The Truth of Right Now

by Kara Lee Corthron

  “What?” he finally snaps.

  “Nothing,” Izzy says. “I was just caught off guard. Why, I don’t know, since I know who her mother is now and—”

  “Stop it,” Dari whispers through clenched teeth.

  Savannah enters the room in her yoga clothes: a lavender leotard with a pair of baggy purple yoga pants. She looks like she’s just stepped out of an ad for a very cheerful/girly yoga studio.

  “Hi, I’m Lily’s mother, Savannah,” she says to Izzy.

  “Hi,” Izzy squeaks. “Thanks. I mean, thank you for being so generous to my brother.”

  “Oh, he’s a pleasure.” Savannah smiles.

  “I’m . . . I just wanted to . . . it’s so great that—”

  “She’s read your book,” Dari says, helping Izzy out.

  “It’s amazing,” she says quietly. “Thank you for writing it.”

  Savannah’s face brightens. “That is so kind of you.”

  “It’s the truth. There were some tough times a few years back, and I don’t know if I would’ve gotten through them without your book.”

  Dari eyes his sister, wondering if this is true. Sounds far-fetched to him.

  Izzy and Savannah exchange smiles, but neither of them seems to know what to say to the other. Dari gets why Izzy is clamped up, but finds Savannah’s silence puzzling. She brushes a strand of hair away from her eyes and stares at the hardwood floor. Sometimes she looks absurdly young to him. Way too young to have a daughter his age.

  Lily breaks the silence.

  “I love your hair,” she compliments Izzy.

  Izzy frowns, but then gently pats her head as if to remind herself that she does indeed have hair.

  “Thank you,” she says. “And”—to Savannah—“I don’t ever want Dari to become an imposition. He’s welcome to stay with me until we . . . Well. My dad can be difficult . . . ,” she trails off, avoiding Savannah’s eyes.

  Savannah nods, concerned.

  “I had a difficult dad too. I understand.”

  Izzy smiles apologetically. Dari’s face flushes; he hates the idea of evoking the old man here in his safe haven. More than that, he hates seeing his sister feel this kind of embarrassment. No. Not embarrassment. Shame. She doesn’t deserve to feel that.

  “Would you like some tea or coffee?” Savannah asks, relaxing into her parental role.

  “That’s nice of you, but I have some work to do this evening. I just wanted to check on Dari and meet you. He speaks so highly of you both, but he didn’t tell me he was staying with the Savannah Price,” Izzy says. She seems like a teenager in this moment.

  Savannah beams. She goes over to the bookshelf and reaches for a small ceramic pig wearing a red monk robe and mediating. She snickers to herself.

  “This was a gift. I swear I don’t shop at Hippies ‘R’ Us.”

  Izzy laughs, still awestruck.

  “Would it be tacky if I asked you to autograph my copy someday?”

  “Of course not.” From the Zen pig’s belly, Savannah pulls a simple card and gives it to Izzy.

  “Here’s my number. Call me anytime. If you want to talk about Dari or . . . anything else,” she offers. Izzy takes a deep breath. His big sister is tough and wicked smart. She had to be to stand up to her old corporate crook bosses. But right now, she seems so tired and vulnerable. Unsure. Dari hopes that she will call Savannah.

  “Thank you.”

  Dari follows Izzy to the door after she says good-bye. All the way to the elevator, they are both quiet.

  Dari presses the button for the first floor.

  “Are you gonna be okay?” he asks.

  “Shouldn’t I be asking you that question?”

  “No. I’m gonna be fine,” he asserts.

  Izzy shakes her head with a smile. “I don’t know where you get this confidence from. Can’t be genetic,” she jokes.

  Dari walks her to the subway station.

  “Why didn’t you tell me you were dating a white girl?”

  Dari shrugs. “I don’t think about it that much.”

  “Be careful,” she warns.

  “Why?”

  “You know why. This is New York City.”

  “It ain’t the Jim Crow South,” Dari argues. To this, Izzy gives him a serious stare. A stare that says you know damn well how fucked up this city can be. He gets it. He doesn’t want to, but he does.

  “I will,” he promises.

  They hug. Izzy can be emotional sometimes, so it’s not such a shock for her to get a little misty, but the strange thing is, Dari fights tears too.

  “What’s happening to us?” Izzy asks, her face smushed into his upper arm.

  “I don’t know,” he answers into her hair.

  But, he thinks, I know we’re gonna be better because of this. Whatever it is. We’ll never be the same It’s a good thing. He doesn’t feel brave enough to say this to Izzy. He’d be hurt if she laughed at him. He believes it, though, with 100 percent certainty.

  What he does say is, “Don’t worry. I love you.”

  * * *

  He can’t think of the “guest room” as his room. Too presumptuous. He doesn’t want to get too comfortable here.

  Lily’s calico, Sheila E., hops up on the bed and makes herself at home on his legs. He checks out Craigslist, hoping for some leads job-wise. Nothing looks good. He doesn’t want to be a tattoo artist’s apprentice or an interior design assistant or a photography intern, and he’s not qualified to be anybody’s art director. Perusing the administrative jobs just depresses him, and he’d sooner tap-dance in the park for coins than wait tables. There are a lot of requests for male models, but 1) he’s not fond of narcissists, so he’d rather not become one, 2) they might be fronts for pornography, and 3) the pay will most likely be shit. Unless 4) they are pornography fronts, in which case the pay might be decent, but the cost to his soul too high. For now.

  He shuts his laptop and gets out his sketch pad. He draws. When in doubt, he draws. When certain, he draws. Drawing and (if he’s lucky enough to have the room and supplies) painting are really the only constants in his life. Except maybe Izzy.

  Dari does his best to think practically. For him, this means finding money—or a means of making money—and then finding an apartment. He has always dreamed of living on his own. Even when he was quite young, which probably isn’t normal. What Dari is not thinking about is the fact that he is only sixteen. What landlord in his right mind is going to sign over an apartment to a minor? He hasn’t gotten that far yet. He’s stuck on step one. So he draws.

  “Hey,” Lily calls. It’s her way of simultaneously alerting him of her presence and asking for permission to enter.

  “Hey, yourself,” Dari says. Permission granted.

  Lily sits on the floor. “Your sister’s nice,” she says.

  “Mostly.”

  “Is she freaking out?” Lily asks. Dari stops drawing for a second and looks down at her.

  “Kind of. I think she just feels bad . . . ,” Dari replies, trailing off in much the same way Izzy did when she brought up their dad. “I’d rather not talk about it.”

  “Cool,” Lily mumbles.

  Dari returns to his sketch. Lily remains seated on the floor, her back to him. He’s obsessing on the feet today. He’s usually more into drawing shoes, but he felt like he should give her the gift of bare feet, so he works on finding the definition of the phalanges, the metatarsals, the taut skin covering it all, and when he gets this obsessed with details of this nature, he tends to lose track of time. Which is why, when he lifts his head to give his eyes and wrist a rest, he’s startled to see Lily still sitting there, completely silent. It’s a little spooky.

  “You all right down there?”

  “Huh? Oh, yeah. I’m doing homework,” she answers. That makes sense. And isn’t spooky.

  Dari inches toward the edge of the bed, and then not-so-gracefully slides his butt down to the floor so he’s next to Lily. She pulls a bent box from her jeans pock
et and holds it out to him.

  “Junior Mint?”

  “No, thanks. Besides, you don’t want me raiding your stash, junkie.”

  “Shut up.” She giggles.

  Dari takes the textbook she’s working from and inspects it. “French, huh? Français est terrible. Why you bothering with homework anyway? Aren’t you planning to be a high school dropout?” Lily pokes him in the chest. Then she pokes his ribs, his armpits, and abdomen. He just stares at her.

  “What the hell are you doing?”

  “Aren’t you ticklish? Anywhere?”

  “No.”

  “I don’t believe you.” Lily tries his neck, his back, his thighs, his calves. He finally laughs, but not because she’s found his tickle spot.

  “You are wasting your time,” he tells her.

  “I think you’re withholding valuable information.”

  “Oh, yeah? What about you?” Dari goes right for the rib cage, and Lily starts laughing like a damn hyena.

  “What about here? Or here? Here?” Dari tickles her in pretty much every body part he can get to, and Lily gasps for air, tears rolling down her face.

  “Stop! I can’t breathe,” she hollers.

  “Really? Have we conquered them all?” Dari teases. In defense, Lily tries to tickle him again, to no avail.

  “Dammit,” she squeals. They collapse in joyous exhaustion. Somehow Dari ends up on his back, Lily straddling his midsection. She leans down and plants her lips on his. And his face and his neck. Dari’s hands slide under her top and in seconds, the bra is unsnapped. He can tell she’s impressed, but it’s not that hard to do. They move quickly and easily, like they’ve always done this. Lily tears at his belt, but he grabs her hands before she can unbuckle it.

  “Wait,” he exhales sharply.

  “What,” Lily wails.

  “We can’t. Your mom—”

  “Oh, come on!”

  “Lily, she’s letting me stay here out of the goodness of her heart. I can’t”—he hesitates, looking for the right word—“defile her daughter in her own house. That is beyond disrespectful,” he whispers rapidly.

  “She’s not here. She went out to get Boca Burgers,” Lily says.

  Dari shakes his head. “Doesn’t matter. I’m sorry. I just don’t feel good about it.”

  Lily adjusts her top and puts her bra back on. Dari zips his fly.

  “Lily, I like you. It has nothing to do with . . . It’s not you. Seriously.”

  She nods, but something has shifted.

  Lily opens the door to leave. She hesitates in the doorway and turns back to Dari.

  “You wouldn’t be defiling me, Dari. That happened ages ago.”

  Before he can respond, she shuts the door. Dari falls back on the floor. Still feeling the weight of her hips against his pelvis. Still seeing the coldness that settled in her eyes.

  Fuck.

  PERFECT SONG

  I am copying down French conjugations from the board, which feels beyond pointless to me right now. I’ve taken three solid years of French, and I can barely speak a word. But I copy them down like a good little robot, and later I’ll study like it actually matters. Because I’m stuck here and I don’t see the way out. School sucks. Home is a den of frustration. I do love Dari, but he can be so stubborn. It’s been days now of us barely touching each other and it is making me insane. God. I thought guys were supposed to be the desperately horny ones. This isn’t fair!

  “Ah, ah, ah. En Français,” Madame Eichmann flirtatiously upbraids stupid Jason Chung, who just wants to go to the bathroom. Every day is retarded. Shit. I said I’d stop using that word. Even in my mind’s voice. It’s evil. It’s insulting to the people who actually are retarded (mentally delayed? There must be a better word by now . . .) because it’s not them I want to insult when I use it. Whatever.

  I look down at my new notebook. I bought it for the express purpose of writing new songs, because I thought if I had a nice new notebook, somehow that would inspire me to write nice new songs. That has not happened, but I think about using it anyway. Maybe Dr. Maalouf’s journal idea isn’t completely idiotic and terrible. I don’t know if I really need to write “my story.” That feels overly dramatic. I might just write whatever the hell I want. She can deal.

  The bell rings, mercifully, and I leave. In study hall, I open up my notebook and write a long collection of words about a beautiful black artist boy who is a cock tease. Is that right? Is someone a cock tease if they’re teasing somebody’s cock or teasing you with their cock? I scribble it all out. I start to write about last weekend. I start to write about my ideal day-to-day existence. I write for a while about my secret fantasy of living in Rome for a year, like Mom did when she was young. Well . . . it was a secret until I yelled it over Tenth Avenue. This stuff could be song-worthy someday. Maybe. Regardless, it doesn’t feel bad to write it down. Doesn’t feel magical or anything, but it passes the time. And I unclench my jaw.

  Someone’s staring at me, and I look up to see Tara in the doorway. She’s not supposed to be here. She rolls her eyes and walks over to my desk.

  “What?” I greet her.

  “We can start working on the project. If you want. Crenshaw said our study hall teachers wouldn’t care if we went to the library to do it.”

  “How do you know?”

  “Seriously?” She sighs. “He said it this morning during class. Do you listen to anything anyone says?”

  Not really.

  “Fine.” And I get up to follow her. I expect Mr. Lawson to say something to me, but he’s too busy tweeting to notice my exit.

  I slump into a chair as Tara takes out her notes and—you’ve got to be kidding me—index cards. She’s actually put some real thought into this dumb thing.

  “I have a few topics to propose. Once we decide, we can split up the tasks. I’ll tell you right now that I don’t plan to do all the work myself. I’m willing to let us both fail if it comes to that,” Tara threatens.

  “Fine.”

  “So we could look at Kelvin’s work and the second law of thermodynamics—”

  “Fine.”

  “History of the periodic table and Seaborg’s revisions—”

  “Fine.”

  “Or we could try to prove or disprove Walter White’s television version of chemistry. But not by making anything dangerous. I don’t know if Crenshaw would go for that one.”

  “Sure.”

  Tara chews on the insides of her cheeks. “Would you like to propose any topics?” she asks.

  “Nope.”

  “Do you have a strong opinion one way or the other about which one we choose?”

  “Nope.”

  Tara’s lips tighten.

  “Why did you ask me to be your lab partner?”

  Her question takes me by surprise. Why does that even matter now? I try to take a breath without her seeing.

  “I needed a partner and so did you.”

  “You rushed over to me, breathless. Why? Why not wait for Crenshaw to stick you with someone?”

  I can’t believe Tara remembers that day and my behavior so clearly. She seemed to be on another planet, as I recall.

  “I don’t know. What difference does it make?”

  “You thought I’d leap at the chance to be your partner, didn’t you? ‘Poor, pitiful Tara McKenzie. There’s no way anyone would want to work with her. She’s perfect!’ That’s what you thought,” she declares.

  She’s correct. I feel my pulse quicken. Shame sometimes does that to me.

  “You didn’t have a partner and you weren’t looking for one. I thought I was making it easier for both of us,” I mutter. This is sort of true, but pretending my motivation was purely altruistic would be a lie.

  “You have never been nice to me. You never bothered.”

  Maybe not, but I always thought I’d been decent enough to Tara. I have no memory of ever insulting her or participating in any of the torment she received.

  “You could’
ve been. But you weren’t,” she says.

  “I’m sorry,” I tell her. “But I know you’re not exactly wild about me either.”

  “You don’t get it. You’ll never get it,” she growls. I have the sensation that I’ve just been slapped. Tara’s more than a little scary right now. She should’ve unleashed this version of herself on her bullies. “Screw it. Let’s just pick a topic.”

  “We could do the periodic table thing,” I suggest.

  “Fine. I’ll work on the outline, you start researching. Tomorrow we can start putting stuff together.”

  I nod, oddly impressed with her focus, and try to forget the mini-assault I just suffered at her hands. She looks at me as if she’s waiting for something. I don’t know what she wants. Then she sort of waves me off with her hand.

  “The computers are over there, the books over there. Why are you still sitting here?”

  “Sorry. God!” I leave her and plop down in front of a computer. I don’t know what she was expecting to happen just now. Was I supposed to fall down blubbering? Apologize for not going out of my way to be kind? Was she trying to pick a fight? I have trouble believing I am, or have ever been, anything special in Tara’s life. The one person who could’ve protected her and didn’t. That’s not me.

  Why did I stay here? I should’ve left. Dari skipped out before lunch. He asked if I wanted to join, but I declined in an effort to punish him. But he’s totally oblivious. So, as usual, I’m just punishing myself.

  I type up some notes. Mostly URLs that I’ll look at later. Not like it matters. With me involved in this project, we will certainly earn a well-deserved F. Why don’t I care? I used to. I used to worry about these things. My grades from the first marking period this year were inadequate to say the least. I’d never seen so many Cs all in one column. Mom wasn’t too pleased, but she hardly said anything about it. Guess she’s lowered her expectations for me.

  I casually look behind me. Tara has her head bent over our chem textbook and a few other books, rapidly taking notes. How is she writing that fast? She’s such a nerd, she’s probably able to take notes and analyze the theories in the books while simultaneously coming up with her own theories. I’ve never thought about it before, but she is super smart. Probably why she’s always been a target for bullying. But then again, she’s also kind of poor, which might’ve been a bigger issue than her above-average intelligence. She used to wear this blouse in the ninth grade that had ruffled sleeves. It was made from a silky material that was not real silk (even I could see that) and covered in a floral pattern. It looked like something a seventy-year-old woman might wear to synagogue. People laughed every time she wore it. I didn’t, but I understood why they did. Jackie snapped at a few girls who were making jokes about it once. She said they were lucky they didn’t have to depend on donations in order to have clothes. That actually shut them up. Too bad Tara was on the other side of the room. She probably has no idea that Jackie defended her. True, the tone of her defense was sanctimonious and condescending as Jackie is prone to be, but I never heard anyone fight on Tara’s behalf before or since, which says something for Jackie, I guess.