I meet everyone’s gaze, search for the lie. I come away empty handed. They’re telling the truth. It isn’t just me being weak because of my past and what I went through. They’ve all been through the same.
“After I found out I would be in control, though,” Kristen adds, “I never gave up. You’ll get it, but it won’t be easy. No one’s gonna lie to you about that. Just remember, you’re here because you’re strong. Because you beat your agent every day. You’ll master this thing all on your own. We’re only here to let you know there’ll be no more big battles after you succeed. You’ll be in charge.”
At the moment, I feel anything but in charge, so I cling to her words and pray she’s telling the truth.
Chapter 26
After they made me rest and warned me not to meditate alone—as if I was crazy—I leave The Tank and head home in a daze.
I’ve almost made it there, driving my bike through busy roads, when I remember the fight with Mom and the way Luke seems to pop in and out when I least expect it. My day has been bad enough as it is. Right now, after being brought back from the dead, I feel too vulnerable and in need of comfort and a bit more of that tenderness Kristen bestowed upon me as she laid a hand on my forehead and soothed me. For years, there’s been only one person who’s offered me that.
I turn the bike around, knowing where to find him.
As I drive, I can’t help but think of how, over time, I’ve pushed everyone away, friends, family, teachers—all those who ever tried to get close, including Xave. Especially Xave.
Something tightens in my chest as, for the first time, I look inwardly and recognize the way I’ve driven him away. He’s supposed to be my best friend and half the time he doesn’t even talk to me about what he’s thinking and feeling. And it’s not all him being from Mars and me from Andromeda or wherever. No, it’s my fault. I’m an idiot. How didn’t I see that before? How did I expect him to have the warm-fuzzies about our friendship when I’ve given him so little? The more I think about it, the more I wonder how he has endured the way I’ve treated him all these years. It’s amazing we’re still friends. I really need to change that, especially now that we’re in this mess together.
I turn on my blinker and take a right. After a few blocks, Millennium’s neon sign comes into view. The pinball travels around the edge of the sign’s frame and its colorful pool balls light on and off, one at a time.
Leaving my helmet hooked to the handle bars, I walk toward the front door, feeling unexpectedly lighter. A few steps past the front door, I stop and look around, assessing the crowd. Regulars mostly, including the one I’m looking for. A smile touches my lips.
The smell of junk food hits me like a heavenly slap. Rolo’s manning the food counter tonight. Unusually ravenous—a meditation side-effect, I suspect—the idea of a greasy dinner at Millennium Arcade seems like a good excuse to be here while I search out Xave’s company.
“Heya, Rolo,” I say, slapping my palm on the counter.
He takes his eyes away from the deep fryer. “Marciiii, what’up girl?” He tips the baseball cap that sits on his bald head.
“Not much. Hey, you got something good cooking back there?”
“Nah, not tonight. Just the regular stuff,” he says, giving the fries a good shake before setting them back down in the hot oil. He wipes large hands on his white apron. He’s so tall and wide, he makes all the appliances look like toys.
“No Cajun fish tacos? Crawfish etouffee? Gumbo?” I plead. His Louisiana-inspired concoctions are the best. I really was in the mood for one of them.
“Nope, can’t get a hold of any cheap seafood lately,” he explains.
“Cheap, huh?” Cheap seafood can’t be good by any stretch of the imagination. It’s a wonder I haven’t suffered from food poisoning yet.
Rolo grins in response.
“All right then, I guess I’ll just have my regular regular.”
“Regular regular coming up,” he says as he sets to work on the grill to fix me a jalapeño ranch cheeseburger.
As I wait, I lean back on the counter, elbows propped up. Xave’s playing pool, watching the table and his contender, Cameron, with his usual intensity. Trent and Henry occupy the table to their right. George and Twitchy the one to the left. A couple of twelve-year-olds are shooting away at the Paradise Lost machine, imparting a level of carnage too high for their age.
To the opposite end, and to my surprise, someone’s actually using the Dance Dance machine, and really rocking it with well-coordinated moves, making it look like total fun. Who knew? I watch with interest. The girl’s feet move at staggering speed, crisscrossing and jumping back apart without missing a beat. She wears black skinny jeans, pink Chuck Taylors and a matching polka-dot top. I groan inwardly. You’d never catch me dead in that getup, especially the cute ponytail that bobs up and down as she shakes her petite goods. To each her own.
The girl’s back is turned, so I can’t tell who she is. Yet I have a vague feeling of recognition. I’m thinking hard when suddenly, she jumps and twirls. Her feet press opposite corner pads, then leap again as she twirls to hit a mirror pose. The quick second she faced my way was enough to help me identify her.
Judy Pratt.
No wonder she looks like a dang choreographer, dancing on top of that torture contraption. She’s been doing ballet since she was in her mom’s womb. I’ve heard the doctors freaked when a tutu and satin ballet slippers were the first things to pop out.
“Ranch cheeseburger. Jalapeño sauce on the side. Fries sprinkled with chili powder,” Rolo announces, sliding two red and white cardboard plates across the counter.
My mouth waters at the sight of the glistening fries. After paying, I carry my food to a small two-seater booth that offers a clear view of the pool tables. It looks like Xave’s game is almost over, so I want to be able to wave him over before he starts a new one.
I eat a fry. It’s crisp and spicy. Perfect. After licking my fingers, I unwrap a plastic knife to cut my huge burger in half. As I finish, I notice Xave shaking hands and bumping shoulders with Cameron. From the crestfallen look of his opponent, it looks like Xave won. Again.
I put a hand up and wave, but Xave turns and walks toward the exit. I’m about to call his name when he veers toward the Dance Dance machine. As he approaches, Judy hops off, quitting mid-dance, and joins him. My arm freezes mid-air, plastic knife in hand.
Xave gives her a small smile and stuffs his hands inside his pockets, towering over her petite frame. She looks up at him, beaming like a pocket-sized flashlight. As she talks, her lips move slowly, forming each word in a suggestive manner easy to spot even from where I’m sitting. She pulls out a small red packet from her pocket and offers it to Xave. Cinnamon gum, his favorite. He takes a stick and pops it in his mouth.
Something Judy says makes Xave laugh out loud, a sound I’ve not heard in the past few weeks. I put the knife down. The grilled meat taste turns acrid in my mouth.
Is Xave on a date with Judy Pratt?! The same girl he and I have shredded to pieces in vicious conversations since I can remember? Has hell frozen over? It must have. There’s no other explanation.
Has he forgotten her ever-present elementary-school pigtails? The massive middle-school bows that used to decorate the top of her head, making her look like a birthday gift? How about her snobbish attitude about our torn sneakers? And her haughty comments about our peanut-butter sandwiches, as opposed to her organic carrots, Greek yogurt and homemade entrées?
I’ve always told Xave she fixated on us, criticizing and gossiping, because she was attracted to him. He never believed me, or so he said. Now, from the idiotic look on his face, it seems he’s totally bought into it.
My appetite disappears. I push the food aside, wrinkling my nose, and stare at it, as if it could explain why the world has gone inside-out.
Xave, the skater/biker boy, is hanging out with Judy, the color-coordinated, sickeningly popular ballet diva. Next thing the president of the United Sta
tes will deliver his State of the Union Address sporting multi-colored scales all over his face.
“Hey,” a voice says.
I flinch and tear my eyes away from the nauseating food.
Bizarro. Xave has decided to honor me with his presence.
Chapter 27
“I didn’t see you come in.” Xave slips into the seat opposite mine, dusts his hands from the cue chalk, steals a French fry and pops it in his mouth. “Mmm, these are perfect.” He takes another one and dips it in jalapeño sauce. “What happened to your mouth?”
I forgot I’d bitten through my lip. “Karate practice.”
Xave nods, easily accepting my lie. “What you been up to? I called to see if you wanted to hang.”
“I was busy.” I take a deep breath, try to bite the mean question that is making my tongue feel like a viper’s, the question that involves Judy Pratt.
“Busy, doing what?” He appraises me, probably wondering if I’ve been doing anything IgNiTe related.
“Oh, just stuff,” I say in a suggestive tone, trying to make him suspicious about my whereabouts.
His eyes flicker to one side and go dark for a nanosecond. Then he does an introspective shrug, as if he’s decided he’s not interested in anything me or IgNiTe may be up to. He flashes me a smile and eats another French fry.
“What’s wrong?” he asks, pointing at the burger with the long fry. “You’re not hungry?”
“Oh, I’m hungry, all right,” I say, taking a huge, messy bite. Ketchup squeezes out of one side of my mouth, dribbles down my chin and splats on my chest. I dab at the spot, rubbing so hard the paper napkin starts falling apart. I give up, crumple the stupid thing and throw it on the table. Xave laughs at my failed attempt to remove the stain. Great!
“It’s not funny,” I mumble. “And get your own damn fries.” I slap his fingers away as he reaches for another one. He jerks his hand back, an injured and confused expression on his face. We’ve always shared our food. It’s never been a reason to bicker.
“What’s wrong with you today?” he asks.
“Are you on a date with Judy?” I ask before I can stop myself.
Xave’s eyes grow wide, wide and wider. Yeah, my question to his question is not what he expected. What’s wrong with me today is Judy Pratt and, clearly, the revelation is making his wheels turn.
I can see his face go through a rainbow of emotions. Surprise, confusion, doubt. The emotions seem to be attached to churning thoughts inside his mind. Several times, his mouth moves as if to ask something, but nothing comes out. He looks as if he’s trying to settle on the best question possible and he’s discarding them before they make it through his lips.
He finally says, “Why do you care?”
“I—I …” Any other question would have been better than this one. I can’t answer it. Not to him, not even to myself. “I really don’t care. I’m just … puzzled. That’s all,” I whisper, because it’s the easiest, most cowardly thing to say.
“Puzzled?” He ponders. “And why is that?”
“C’mon, Xave. This is Judy Pratt we’re talking about. We hate her. We always have. And, by the way, she hates us.”
He gives me a sad smile. “Aren’t you always the one telling me to grow up once and for all? Always saying I’m … how did you put it?” He makes air quotes. “‘Perfectly irrational’? Hmm?”
Xave waits for me to say something. But what is there to say?
He continues. “For once I’m trying to see past my narrow, judgmental views. I’m … expanding my horizons. Breaking stereotypes. And you don’t approve?”
I cross my arms over my stained t-shirt. “Is that what you’re calling your sexcapades now?” There’s a twist of bitter lemon on top of my comment.
“Again … even if that’s what this is all about, why do you care?”
I wish he’d stop beating on that drum. It makes me feel hollow inside.
“You’ve never cared before,” he says, having found a more bitter substance than mine to make his point.
Our eyes lock and the silence between us swells and swells with an absence of words that need to be figured out. But I’m dry as a bone. I have nothing to give, nothing to offer. I’m the one who’s perfectly irrational. It takes one to know one, after all.
“The world is going to hell, Marci. I may as well enjoy it while it lasts. I can’t … wait forever.” His last two words are loaded with meaning.
Is he trying to say that he’s … waiting for me? I shrink away from the thought. That can’t be what he’s trying to say! Why doesn’t he just tell me what he means? My mouth hangs open, a mute “O” of incredulity. Is this the way he chooses to let me know? A way that is, by no means, clear.
“We should talk. There’s something I should tell you and maybe something you’d like to say to me?” Xave tells me in a sweet, inviting tone. He leans closer, hazel eyes drilling mine with heated intensity.
His hand—up till now resting on the table—moves inches slowly toward mine. His fingernails are blue from the cue chalk. I see the Celtic tattoo between his middle and fore fingers. It’s so small I always forget about it. My body tenses and I instinctively pull back a bit. And even though my fingers retract only a few inconsequential millimeters, the distance feels insurmountable, because Xave’s eyes darken with the knowledge that I’ve recoiled from him. Again.
What does he expect? He seems ready for something I’ve only begun to contemplate. And even if somehow this spark in my heart could ignite me, what could I ever give him? He doesn’t even know what I truly am. My soul aches. One person at a time, I’m carving a path toward loneliness.
Mom, Luke, and now …
I swallow, blink, ignore the fire in my throat.
“No, Xave,” I croak, somehow holding his gaze as I pronounce each word. “There’s nothing I’d like to say to you.” Because there is nothing you have ever said to me. Because even if you did, I can’t go there with you. Not anymore. But I can’t add this, because even if he poured his heart onto my lap, there’d still be nothing I could give him back. It’s better if I don’t let him say what he wants to say.
All expectation collapses out of Xave’s chest in one big exhale. His eyes fall to my unwilling hand. Our fingers may as well be on opposite sides of the Atlantic.
Xave’s moist lips part, as if they’ve lost the strength to stay together. Air fills his lungs very slowly and his eyes suddenly brim with sickening resignation and finality, as if he’s seen everything clearly for the first time.
“I didn’t want to believe it,” he says, nodding sadly. “But I guess I always knew.”
I’m breathing rapidly, holding back the tears that burn in the backs of my eyes.
I have nothing to offer.
Emptiness.
Nothing.
Xave stands, pats my petrified hand with something like longing. He takes a step forward, without removing his hand. My shoulder aligns with his hip. I stare at the fries, don’t even know if he’s looking down at me. It doesn’t feel like he is.
“I can finally let you go,” he says, then walks away, leaving behind the ghost of what could have been.
Chapter 28
I sneak into my bedroom through the window, which I always keep unlocked for such occasions when I don’t want to run into Mom.
After kicking off my boots, undressing and donning an over-sized t-shirt, I lie in bed staring at the ceiling. Sleep is impossible with all the conflicting ideas in my head and similar feelings in my heart. Or is it my stomach? I’m not sure. The general area feels tight, like the day Sensei accidentally kicked me in one of our class demonstrations.
A dark shape moves in the heavy drapes by the window. My eyes snap to the spot. Nothing’s there. I’m seeing things now. A sad smile visits my lips and I’m reminded of Grandma’s old saying, which never translated quite right from Spanish to English.
“Smile when you don’t want to cry.”
Why do I want to cry? Why, all of a sud
den, do I care about who Xave is dating? It never bothered me before, and he’s dated plenty, has even asked me for my advice once or twice. Not that I’m qualified to give anyone advice, not when I’ve never even been on a date.
Am I only upset because he picked Judy Pratt? Or is there something else behind this portentous weight on top of my breastbone?
The slight squeak of hinges takes me away from my thoughts. I look toward the door and find it tentatively swinging open. I squint, trying to make out Mom’s features in the dark gap. Instead, I find Luke. What the hell?! What is he doing here at—I look at the clock—10:30 P.M.?
“Can I come in?” he whispers.
He’s in already. I get my naked legs under the covers.
“I thought I heard you come in,” he says, shutting the door behind him.
I find myself speechless as I try to work this out. Is Mom still up? Were they perhaps talking, bonding like the most perfect mother and son duo? What is going on here?
Luke sits on one corner of the bed. Wait! Is that pajama bottoms he’s wearing? What?!
Noticing my puzzled gaze, Luke pinches his checkered pants. “Um, I’m sleeping in the living room,” he says with a rueful smile.
“Wait a minute,” I say, fidgeting, disguising my discomfort by rearranging the covers and pillow. “You’re sleeping here, on the sofa?”
“Futon,” he says, chagrined. “We replaced the sofa.”
“Replaced the sofa?” My voice rises from whispers into a normal tone.
“Yeah, and we were thinking that … since we’re not moving, maybe we could build an addition. You know … another bedroom.”
Unbelievable! I stand and start pacing the floor along the opposite side of the bed. “I like how you two make all these decisions and inform me after the fact.” I try to make it sound like a joke.
“What else are we supposed to do?” Luke asks seriously. “You’re never here.”
Hmm, I wonder why?
“Mom and I—” he starts.
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