Haters

by Alisa Valdes-Rodriguez

  “Hi, Paski!” Haley smiles with that certain energy celebrities have, where you instantly like her and want to know more about her. It’s like you know she’s drop-dead beautiful, but you don’t hate her for it because there’s a niceness to her that’s even stronger than her beauty.

  Haley gives me a hug and invites me in. She smells like dark perfume, the musk kind my mom used to wear. “I want you to meet my parents,” she says. “They saw the piece on your dad in the paper.”

  “There was a piece on my dad in the paper?”

  “Yeah, the L.A. Times, the arts section. All about his comic books and how he moved to the OC to make this movie. He’s the top-paid Latino animator of all time, it said.”

  “He is?”

  I enter the house and look around. I try not to stare. It’s so fresh and well designed and white. Practically everything is white, except the trees and plants everywhere. The carpet is white. The walls, which extend up two stories, are white. The scalloped curtains draped over the large windows are creamy white, custom. Layers and shades of white, all of which seem very soothing and beautiful. But how do they keep something like this clean? None of my friends back in Taos had homes anything like this.

  “Should I take my shoes off or something?” I ask.

  “Nah. It’s all coated with stuff that makes it hard to stain. I know. Freaky, right? People worry about getting it dirty, but it’s like a regular house. Relax.”

  Haley leads me across the living room into the kitchen. More white, in the floors, walls, and counters, gleaming marble and tile. The appliances are silver. Somebody has a white fetish. It’s actually starting to freak me out a little.

  Standing at the stove is a man I assume is Haley’s dad, a tall black man with short hair. He’s a little overweight and wears a jogging suit. A white jogging suit. He seems to be frying onions and something else in a pan, or at least that’s what I smell. Onions frying. Seated at the counter is a petite, beautiful white woman with long light brown hair and hazel eyes. She’s wearing a red robe, and the brightness of the color is shocking. I see where Haley got her eyes, because they’re just like her mom’s. A boy of about six sits next to her, and she’s nursing a baby. Haley introduces me to everyone.

  “Welcome, welcome,” says Haley’s dad. He has a booming voice that sounds like bells clanging.

  “Thanks,” I say.

  “We’re so happy to meet you,” says Haley’s mom. “It’s good Haley finally made a friend whose parents are in the arts like we are.”

  “Oh,” I say stupidly. I don’t know what else to say, and it doesn’t feel quite right to say nothing at all. Seems like a strange thing for a mom to be happy about.

  “Not that I have anything against her other friends,” says Haley’s mom. She has the same low-pitched voice as her daughter.

  “Mom,” interjects Haley, as if this conversation has been had before and annoys her.

  “Well, it’s just that sometimes we get a little tired of the whole young-Republicans-convention vibe at your school, baby doll,” says her dad.

  “We’re going now,” announces Haley, like she’s sick of this discussion.

  “Sweetie, can you pick up some Dior perfume for me?” asks her mother.

  “Sure,” says Haley. “See you later.”

  Haley and I leave the house, and when she sees the Squeegeemobile, she gasps.

  “I’m sorry,” I squeak. “It’s my dad. I don’t know. He thinks it’s funny or something.”

  “Hold on,” she says, excited. “I have to go get my dad. He’ll freak.”

  She runs back in the house and returns with her father, who’s still holding a big white spatula. He stares at the car like it’s something amazing, and together they walk around it several times, grinning.

  “Your dad did this?” asks Mr. Williams. They look impressed rather than frightened, so that’s good.

  “Yeah,” I reply. I don’t know why, but I’m feeling a little proud of Dad. Talk about a change of heart. “Him and his cholo posse.”

  “You and your dad have to come over for dinner,” says Mr. Williams. “I have to meet this dude.”

  “Really?” I ask.

  “He’s nuts.” Mr. Williams grins and nods like being nuts is a great thing.

  “Okay, Dad,” says Haley, rolling her eyes.

  “Catch you later, baby doll.”

  “I hate that name,” she says. “Please.”

  “Sorry. Haley. Catch you later, Haley.”

  We leave Mr. Williams and get into the car.

  Haley bounces into the passenger seat. “This is such a cool ride!”

  “You think?”

  “Totally.” She takes a CD out of her purse and asks if she can play it for me. “It’s my demo,” she explains.

  I start the engine, and it rumbles ten thunderstorms. Haley gives me a thumb’s-up. “You really think it’s cool?” I ask as I pull away from the curb and ease the tank down the street. The CD starts to play, and it sounds like a real album, hip-hop and alternative.

  “You don’t?” She truly seems amazed that I wouldn’t be, like, in love with this weird car.

  “It’s okay,” I say. “This is you?” I point to the stereo.

  “Yeah,” Haley shrugs, changing the subject. “So we’re totally going to Fashion Island. Take a right here.”

  As we drive toward the mall along the wide, smooth avenues of Orange County, past luxury apartment complexes bigger than the entire city of Taos, past mini-malls with Starbucks after Starbucks, Haley tells me that her family used to be poor when they first got to the area, when she was a baby. They lived in apartments, and she says she knows that money isn’t a measure of a person’s worth. I’m sure she’s trying to be nice, but the whole thing makes me feel very weird, like she thinks I’m less than everyone else, or she doesn’t want me to feel like I am because everyone else does, something like that.

  “A lot of people around here don’t understand that,” she says. “Don’t let them get to you. I mean, the paper said you guys are going to be making a lot of money soon, but some of the people at school are mean about kids from apartments.”

  “Yeah, I know.”

  “Well, I’m totally not. Just so you know.”

  “Okay,” I say. I want to talk about something else. Anything else. Not me. Not my apartment. Not this freakin’ car that everyone is pointing and staring at. I can tell by the way Haley sits up really straight and throws her head back that she likes the attention. “You sound great.” I point to the stereo again. Haley smiles and nods, but without vanity, and thanks me.

  “Okay, turn here,” she says. We come over a hill, and once again, there it is. The Pacific Ocean, dark blue, a shimmering flatness that goes on forever. I gape at the sight of it. Do people here get used to it? Every time I see the sea I get chills.

  “It’s so beautiful here,” I say.

  Haley looks at the water and nods. “Totally,” she says. “It’s like paradise. Here, pull into that lot. We’ll go in right there. Unless you want to valet?”

  Is “valet” a verb? Like “summer"? “You can park valet like that at the mall?” I ask. But when Haley gets that confused look on her face, I regret having blurted it out. “I mean, I didn’t see a valet stand, or whatever you call it.”

  “It’s down there.” She points absently toward the entrance to the parking lot.

  “I don’t mind walking,” I say.

  Haley smiles and squeezes my arm. “Great minds think alike, Paski. I totally want to walk all the time, and Jessica and Brianna are, like, no, we have to valet. Blah blah blah. They are so into valet. But walking is so much more healthy, right?”

  I search the lot for an empty space, and it doesn’t escape my notice that almost every single car here is new, luxurious, and expensive. “Right,” I say. Fashion Island, so you know, is not an island at all. But it’s right on the coast in Newport Beach, and so pretty I can’t believe it. It’s like a museum instead of a mall. Or lik
e one of those seaside resorts you see in the travel section of the newspaper, in Italy or somewhere.

  “Wow,” I say.

  “Pretty cool, huh?” agrees Haley. Out here in Orange County, people are surrounded by amazing beauty in everything they do, even going to the mall. It’s not like back home, where the mall was all the way in Santa Fe and wasn’t even very nice, tucked back in some dusty lot somewhere.

  As we cruise along at a whopping three miles an hour in the parking lot with Haley’s own funky demo CD blasting, everyone turns to stare at the car. Now I am horrified. I want to say, yes, yes, rich people of the world, I know. We’re a freak show. Thank you very much. I’m mortified that everyone is looking, but Haley really seems to like it. And just so you know? Her CD rocks. She sounds like Jill Scott, throaty and soulful. She is so way better than any of the singers out there right now. And I’m psyched she’s here with me, wanting to be friends.

  I finally spot an empty space and do my best to ease the tank into the narrow opening. I have to back up and reenter the spot a few times to get it just right, and even then we seem too close to the other cars.

  “Can you get out?” I ask.

  “I think so.”

  Haley and I get out, and I stash my dad’s car stereo in the trunk, as he instructed me to. “Can’t you put the top up?” asks Haley.

  “No. It doesn’t go up.”

  “What do you do when it rains?”

  “Swim?”

  Haley looks at the sky. No clouds. “I think we’re okay for now,” she says. “Let’s go shopping!” She loops her arm through mine and continues to sing the bluesy song about the “blessing of true love” that was on her demo.

  “You have a great voice,” I tell her.

  “Thanks.” She smiles in a way that tells me she knows it.

  “Is that what you want to do, like, professionally?”

  Haley nods. “It’s all I think I can do. I really don’t think I’m very good at anything else.”

  “I don’t think you’ll need to be good at anything else.”

  Fashion Island is mostly an outdoor mall, with large concrete fountains and slick, super-expensive little shops everywhere. There’s music everywhere, too, like mall music, even though it’s not a mall like an indoor mall. I wonder where they’ve hidden the speakers. As I’m looking at the potted flowers and palm trees, I see a group of cute guys with skateboards watching us.

  “Hottie alert,” whispers Haley. She pulls me closer, lifts her head and ignores them as we walk past. They say hello, and when I answer with a hello back, Haley scolds me.

  “You can’t do that,” she says.

  “Why not?”

  “You have to make them work for your attention. Don’t you know that?”

  We keep walking around, and I swear all the boys stare at us. Mostly they stare at Haley. With that snooty attitude of hers, I think they find her irresistible. But just so you know, a few of them look at me, too, even though I don’t feel all that hot in my normal everyday clothes.

  Haley takes me to a store called Bebe, where I love literally every single thing I see. She helps me pick some jeans — they are so sexy, with dark blue embroidery on the back pockets — and a few tank tops in different colors. I get a shrug sweater to go over the tanks, and some earrings. They sell shoes here, and I get some beige leather-and-mesh-striped sneakers. I also get a real bohemian-looking outfit, something that’s more like what Haley might wear than me, but it’s cool. It’s a tiered skirt, blue with gray stripes that looks like webs, and a big leather belt and a maroon tank with a weird floral shawl. Haley kind of pushes me to buy the outfit, but I don’t mind. It’s very artsy, but I think I like it.

  “Chris Cabrera is going to die when he sees you in this stuff,” Haley declares.

  I look at her, confused that she knows about him. I pretend not to know what she’s talking about, mostly out of self-protection from Jessica.

  “Please,” Haley says as I hand my money to the cashier. “It’s so obvious. You guys were made for each other. You see how he looks at you. Don’t tell me you don’t.”

  I don’t know why, but I trust Haley. I tell her about yesterday with Chris, how he totally kissed me and how it was incredible. She listens with a smile and leads me to the food court. We get spring water in bottles and sit at a table. There’s an atrium over our heads, and the whole place feels very luxurious. I could get used to this life. I really could. This is so not like Taos right now, I can’t even tell you.

  “I’m happy for you,” she says. “Chris is one of the nicest guys at school.”

  “But what about Jessica?” I ask, somewhat confused. “She’s your friend.”

  Haley nods. “Sort of. I’ve known Jessica since fifth grade. I like her. But she’s starting to hurt people too much, and I don’t like that. I’m torn.”

  “About what?”

  “I don’t know. Several things. She says she wants to get even with you.” Haley pauses. “I feel like I had to tell you that.”

  “Even for what?”

  Haley shrugs. “For being pretty and smart and good at riding a bike.”

  “That’s it?”

  “She’s threatened by you. I want to have a talk with her. I think we can all be friends, but it’s like my mom says — we have to be honest and talk it out.”

  I try to imagine Jessica Nguyen doing those things. Nope. Does not compute.

  Then, I’m not sure why, I tell Haley about my vision of Jessica getting hurt at the race, and about how I’ve had these visions all my life and they usually come true. “I tried to tell her at the party,” I say feeling anxious. “But she didn’t listen, and then she threw me in the pool. I feel like I have to stop her before the race today. What if . . . could you . . . Could you go with me to the race, maybe, and warn her? Like, tell her to be careful?”

  “Wow,” breathes Haley. I can tell she doesn’t really believe me. I hate when people look like that. I shouldn’t have said anything at all.

  “You think I’m weird,” I state.

  “No, no,” she insists. “I was just trying to figure out if I could go to the race. I’m totally bummed that Jessica didn’t call to invite me. It’s today?”

  “This afternoon. Like, in three hours.”

  “Can I come with you?” she asks.

  “Yes! Please. I just invited you.”

  “Oh.” She sips her water and looks guilty. “I was probably distracted by the whole ‘I have visions’ thing.” Great. Now I know she totally doesn’t believe me.

  “Maybe you could warn her,” I suggest again, this time firmer. “I know, it sounds crazy. But it really happens. This stuff really happens to me.”

  “Interesting.”

  “You don’t even have to tell her it’s because I had a vision about it.”

  “Vision,” Haley repeats with a raised eyebrow.

  “You could call her right now.” I feel an intense urgency to tell Jessica about the accident, knowing the race is only three hours away. I feel it the way you feel like you need to pee after drinking a huge bottle of water. That kind of urgent.

  “Call Jessica?” Haley asks.

  “Please?”

  She shrugs and digs a phone out of her purse. “And tell her . . . what?” She looks perplexed and dials.

  “Tell her to be careful today.” I hope “be careful” is enough. Maybe it is. Maybe Jessica will be extra careful and I’ll still seem normal to Haley. Right now I just want to make things normal. Haley listens to the phone. She mouths “voice mail” to me and then says, “Hey, Jess, it’s Haley. I wanted to wish you good luck in the race today and let you know I’m coming. I also had, like, kind of . . .” Haley looks panicked and uncomfortable.

  “Tell her you have a bad feeling about it,” I whisper in a rush.

  “And I have, like, this sort of bad feeling about the race and I just wanted to say, well, just be careful. That’s all. Love you, girl. See you later.”

  Haley hangs
up quickly, and I get a flash vision of Jessica crashing again. I’m afraid a “be careful” won’t cut it. I try to make the images go away, but they don’t. They play themselves inside my head just like a slow-motion movie clip.

  “Was that okay?” Haley asks anxiously.

  “Yeah.” I want to believe it is. “Thank you so much.”

  Haley makes a mocking face and puts her hands up next to her head, the way little kids do when they’re trying to imitate scary monsters. “Visions,” she says, then suddenly laughs, and my heart sinks. I hate that she doesn’t believe me, but more than that I hope nothing happens in three hours to prove me right.

  “I know, it sounds so stupid. Just, just do me a favor, and if you can, tell her again to be really careful at the race when you see her today because you have a feeling. Something like that.”

  “I’ll try,” she agrees reluctantly. “But I can tell you right now, Jessica isn’t the superstitious type. And, well, you know, she doesn’t like you very much. I totally could not tell her it came from you.”

  “Don’t tell her it’s from me,” I say. “Just tell her.”

  Then Haley’s face brightens and she sits up straight. Like there’s nothing wrong in the world. Like she has no worries, which she probably doesn’t besides this seemingly minor matter. It hits me now that no matter what I do in life, no matter how hard I try, I will never completely fit in. I will never be like Haley. I will never be the kind of girl who says what she says to me next, and that is this: “Hey, you ready for more shopping? It’s my biggest passion in life, after music.”

  31

  I drive with Haley to the raceway and try not to think about the visions, or the crash, or anything. Maybe Jessica will heed Haley’s warning and nothing really will happen. Maybe it was a totally false vision to begin with. Maybe I can truly be just like every other girl out there. Normal. Happy. Without worries. Not responsible if bad things happen by sheer chance to other people, particularly those who hate me. I don’t want this gift, and I am going to start right here, right now, to renounce it. I passed along the message to be careful and now I am giving up. I quit. I am not going to be psychic anymore.