Crazy Messy Beautiful

by Carrie Arcos

  “I told myself at the beginning of the school year I was going to focus on school and volleyball. I don’t have time for guys. It’s better, don’t you think?”

  “What?”

  “Not having to deal with all of the drama that relationships bring. I mean, seriously, people get so worked up over something that lasts like two weeks.”

  I can’t help but think about Greyson and Mercy. They seemed so perfect, but they broke up too.

  “Everyone is crying. Heartbroken,” Callie continues. “Friends get involved and have to pick sides. It’s not worth it.”

  “It can be, if it’s the right person,” I say.

  She shrugs. “I’m just saying. It’s never worked out for any of my friends.”

  But something about what she said makes me question if she really meant it.

  I change the subject. “So, did you like what you read?”

  “I didn’t understand all of it. A little steamy. But it’s better than what we read in English. It’s so hard to figure out the meaning most of the time. I’m horrible at poetry when we have to analyze it in class. I never know what to write.”

  “I don’t think poetry is supposed to be defined and dissected like it’s some dead thing. It doesn’t work if you try to pin it down and butcher it.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Well, I’m not sure if we’re supposed to understand everything in a poem. I think the point is it’s supposed to hit you on a deeper level, a deeper truth that your soul feels even if your brain can’t understand it.”

  Callie stares at me intently. Blink blink stare.

  Great. She doesn’t believe in soul mates and she doesn’t believe in poetry either.

  I feel my face grow hot and drop my gaze. “Or, whatever. It’s just words.”

  “Mm-hmm. Words. I’ve never felt that way about words ever.”

  “Just . . . here.” I push my book back across the table to her. “You may change your mind about love and stuff if you read it,” I say lamely. “Please?”

  “Doubtful,” she says. “But I’ll consider it more Neruda research.” She picks up the book.

  We leave the ice cream shop and she asks me if I have plans the rest of the day.

  “No. Why?”

  “Movie at my house? We need to continue your film education.”

  I laugh. “If you say so.”

  “Hey, Oz was awesome, right?”

  “It had its moments.”

  “Well, trust me, you’re the romantic, you’re gonna love Titanic.”

  All I know about the Titanic is that it sinks and almost everyone dies. But if Callie is right, and love is really about taking risks and making choices, I know mine.

  “Sounds fun,” I say.

  WITH ECHOES AND NOSTALGIC VOICES

  “Neruda?”

  Callie says my name and I look up. She’s bent over The Poet’s book, and I’m drawing her. My pencil trembles, moving across the page, as if it’s touching flesh rather than paper. The music swells, just like a movie, as Callie glances at me.

  “Neruda?” she says again. Her lips move and I’m focused on her lips.

  My body is shaking. No. Something’s shaking me.

  I open my eyes to my parents hovering over me.

  “Hey, sleepyhead,” Mom says.

  “I don’t think he’s awake yet,” Dad says.

  I roll away from them.

  “You can’t sleep the day away,” Dad says. He puts his hand on my back and I swat at it, not meaning to hit him, but I do, hard.

  “Neruda,” Mom starts to say.

  “Get up.” Dad’s tone changes, his voice rough like gravel. “The garage is calling.”

  “You said it could wait until next weekend.” I face him, ready to argue.

  “Yeah, well, I changed my mind. And this time go through the bins and boxes against the wall.”

  “But that’ll take—”

  “Just do it,” he says, and leaves, muttering in Spanish under his breath.

  Mom sits on the edge of the bed. “How was last night?”

  I stretch and push myself up against the headboard. Last night was interesting, especially when we got to the scene where Jack sketches Rose in the nude. Callie had been joking about me drawing her naked. After that, I kept thinking what it would be like to do it, whether I could handle it. Which means I spent the rest of the night thinking about Callie naked, which is not something you share with your mom.

  “It was all right,” I tell her.

  “Good.” She pauses. “Neruda, is something going on between you and Dad that I should know about?”

  I freeze but try to act casual, confused. “No. Why?”

  She studies me. “You seem upset with him.”

  I think about telling her, about how good it’ll feel to get it off my chest. But I can’t. “I’m just tired.”

  “Are you sure that’s all?”

  I put on my best everything’s-fine face. “Yes, Mom.”

  She looks at me quizzically, and I can tell she’s not buying it.

  “I’ve got to change. Some privacy?” I say, hoping she’ll just leave so we can put an end to this conversation before it starts.

  “You can talk to me if there’s something going on. That boy at school isn’t bullying you, is he?”

  If only it were that simple.

  “No, Mom, everything is fine.”

  • • •

  Our garage can hold two cars, but neither of my parents has ever parked there. The only vehicles inside are my scooter and the three mountain bikes that hang from hooks in the ceiling. I haven’t ridden my bike in almost a year, since I first got my scooter, even with all of the new bike lanes around our city.

  Instead, we fill the garage with clutter, and Dad cleans it out once a year. I just sweep and make it look neat. Clearly, having to go through the bins is my punishment.

  I click the opener and the door rises to reveal a large stack of bins against the wall. Each one is labeled in thick black ink with the words PAINT SUPPLIES, CAMPING GEAR, PHOTO BOOKS, or MISC.

  This has to be some kind of parental authority abuse. Why do I have to be the one to go through the stuff? Technically it’s not even mine. I shake out a black trash bag. What I should do is throw everything away. That’d make my life easier, though Dad just might go crazy if I do. He’s into grounding and consequences. In my opinion, he’s the one deserving of punishment.

  I grab a broom and try to recall details from the dream I was having earlier.

  Callie Leibowitz.

  I say her name slowly, feel the syllables as they roll off my tongue. Cal-lie Leee-bo-witz. There is something about her name. The way your whole mouth is involved in saying it. It’s a strong name. Strong like Callie. I wonder if she has a middle name.

  After sweeping the garage, I put my earbuds in and listen to some music. Then I set up a small blue beach chair and get to work on the box with the camping gear. There are lamps, a portable stove, matches, utensils, and pots and pans. Everything still looks good. We haven’t actually gone camping in years, so I don’t spend a lot of time on the stuff. I close the bin and push it back against the wall.

  I open the bin labeled MISC. How am I supposed to know what to keep and what to toss? Inside are a bunch of papers, notebooks, and envelopes. It’s all my mom’s stuff from when she was in college. Binders with her notes from classes. Why does she still have all of this? When I’m done with a class, everything goes in the trash.

  As I’m sorting papers, I come across a manila envelope with Dad’s name on it. I open it and find letters he’s written to Mom.

  In the first letter I read, he goes on and on about how amazing Mom is and how lucky he is to have found her. I read another. And another. There are echoes of The Poet in his words, like the lin
e about him being a house with windows that ache for her. It’s kind of cool that Mom has kept the letters all these years, but it only makes me feel worse for her.

  I read another letter where Dad apologizes for being late. Another where he says he never knew real love before he met her, and how he is certain that they have a love that will last forever.

  There are movie ticket stubs. U2 and Prince concert stubs. Pressed flowers.

  It looks like Mom kept everything from when they were dating. When did it stop, I wonder. The notes? The proclamations of love? The poetry? When’s the last time Dad wrote her a love letter?

  I hold a note up to my nose. The ink has long since dried and the smell is now of stale air.

  Love is supposed to be a fire, an all-consuming passion that keeps you up at night. A state of being that drives you crazy because you wake to thoughts of her, and end the day with the same. Love is marked by sighs and stars. With songs and butterflies that make your stomach flip and flutter when she looks at you. You feel nervous and excited at the same time. You just want to be near her. You don’t even care if you’re doing anything—just sitting next to her is good enough.

  And the evidence of love is that you become a better person; she makes you better. It’s not supposed to be measured by lies and betrayals, smoke and mirrors.

  I can’t help but wonder: If Callie is right, and love is a choice, when did my dad change his mind?

  For a moment, I imagine setting the letters on fire and dropping them into the box until it all goes up in flames. Better to burn out than fade into dust and darkness.

  • • •

  Inside the house, Dad is bent over the tub, cleaning the upstairs bathroom.

  I press the corner of the envelope into my thigh. Then, with a flick of my wrist, I toss the envelope at him.

  “You might want to read these,” I say.

  He starts to respond, but I press play and I’m lost in “Us Against the World” by Coldplay.

  I can hear him call my name, but it’s like I’m underwater. I swim deeper inside a song that explains exactly how love should be. Two people facing the world together. The only thing that matters is their love. A love that is alive, not crumpled and dusty, withered by time and betrayal.

  I hear him call out again and again, but I head to my room and dive deeper into the music until I’m so far from shore, he’s not even a distant speck on the horizon.

  WHAT WE ACCEPT WITHOUT WANTING TO

  After school on Tuesday, Luis and I are supposed to meet in the library to check out our potential space. As usual, he’s late.

  I stand facing the wall—the canvas, so to speak. Sometimes a blank canvas can be intimidating because it represents all possibilities, and once you start, those options begin to narrow with each choice. But I like the challenge. The idea that in a few hours or weeks there’ll be something permanent, something on display that I will have brought into existence is thrilling. It gives me more pleasure and more confidence than anything I’m learning in school. When I’m creating art, I’m doing what I was born to do. There’s nothing more satisfying than that and I feel a buzz of excitement. It’s almost enough to make me forget about everything going on at home. About having to work with Luis.

  “You haven’t started anything yet?” Luis walks up.

  I look at him like he’s kidding, but he’s staring like his presence is God’s gift to me or something.

  “What?” he asks.

  “Never mind.” The less I have to talk to him, the better.

  We tape up the corners and the baseboards with blue tape and cover the floor in front with a tarp. I’m grateful that both of us wear earbuds.

  We start on opposite sides, painting the wall with an off-white primer before we attempt the mural design. When we’re finished, we observe the clean white wall.

  “Looks like it could use another coat.”

  “Yeah, so how long do you think this is going to take? Until we’re done with the whole thing, I mean,” Luis asks.

  “Well, the unveiling is in four weeks.”

  “Dude, I can’t be spending every day after school like this. I have conditioning.”

  “So why don’t you quit,” I mumble under my breath.

  “What’s that?”

  “Nothing. We might be able to punch it out in two if Fisher lets me miss his class a few days.”

  “I don’t think I can miss last period. I’ve got a borderline C, and I need to get that up for wrestling,” Luis says. “What this wall really needs is some spray paint.”

  “Maybe we could add some in the end. You know, around the edges, to give it more of that street art look, if it sticks with the integrity of the work.”

  Luis nods and looks at the wall. “Integrity? You mean, like, its truth?”

  “Sort of. Every piece of art has an intentionality.”

  He looks at me, confused.

  “Like, what the art is trying to tell the viewer, or the artist’s point of view. Something that will be clear even when we’re not here to explain it. As long as you don’t violate that, anything is game.”

  Luis’s quizzical look remains unchanged.

  “We could try to make some spray paint fit with the style of the piece,” I say in more simplistic terms for him.

  “Whatever. I just think it’ll look cool, because if my name’s going on it, it better look good. I don’t want to come back after graduation and see some lame mural. It needs to be epic.”

  If Luis thinks I’m going to let him turn this mural into a canvas for his tagging, he’s delusional. This is supposed to be my legacy.

  We’re just starting to clean the brushes in the sink of the bathroom when he says, “Shit, it’s already four?” He looks at his phone. “I’m going to be late.”

  He leaves without helping me clean up the rest. Figures.

  When I finally get to the parking lot, my scooter won’t start. I try and try but nothing works. I text Ezra to see if he can come over tonight and help me fix it.

  I think about texting Mom for a ride home, but she doesn’t get off work until six. Instead of texting Dad, I walk the scooter all the way to the Metro station.

  HOW MUCH HAPPENS IN A DAY

  It’s after dark by the time Ezra comes over. “What’s the problem?” he asks.

  “I don’t know. I can’t get it to start.”

  “Did you check the belt?” He bends down next to my scooter in the garage and tinkers with it.

  “Yeah,” I say like I know what he’s talking about.

  Dad comes out through the kitchen door and throws away the trash. “Hi, Ezra.” He avoids my eyes. We have fallen into a pretty solid routine of avoiding each other. I’m not proud of how I’ve been acting, but I don’t know what else to do. I expected my dad to face the situation, not run from it like a coward. It makes me wonder if I know him at all and what else he might be hiding from us. He is not the man I thought he was.

  “Hi, Carlos.” Ezra stands to greet him.

  “How are you?”

  They shake hands. Dad looks so old standing there next to Ezra. Old and tired and run-down. What did Leslie see in him?

  “Good, thanks. Neruda asked me to check out his bike for him.”

  “Oh, is there something wrong with it?” Dad asks with a tone that implies he could have done something to help. Dad wouldn’t even know how to check a car’s engine or change a flat tire. I can do both of those things thanks to Ezra.

  “The belt just needs some more tension,” Ezra says after inspecting it for like three seconds.

  “How’d you get so good with auto mechanics?” Dad asks.

  Ezra shrugs. “Runs in the family, I guess.”

  Before Dad can ask another question, I cut him off. “Dad, we have stuff to do.” I turn and pretend I’m doing something to the scooter.

>   “Right. Okay. Good to see you, Ezra.” He gives Ezra a hug and a pat on the back. “Chao.”

  Dad goes back inside the house while Ezra finishes with my scooter.

  “Want me to soup it up for you? Put on some hydraulics? Impress the ladies?”

  “Shut up,” I tell him. Though I wonder what Callie would think about it. If it would impress her.

  “Like new,” he says a little while later. He wipes his hands on a rag. “Do you think your dad will ever let you have a real bike?”

  “You mean a motorcycle? Yeah right. Mom would argue how dangerous bikes can be.”

  “Does she know this is just as dangerous?”

  “She thinks I’m safer because of the speed.”

  We sit on the two chairs on the porch. It’s pretty dim because the light is out and Dad keeps forgetting to replace the bulb.

  “So I’m guessing from that little exchange I just witnessed you haven’t talked to your dad yet,” he says.

  “Not really. He asked me not to say anything.”

  “That’s tough.”

  “Yeah, I don’t know what to do. I feel like my mom deserves to know, but if I tell her what I overheard, then what? I mean, she’d probably leave him, right? Why would someone stay with a person who cheated on them?”

  “People stay together for all kinds of reasons.”

  I let this sink in for a moment.

  “What do you think I should do?” I ask Ezra.

  He hunches over with his hands folded in front of him. “Look, I’ve made a lot of mistakes in my life, but if there’s one thing I learned from Rafa and everything, it’s knowing when to speak and when to remain silent.”

  “So you don’t think I should tell my mom?”

  “I’m not saying you should or shouldn’t. I just think you need to be careful and really think about what’s at stake here.”

  We sit in the front yard and watch the occasional car pass by. For a long time I think through Ezra’s advice. It’s not about right or wrong here. It’s about something else, like figuring out the best thing for everyone. The problem is, I have no idea what that is.