward. I spy Callie up the line. She’s motioning for the disc, so I toss it to her. She catches the Frisbee and quickly tosses it to Hector in the goal. He catches it.

  “Yes!” Callie yells. “Great catch, Hector!”

  We stand in a line by our goal and wait for Luis’s team to be ready to receive our throw. Hector throws it, and Josh tries to catch, but misses. We lose possession.

  “Man up!” Callie calls out.

  Somehow she has become our team leader and we have accepted this. She commands us and we say “yes, sir.” No one challenges her out of fear. That or lack of interest. Regardless, she’s clearly in charge, and we would steadily follow her into battle.

  In some sick twist from the gods, I stand guard against Luis. Even though he’s Mr. Wrestler, I’m actually faster. He tries to get open, but I’m there with him stride for stride. Manny passes him the disc, and I jump forward to catch it with one hand, then pivot and toss it back to Callie.

  Luis swears loudly, and I smile. Just because I’m an artist doesn’t mean I’m not good on my feet.

  Manny covers Callie. She keeps bobbing in and out, but Manny is bigger. She can’t get a clear opening, so I run up and she tosses toward me, but Luis sweeps in and takes possession. He looks down the field to where Josh is wide open and lets the Frisbee fly. I speed after Josh. It’s a beautiful throw. The Frisbee sort of hovers in the air before it starts to drop. And even though Josh doesn’t have nearly as far to travel, he still can’t beat me to the disc. I dive and catch it before I hit the ground.

  “It’s still in play. Still in play!” Mr. Nelson yells above the cheers of my teammates.

  I see Emmy in the goal and toss her the disc. She catches it and we score.

  In the end, my team loses by a point. The other team cheers and does a group dance. Someone starts belting out “We Are the Champions” by Queen.

  I kick at the tufts of grass and start walking back to class, shoulders a little drooped with defeat. I’m all sweaty and my jeans have a huge grass stain up the side.

  Callie heads my way. She looks just as sweaty as I feel. I expect her to walk past me, but she falls into step alongside me instead.

  “Guess I’ll have to add Ultimate to the skill section of my essay on you,” she says.

  “What?”

  “That play. Where you caught it as you were diving? Impressive.”

  I keep my eyes on the ground, a bit shy from her praise. Luis knocks into me, which makes me bump into Callie, but before I can say anything, he and Josh are racing ahead like a couple of idiots.

  “Nice game,” Luis calls over his shoulder.

  “Bastard,” I mutter just as Callie says, “Jerk.” We laugh.

  “Rough day?” she asks me.

  “No, why?”

  “You seem distant. More quiet or something.”

  “I’ve just got a lot on my mind.”

  “Yeah, me too.”

  I keep trying not to think about it, but it’s hard not to replay Leslie’s “Hello?” over and over in my mind. She sounded young and she has some kind of an accent. Maybe Southern.

  Ezra said I have two choices. But neither of them sound like a good idea. Telling Mom is out of the question. At least, not until I talk to my dad and find out what’s really going on first. But acting like I don’t know about Leslie, pretending like everything’s cool . . . I don’t know if I can do that.

  “Oh, really?” Callie says. “What do you have going on, Callie? It’s so nice of you to ask, Neruda. There’s the usual volleyball practices, but I’ve also got homework—an endless, torturous supply. Plus I have a research project for Art History where I’m supposed to go to some museum and take notes on every Picasso piece that is there.”

  The name Picasso brings me out of my head. “Sorry,” I say. “I’m just . . . distracted. Which museum?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “The LACMA has a good selection. You could try there.”

 
“Is that the one with the yellow hanging things?”

  She’s referring to an art installation piece that you can interact with once you’re inside the museum. Thousands of yellow rubbery strings hang down and you can walk through them. It’s iconic to the museum and little kids love to run in and out of them.

  “You’ve never been to the LACMA before?” I ask.

  “I think I was there once, on a field trip in elementary school,” she says. “Not sure.”

  “I go all the time. We could go together if you want,” I offer.

  “When?”

  “When is the assignment due?”

  “Can you do Saturday?” she asks.

  “Sure.”

  I don’t know exactly how it happened, but sometime between Friday night and now, Callie and I have become people who speak to each other. Sort of like friends.

  She glances at her reflection as we pass a classroom window.

  “Crap. Look at my face! I’m a mess.” She laughs and wipes underneath her eyes with the bottom of her shirt. Some of her purple and black makeup now stain it.

  “I don’t think it looks bad,” I say. She’s still got some smudges around the sides of her eyes, and the tops of her lids are a faint purple, but it looks nice. Her eyes are brighter and her cheeks are red, still flushed from the game. “Were you going for that model you showed me on Friday?”

  “Yeah, but a more toned-down version.”

  I nod. “You almost got it.”

  “I’m surprised you noticed,” she says.

  “I try to be observant.”

  “Ha.”

  “It’s true. I had an art teacher a couple of years ago who said you never know where you’ll get inspiration, so we should always have our feelers out, looking for our next piece. It’s why I carry my sketchbook with me all the time.”

  “Hmm. Maybe I should start carrying one around. You know, to jot down ideas for what I do.”

  We enter the classroom and grab our bags. “That would be cool,” I say.

  The bell rings.

  “See you later,” Callie says.

  “Later.” I watch her walk away from me, and for the first time, I notice the muscle tone in the back of her legs.