by Carrie Arcos
I stop at the coffee shop and get some coffee and pan dulce and sit on the curb, watching people. When I’m done, I leave the empty cup in the gutter and head for school because I have nowhere else to go.
Ezra is gone.
Callie is gone, not that I ever really had her to begin with.
When I get to class, I can’t make myself focus. I don’t want to be here. I don’t want to be anywhere. Maybe I could just bail on my life and everyone, like Ezra did. It wouldn’t be that hard to pack a bag and drive off. Go all the way to Chile. I could do it. Cross the Mexican border and then head south. I’d be like some modern Che getting in touch with my people.
I could set up at one of those beaches that Papi always told me about. I’d live there, alone, underneath the blue sky and the thick trees of the bordering forest. No one would bother me. I could draw and paint all day. I’d be at peace.
Between first and second period, I run into Callie. Of course. Because when you’re trying to avoid someone, you start to see them everywhere. It’s like a rule.
“Hi,” she says, but she says it all wrong. There’s something in her voice, something that wasn’t there before Friday night. She looks like she’s going to try to say more, but I keep moving. I don’t want to hear the words. I already know how she feels.
Later, when I’m in the office, trying to get my schedule changed, I see Callie again. My assigned guidance counselor doesn’t understand why I need to change English classes in the middle of the semester, and since I can’t explain it beyond not wanting to be in class with Callie, she won’t make the change. Besides, the only other English class available is an AP level English course—Do I think I’m up for the challenge? Yes, ma’am—and it’s full.
When I step out of the guidance counselor’s office, Callie is sitting on one of the chairs in the hallway. She’s looking down at her phone, so I pretend not to see her, how pretty she looks, and quickly walk the other way.
I try to get a pass from Mr. Fisher to get out of English. I tell him that I need the time to work on the mural. He goes for it, but Mr. Nelson won’t agree because there’s a test. A test I completely forgot about.
Everyone is against me today.
I wait until after the bell rings to show up to class.
“Neruda, you’re late,” Mr. Nelson says when I enter.
I keep my head down and drop into my seat. I don’t look at anyone at my table, especially not Callie.
And she doesn’t look at me. In fact, she acts like she doesn’t even notice that I’m there. She stares ahead at Mr. Nelson like she’s some straight-A student.
I ignore her right back.
While Mr. Nelson passes out the exam, Callie’s oversized gray sweater falls and reveals part of her right shoulder. I ignore that part. I ignore that part so hard that I don’t notice the freckles on her shoulder next to her black bra strap either.
Her right elbow rests precariously close to my side of the desk, so I scoot over. The elbow and her shoulder, her crossed legs, her tilted head, the way she holds her pen, I ignore them all.
I try to focus on the test in front of me, but it’s impossible because I can hear Callie sitting next to me. Her breathing. The blood pumping from her callous heart. Her cells dying and regenerating. Her eyes blinking, the lashes touching down and lifting gently up again like the wings of hummingbirds.
I barely move the entire period. I’ve never concentrated in class so hard. But if someone were to ask me what the test questions were, I’d have no idea.
I bolt as soon as the bell rings.
I finally find some peace in the library. When Luis shows up after school, I don’t give him the chance to make any crude jokes or say much of anything at all. I put him to work on something easy: completing the installation wall.
He lines up the stencils and sprays black paint on them. He peels them off the wall. The words LOVE IS are in black, bold lettering. They mock me. Why did I have to choose that expression? Why couldn’t I have gone with Before I die . . . ?
I don’t want to know what people think love is. I don’t want to know anything about love ever again.
“Lame,” Luis says. “Whose idea was this, anyway? Yours?”
“I don’t know,” I lie.
“Yeah, it was yours.”
He starts painting in the lines. I return to work on the mural, determined to make it amazing. But I’m having trouble concentrating, and all I can hear is Luis’s stupid voice in my head.
Lame.
Lame.
Lame.
MELANCHOLY IN THE FAMILIES
I manage to spend two days going through the motions at school avoiding Callie, though that isn’t hard, because she’s just as weird around me. She hasn’t said a word to me after that first hello in the hallway.
I can’t tell if she’s angry or embarrassed. Either way, she’s not speaking to me.
It’s probably better this way. A quick end rather than a slow, prolonged death.
I’m able to avoid talking to my parents for the most part. Until tonight. I’m doing some homework when there’s a knock on my door.
“I already ate,” I call out, hoping that’ll deter whoever is there. I’m still not in the mood to talk to either one of them—my mom because of how guilty I feel, my dad because of how angry I am.
The door opens and I see Dad in my peripheral vision. I don’t make eye contact.
“Can I speak with you for a minute?”
I nod.
“Your mom and I thought it would be best if I gave her some time.”
Behind him, I glimpse two bags on the floor of the hallway.
“Where are you going?”
“Tía Lilia’s, just for a couple of days, depending on . . .” He looks at one of my drawings on the wall. “However long it takes for us to work things out.”
My dad’s sister Lilia lives over on the west side, in Culver City.
“Listen, Neruda. I’m sorry, son. I never should have put you in the position I did. It was completely unfair of me and there’s no excuse for it. I hope you can forgive me.”
I know he wants me to say that I forgive him, that I can move past it. But I’m not sure I can. I’m certainly not ready to now.
“I hear what you’re saying, Dad,” I say. “But I just need some time too.”
Dad nods. I expect him to leave, but he stands in the doorway, looking at my drawings on the wall.
“I don’t remember seeing this one before.” He nods to the one of Callie at LACMA.
“It’s new.”
“I like it.”
“Thanks.”
“You’ve always had such a way with images. Papi noticed it first. He would have been proud of you. The artist you’ve become.”
“He wanted me to be a poet.”
Dad looks at me in surprise. “You are.” He touches Callie’s face on the wall. “You just use images.”
I look at the drawing and then I look at my hands. How inadequate they feel right now. I don’t know why I’m torturing myself with her drawing. Staring at it every night. I had planned to give it to Callie. Now I don’t know what to do with it.
I sigh loudly.
Dad continues, “Look, I know you’re angry with me, but sigo siendo tu padre, cachai?” I’m still your father, understand? He comes over and kisses the top of my head like he’s been doing since I was little, then turns to go.
I watch him leave and wonder how everything got so messed up. I wish it could all just go back to the way it was.
I look at Callie’s picture again. Then I tear if off the wall.
• • •
A few hours later, I can’t handle being in my house anymore—it feels like something died in there—so I head over to Greyson’s. We play a video game for about thirty minutes before I tell him about my parents
.
“Shit. When?” he asks.
“Last year. He’s staying at my tía’s now.”
It’s quiet in his room except for the sound of our guns hitting their marks. I know I’ve caught him a little off guard, because I take out three of his guys.
“Oh, and Callie?” I continue telling him about my depressing life. “Well, let’s just call her number nine.”
“As in lucky number nine?”
“No.”
I maneuver my guy down a dark hallway and relish a particularly bloody kill.
“Sorry,” Greyson eventually says.
“Yeah, well, it is what it is.”
There’s not really much more he can say, or that anyone can say. It just sucks. And I feel terrible about how I blurted out everything to my mom. I’m not sure how to make it right with her.
“My parents went through something like that last year.”
“Your dad cheated?”
“No, but they were fighting and yelling all the time. It was stressful.”
“Why didn’t you tell me?”
“I don’t know,” he says. “But the point is, it’s better now. They dealt with whatever it was, and they’re still together.” Here, Greyson pauses the game and looks at me. “So there’s hope is what I’m saying.”
“Yeah,” I say and nod, dropping my eyes.
He presses play and we continue the game.
If only I could be so sure.
LOVE IS
The next morning at school, over the loudspeaker, an announcement is made about the love wall. Students are encouraged to participate by writing their own one-liners about what love means to them.
I have nothing to say on the topic.
During art class, I work on finishing the embracing couple.
Call me a sadist.
As I paint them, I try to channel the passion, the raw emotion that I used to feel before Callie rejected me. It falls flat.
In my painting, the girl’s face is hidden, but the guy’s eyes can be seen peering over her shoulder. They are closed in a peaceful bliss.
Does art imitate life or does life imitate art? I wonder.
I don’t know. I only know that I have seen this image somewhere. I have known this feeling. If only briefly.
Someone taps my shoulder, making me jump.
Luis.
I look at the time.
“You’re late,” I say.
“So what. I’m getting it done. Your love wall is finished, isn’t it?”
It is. And even though I would never admit it out loud, Luis did a good job on it. Probably because I marked it out for him and showed him how to do the stencils. All he had to do was trace straight lines with a ruler and spray-paint the stencil lettering.
He points to my couple. “What the hell happened to them?”
“What?”
“You messed the guy up.”
“No I didn’t.”
“Yeah, he looks like shit now, no offense . . . but whatever, this is your thing. So, what’s next?”
Luis is standing there, looking at me like I’m supposed to give him something to do. I don’t want to give him anything. He doesn’t deserve this task—the responsibility of it or the recognition. He’s never taken this assignment seriously and now he’s totally insulted me. “No offense”? This is my mural. I don’t care what Mr. Nelson says. I don’t want Luis working with me anymore. There’s only so much I can take here.
“Nothing. You’re done.”
“It doesn’t look done to me.”
“Not the mural. I’ll finish that on my own. You are done.”
“You can’t do that,” Luis says.
“I think I just did.”
I turn my back on him and face the mural.
In one swift move, Luis slams me up against the wall, twisting my arm. The side of my cheek smears the guy’s face I just spent the last hour working on. I try to get out of Luis’s hold, but he’s stronger and more skilled. I remain quiet, though; I won’t give him the satisfaction of crying out from the pain.
“You’re no better than me,” he whispers close to my ear before he releases me.
I stay against the wall until I hear him walk out the door. Then I take a cloth and wipe my face. I stare at my mutilated couple. The guy’s face is half gone. His eyes bleed and run down the wall.
I grab a brush and get back to work.
• • •
When school lets out, I have to stop working on the mural for a bit and cover it up so that people can write on the love wall. I figured the wall would fill up quickly, but as I’m cleaning some brushes, I notice that most people seem hesitant about what to write. Some come in with an idea, but many just look at the wall and talk about it.
After the rush of students has dispersed, I notice Callie hesitating by the library door. I wonder what she’s doing here. She’s usually at practice.
“So that’s the big wall?” she asks, her voice like a fresh scab.
She’s backed me into a corner here, literally, so I have to respond to her.
“Yeah. There’s chalk, so, you know, feel free.”
Callie doesn’t move toward the wall. Instead, she leans against the door like she hasn’t quite made up her mind about being here. The longer she stays there, the more it starts to irritate me. Either you’re in or you’re out. There’s no halfway.
But she just stands there.
She doesn’t speak. She stares at the ground.
“Look, I’ve got to keep working, so . . .” I make a move toward my brushes and get back to painting.
“I’m sorry I didn’t respond the way you wanted that night,” she says. Her voice is barely above a whisper, but it cuts through the air between us and I can hear it as if she were standing right next to me. “It’s just that I don’t want to be in a relationship like that with anyone right now. I thought I knew how you felt, but then I wasn’t sure and, anyway, I’m sorry. I never meant to hurt you. I definitely didn’t want to lose you as a friend.”
There she goes with that word again. I hate that word.
“Whatever. It wasn’t a big deal. I don’t know why you’re even bringing it up. I haven’t even thought about it since.”
I want her to just go, to just get out of my life because I don’t want to be reminded of her, of the pain that’s always in my chest and that now rises in my throat.
“You know, the world doesn’t revolve around you, Neruda. Other people are going through stuff too. But I guess you’re so focused on yourself that you can’t even see that.”
“What are you talking about?” I turn to face her, and this time I notice that the skin around her eyes is a little blotchy. And even though I don’t want it to, my heart aches for her. Because seeing Callie suffering somehow is worse than my own. Part of me wants to run across the room and take her in my arms. I take a small step in her direction, but her eyes stop me. They are a distant gray. They tell me I am a boat marooned on a shore, cut off from the water.
“Nothing,” she says. “Good luck with your mural. See you around.”
She’s out the door before I can say anything else.
I try to shake off the exchange with Callie and focus on the embracing couple. They need more work, but there’s something missing from the overall piece too. I step away from the mural. It’s like I need another piece to fill the space. But I don’t know what that image should be.
I decide to take a break. I’ll think about it tonight and come back to the wall tomorrow when I have a fresh perspective.
I glance over at the art installation wall and read a couple of the responses:
Love is being totally comfortable around someone
Love is like a puppy all happy to see you
Love is chocolate
Love is a
choice
Love is believing the best about a person
Love is being there when someone needs you
I pick up a piece of blue chalk and complete the phrase with a word of my own.
Love is overrated
ALMOST OUT OF THE SKY
When I get home, there’s a letter from Ezra waiting for me on the kitchen table. I grab a bag of chips and a drink and head upstairs to my room. I feel a twinge of nostalgia as I open his letter. It reminds me of when he was in prison and we wrote real letters to each other. Everything seemed much easier then.
Dear Neruda,
By now I will have left after our trip to Santa Barbara. I’m sorry, but I was afraid if I didn’t go, I’d never leave. Fear has defined me for too long. I’m tired of being afraid of life, of the past, of not having a future.
If there’s any advice I can give you, it’s to do the work and face the fears you have. I know you have them. We all do, even if it’s hard for guys to talk about them. Why is that? Does being a man mean you’re never allowed to be afraid? If that’s true, then I’ve never met a man. Who says you have to be strong all the time? You can laugh and cry and have deep feelings too. That’s one thing I always appreciated about you. You were . . . you are never afraid to feel things deeply. Your heart runs wide open. You’ll experience great hurt and great love because of it.
And I know it’s scary, man, but you can’t be afraid of the hurt. The hurt is a risk that comes when you really put another person’s heart above your own. When you realize what matters most is not your heart, but someone else’s. Being selfless is the highest form of love. That’s why I had to let Daisy go.
Maybe now you’ll understand why I had to leave. I needed to chase some dreams I thought were long dead. I hope all they need is a little drink and suddenly I’ll be in an oasis.
I’ll be in touch.
Your friend,