“What?” I ask.
Seth opens the car door and starts walking down the sidewalk.
“What’d he just say?” Frankie asks.
“I have no idea.”
“I can tell he really likes us.”
I laugh. “I keep helping him out, and he keeps acting weird.”
“There’s a reason he keeps getting beaten up.”
“That doesn’t make it right.”
Frankie drives off. We pass the tall, skinny figure walking in the dark.
“What a strange guy,” Frankie says.
“Yep.”
“You better watch your back. That’s all I’m saying.”
What are you doing?
It’s late and I can’t stop thinking of Marvel. Maybe she’s up, so I’m trying her on Facebook.
I wait for a while. Ten minutes. Twenty. I wonder what she’s doing, whether she’s dreaming, or watching television, or simply sleeping.
Listening to music, the reply finally says.
What are you listening to?
My favorites. Ever heard of A Fine Frenzy?
No, I write back.
Love her.
What does she sound like?
She sounds exactly how I feel, Marvel says.
For a moment I have to think about that. Happy or sad? I ask.
Yes.
Both? I ask.
Maybe.
Marvel sounds just like herself online. Playful and funny.
I open Spotify and find A Fine Frenzy. It’s a woman singing softly. She sounds sad, deep, beautiful. A lot like Marvel seems to be. I like it, I tell her.
I picture her in her room, listening to the same song I’m listening to. It’s kinda cool, thinking we’re together even though walls and miles and the dark night keep us apart.
Do you ever think about what you’ll be like ten years from now? she asks.
I never look ahead.
Why?
I’m not sure how to answer. I don’t know. Seems too far off.
Sometimes I let myself imagine. What might be. What could be.
The song is sad. I almost change it, but I don’t. I let it play.
Do you dream a lot? Marvel asks.
Like in my sleep?
Yeah.
Sure.
I think about the conversations I used to have with Taryn, texting or talking on our cells. She’d always be telling me about this girl or that girl, and she’d be complaining and whining. But Marvel is different. She asks me about what life might be like ten years from now and whether I dream a lot.
Sometimes I see myself hovering over a large canvas, as if I’m the painter’s brush. The colors change and the picture is so beautiful.
I don’t know what Marvel is talking about, but I keep listening.
Sometimes I think I get small glimpses of heaven. Not the kind I can imagine, because what I see is beyond my imagination. Is that crazy?
Yeah, I type. But a cool kind of crazy.
Sometimes I work with clouds like they’re pieces of clay. Sometimes I make rectangular shapes out of rainbows. Sometimes I finger-paint poems all over the sky.
I laugh. This girl is definitely crazy. Not sure what to say to that, I answer.
Can you picture it? I don’t know—sometimes I think heaven is like that beautiful dream we wake up from and want to go back to. We spend the day longing to fall back asleep in order to see something wonderful again. And one day, when we take that last breath, the dream becomes reality.
All I can think is that I don’t want to sleep and I don’t want to dream. I just wish I could see Marvel now and talk to her in person.
I’m rambling, she writes.
I like reading it.
I feel comfortable enough to tell you all this. I don’t know why.
Something I wanted to say the other day comes to mind. I’m sorry for everything you’ve gone through.
Yeah, thanks. Me too. I need to go.
I wonder if it’s something I said. I didn’t mean to bring that up.
It’s fine, she writes back. I’m tired anyway and I get wonky when I’m tired.
I love that word. Wonky.
Good night. Maybe I’ll see you in my dreams.
Good night.
I know I’ll see Marvel in mine.
The first thing Mrs. Teed does when I show up with Marvel at their July 4 bash is ask whether she’s my girlfriend.
“No, I just work with her,” I say as fast as I can.
“What a doll,” says the typically animated and talkative Mrs. Teed. “Aren’t you looking so pretty today?”
Marvel is wearing a short, lacy dress with a wild pink cotton scarf around her head and neck. She takes off her pink heart-shaped sunglasses. When Mrs. Teed leaves, Marvel laughs.
“I love being called a doll.”
“Devon takes after his father,” I say.
We soon meet up with Mr. Teed, who barely mumbles a hello. I guess if you lived with someone like Mrs. Teed, you’d stay busy moving around and not say much.
As usual, there is a big spread of food and lots of people. I brought my two brothers with us, and they’ve already disappeared into the house, doubtless seeking video games. Soon Devon finds us.
“This is Devon, one of the guys,” I tell her.
“I’ve heard lots of good things about you,” Marvel says.
Devon shakes her hand like an adult might. “Funny, because I’ve heard very little about you.”
“It’s ’cause you’re way too curious and you’ll only keep asking me more questions,” I say to him.
“I love this seventies chic thing you have going on,” he tells Marvel.
I laugh. “Since when did you become an expert on fashion?”
“Nobody’s claiming to be an expert. I do know what the seventies were all about.”
“Devon here knows a little bit about everything,” I say.
“What exactly do you know about Thai food?” Marvel asks.
Of all the questions Marvel might ask, this isn’t one I could have ever anticipated.
“A lot of people like pad thai, which is fine, but I really like tom yum goong. I like shrimp and mushrooms.”
“Impressive,” she replies.
“Since when do you like Thai food?” I ask Devon.
He shrugs. “There’s a great restaurant downtown that we go to sometimes. Star of Siam.”
“I’ll have to go there,” Marvel says.
She is so confident, and she keeps a genuine smile on her face—the kind even total jerks like Greg would find welcoming. But Greg would like her just because she’s good-looking.
“Well, we don’t have any Thai food here, but we sure have lots of other kinds. So eat up.”
“Thank you,” Marvel says.
I’m glad to finally be bringing Marvel around to meet Devon and the rest of the guys. This is the closest I’m going to come to bringing her home. God only knows what Dad would say to Marvel if he saw her. Knowing him, he’d probably be drunk and say some kind of racial slur.
Devon takes off to help his mother. Marvel and I get something to drink and listen to the country music blasting through the speakers.
“He’s nice,” she says.
I nod. “Yeah, Devon’s a good guy. Can be an oddball at times, but he’s okay.”
“I love oddballs,” Marvel says. Her face lights up when she says that.
“I can be an oddball.”
“No, you’re too predictable.”
“Hey,” I say.
“That’s not an insult. We need people who are tried-and-true.”
“That sounds boring.”
She raises her eyebrows and takes a sip of her drink. As usual, I wish I could see inside her mind to know what she really thinks.
A couple of hours later we’re sitting on some lawn chairs Mrs. Teed gave us, on the edge of the lawn by the road. Just beyond us is a thick cornfield where the fireworks will be set off. We’ve been sitting her
e for half an hour watching the sun set and seeing families walk past to look for decent seats for the fireworks.
“Did you used to watch the fireworks in downtown Chicago?” I ask.
“It depended. Sometimes we would be visiting relatives out of state. Or sometimes they would be staying with us. There was always some kind of party going on.”
“Like Devon’s parents’ party?”
“More like some kind of drunken madhouse,” Marvel says, staring into the distance. “There aren’t too many good memories I can think of. Except for sneaking off with my cousin one July 4 and getting into trouble. Getting into lots of trouble.”
I stare at her for a moment and get lost. It’s sorta like staring into the west at a beautiful sunset. Except I’m staring at her and she notices.
“Anybody in there?” she eventually asks.
“Yeah, I think so.”
“What are you thinking?”
I’m not about to tell her what I’m thinking, because for a moment I was thinking we really make a nice couple. I’m thinking she’s really good-looking and she’s really sweet, and for some reason she seems to like me. At least a little.
“Nothing,” I say.
“Well, you really seem focused on nothing.”
Music plays from speakers just down the road where a local band is playing some cover tunes.
“Would you want to go to Lollapalooza with me?”
“You didn’t tell me you were going,” Marvel says.
“Harry gave me two tickets for Sunday.”
“Sunday, huh? Don’t you believe in church?”
“Lollapalooza doesn’t start in the morning,” I tell her.
“Oh, so you’ll be going to church, then heading downtown.”
I nod. It’s a very, very weak nod. “Yeah, sure, maybe.”
She laughs. “Maybe I’ll think about going. But would you go to church with me?”
“You go around here?”
“I’ve started going to a small church I found.”
“Tell me it’s not like five people.”
“No. Seven.” She laughs.
“But you’ll go to Lollapalooza with me?”
“Sure.” She doesn’t ask who’s playing. It doesn’t seem like she needs to.
The sun sinks lower, and the sky resembles a darker version of her pink scarf. I don’t pay any attention to the hundreds of people around us. For a moment, it feels like we’re the only two people out here. This is the way she makes me feel. And maybe that’s just Marvel being nice, but it’s okay. I need some nice in my life.
I want as much nice as I can get.
The fireworks are better than usual. I know it’s because Marvel is sitting next to me. But it’s also because they’re longer, I think. And they’re playing all these great pop tunes to accompany the colorful blasts. It seems like someone knew we were sitting there, so they’re playing love songs from popular musicians on the radio.
Then they start the Adele song from the James Bond movie and I suddenly find myself in the movie. Maybe this gives me the courage I need. Maybe this is long overdue. I don’t know. I still don’t know if Marvel really likes me or not. I don’t know if I’m just the nice guy she works with. But that’s okay.
As the reds and blues and whites burst in the sky above us, I stare at the reflection on her perfect face. She looks at peace, and the image is startling because I’m thinking about the flames that took her parents. I still haven’t asked her more about it, and maybe I never will. The serenity on her face is scary surprising because I want that same look. I want that same feeling when it’s just me staring off into the heavens.
Marvel looks at me and smiles.
There is something there. I know it. There’s something in her smile and the way those eyes watch me.
Adele sings about the sky falling and standing together, and all I know is I want to stand next to this girl tonight and tomorrow and the many days after that.
I move my hand over to hers and hold it. Her grip is strong and she doesn’t seem to hesitate. She doesn’t seem to want to let go.
I stare at the fireworks and listen to the song. I realize I didn’t know Marvel Garcia before the start of the summer. But everything can change, just as Artie Duncan found out. We’re not promised tomorrow, and we can never predict today. All I know is that Marvel is by my side and I’m not about to let her go.
Marvel pulls her aunt’s slightly beat-up SUV to the curb in front of my house and puts it in park.
“Thanks for driving me around,” I say.
“Thanks for giving me a reason to.”
“I could’ve walked home like my brothers. But . . . I’m glad I didn’t have to.”
I see the outline of her face in the darkness. I think and feel a dozen things, all focused on the girl behind the wheel.
“Brandon, I think you’re a sweet guy,” she says.
No. The helium balloon that’s been soaring upward suddenly got popped. “That’s like the worst start of a sentence ever.”
“It’s true.”
I groan.
“What? You don’t want to be considered sweet?”
“But you just want to be friends,” I say.
“We aren’t friends?”
I look at her and don’t even need to say anything. She knows exactly what I’m thinking.
“I’ve already told you, I can’t,” she says. “I just can’t get involved. I can—we can hang out like this. But we can only be friends.”
“You keep saying that,” I tell her.
“Because I mean it.”
“I just don’t understand. . . .”
“You understand a little more,” she says.
I take it she’s referring to what happened to her parents. How can I even begin to say anything about that?
“It’s not like I want something major serious or anything,” I tell her.
“I need a friend, Brandon. That is what I really need.”
“Okay.”
“But that’s it. Nothing more. And moments like—like what just happened. You can’t do that.”
“You didn’t let go,” I say.
“I know.”
“Do you like me?” The question is so third grade I can’t believe I let it slip out. But it’s there now, like a firework that just went off.
“Of course I do. You know I do. But there are other things—you can’t be with me. Not like that.”
“I’m not asking for anything—”
“Please,” she says, so I shut up.
We stare at each other in the dark.
There are other things.
What are these “other things”? She’s already told me about her parents. What else can there be?
“Tonight was great,” I say. “Thanks.”
“You sound so sad.”
“No, this is my ‘sweet’ voice.”
She smiles. “Give me time.”
“Time for what?”
“Time to explain everything. Time to figure out a way to tell you.”
“Tell me what?” I ask. A car passes us on the street. It’s almost eleven o’clock.
“To tell you why.”
“Is this about your parents? What happened?”
She nods. “It’s about me. It’s about what happened between God and me.”
Now I’m beyond confused. I want to say more, but I think Marvel is about to cry. Or maybe she already is crying.
“Okay. I’ll wait. I’ll try to, at least. I’ll give you time.”
“Thanks,” Marvel says.
Everything in me wants to give her a nice little kiss good night. Simply a sweet little kiss. But instead, I just offer a smile and tell her good-bye.
The night is warm and humid. I watch her car drive off and wish I were heading off into the night with her.
I wonder what sort of demons ride with her. I wonder if any await her back at her home.
I know there’s always the possibility one is waiting up
for me.
Turns out I’m right.
There is a dim light barely worth turning on in the family room. Whenever I walk through the front door and see it on, I tense up. My whole body suddenly turns rigid, and I stop breathing because I know there’s the potential of something coming.
“Brandon.”
I don’t have to wonder anymore. Dad is still in there, and either I woke him up or (God forbid) he’s waiting for me.
I move into the room. He’s sitting in his regular place in a warped recliner that should’ve been tossed a couple of years ago. I’ve thought many times how I’d like to see him die in this chair. They fit each other.
“What are you doing out so late?”
“Watching fireworks.” Not that I’m trying to hide anything, but I learned a long time ago it’s a bad idea to lie to Dad.
“Who were you with?”
His eyes look like a windshield that’s being drizzled on. He’s looking at me, but at the same time he looks a little lost. It’s somewhere in the middle of this state—scary intense and seemingly incoherent—that Dad can be his most dangerous.
“Just Devon and the guys.” Okay, so now I’m lying, but no need to mention Marvel. I don’t want him asking questions about her.
“Who was that girl you were with?”
For a moment I wonder what he’s talking about. There’s no way he could’ve seen Marvel and me, right?
But Alex and Carter saw me. And they got home some time ago.
“Uh, who?” I play dumb.
“The little Taco Bell lady who works in your store.”
Uh-oh.
He’s angry. He’s got that angry, bitter, biting tone and he’s looking square at me.
And when has he ever come into the store?
“I saw you two. You little liar. You little thief.”
I have a feeling Dad’s the one lying now about having seen the two of us. “She’s just a friend.”
He laughs, and my skin wants to break out in hives and boils and poison ivy pus.
“They always are,” Dad says.
I see a bottle of vodka, another not-so-good sign. He doesn’t usually go into the hard stuff unless he’s had a “hard” day. Which means the hits are going to be a lot harder too.
“Come over here, you little liar,” he says.
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