I panic. I hadn’t thought of a movie. Nice. How stupid am I? I try to act cool and say I forgot the name of it. “Something about aliens, I think.”
Dad stands up. He’s feeling guilty. He needs medication or something for that. “You need money? You want to take the Squeegeemobile?” I say yes to the money and no to the Squeegeemobile. I mean, hello. “But how will you get there?” he asks.
“Tina works until seven,” I lie. “I’m meeting her at her job, and she’s driving.”
“Okay,” says my dad. “But I want her phone number and her parents’ phone number. And no parties.”
“Okay,” I say.
I go back up to my room and close the door behind me. Again, I don’t, like, mean to slam it, but it slams anyway. That’s because these are thin white doors made out of some kind of flimsy metal grained to look like wood with six panels. They feel like they’re hollow. I stare at the door and sigh to myself. I’ve taped a million photos on it of the jagged purple mountains and tangerine mesa sunsets from New Mexico magazine, to remind myself of my misery. I miss my home state the way you hear about amputees missing limbs. There’s an itch from it on my soul that makes me want to cry all the time. I’m going back there someday. Not for college but after that, when I’m a lawyer. Maybe I’ll be a district attorney, or better than that, a child-rights lawyer who will pass laws making it impossible for single dads to remove their kids from the state without the kids’ approval.
I turn from the landscapes on the door and look around the room. A square, decent size, with one window and a mirrored closet door, new carpet. The shades on the window are hard white plastic strips about four inches wide that hang from the top and wag in the breeze from the air vents. Don Juan likes to walk between these shade-thingies and twists them up. They’re curved a little bit in one direction, and once one is turned backwards, it doesn’t close right with the others. I go over and turn each one back into place, even though I know it’s a losing battle. Don Juan will be back soon, weaving in and out of the shades, messing them up. It’s fun for him in that one-eyed-cat woo-hoo kind of way. At least Don Juan’s life is sadder than mine.
I need new bedroom furniture. The stuff here is old. I’ve had the same twin bed since fifth grade. The rest is plain brown furniture for a random room. I’ve decorated the dresser with stickers over the years, changing my mind and ripping them off as my tastes changed, leaving behind these white smudges of sticker glue and paper that refused to come off. I’m sure once Dad makes his millions, I’ll get something else, if I still live here. I grab the cordless phone from my desk and flop on the bed to call Tina and tell her I need her as an alibi.
Tina seems excited about this. She likes to buck the system. She tells me she’s going out with her man friend tonight, and she’d like to use me for an alibi, too. Even though I think she should look for a guy her own age, I agree to do it. If her mom calls my cell, I’m supposed to tell her Tina’s in the bathroom. Ditto for my dad. And then we promise to call each other’s cells immediately with the message to call home.
“Gotta love cell phones.”
“Yeah,” I agree.
“Chris Cabrera,” she says, like she’s thinking hard about his name. “Muy lindo. Have fun, Taos.”
“Thanks.”
“I have a really good feeling about him.”
I don’t want to say anything, but I have a good feeling about Chris, too. Almost too good to be true. And like most things that are too good to be true, I think, he probably is.
28
Okay. So I’ve been here waiting by the bike rack at school for Chris, and now he’s here, pulling up in front of me with a crazy cute grin on his face. Oh my God. I wish I could trust him completely. I wish I didn’t feel scared and excited all at once. I never wanted to be one of those loser girls attracted to bad boys. Hopefully I’m not.
He stops the motorcycle and takes off his helmet. He has very good posture and beautiful eyes. He says hello, tells me I look hot, and hands me a helmet he’s brought.
“Let’s ride,” he says.
Maybe I’m an idiot, but I lift a leg and climb onto the motorcycle. So now, like, I’m officially sitting behind Chris on the narrow black leather seat of his apple-red Honda motorcycle, wearing the helmet he brought for me. I feel the engine ignite with a tiny boom beneath us, the steady, healthy roar of the motor, the warmth of Chris in front of me. He wears jeans and a black leather jacket, both of which hug his lines and bulges with artistic perfection. This body? This perfect guy’s body? It is so not what I need right now. I mean, I need to be focused on learning how to ride, not focused on wanting to kiss him. He is beyond solid, so strong, so perfectly formed it seems almost unfair to the rest of the guys in the world.
As he steers the machine out of the parking lot and up the hill, I feel his expertise in the solid, smooth way we move along. I can also smell his scent. So totally yummy. It’s not just the cologne he wears that I love. There’s something else, a scent that is completely Chris. God, I love this smell. It makes me feel happy and safe to breathe him in. The motorcycle feels confident and muscular going up the hill, past the peach and pink stucco houses with their green manicured lawns and thick, well-watered palm trees. Power. There is a big, strong Orange County power to all of this, the bike, the cute guy, the homes and cars, the hazy blue of the sky. It’s thrilling in the same weird way riding down massive hills on my bicycle is thrilling, but someone else is in control here. I hate to admit this, but I kind of like it. I never thought I’d be big on giving someone else control, but it’s not bad if that someone else is Chris Cabrera.
Just so you know, Chris is not a showy rider, not here, anyway. I’m happy about that. I wouldn’t want to get on a motorcycle with a psycho macho show-off kind of guy. He’s solid, safe, considerate of me. A gentleman, basically. I mean, how many guys would think to bring the girl a helmet? He’s thoughtful. So maybe I can trust him. Maybe he’s not a dangerous liar the way Andrew is. Maybe I can be myself and relax around Chris. Not all guys are the same, right?
That’s how I feel about it, like it’s totally okay to be here. My instincts tell me. The guides, if that’s what you want to call them, tell me. It’s not like when Andrew pulled out in his Porsche, all testosteroned out. I’m sure Chris has plenty of testosterone — maybe that’s the smell I love? — but he doesn’t let it rule him here. It’s not that he’s riding gently but that he’s riding intelligently. As we turn the corner onto El Toro Road, I wrap my arms more tightly around him and press my front into his back. I breathe in the fresh musk of his neck. Yeah. I feel safe here. I can’t wait to tell Emily and Janet about this.
From El Toro, he stops at Laguna Canyon Road and leans back to say, “We’re gonna head west, toward the beach. Then we’ll take a ride down to San Diego County, to Barona. There’s a track out there, and I’ll let you take over, okay?”
I nod and feel the center of my body melting at the sight of his smiling eyes on the other side of his helmet. He is wise. Gentle, wise, and strong. The thought hits me: Old soul. That’s what he is. He’s been here before. Certain people have that wisdom to them, that connection to the world. I wonder if he realizes how special he is. Probably not.
He pulls a left onto Laguna Canyon, a winding, narrow road that has hardly any cars on it. It looks like one of those roads they use on car commercials, a black snake of pavement twisting through this golden, rolling, sun-swept canyon. It’s beautiful here. On either side of us rise the hills, long blond grasses waving in the breeze. The sky is bright blue, away from the inland smog, and the air smells salty and fresh. Seabirds circle high up in the sky. Seabirds. I think of the amulet and wish I hadn’t left it at home. It reminds me of here.
Chris increases the speed a bit, and I instinctively grip his legs with my knees and thighs. I feel a rush from the speed and from the closeness of his body. Our bodies on top of the motorcycle move like one, and this makes me curious about other ways our bodies might move nicely together. Bad girl, me. But
sitting on the back of his (vibrating) motorcycle in my tight jeans, holding him with my entire body like this, doesn’t help ease the longing I am starting to feel. I have never felt a longing for a boy the way I feel for Chris Cabrera.
As we speed along, I feel free. I feel in touch with who I am, with a voice inside of me that is trying to direct me toward my own best self. I realize in this instant that even though we came to California for my father, we were also meant to come here for me. Chris is important, and I want to be his girlfriend, but there’s something else. I can taste it on the wind. Something powerful.
We crest the canyon, and suddenly the ocean rises into view. It’s so huge it takes my breath away. Such a perfect shade of blue, with the sun glinting on the tops of the waves. The ocean makes me feel the same way the desert does, like the earth is alive and I’m a part of it.
“Wow!” I cry. Chris nods and gives a thumbs-up. This moment is as close as it gets to heaven here on earth.
We ride this way, sailing along the coast, in and out of canyons, all over Orange County, almost like we’re flying, for what must be over an hour, and finally arrive at the training track. Chris has some sort of membership here and shows a card to get in. He parks his bike in a dusty dirt parking area, and we get off, removing our helmets. He chats with one of the workers, and they take us to a parking area where another bike waits, this one a little smaller than the one we’ve been riding, used but clean and well loved.
“It’s my old bike,” Chris tells me. “I let a friend of mine’s sister use it. They brought it up here for you.”
“Really?”
He nods, takes one look at my crazy mess of helmet hair, and grins. He’s a little messy, too. He reaches out and rubs my head in an affectionate way. “You look so cute,” he says.
I reach up and grab his hand out of my hair and hold it for a long second. Can’t believe this guy. He found a motorcycle for me? “You’re not too bad, either,” I say. I reach out and mess up his hair. He smiles and runs his hands through it to smooth it down. Then he takes my hands in his.
“Chris?” I ask. He looks at me, waits for the rest of what I’m about to say. “Why did you go out with Jessica? I can’t imagine that a nice guy, like a really truly nice guy, would put up with her.”
“You saying you think I’m just pretending to be a nice guy?”
“I don’t know. That’s what I’m asking. Are you nice?”
“Yes.”
“So why did you go out with Jessica?”
He sighs and makes a smile that looks almost like a frown. “I don’t know. No, that’s not true. Probably because she’s popular and all the other guys wanted to go out with her. She’s hot-looking. Sometimes guys are stupid about that. Peer pressure, right? Stupid. I know. Then, after I realized how messed up she was, it was more like guilt. Or like I wanted to help her. Only she can’t be helped.”
“Help her?”
“Like, show her that she didn’t have to be the way she is.”
“Did it work?”
He looks me straight in the eye. “Am I still with her?”
“Is that a rhetorical question?” I ask.
“I suppose it is. What’s your answer?”
“No. You’re not still with her.”
“So I guess that answers your question.”
“Yeah.”
He smiles. “Did you like the ride?”
He moves in closer and looks at my entire face, lingering on my lips. The skin of my entire body feels like it is being lightly tickled with the tip of a feather. I get chills.
“Yeah,” I almost whisper. “I liked it a lot.”
“Me, too,” he says. I can tell that he wants to kiss me. I want to kiss him, too.
“Come on.” He points to the track. “Let’s go watch for a minute. Then I’ll teach you to ride.”
I follow him to the track, doing my best to keep my eyes off his amazing body. He slows down to wait for me, and we walk side by side. We bump into each other.
“Sorry,” I say.
He looks at me with a half-grin. “Don’t be.” He bumps me again and bites his lower lip with a naughty look on his face, a look my grandma likes to describe as “impish.” “We’re like magnets,” he says over the roar of nearby motorcycles. “Can’t stop the pull.”
We stand at the top of the hill in the dry, warm breeze, and Chris places himself right next to me. Our arms touch. I want to squeeze him, or at least touch him. I see the tracks below us. It looks like there are two, maybe more, and I can hear the buzzing of the motors as people on bikes race around, leaping over mounds of dirt, pulling stunts and tricks that take my breath away. The noise is deafening. My heart races at the thought of jumping like that. I want to do that almost more than I’ve wanted anything. I want it even more than I want Chris, and at this moment, trust me, that’s saying a lot.
“Wow,” I say.
“It’s the most amazing feeling in the world.” He looks over at me with that grin and tilts his head, like he is reconsidering what he’s just said. “But I bet there’s maybe something that would feel better.”
My eyes lock with his. “Yeah?” I ask. “What?”
I don’t know why I ask. I know the answer. He’s thinking that kissing me — and maybe doing other things with me — would feel better. I can feel him thinking this, and I can see it in his eyes. He doesn’t answer, because he knows that I know. He touches my hand with his, lightly, just runs his fingertip along my palm. It’s a tiny touch, the slightest of scratches with a short stab of fingernail, but it sends shivers through my entire body.
“Let’s ride,” he says. I gulp and nod. I pretend he means the motorcycle, and so does he.
Chris asks me to follow him, and he walks the bike to a relatively quiet area that I assume is meant for beginners. Most of the people here are little kids. I’m talking ten, eleven years old. They look like lollipops with their huge round helmets. I didn’t even know parents let kids this small ride motorcycles. They’re barely off tricycles, right? It’s crazy. The parents totally shouldn’t do that, should they? Let their kids go out on a machine like this?
“Here,” says Chris. He straddles the bike to demonstrate, then gets off and says, “You try it.”
“Okay.” I stuff my head back into the helmet, take the motorcycle from him, and feel his big, strong hand brush against mine as we make the trade.
“This is how you turn it on,” he says after I’m situated on the seat. He leans over me, and I smell him, feel him. He knows how to turn things on, that’s for sure. “Just step down on the pedal.”
I stomp the pedal once. It catches, grumbles for a moment, and sputters out.
“Try it again,” says Chris. He stands back, and this time, certain he’s not going to be in the way, I really stomp on it. The motor roars to life. I feel the vibrations in my hands, along the seat of the bike. Powerful. I like it. I am starting to crave power, and this scares me a little.
“Good!” shouts Chris over the din. “Now the rest is pretty straightforward, like your grandma’s motorcycle.” He moves in close again and shows me how to brake, how to steer. “Awesome, Paski. That’s perfect. Just let your instincts do the rest.”
“Okay,” I say.
“Cool. Now, let’s see. Just hold on. Don’t move anything yet.” He moves alongside me and adjusts my wrists, my hips, the way I’m sitting. Bit by bit, he massages my body into place on the bike. I look at his face as he does this, and our eyes meet. I feel a shock of electricity in my spine as he communicates with me without words. I can’t be sure, but I think he’s, uh, saying he wants me. Whoa.
“That’s it,” he says, shifting my thigh and letting his hand linger there longer than he has to. I love the feel of his hands on me and don’t want it to stop. I don’t just mean right now, either. I have a strange and scary feeling that I don’t ever want Chris Cabrera to stop touching me. Okay, I know. Let’s tone it down a bit. Let’s just say I want Chris to touch me for, like, the re
st of the afternoon. That would be very cool.
“Stay there,” he says. He holds up his hands like a traffic cop. Like I am going to go somewhere? Please. He says, “I’m going to get my bike. I’ll be right back. Don’t take off, okay? Just wait there.”
“Okay,” I say. Amazing how willing I am to follow his instructions. My father would be stunned that I’m capable of such obedience. Chris walks a few steps backwards, admiring me on the bike, then turns to trot back up the hill. Nice view, the back of Chris. The back of Chris’s jeans, with Chris in them. Very nice.
I straddle the motorcycle and try not to notice the way all the little lollipops stare at me. I think they’re laughing, but I can’t see past the helmets to their faces. Maybe they aren’t children but aliens. Or midgets? I giggle out loud.
Soon Chris comes jogging back toward the baby track with his own bike in tow. It looks a lot bigger and more muscular than the one I’m on. I want to ride his bike. That would rock, too. When he gets to where I am, he hops on the bike and says, “Follow me.”
Chris leads me slowly around the simple track. I loosen my muscles and try to just let the motorcycle bob up and down and side to side beneath me. I like how it feels, a little like my bicycle, a similarity to the balance. It also feels something like Grandma’s Harley, but a lot lighter under my hands and feet. I rev the engine a bit, just to see what happens, and the bike bucks forward like a rodeo horse. My pulse surges, too. Whoa! This bike could really go fast. Chris looks back at me over his shoulder as I release the gas and let the bike slow back down.
“Sorry!” I call out. “I had to try it.”
“Be patient!” he shouts back. He’s smiling, though. I rev the engine again and this time manage the buck a bit better.
“Paski!” he shouts. “There are little kids here. Be careful.”
Yeah, I think, but those little kids are zooming past me, laughing at my old-lady pace. I want to fly. But I obey Chris again and lumber around the baby track. I am careful the first few times around, but then I feel that sense of rightness. That voice. And I listen. I just let go and ride. You know that feeling you get on a carousel, as it speeds up? That’s how it is, the solid saddle beneath me, the world smearing past in almost electric bursts of color. I pass Chris and zip along. The hum of the engine pitches up, and my blood races faster to meet the sound. I ride well, and when I get back to Chris, he’s stopped his bike and he is standing there in the tiny entrance area with his mouth open, shaking his head.
Haters Page 20