The Victoria in My Head

by Janelle Milanes

  While she and Dad eye me with suspicion, I snatch up the remote and click the TV back on. The silence is making all of this too intense. I need a laugh track to pepper the conversation so I can pretend this is all a good-natured sitcom.

  “Where are you two going?” Mom asks. Her voice is measured for optimum feigned indifference.

  “We’re going to a concert at Carnegie Hall.”

  Dad’s eyebrows almost shoot up to his hairline. “Coño. He has the money to take you to Carnegie Hall?”

  “They were his parents’ tickets.”

  “I assume he’s picking you up here,” Mom says. “We need to meet this boy, and you’re not going downtown at night by yourself.”

  “¿La vamos a dejar salir con ese muchacho?” Dad mutters to her, like I’m not sitting two feet away from them.

  “Hello?” I wave my hand in front of his face. “I’m right here. And I’m fifteen years old. Totally appropriate age for dating.”

  “So it is a date,” Mom says.

  Whoops.

  “Maybe?” I shrug. “I don’t know.”

  “You like this guy?” Dad asks.

  I shrug again. Miranda rights.

  “We expect you home by eleven,” Mom says. “And we’re giving you money to take a cab. No arguments.”

  I sit up a little straighter and try to hide the smile spreading over my face. Does this mean I officially have my parents’ permission? Dad slumps in his seat with his arms crossed, and even though his body language doesn’t scream enthusiasm, he’s not objecting.

  “I promise,” I say, raising three fingers in a scout’s-honor salute. “Home by eleven.”

  * * *

  “Does this look okay?” Mom strikes a pose in the middle of my doorway. She’s wearing jeans and a black cardigan. Levi is set to arrive any minute.

  “Yes, for the umpteenth time,” I reply. This is the third outfit she’s tried on. Meanwhile, I picked out my cotton lace dress last night. Mom let me borrow her makeup, and I’m sitting in front of my mirror, drowning the zit on my forehead with liquid concealer.

  “I want my outfit to look casual, but still say ‘I’m the mom,’ ” she continues.

  “Congratulations, you’ve achieved that delicate balance.”

  Now one spot on my forehead is two shades lighter than the rest of my face. I pat the edges of the concealer to blend it into my skin.

  “Do you need help?” Mom comes over without waiting for an answer, then clicks open her powder and dabs it all over my face. I scrunch my eyes shut so the powder doesn’t get into them.

  “Don’t make me look like a ghost.”

  “Ay, Victoria, I know how to put makeup on.”

  “I’m just saying.”

  She pauses, brushing the powder on my cheeks in quick, circular motions. “Can I ask you something?”

  It’s never a good sign when she prefaces a question with another question.

  “Yeah?”

  “Have you and Levi . . . kissed?”

  She closes the powder jar and my eyes flutter open. Mom and I never had the birds-and-the-bees talk when I was in middle school. All she told me was that when a man and a woman got married, God blessed them with a baby. The whole “having sex” factor was completely omitted. I always worried that she would try to fill in the blanks when I got older. I pray that now isn’t that time.

  “Mom, can we not talk about this?”

  “You can’t tell your own mother whether you kissed a boy?”

  I busy myself with adding more concealer to invisible blemishes on my face. Anything to avoid Mom’s anxious stare. “No, we haven’t kissed.”

  “You’ll tell me, right? When it happens? If it happens tonight?”

  I lay the concealer on the vanity. She sounds so desperate, like her entire world will come crashing down if I kiss a boy without telling her. It makes me a little sad, so I say yes. Even though I’d rather pull my teeth out than talk to her about my blossoming sex life.

  Before our conversation can get worse, the buzzer at the front door goes off.

  Dad and Matty rush into my room, and Mom clutches her chest like she’s going into cardiac arrest. “That’s him!”

  “He’s here!” Matty shouts.

  “Who answers the door?” Dad asks Mom. “Do we both answer? Should I hug him or give him a handshake?”

  “A handshake, I think?” she answers. “Or is that too formal? Victoria?”

  “How should I know?” I ask.

  The four of us are all jittery, and no one is moving to get the door.

  Bzzzz. Levi buzzes for a second time.

  “Bueno, he’s a little impatient,” Mom observes. “Not a great quality in a boyfriend.”

  “Answer the door!” I hiss at my parents.

  Matty runs to follow them, but I pull him back by the shirt collar.

  “Not you,” I instruct. Levi doesn’t need to be ambushed by the entire Cruz clan.

  “But I want to see him!”

  I hush him and listen as the door opens.

  “Levi, hello! So nice to finally meet you!” Mom gushes in a fake June Cleaver tone.

  Dad’s voice comes out more stern. “Nice to meet you, Levi. I’m Jorge.” He says his name the American way, so that it sounds like “George,” not “Hor-hay.”

  “I think he went with the handshake,” I whisper.

  “Can I go out now?” Matty whispers back. “I want to see what he looks like.”

  “Fine,” I concede, “but don’t embarrass me. You say hi and that’s it.”

  “Okay,” Matty agrees.

  “Pinky swear it.”

  We hook our pinky fingers together and Matty bolts out of the room. I take one last look at myself in the mirror. My hair looked big and fuzzy this morning, so I wrangled it into a messy braid.

  I bought my dress last year for Matty’s school concert, and I haven’t had another excuse to wear it until today. It hugs me in the right spots, then turns loose and flowy to conceal some of my bubble butt. Annie has always envied my butt because hers is pancake-flat, but at least she has an easier time finding clothes that fit.

  I take a last deep breath, then walk out to the entryway, where Mom, Dad, and Matty are surrounding Levi. When they see me, everyone falls silent.

  Levi gives me a small smile. He looks like a fancier version of himself, with a button-down shirt and V-neck sweater. Nerd chic. Cute.

  “You look really nice, Victoria,” he says. I can’t tell if he means it, or if he says it because it’s obligatory and my parents are staring us down.

  “Thanks,” I reply.

  He strides over to me and puts his arms around my shoulders. I realize this is a limp attempt at a hug, and in return I give him a stiff pat on the back. If this is what our hugs are like, it doesn’t bode well for future body contact. The night is off to a shaky start.

  “Well, we should get going,” I say after Levi and I unwrap ourselves. My parents gape at us. They’ve never seen me so much as talk to a boy, and here I am hugging a stranger. I tug on Levi’s sleeve, eager to escape their prying stares.

  “Levi, do you want something to drink before you go?” Mom asks, regaining her composure. “Water? Tea?”

  “No, thank you, Mrs. Cruz.”

  “Yeah, Mom,” I say. “We don’t want to be late . . .”

  “Here.” Dad thrusts a wad of cash into my palm. “For the cab ride home.”

  “Oh, no, Mr. Cruz,” Levi says, holding a hand up. “It’s on me.”

  I see Dad’s brain waging an inner battle: take the money back and lose your pride, or save yourself thirty dollars?

  “No worries,” I tell Levi, slipping the money into my purse. The two of use edge toward the door like trapped zoo animals.

  “Good meeting you all,” Levi says to my family as I drag him out of the apartment. Mom and Dad hold hands as they watch us go, looking overly sentimental and misty eyed. I can’t escape fast enough.

  Chapter Fourteen

/>   “BETA LOVE”

  —RA RA RIOT

  Levi’s parents have first tier seats at Carnegie Hall, and I feel like a member of the elite as the ushers lead us past the flocks of people headed for the upper tiers.

  I settle into my red velvet seat and swivel around to check out the curved, lit balconies looping around us.

  “This is beautiful,” I say to Levi.

  “It is.” He follows my gaze up and grins. “I guess I take it for granted. My parents are members, so we come here pretty often.”

  “Must be nice.” I look up around the venue, racking my brain for something to talk about. I should have Googled first-date topics. What do Levi and I have in common? In my head I tick off our mutual interests: Evanston, music, Strand, and Krina.

  “So what’s the rest of the band doing tonight?” I ask.

  “I think they’re going to the Cave.”

  The Cave sounds like fun, and I feel a flicker of envy that Levi and I aren’t with them, like we’re missing out on something. I shake the feeling away. I’m in Carnegie freaking Hall. I should be enjoying this.

  I wonder if Strand will sing karaoke tonight. Krina did praise his vocals. More than likely he’ll be mashing tongues with another groupie.

  When I mention this to Levi, he grunts in agreement.

  “How are you two even friends?” I ask. “You’re so . . . and he’s . . .”

  “He’s a good guy,” Levi says. “Once you get to know him.”

  “How long have the three of you known each other?”

  “I’ve known Strand and Krina since freshman year. Krina and I were in the school band together, and she and Strand have been friends since grammar school.”

  “Wait a second. Krina was in the school band with you?” I can’t picture Krina in the Evanston band, playing “Louie, Louie” during football games. It all seems too rah-rah for her.

  “She quit last year,” Levi says. “After she got the Mohawk.”

  “So you met Strand through Krina?”

  “Right.”

  Our conversation is interrupted when the lights dim and the orchestra swells in a discordant warm-up. I wiggle around in my seat to settle in, gripping my armrests like I’m on a plane about to take flight. I shoot Levi a smile, and he awkwardly pats my shoulder.

  When the music starts, it might be the most beautiful sound I’ve ever heard. It fills the pockets of space between the seats and rumbles through the ground and up the walls.

  I close my eyes and inhale like I can smell it. Listening to music like this is way better than hiding under the covers with my headphones on. This is the way music should be experienced.

  “What do you think?” Levi whispers, and I’m yanked out of music dreamland and back into my date. For a moment I forgot he was sitting there next to me.

  “Incredible,” I murmur. “I’m so happy you brought me.”

  The music rises around us, but I’m not listening anymore because his hand is sliding onto my armrest and closing around mine. It’s a nice feeling, holding hands with a boy who’s actually interested in me. We hold hands for the rest of the performance, until our palms are clammy and warm, finally unclasping when the concert ends. By the time we follow the crowd outside of the theater, it’s ten o’clock.

  “You’re taking a cab home?” Levi asks.

  “Yup. Parents’ orders.”

  “I’ll hail it for you.”

  But he doesn’t move, and neither do I.

  “We might have time for a quick walk by the park,” he suggests.

  “Sure. Yeah. As long as I make my curfew.”

  In theory, a walk around Central Park is a romantic experience. The trees, the moonlight, the clip-clop of horse-drawn carriages. Reality hits about the same time as the smell of horse shit.

  “God, that’s powerful,” I remark, pinching the edges of my nose together.

  Levi does his coughing laugh and takes my hand, the one not holding my nostrils shut. He leads me to a wooden bench away from the odor.

  “Better?” he asks when we’re seated.

  I let go of my nose. “Just the smell of car exhaust now. We’re good.”

  “Good.”

  The silence between us could be considered romantic, meditative. It could also be a sign that we have nothing to talk about. But that can’t be true. We go to the same school, we’re part of the same band. Conversation should flow easily.

  I’m nervous, that’s all. I need to think of something to say. I can pretend I’m here with Annie.

  “Did you look at the music I sent you?” I ask, fiddling with a loose string hanging off my dress.

  “Not yet,” Levi says. “I’ll get to it soon.”

  “Check out the PJ Harvey song first. Don’t you love her? Her voice is so raw.”

  “She’s great.”

  Whenever I speak, Levi’s eyes flicker down to my lips. I’m suddenly self-conscious about how I move them and whether the lipstick I’m wearing has ended up on my teeth.

  “Your voice has that edge to it, like hers,” he continues.

  “Thanks.” I smile a closed-lip smile. “I take that as a high compliment.”

  “You should.”

  He scoots closer to me on the bench so that our legs are touching. His face is inches away from mine. It wouldn’t take much to fill the distance between us. I tilt my face up to his, his tilts down to mine. There’s no fluttering in my belly, only a persistent nagging sensation that this moment isn’t right, it’s too forced, like we’re following a script.

  “I should probably go soon,” I say right before his lips touch mine.

  Why? Why did I choose to say that right when I’m about to be kissed? Who cares if I don’t feel the fluttering? I should just get it over with and stop expecting everything in my life to be a freaking movie.

  Levi straightens up. “You have to go now?”

  “Not right this very second . . .”

  “Oh, okay.” He swallows hard, his Adam’s apple bobbing in his throat.

  “So . . . ,” I start.

  “So . . .” He leans toward me again, closing his eyes this time.

  Suddenly, his lips are on me. It’s what I was waiting for, but it still manages to take me by surprise. I feel a strange sense of relief, like I can check something off my bucket list. I’m finally kissing a boy. In this moment, I am a real, desirable girl. Then it hits me how little I know about Levi. Where did he grow up? What do his parents do? He’s practically a stranger to me, yet here he is on my mouth.

  The absurdity of it all makes me laugh.

  Levi pulls away self-consciously. “What’s so funny?”

  “It’s not you!” I say midlaugh.

  “Well, what is it then?”

  “It’s—” I only laugh harder when I try to speak. “It’s me.”

  “What do you mean?” He looks at me, slightly horrified, so I draw in my breath and suck in my cheeks to try to stop the laughter.

  “I’m sorry.” I force the corners of my lips down. “It took me by surprise. Let’s try it again.”

  He slumps against the bench. “I can’t now. The mood is ruined.”

  “No! I promise I’ll be good. Go.”

  “I can’t just go, Victoria.”

  Shit. I’ve ruined everything. I see myself in the future, recalling the horrific story of my first kiss. When someone asks me about it, I won’t be able to describe it as magical. No fireworks, or poetry, or sparks lighting up in our hearts. Just me: Victoria Cruz, boy-repellant. In an attempt to salvage the moment, I cup Levi’s smooth chin in my palms and plant my lips on his. He gives in easily.

  Levi does all the right things, which shouldn’t surprise me given his perfectionism. He moves his tongue in a clockwise direction and he opens his mouth at a precise forty-five-degree angle. He’s all about attention to detail when we rehearse, so why wouldn’t that concept apply to his kissing?

  We kiss for a few minutes, and when we pull away, Levi has my lipstick smeared
over his mouth.

  “See? No laughing,” I say.

  “Thank you.” His cheeks turn pink, but he’s smiling.

  I use my thumb to wipe my makeup off his face. Most of the powder Mom applied so carefully is now a collection of splotches on his nose, chin, and jaw.

  Levi glances down at his watch. “You’d better get going if you want to make your curfew.”

  Krina was right about Levi’s dedication to punctuality. He’s like a male Annie. I let him pull me up from the bench, and he lifts his arm to hail me a cab. The action strikes me as a classic New York gentleman thing to do. He’s perfectly going through the motions of dating, whereas I’m stumbling through them.

  As the cab screeches to a stop beside us, Levi opens the door for me and says formally, “I had a good time tonight.”

  “Me too.”

  “Even though you think my kissing skills are hysterical.”

  “I don’t,” I protest, and I kiss him again to prove him wrong.

  “Come on, sweetie,” says the cab driver, shattering our picturesque good-bye moment. “You getting in the car or not?”

  “Sorry.” I squeeze Levi’s arm and climb into the backseat. He gives me a bashful wave as he closes the door. When the cab lurches forward, I gaze at him from the car window until he’s lost in a crowd of tourists.

  * * *

  When I get home, Dad is already asleep and Mom is waiting for me in the living room, cradling a bowl of popcorn in her lap.

  “Well?” she asks.

  “Well . . . it happened.” I say.

  She pats the spot on the couch next to her, and, even though I want to huddle under my covers and fall asleep, I oblige.

  “That’s all I get?” she asks. “It happened?”

  I don’t feel like rehashing the details. In all honesty, my first kiss was underwhelming. I think I’m the problem. Too many love songs, too many fantasies. I had unrealistic expectations, so of course Levi couldn’t live up to them. Story of my life.

  “When?” she asks when I sit down.

  “After the concert. We walked by Central Park.”

  “That’s a nice setting for a first kiss.”

  “It is.”

  Her eyes turn distant. “You’re growing up too fast.”

  “I’ll try to stop.”