by Anne Dayton
Hmph. Spoken like a girl who’s actually had a boyfriend.
“You were engaged?”
“Yeah.” She picks a hangnail for a moment. “He proposed the day we graduated from Brown. It was so romantic. I just got caught up in it all.It quickly became clear it wasn’t going to work, soI broke off the engagement. I knew I needed to move so I threw a dart at a map of the United States.” She runs her fingers through her short hair. “Too bad I was never very good at darts.”
We both stare at Ms. Moore for a moment. Do I say I’m sorry?
“Cool,” Christine nods.
Cool?
My eyes must be wide because Ms. Moore looks at me and laughs. “It’s not that big of a deal, Ana.” She smiles at me and I try to force a smile back, but it’s all so sad. “And I think that’s my cue to find someone my own age to talk to.” She walks toward the stairs, then down toward the section where the teachers sit. I watch her go, then turn back to Christine. How does she do it? I mean, it’s one thing to tease me, but to tell Ms. Moore that she needs a boyfriend . . . and somehow she gets away with it, which is even more baffling. Christine just has this untouchable nature.
***
“Pee break,” Christine says at the end of the third quarter. The crowning of the Homecoming Queen meant very little to me. I don’t know the senior class well enough to care that Sandra Entrekin beat out Natasha Sage. But when they crowned Riley, her mother was down on the field snapping a million pictures while Riley’s dad and brother cheered loudly from the stands. And, you know, I have to admit that she looked sort of pretty. She didn’t wear one of those ridiculously sparkly numbers like the rest of the court. It was just a simple, elegant black dress that set off her tan skin and blond hair really nicely. But after they announced her name, the cheerleaders did a cheer spelling her name and I nearly threw up.
Christine thunks down the concrete stairs, her blue hair flying back behind her, and I follow. She throws a quick wave at Zoe, who is in her seat in the woodwinds section. When we get to ground level, Christine threads her way through the crowd expertly. It’s a bit crowded down near the bathrooms since they’re right by the snack bar and everyone is refilling their snacks before the final quarter. She holds the bathroom door open, but I don’t need to go. I lean against the wall to wait.
I am starting to recognize more people at Marina Vista, but the sheer number of students here is overwhelming. I wonder if I’ll ever really feel like I belong.
That’s when I see Dave. He’s waiting in line at the snack bar, his dark hair sprayed blue for the occasion. He’s wearing a red Seaside Bowling shirt under a red paisley tie, and he’s talking to two guys I don’t know. I think I knew he went to Seaside, but it still strikes me as odd to see him here. I quickly duck around the corner, not really sure why I feel the need to hide from him. I peek back at him, but he’s still there, laughing with his friends.
Bowling. I wonder if that’s an ironic statement or if Dave really is on the bowling team. With him, you never know.
As I’m trying to figure Dave out, someone comes out of the men’s bathroom, and the dark suit catches my eye. Tyler. Oh my gosh. I think about what Christine said, how it’s pathetic if I just obsess and don’t ever talk to him. Should I do it? He’s away from his friends. That makes it easier. I’ll just say hi. There’s nothing hard about that.
Christine would be so impressed if I actually did it.
“Tyler!” Before I know what I’m doing, the word is out of my mouth. He turns his head, squints at me, then nods. He takes a step toward me, and I freeze. What am I supposed to do now? “Hi,” I stammer. “I didn’t know you like football. I don’t like football, but the marching band was playing.”
What am I saying?
“Do you like the marching band?”
SHUT UP. Why can’t I make my mouth stop saying stupid things?
“It’s cool,” he says. He bobs his head. He watches me, waiting, no doubt, for me to explain why I called him over.
“Well, it was good to see you,” I say quickly. I stick out my hand, and he stares at it, then takes it uncertainly.
“Good to see you,” he says, dropping my hand. He winks, then turns and walks toward the stands.
“What are you doing?” Christine says, popping up in front of me. “You having fun over here?” How long has she been there?
“I talked to him! I talked to Tyler!” I sort of squeal this, but Christine doesn’t have the reaction I was imagining. She looks kind of annoyed.
“Woo.” She nods. “You ready to head back?”
“Um . . .” I try to read her reaction, but she stares past me toward the stands. “Sure.”
We turn back toward our seats and walk in silence. Why is Christine being so weird? I decide to concentrate on the stairs. The steps in the stands seem a lot steeper when you’re actually walking up them.
“Saw a cheerleader puking in the bathroom,” she finally says, her voice a bit lighter.
“Gross,” I laugh, though I don’t really know if I should be laughing.
“Yeah.”
Christine doesn’t say anything when we get back to our seats, and though she’s kind of freaking me out, I can’t stifle the little feeling of excitement in my stomach.
He winked at me. Maybe football isn’t so bad after all.
19
I’ve replayed the scene in my mind so many times I think the tape is broken, but that doesn’t stop me from imagining the wink over and over again all weekend. I didn’t go to the nursing home this morning because Mom wants me to focus on my studies and my piano this weekend, and to be honest I’m glad, because I feel kind of weird about hiding from Dave last night. I wouldn’t really know what to say to him if I bumped into him at the old people’s home.
I’m trying to focus on my math homework, but my mind keeps going back to Tyler. He looked really nice in his tuxedo.
My bedroom walls feel like they’re closing in on me. Normally, I like to do my homework in the kitchen. I try to spend as little time as possible in my room. But when Mom is home, bustling around with the interior decorator, it’s useless to try to work in the kitchen. Today they’re looking at bathroom fixtures, poring over catalogs, and exclaiming over showerheads and faucet fixtures. Plus, she’s been on a huge planning kick for my quince recently, and I can’t deal with discussing invitations any more. No invitations would be perfect in my opinion. Papá is home too, working on his computer and brooding about taxes or something, which means it’s best to stay out of his way. And Maria is lying down.
To block it all out, I hole up in my room, sit at my desk, and put on some Bach. This is the new piece my piano teacher assigned me, so by listening to it now I’m really multi-tasking. Besides, they say listening to classical music makes you smarter. I’ll take all the help I can get.
The phone in the kitchen trills, and I hope that it might be Zoe or Christine with gossip about what happened at the homecoming dance. Neither of them went, but Christine somehow always knows things like that. I prick my ears to try to hear what Papá is saying. Five minutes later, he still hasn’t called me downstairs, so I let my breath out slowly. I guess it’s back to math.
I really do try to study for at least twenty minutes, but then I give up and turn on my computer. This is one of the ways my parents tried to bribe me into not fighting them too much on the move. They promised me my own computer in my room, though of course they didn’t tell me that they were going to use parental controls to monitor everything I look at online.
Neither Zoe nor Christine is online. Typical. Just when I need a distraction, no one’s around. I check my Gmail, but the only new messages are spam. I pull up Google and click around on a few department-store Web sites. Nordstrom has a few cute dresses, grown-up but not too fancy, that might work for my quince. Maybe I could live with one of those. I quickly lose patience with dress shopping, though. It’s not really much fun when you can’t try them on. I think. Should I? I type in Tyler Drake and hi
t return.
There are a few links to teen art fairs, and a bunch of his times from swim meets show up. I didn’t know he swam. But I click on the Web site for his band Three Car Garage.
Jackpot. There are pictures of the band leading worship at church, playing concerts at local high schools and churches, and just hanging out. It’s kind of ridiculous the number of photos they have posted of themselves, actually. I click on one of Tyler leaning against a railing on a set of high concrete steps. He’s smiling at the camera, showing his adorable dimples. I briefly consider saving it onto my computer but decide against it. If Mom or Papá decides to check my hard drive, they’ll just ask too many questions, and it’s not worth the fight.
I click on another photo, this one of Tyler with Dave, and smile. Dave is mugging for the camera, wearing a nice button down and a striped tie, as if he’s going to the office or something, but then he’s paired it with black board shorts and flip-flops. Tyler is wearing perfectly tight jeans and a slim white T-shirt with his A’s hat, and he looks as if he couldn’t care less.
I click on a few other pictures and even check out a few of the drummer, Tommy Chu, who’s not bad looking now that I think about it, then click over to the band’s schedule. Hm. They have a show coming up in a few weeks at Half Moon Bay Coffee Company, the café downtown. I make a mental note to find out more. Then I go back to the photos and click around some more, savoring the experience of being face to face with Tyler, who acknowledged me in public.
I hear something. Mom and Papá. Their voices are raised and strained, and I close the browser window and tiptoe over to my door to try to hear what they’re saying. I hope it’s not about Maria again. Please, God, don’t let it be about Maria. I stand with my ear to the door, listening, but I can’t hear any more. I wait, but the house is silent. Eventually, I tiptoe back to my desk and sit down again.
I bring up Google again, then wait, my hands poised over the keyboard. I’ve already read everything the Internet says about lupus. I could Google it again, but I’m probably not going to learn anything new. I type something different into the search bar instead: autism.
I click on the first link that pops up and read about how the developmental disorder usually leads to repetitive activities—like drumming or tapping—as well as social problems. Sometimes people become obsessed with counting, or with dates or calculations. According to the site, it’s often really difficult for the family to deal with. I’m about to click on a link that talks about treatment options when I hear a knock at my door. Startled, I jump up and fling open the door. Papá is standing there, his dark hair going every which direction and his face red. Thank God I wasn’t looking at pictures of Tyler anymore. And I mean that literally, as I am thanking God for that small miracle. Close call.
“Is everything okay, Papá?” I smooth my hair down and straighten my shirt. There’s something about Papá that makes me always feel like I need to measure up.
“We have something very serious to discuss.” He steps inside and closes the door behind him. Oh no. It’s Maria. They’re taking her to the hospital now.
“What is it?” I try to keep my voice steady. I don’t want them to know that I’ve been listening in. He gestures toward my bed, and I obediently sit down on the narrow twin mattress and lean back against the pillows encrusted with rhinestones that spell out the words “Beautiful” and “Shopping.” Papá takes a deep breath, grabs his head for a moment, and then looks at me straight in the face.
“A boy called for you.” He delivers the news in a flat, even tone, as if it pains him to say it.
“A boy?” Confusion washes over me, then relief. It’s not Maria. Thank God. And then, slowly, I start to feel a twinge of excitement.
“You know boys aren’t allowed to call here.” Papá looks at me sternly. Actually, I didn’t know that. That must be a new rule. I know I’m not allowed to date until I’m dead, but, considering my complete lack of options, it’s not really something I’ve ever worried too much about.
“Who was it?”
“You don’t know?” Papá watches me, and I can tell he’s trying to figure out if I’m telling the truth.
“No.” I shake my head. I wish.
“Then how did he get this number?”
“Probably the phone book.” The number is listed, so it couldn’t have been that hard.
Papá seems to consider this. “You really don’t know who it was?”
I say a quick prayer for patience. I shake my head instead of speaking. Who knows what I might say if I opened my mouth.
“I didn’t get the name,” he says. “But I told him what the rules of this house are and then hung up.”
Oh no. I can feel my cheeks starting to burn just imagining it. If I had a cell phone, I could avoid this kind of drama, but of course my parents know that, which is why I don’t have one. “But, Papá, how am I supposed to find out what he wanted? What if it was someone calling about an assignment at school?” What if it was Tyler and my dad just scared him off?!
“Then you’ll find out on Monday.”
“But—”
“Ana, we only want the best for you.” He plays with the strap on his watch, and the silver metal jingles as it moves around his wrist. “We know there are many distractions in high school, and we don’t want you to lose your focus. Thinking about boys will distract you from what matters.” As if he knows anything about high school.
“But, Papá, I’m not—”
“Ana, you will not argue about this.” He crosses his arms over his chest. “You are too young for boys. End of discussion.” He turns and walks out of my room, closing the door behind him softly. I sit still on my bed, staring after him. I can’t believe what I just heard. I’m a prisoner in my own house.
I grab the “shopping” pillow and turn it over in my hands. What if someone was calling about the nursing home project? Or to arrange something for Earth First? Or about a project for church? What then?
But that’s not really why I’m upset. What if that was someone calling for a completely different reason, and now he’ll never call me again? I wrap my arms around the pink pillow and lean back on the bed.
I close my eyes and remember how we winked at me last night.
20
My foot slips into the small pool of freezing water, and I know I’m a goner. I land on my butt on the slimy, algae-covered rocks.
“Ah!” I scream, but no one can hear me but the seagulls, who seem to be laughing at me. I pull my foot out of the tide pool and stand up as quickly as possible, but it’s too late. My right sneaker is soggy, and my butt is smeared with wet brown sludge. Just call me God Girl Poopy Pants. I pat my butt with my notebook but only succeed in smearing the stain around more, so I give up. Better just focus on the project and get this over with. Why did I think this would be fun?
I’m an extra-credit junkie. I don’t know what it is, but when I hear those two little words, something inside me goes wild. So when Mrs. Morales announced that we could do a long-term extra-credit project toward our final grade, I jumped at the chance. It’s not like I’m failing Biology either. In fact, if I get the full five points with this project then I’ll probably get a 101 for my final grade, but I just couldn’t resist. It never hurts to build up a cushion in case something goes wrong. That’s when I had the brilliant idea of tide pooling.
Half Moon Bayers can barely talk for five minutes without mentioning tide pooling. The beaches here are a little unusual. They’re not the sunny Southern California beaches you see in the old surfer movies. These are rocky and moody and usually shrouded in fog. At the top, they’re surrounded by high cliffs, affording crazy views of the Pacific Ocean. If you take a path down to the beach below, there is a small stretch of brown sand. But what’s most interesting is that beyond the sand, there is this huge bank of craggy rocks, which you can only see when the tide is low. Go down there at high tide, and it looks like a pretty typical beach: water, shore, whatever. But go down there at low tid
e, and you’ll see a small beach leading to a huge bridge of rocks. The rocks are very, very slippery and full of holes—some as small as a pin prick and others the size of small ponds. Millions of sea creatures can be found in the spaces in those rocks, called tide pools. Apparently sea creatures don’t have even half a brain, so as the tide is going out, they get trapped in these little pools. You can see starfish of every color, beautiful spiny purple and black sea urchins, small fish, and maybe even some sea lions sunning themselves out on the rocks.
Plus, the best beach to tide pool at—Moss Beach—also happens to be right near the best surfing beach. I thought . . . it’s a slight chance, but you never know who you might run into down at the surfing beach. And as luck would have it, low tide is at seven o’clock in the morning today, which I understand is the perfect time to catch a wave.
At first Mom made some noise about accompanying me tide pooling, but once she realized that it would cut into her precious beauty rest, she decided that Maria could just drop me off, as long as I brought a life jacket with me. Of course I left that on the shore. I’m not wearing some bright orange dork-alert life jacket all day. And Mrs. Morales said she can’t wait to see my pictures and profiles of all the different sea life I find. I’m not trying to prove a hypothesis or anything. It’s just extra credit.
I lean over and snap a picture of a sunflower starfish. It must have twenty legs and is a little bit creepy looking—like a spider or something. I make some notes in my journal and then pick my way over the rocks carefully.
I glance to my left and through the misty morning air I see a few people surfing, way out. I put my camera to my eye and try to use the zoom function to see who they are. But even with the zoom, I can only identify them as human and nothing more. I can’t even tell if they’re male or female. And yet, hope is born in my heart. After I get all the pictures and notes I need, I’ll have to walk down there and see if I bump into someone. Maybe that’s why he called, to tell me where he’d be.