by Liz Miles
The baby rubbed tears from her eyes. She sneezed and put her fingers into her mouth.
“Poor thing,” Tiffany said in relief. “She could have choked and died.” She could feel her heart racing and noticed that her hands were shaking. She locked her hands together, but they still trembled.
The baby pushed out her pudgy arm and opened her palm. She made a noise with her lips that to Tiffany sounded like, “Please.”
“No, no peanuts for the bad girl,” Beatrice scolded. But she reached for the bowl of peanuts and pushed a handful into her own mouth.
“She’s not bad. It was just an accident.” Tiffany pouted at the baby, cooed precious words, and took her hand into hers as she sat down next to her. She lifted the baby in her lap. “Huh, sweetie, just a little accident. A boo-boo.”
The baby looked up at Tiffany and, reaching upward with her stinky hands, cooed sweetly, “*!@#*.”
Beatrice laughed and pointed. “Did you hear her? This little gangsta girl’s already using bad words!”
Shocked, Tiffany gazed at little Maria’s mouth. How could such a sweet darling thing cuss? She lifted the baby from her lap and on to the couch.
Maria smiled and repeated, “*!@#*!” She clapped and smiled. She shimmied off the couch and helped herself to the soda on the coffee table.
“Are you going to let her drink soda?” Tiffany herself liked sodas, but knew enough about healthy habits to understand that a soda was really a poor choice for a growing baby. “Don’t you think she should drink milk or juice?”
“She can drink anything she wants,” Beatrice replied defensively. “Huh, home girl? Show Tiffany how you dance.”
Baby Maria began to wag her head from side to side in imitation of Beatrice, who was towering above her. Maria then began to move slowly around the coffee table, clicking her fingers. Beatrice clapped her hands over her head, the baby duly following along. When Beatrice shook her bottom, the baby did the same. Then the baby tripped and knocked the glass of soda off the coffee table.
“*!@$&!” Beatrice yelled. “Look at what you done!” She raised the flat of her hand and yelled, “I should spank you.”
The baby ran from the living room.
“You wouldn’t spank her,” Tiffany said.
“But look at what she did?” The soda was quickly disappearing into the carpet. Beatrice hurried to the kitchen for a dish towel.
Tiffany began to slip on her gloves. I’m out of here, she thought. She felt remorseful and sick, but for what? What was it exactly? That Beatrice was proud of her burrito-eating image spreading across the country, or the soda-drinking baby who already had bad words in her vocabulary?
“Where you going?” Beatrice asked as she returned to the living room holding a damp and twisted dish towel.
“Home to do some work,” Tiffany answered with a little push behind her words.
“You’re jealous, huh?” Beatrice snarled. She began to twist the towel.
“About what?” Tiffany asked, one hand on the doorknob. She was upset by her friend’s tone of voice. She also thought for a second that Beatrice might snap the dish towel at her.
“About me.” There was an anger pushing out of Beatrice’s eyeballs. Would smoke from her nostrils follow? “It’s because I got Manuel and you ain’t got nobody. It’s because everyone’s going to know me.”
“Eating a burrito? With cheese hanging from your chin,” Tiffany said, anger building up like a fire in her own heart. “Is that what you want to be known for? Get a life!”
“Jealous,” Beatrice hurled at her friend. She snapped open the dish towel and knelt to clean up the spilled soda. “That’s what you are—jealous!” In a frenzy, she began to rub the spill.
Tiffany turned and opened the door, the cold wintry air rushing against her face. She left as Beatrice continued to heave insults about how stuck up Tiffany was.
“You can think what you want,” Tiffany tossed at Beatrice, and closed the door behind her. She hurried down the street in scissoring steps that could have cut metal.
• • •
The fog was thick, and even thicker than earlier. A pair of yellowish headlights appeared in the road, briefly lighting up what was for Tiffany a dark day. She had lost her friend, and feared for baby Maria. She imagined the toddler eating peanuts and drinking a soda while seated inches from the blaring television. If I could only rescue her, Tiffany thought. If only I could stop her from saying those bad words.
Tiffany thought about how she herself had learned them. How did she start? In the theater with her Uncle Richard? From her parents, who sometimes used profanity? She hated herself, and hated herself even more as she walked toward the house where the old woman with the orange tree had asked her for help.
“She’s a nice woman,” Tiffany told herself. “She just wants oranges.” Right there, Tiffany promised herself not to talk to Beatrice, even if she became famous. Her lower lip was trembling as she began to cry. She closed her eyes and saw little Maria clapping her hands over her head. The poor thing, she thought.
A car passed, again lighting up the foggy day. But the light receded, and she was once again alone in the fog. “I’ll just use nice words,” she told herself. Words like “rose,” “garden,” “pretty clouds,” “jasmine,” and “love.” She could feel her face lift in happiness as she recited these words. She thought of the other words—the cuss words, the profanity, the hip-hop slang, the funky language of the school yard—and she could feel her mood darken. She could even feel her face change into something hateful.
Tiffany stopped in front of the old woman’s house. There was a yellowish glow behind the front window and the faint lilt of Mexican music. Without being asked a second time, she took it upon herself to pick those oranges. She entered the yard, got a bench leaning against a fence, and boosted herself into the orange tree.
“Kitten,” she piped as she picked the first orange. “Candy,” she hummed when she plucked the second one. “Jam … birthday … pony,” she said as she plucked one orange after another, until the pockets of her big coat were filled and her mouth was singing a new vocabulary.
Abstinence Makes the Heart Grow Fonder
BY JENNIFER KNIGHT
“IT’S ALWAYS THE drummers, isn’t it?” Kelly said wistfully as we spied from around the timpani at my crush.
“What are you talking about?” I hissed. He was only feet away and I didn’t want him to see us gawking.
“I mean, when have you ever seen a clarinet player with abs like those?”
I shook my head, giggling. “You do have a point there. But I’d like him even without the abs.”
“The hair then,” Kelly sighed. “It’s gotta be the hair.”
I rolled my eyes, watching Chris tap away on his drum pad, pretending to listen as one of the color guard flirted with him. His dirty blond hair was long and carefully tousled, as if he’d just gotten out of bed and woken up looking like a shampoo model.
He did have nice hair.
“It’s everything,” I said quietly, turning away.
Kelly turned as well and crossed her legs. “He’s going to ask you out soon.”
My heart did flip-flops at the thought, but I squashed the feeling back. I’d been hoping that very thing ever since our first football game when Chris had sat by me on the bus instead of one of the color guard, like he normally did. Ever since then, when his amber eyes had melted into mine, I’d been hooked. Borderline obsessed.
Hence the spying.
“You’re making things up,” I accused Kelly. She was a major band gossip and thrived on rumors. I knew for a fact she started many of them herself, so I didn’t put much stock in her assertion that Chris Harper—hottest drummer on the planet—would ask me, the trumpet player and overall basket case, out anywhere.
“No,” Kelly said. “I’m sure this time.”
I scoffed.
“What makes you so sure?”
“Well, for one thing …” She stood and gathered
her books. “He’s headed over here.”
I felt my eyes turn into golf balls.
“And for another, he’s got a flower.”
My mouth hit the linoleum floor of the band room.
Kelly gave me an excited wink and skipped off to join a group of flautists chatting near the lockers.
I sat frozen on the floor, nestled inside the curve of the timpani set, trying to believe what Kelly had just said. Was she messing with me?
“So is this your secret lair?” a husky voice said from above me.
Chris.
I gaped and he grinned.
“Somehow I thought it would be bigger,” he said.
I laughed stiffly, instantly nervous. “No, we prefer the storage room—more privacy.”
He smiled at my lame joke and came to sit down next to me, his elbow propped up on his knee. “This seems plenty private to me. If Kelly hadn’t just popped up, I wouldn’t have guessed you were down here.”
I giggled idiotically.
“What were you two doing anyway?” he asked.
I bit my lip, trying to come up with something besides the truth. “Gossiping.”
He seemed interested. His light-brown eyebrows twitched up. “About me?” His voice was low, intent, and his eyes smoldered into mine. I was now having trouble breathing normally. How did he do that?
“Not everything is about you, you know,” I said with as much bravado as possible.
A crooked smile pulled at his lips. “And that’s why you were spying on me, is it? Because you weren’t talking about me?”
Oh, God, no! He’d seen us. Fire rippled down my spine and filled my entire face. He chuckled at my reaction.
“It’s all right,” he said coolly. “I am hard to resist. It’s both a blessing and a curse.” He sighed heavily, casting a wicked grin at me.
I silently cursed myself for being so obvious.
“This is for you, by the way,” he said after a moment.
I looked up and saw a sunflower emerge from behind his back. “Drama club was selling them in history class, so I bought one.”
I took the thick stalk and sniffed the sunny flower, now totally elated rather than embarrassed. He’d bought a flower for me. I looked up into his oaken-colored eyes and murmured my thanks, thinking I’d somehow have to immortalize this flower.
“What are you doing tomorrow after school?” Chris asked. His eyes bore a tinge of doubt in them now. The contrast to his normal confidence was devastatingly adorable.
“Nothing,” I said, feeling like a loser for not having plans.
“I’m going to the beach with my cousins,” he said. “They flew down from Maine and they want to see the ocean.”
“No better place for that than South Beach.” I shrugged. Was he asking me out or wasn’t he?
“Actually, we’re going down to Cape Florida,” he said. “Less crowded and fewer boobies hanging out.”
“Like you’d mind that.” I nudged him playfully in the arm.
The crooked smile cropped up again, stealing my breath away. “Well, I wouldn’t mind, but my twelve-year-old cousin might. And her dad.”
More inane giggling from me.
Chris eyed me again with that hint of vulnerability playing in his gaze. “Do you think you might … want to come with?”
Every nerve in my body fluctuated from numb to electric several times as I took in the meaning of his words. Chris Harper was asking me out—on a date!
In my eagerness to scream Yes! I began to sputter unintelligibly.
“It doesn’t have to be a date or anything,” Chris qualified, seeming nervous. There was a small flush of pink on his cheekbones.
My high punctured itself at once.
“But …” I started, gaping at him as even my sunflower seemed to wilt. “I want it to be a date.”
Chris’s face lit up. “Really? I didn’t know if you—”
“I do!” I cut him off. “I want to go out with you.”
Chris chuckled. “Well, great. We’ll drive down together. Is that okay?”
“Perfect,” I breathed.
Another heart-stopping smile and his eyes delved into mine, removing me from time and place, making my entire body tremble.
And then his cell phone buzzed. He blinked and snapped it to his ear.
“I gotta go,” he said, hanging up. “My ride’s here.”
I just nodded, still dazed.
“See ya, Liv.” He touched his knuckle to my cheek as he passed, leaving me breathless.
Within seconds Kelly was back, her eyes wide and sparkling with excitement.
“Spill!”
• • •
The next day took too long to pass. In the morning I saw Chris in the band room before class, blushed like a fool and ended up walking face first into the doorframe. We ate lunch in the same separate groups as always—him with the percussionists, me with the brass section—and I tried not to drool as he entered a chin-up contest with Chili, the bass drummer. As the end of the day neared, time slowed and slowed, dragging out until I was sure someone had stopped the clocks.
But eventually, twelve o’clock came and I was free. Free to fly to the band room like my hair was on fire and see Chris. I entered with my heart doing gymnastics in my chest. I knew that if today’s date went well, I’d have every chance of getting a kiss from him—my first real kiss. Then I could die happy.
I found Chris leaning against the wall twirling a pair of drumsticks between his long fingers. His eyes flickered and connected with mine as I came in. He gave me an easy smile and met me by the lockers, leaning against them casually. I wondered fleetingly if he ever stood up straight or just went from object to object, leaning.
“Ready?” he asked, stuffing the drumsticks over his shoulder into his backpack.
I could only nod. My body felt drunk with nerves.
“Excellent. My car’s out front.”
I followed him out to a sparkly, baby-blue Lexus convertible parked on the curb and got in. As soon as we hit the highway he rolled the top down, letting the sun beat on the top of our heads.
Chris was, as always, a breeze to talk to. I was able to keep up a decent flow of conversation—broken only when I stared too long at his profile or had to prevent my hair from trying to fly down my throat and suffocate me. The hour it took to get to Cape Florida felt like minutes and I was surprised when we slowed down at the parking lot, the smell of the ocean and the spotty shade of the palm trees washing over me. Excitement fluttered through my chest as romantic beach fantasies made their way with my mind. There was no place more romantic than the beach, right?
Chris honked the horn, snapping me back to reality.
“Hey!” he said, waving at a small group of people already unloading their car. “My cousins,” Chris said to me softly.
Oh … right. They were here. No sex on the beach for me today …
Chris parked and jumped out of the car. I followed, feeling awkward and more than a little dejected. I felt like his cousins were intruding on my date.
I watched Chris hug his family as I shuffled my feet near the car.
“Liv,” Chris said, waving me over. “This is my Uncle Charlie.” He pointed to a tall, red-faced man with a lot of facial hair. He thrust his beefy hand out and shook mine roughly. Chris pointed to another tall, rather hairy man who looked very similar to Uncle Charlie, but wore glasses and a slathering of thick, white sunscreen on his nose. “My dad,” Chris announced. “You can call him George.”
I thought briefly that I’d rather die than call him George, but I shook his hand with a shy smile.
“And my cousins, Jenny, Cara, and Mike.” He pointed to three kids, the oldest of which was a girl who looked a few years younger than me with yards and yards of thick, auburn hair—the kind I would have killed for. The other two were younger and might have been twins.
We all headed down to the beach, the kids flitting around, kicking up sand, Chris helping his father tote the huge
ice chest, and me trying to sedate myself. I was so nervous. We passed between the thick tangle of saw grass and mangroves—swatting mosquitoes the entire way—and finally reached the beach. I’d only been to Cape Florida once before and I was too little to remember it, so I was surprised when I saw how tiny it was. The beach was just a small crescent of pristine white sand that came to a rocky peak on one end. A white lighthouse stood in the distance, surrounded by palm trees and the ever-present mangroves.
The best part was that it wasn’t nearly as crowded as the beaches I was used to and it all felt very secluded with the wall of trees to our back.
Chris and his family set up camp near the water, laying down blankets, erecting chairs, rubbing sunscreen on the kids. Uncle Charlie and Chris’s dad (who I had decided to call Mr. Harper—not George) heaved themselves into their chairs, cracked a couple of beers and dissolved into lazy conversation.
Chris gave them a withering look. “How boring can you get?” he mumbled. I tried not to stare as he pulled his shirt over his head to reveal his thin, but not too thin, chest. He was perfectly tanned and I was instantly self-conscious of my own complexion, only slightly darker than a chalk stick.
My hands were shaking so badly as I wrestled with my shirt, I felt like I was having an episode.
“Well, what did you have in mind?” I asked him, unbuttoning my shorts.
He shot a quick grin at me and bent to pick up a short, oval-shaped object that looked like a tiny surfboard.
I eyed it warily. I didn’t like where this was going.
“What is that?” I asked.
“A skim board.” He slipped it under his arm and cocked his head for me to follow him to the water’s edge. “The trick is to get it going a bit before you jump on.”
“Get it … going?”
“Yeah, watch.” He tossed the board into the surf and chased after it, hopping on and skating about ten feet before coming to a graceful stop. He bent and pried it from the water, walking back toward me with a jaunt in his step now—clearly he knew he’d impressed me.
The kids had gathered around me now, eager to see it again.
“Chris, let me try!” one of the little ones shouted, the girl.