The Best Possible Answer

by E. Katherine Kottaras

  “To attract men?” I spurt out with a laugh.

  “Yes,” he says, smiling. “To attract men.”

  At first, I smile back at him, but then it hits me that this is a weird, private thing he’s saying and we have a weird, public audience of both my little sister, who’s grinning romantically at us, and Sammie, who’s giving me a sharp look of death.

  Great.

  Mila breaks the awkward silence between us by pulling on Evan’s arm. “Are we going in or what?”

  That breaks Evan’s stare. He claps his hands and jumps up. “Let’s do it!”

  Mila throws off her towel and starts to run to the pool until Evan calls out his “No running” warning in his official lifeguard tone, and she slows to a run-walk.

  This leaves Sammie and me alone, and me worried about what she’s going to say.

  “Look, Sammie, I’m sorry. I have no idea what that was about.”

  But Sammie’s not angry anymore. Instead, her shoulders are slumped, her head in her hands. “Forget it, Vivi,” she says. “It’s done. I’m over it. He’s into you. No bikini is going to change that.”

  “We don’t know that for sure.”

  She looks up at me. “Um, your pupils are so large that they attract men? I think we do know for sure.” She stands up and wraps a towel around her waist. “No hard feelings or anything, but I’ve got to go.”

  “Come on, Sammie—”

  “You don’t have to run after me. And I’m not mad. I just need to be alone, okay?”

  “Okay,” I say. “Hang out tonight maybe?”

  “Maybe,” she says, and then she grabs her bag from the office locker and leaves.

  Evan and Mila are in the pool, racing from one end to the other. He’s letting her win, and she’s howling with delight. I want to rush after Sammie, but I promised I wouldn’t. I hate this. I hate it that she likes him and that he maybe, probably likes me and that I don’t have any idea what I feel about him. Let me rephrase. What I hate the most is that I probably do like him, but I don’t want to admit it. I don’t want to hurt Sammie, but even more, I don’t want to trust anyone else. I don’t want to feel attraction or liking or anything that could possibly lead to love.

  And I hate that. I hate the fact that I can’t let myself feel.

  And then what I do feel is that rush of dizziness wash over me, and my heart starts to pound in my throat. It’s the anxiety, the panic, flooding over me. I know this. This, at least, is familiar. I lean back in my chair and close my eyes. I close my eyes and try to breathe.

  I lie like this for a while, trying to just focus on breathing in and breathing out. The sounds of the pool are around me—most of the families are gone already, but there are a few kids running and splashing, the chatter of their parents, and Mila’s laughter, distant but most familiar.

  I actually breathe and calm myself down enough that I start to fall asleep. I let the exhaustion wash over me. I let my body relax. I let myself drift. And I’m on that far edge of sleep when I’m startled awake by screaming—Mila’s screams, Evan’s screams, the guards, the families, all screaming around me.

  I open my eyes and find that everyone is not only screaming; they’re running, too, out of the pool, toward the umbrellas. They’re running and ducking and pointing at the sky.

  “Run, Viviana!” Mila’s screaming at me from an umbrella near the edge of the pool.

  I look up and see what look like bright orange-red grenades falling from the sky.

  “It’s the Nut!” Mila yells. “He’s throwing tomatoes!”

  “Come here!” Evan screams at me. “Before you get hit! Fast! Run!”

  I don’t have time to think. I should run toward the office, which is much closer than where Evan and Mila are, but my instinct is to be with my sister, especially since we’re under attack, and so I run toward them. Thankfully, I move just in time before a tomato falls, splat, on my towel, where I had been sitting mere seconds before.

  “What the hell!” I laugh as I squeeze under their umbrella, where they’ve been joined by at least two other families and their kids, who are all soaking wet. “He’s lost his mind completely!”

  One of the dads yells up at Professor Cox. “Stop throwing those! You’ll kill someone!”

  He’s right, but I can’t help but laugh at the absurdity of the tomato grenades being launched from the eleventh floor. A tomato lands right on our umbrella, which makes me laugh even harder.

  Professor Cox’s throwing dozens of tomatoes. I’m not sure if he’s aiming at us or at the water, but most of them splatter on concrete, and a few actually make it into the pool. We’re close enough that I can see the pulpy masses turn to slime and spiral through water. Crimson fireworks explode against the pale blue floor of the pool.

  Virgo, who’s standing at the edge of the office, starts to sing a deep operatic aria in Italian; his baritone voice reverberates throughout the pool area. It’s the most perfect sound track to this utterly ridiculous event.

  That makes me explode into laughter. My laughter makes Mila start to giggle, which, in turn, makes Evan laugh, too, and then we’re all giggling uncontrollably as the dad yells at the sky. Then he turns to us and snaps, “You think this is funny?”

  I try to muffle my laughter and shake my head no, but really, I do think it’s funny. I think this is the most ridiculous thing I’ve ever seen.

  I look over at Evan, who’s wearing the broadest, most joyful smile.

  In this moment, I’m not thinking about anything.

  And it’s amazing.

  Before I know it, I’m reaching out for Evan’s hand.

  He’s startled for a moment, but then he looks at me with a smile and squeezes mine.

  I lean in.

  And I kiss him.

  First, I can feel his surprise, but then I feel his decision to return the kiss. I close my eyes to let myself feel this moment, my lips on his, his mouth turning from a smile into a kiss.

  And then I remember where we are.

  I open my eyes and pull away before Mila sees us.

  Evan smiles and squeezes my hand again.

  Virgo’s still singing, and the tomatoes are still falling, but at a slower rate now. Professor Cox seems to have perfected his aim, as they’re all falling straight into the empty pool beside us.

  Five more tomatoes fall, and then it’s over.

  Virgo stops his singing, and then Professor Cox calls out, “Triumph is mine!” And then: “All clear on deck!”

  We wait for a few minutes, just to be sure.

  Evan’s hand is still wrapped around mine. We’re all squeezed in close enough under this umbrella that Mila can’t see.

  I don’t want to pull away.

  Finally, everyone starts to clear out from under the umbrellas, and Evan and I are forced to let go.

  I dive in the water.

  Mila and Evan both follow me in. Without saying anything about the tomato attack or the sudden kiss or the touch of his strong fingers around mine, we lead the cleanup of the tomato bombs from the bottom of the pool.

  The strange thing is, while I’m stunned by my own choice to kiss him, I don’t feel the panic that I did mere minutes before.

  As I dive the eight feet underwater, searching for the drenched fruits, I am strangely calm, strangely happy. All I can think about is how fine I am in this moment. I know I should feel upset about Sammie, about this sudden strange entanglement with Evan, about the consequences of all my bad decisions.

  But none of that is weighing on me at all.

  All I can think about is diving down to the bottom of this pool to find these tomatoes.

  I am right here swimming. I am right here laughing. And that’s enough.

  The last hour has been absolutely absurd and absolutely wonderful.

  For the first time in a very long time, I feel fine.

  I feel really, really fine.

  * * *

  When we get back upstairs, Mila is still hyper from the tomato att
ack. I open the door, and she runs to the window. “I can’t see anything from here,” she whines. “Could we go up to Sammie’s? She said she can see right into his apartment, right?”

  “We’re not bothering Sammie right now,” I say.

  My mom, who’s sitting at the dining room table, looks up from her papers. “What are you two talking about?”

  “The Nut!” Mila exclaims, her forehead still pressed against the window. “He went crazy today! Threw tomatoes at us! It was awesome!”

  My mom looks at me. “Are you talking about Professor Cox?”

  “Yeah.” I laugh. “He stood on his balcony and threw like fifty tomatoes at us.”

  “Made a huge mess!” Mila turns from the window. “Do you think he’ll be arrested?”

  “Someone called the police?” my mom asks.

  “No. Not yet. I mean, I don’t think so,” I say. “But one guy, some upset dad, was threatening to. I don’t know if he did.”

  “That would be a shame,” my mom says. Then she grabs her phone to text someone. I lean over close enough that I can see she’s texting Sammie’s mom.

  “What’s his story, Mama?” I say.

  She pulls her phone from my view and shakes her head.

  “Come on,” I say. “Tell me. What’s going on?”

  “None of it is your business,” she says, still texting. Then she puts down her phone. “Your father called today.”

  “Daddy called?” Mila runs from the window to the table. “Is he home? Where is he?”

  My mom bites the side of her mouth and then says, “No. He is not home.”

  “But wait,” I say. “When I talked to him, he said he’d be home by now.”

  “You talked to Daddy?” Mila yells at me. “I want to talk to Daddy! I haven’t gotten to talk to him in like a month!”

  My mom ignores Mila. “He said he might be home by now. Not that he definitely would.”

  Mila’s crying now. “I want to talk to Daddy!” she repeats. “It’s not fair! You guys get to talk to him, but I don’t. I’m never part of anything.”

  “Mila. Sit down.” My mom shuffles some papers out of the way. “Both of you. I need to talk to you.”

  I don’t like this. I was just in a good mood—the best mood—and I want to stay that way, even if it’s for one night. Or at least for more than ten minutes. “I don’t want to.”

  “Viviana, come on,” she says. “Sit. This is important.”

  Mila’s looking at me through her wet, glossy eyes for a cue of what to do, so I sit down. Mila wipes her nose with her sleeve and takes the chair next to me.

  “Your father won’t be home for a while,” my mom says. “Not until September.”

  Mila doesn’t understand. “So Daddy won’t be home for our birthdays?”

  Mila and I were born 7 years and 364 days apart—her birthday is on the third of July, and mine is on the fourth. I remember being mad at my mom that she couldn’t hold Mila in one more day so that I could have a baby as my birthday present.

  My mom shakes her head. “He is busy with this job. And, well, when he comes back in September, he will find a new apartment and move his things then.”

  So that’s it. It’s official. It’s happening.

  “What are you talking about?” Mila asks. “What does that mean?”

  “It means the trial separation is over,” I say. “It means they’re getting a divorce. It means they tried being separated and they liked it better than staying married.” The words spill out, and I know they come out as mean, as maybe too direct, too honest for an eight-year-old’s ears, but my mom’s only going to try to mince words, to soften the blow, and I’m sick of not talking about what’s really happening.

  “I did not use the word divorce,” my mom snaps at me. “Please don’t say it like that. You’ll upset your sister.”

  Mila is crying, but that’s only to be expected. “That’s not my fault. You can’t blame me for her being upset.”

  “I should have talked to you separately.”

  “Maybe you should have,” I say. I scoot over next to Mila and put my hand on her back.

  “I’m sorry, Mila. I am. I just think you’re right. It isn’t fair that you’re not part of anything, and I think you should know the truth. I think you’re old enough to know the truth.”

  Mila shrugs my hand off her back and gives me a wild, angry glare. “I hate you both,” she says. “I hate both of you so much, it hurts.” And then she runs to her room and slams the door.

  “Very nice,” my mom says.

  I don’t say that I’m sorry to my mom. I mean, I am, but I’m too angry to say anything nice.

  “Where is Dad now?”

  “He’s staying in Singapore all summer.”

  “So we won’t even see him until then?”

  “These things take time.”

  “Could he at least grant Mila the honor of a phone call?”

  “Of course,” she says. “I can talk to him about that.”

  “Okay, fine,” I say. “Great.”

  “Do you have any questions for me?”

  Yes. A million questions. What happened to us? When did we all fall apart? When did we stop being nice to one another? When will we be whole again? Will we ever be whole again?

  “Nope,” I say. “Can I be excused now?”

  “I know this is difficult for you, Viviana. All of this.”

  “Can I be excused now?”

  “Yes,” my mom says. “Of course.”

  “Thank you,” I say. I leave the room feeling 180 degrees worse than I did when I first walked in. There is no worse than this.

  College Admissions Tip #7

  An integral part of the college application process should be self-discovery. Colleges want to know that you’re hungry for new knowledge, new experiences, new discoveries. Be a constant searcher!

  I crawl under my blanket, half-expecting the waves of panic to start crashing over me. I’m ready for it: the heart palpitations, the dizziness, the nausea. I’m ready for all of it.

  But it doesn’t come, at first.

  I’m sad, yes. I’m frustrated, yes.

  But I kissed Evan. I kissed him. He kissed me.

  And I see it: the stupidity of feeling better because some random guy thinks that I’m pretty and that my pupils are attractive. It shouldn’t take a guy to make me feel better. It shouldn’t be because of him.

  And then I think about Sammie.

  About how I’ve betrayed her.

  Oh wait. Here it comes. That dizzy feeling, that tense embarrassment, that deep worry about what I’ve done. It’s a sharp realization, one with jagged edges that stab deep. Even when I think I’m feeling good, I’m actually failing. I’ve failed. Again.

  I text Sammie about the fight with my mom and Mila and the divorce and how my dad won’t be home for another three months. I don’t text her about the tomatoes or the kiss or the hand-holding underneath the umbrella situation.

  She texts back for me to come upstairs.

  I go back into the dining room to ask my mom if I can stay with Sammie tonight, but she’s not there. I hear whispering and crying in Mila’s room. I could go in, try to make amends, but I don’t. I write a note for my mom—Upstairs with Sammie—and leave it on her keyboard.

  Sammie wraps her arms around me right when I walk in. “Do you want to talk?”

  This is the point where I should say yes, that I need to tell her about Evan and me. About how stupid it was of me to kiss him.

  Instead, I shake my head. “Do you?”

  “No,” she says. “Guys are jerks. Guys of all ages. I’m sorry about your jerky dad.”

  I’m supposed to say “I’m sorry about your jerky Evan,” but I don’t.

  I can’t.

  So I just nod. “Tell me a story?” I say.

  “Of course.” We head to her bedroom and lean against the window.

  Sammie picks up her binoculars and tells me that the O’Briens are eating Thai.
“Good for them,” she says. “Shaking it up!”

  “Is Professor Cox home?”

  She moves her binoculars to his balcony. “No.” She lifts the binoculars. “Oh, but Mrs. Woodley is belly dancing in her living room! Want to see?”

  I close my eyes. “No thanks. Describe it for me?”

  Sammie nods and tells me about Mrs. Woodley’s new life plan to travel the world with Tad, bungee jumping in New Zealand, river kayaking in Bali, and mountain biking in Namibia.

  “Mountain biking in Namibia?”

  “It’s a thing people do,” she says. “I read about it online.”

  I ask Sammie if I can stay over, and of course she says yes. I decide not to bother texting my mom to tell her. I’m supposed to take Mila to camp tomorrow morning before I come back for my morning shift, but I figure if she cares enough, she’ll find me.

  * * *

  I don’t sleep well anymore. I can’t remember the last time I had a really good night. Even when I do sleep, I feel like I’m half-awake, my dreams filled with running and reading and testing and failing. Crowds watching me. Naked dreams. Dreams that are predictable and boring, and yet interminable and torturous.

  The morning light is filtering in through the blinds, and I’m already awake, but I’m still startled when Sammie sits up in bed. “Oh my God. Wake. Up.”

  She’s on her phone. “Ohmygodohmygodohmygod. Evan. Just. Messaged. Me.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “Through Instagram. Look.” She holds up her phone to my face and I have to let my eyes focus before I can really see what it is that she’s showing me. It’s a photo of the back of his hand with a phone number written on it. “His number,” she says. “He sent it to me privately.”

  I sit up to look at her bedside clock. “Why is he sending you messages at six-thirty A.M.?”

  “I just posted a pic from yesterday—my Marilyn photos, you know? I couldn’t think of a good caption, so I waited until just now to post—and then he messaged me right after.”

  “Good! That’s great,” I say, but it’s not great. It’s weird and awkward, and I don’t know why I blurt that out.