by Meg Medina
“Some friend.” She goes over to her dresser and tosses me her house key. My job is to feed her guinea pig, Gloria, and to water Mrs. MacInerney’s houseplants for a week.
Kathleen sits back down on the bed and puts her hands on my shoulders. “Just promise me you won’t officially break up with Pablo before I get back,” she says solemnly. “That gives you a few days to reconsider this muy stupid-o idea.”
“Idea estúpida,” I correct. “And it’s not stupid. How can we break up? We’ve only had two official dates. You said so yourself. Maybe this doesn’t even qualify.”
“Just don’t do it,” she snaps.
Cooling things off with Pablo won’t be as easy as I tried to make it seem to Kathleen. When I got to work today, the sight of his car made me yearn for him. My only hope is that things will be so busy around here with Easter orders that I can ignore him. So far, so good. Every time he comes to the register, I go to the bathroom or make up some excuse to change the signs on the bins or check expiration dates. Anything so I don’t have to talk to him.
To my relief, Pablo is nowhere in sight after lunch. He’s down in the dungeon working on inventory and pricing merchandise. If Luck smiles on me, he’ll be stuck down there most of the day, and I won’t have to face him at all.
I’m finishing up my sandwich when I hear Sal calling.
“Paulie!” he shouts.
No answer.
“Paulie!”
The pricing gun is on the deli counter. Sal juts his chin in its direction. “Take that thing down to Knucklehead before you finish your break, Nora,” he says. “How’s he gonna price anything without the labeler?”
“Me?” I ask.
He stops slicing the boiled ham and frowns at me over his glasses. “There’s somebody else named Nora?”
“Fine.” I grab the price gun and walk outside to the open vault. I stand at the top of the stairs, wondering for a second if I should just toss it down and leave.
“Pablo?” I call. There’s still no answer; he must be far in the back. “Hello?”
I climb down the steps carefully. The farther inside I go, the more the vault smells of mold and damp. It’s strange how it feels like the dead of night instead of the middle of a pretty day down here. I walk past the old furnace as fast as I can. It may not work, but it still reminds me of that horrible story Hector told me about the roasting head.
I don’t see Pablo anywhere, so I maneuver past the mess of remaining lumber and turn the corner.
“Boo!”
I jump back and drop the pricing gun. Pablo is standing by a pile of cartons near the back wall, the box cutter in his hand.
“That’s not funny.” I let out a nervous sigh. “Sal says you forgot this.” I pick up the labeler and hand it to him. Then I turn to go.
“Wait.” He tosses down the knife and follows me. “I didn’t really forget. It was just the only way I could think of to get you down here alone,” he says.
I turn back around. My cheeks get hot, I’m sure of it, but I can’t think of a thing to say.
“You’ve been ignoring me, so I had to think of something.” He motions to the cartons. “Can you sit down a minute? Please.”
“I hate it down here. It’s creepy.”
“Two minutes, that’s it,” he says.
This is going to be trouble, I know it. My stomach flutters as I sit down and feel his warm leg next to mine. I start rehearsing the words: This isn’t going to work out. I have another boyfriend. I like someone else. I think I’m a lesbian. I am dying of incurable cancer.
“I’m sorry I shoved your brother,” he says. “I didn’t know it was him. I shouldn’t have done that.”
I fidget against a crack in the concrete with my sneaker.
“I just reacted,” he says, “but I wouldn’t have hit him if I’d known who he was. I’ve seen him on the block with Sergio, but I didn’t make the connection.” He pauses uncomfortably. “And that night with the dog —”
“Forget it,” I say, wishing there really was a way to do just that. Erase the whole thing.
Pablo lowers his voice. “It looked like he was hurting you, though.”
It feels as though the vault is closing in on me. I don’t want him to pry. Besides, I’ve been wondering if what Hector did was such a big deal. He only grabbed me hard, after all. When we were little, we’d wrestle until one of us cried. Was that bad, too?
“We were having a fight,” I say finally. “You have fights with your little brother, don’t you?”
He shrugs, but something in his silence only makes me feel worse. I don’t want to imagine what he’s thinking.
“Look, Pablo, my brother has a bad temper, and it’s kind of complicated.” I stand up. “I should go.”
“Wait.” He laces his fingers in mine and holds me back. “Please don’t be mad, Nora.”
I feel a shot through my arm.
“I’m not mad,” I say quietly.
“No?”
I shake my head. “I actually don’t know what I am.”
“Then talk to me.”
I shake my head. I’m afraid that if I open my mouth, my voice will crack or I’ll cry.
“At least let me take you out again.”
Say no, I tell myself. Be strong. But when I lift my eyes to look at him, I can’t do it.
“You don’t want to see me again?” he asks. “If you say so, I’ll leave you alone, but I want you to tell me one way or the other.”
We wait there in silence until he stands and takes my face in his hands. Then he presses a soft kiss on my lips. Everything inside me melts.
“I’ve been wanting to do that again,” he whispers. “Haven’t you?”
Just then, Sal’s booming voice interrupts us. “Nora! We’ve got customers!”
I try to move off, but Pablo won’t let go of my hand.
“He’s going to come looking,” I say. “Let me go.”
“Tell me yes,” he says. “Please.”
“Nora?” Sal’s shadow darkens the top of the steps. “You okay down there?”
“He’s going to blow his stack,” I warn.
Pablo only holds on tighter. “Then say yes and save us.”
“There’s a shooter . . .” I begin. “It’s not even safe —”
“We’ll go somewhere that the shooter won’t find us,” he says.
“Nora!”
“Coming!” I call up. “We’re moving boxes.” Then I turn back to Pablo, unable to resist his smile.
“All right,” I say.
“Tomorrow night,” he whispers. He gives me one more kiss before letting go.
“Fine.” Breathless, I run for the steps.
The words tomorrow night keep me up late, wondering how I’ve gotten into this big mess. It’s only going to be a matter of time before Pablo finds out everything about my screwed-up family. Dating him again is only going to make it harder and more embarrassing to cut things off later. Still, when I squeeze my eyes shut, all I can think about is how good it felt to have him kiss me again. He tastes like mint, sugar, sexiness all in one. Just thinking about it makes me ache.
The news that night drones on about the manhunt that’s now spanning all the boroughs. I rack my brain trying to think of a safe place where Pablo and I might go to be alone. There has to be someplace in Queens where a maniac would never think to bother us.
And then I remember the MacInerneys’ key.
Kathleen’s street dead-ends at the train tracks, so it can be a lonely stretch sometimes, even in bright daylight. And with a killer on the prowl, everything on this block makes me jumpy tonight. Even the windows on the houses look like eyes. I pull up my hood as Pablo and I hurry to the side door, hoping none of the neighbors will see. He parked at the far end of the street near the concrete barrier that separates the road from the tracks. Though neither one of us mentioned it, we checked the rearview mirrors before we got out, just in case somebody was out there.
I jiggle the key in th
e sticky lock the way Kathleen always does, my hands shaking a little, and shove hard against the door to open it. The whole house smells of MacInerney as soon as we step inside. It’s strange how a family can have its own scent. Theirs is laundry detergent, wood, and ash, a comforting smell.
I flip on the light, and we hang our things on the wall pegs next to Mr. and Mrs. MacInerney’s coats. There’s no way Kathleen’s parents would be okay with this, I think guiltily. But ballsy as it is to use their house for a love shack, it has to be smarter than sitting in a parked car, right?
“When are they coming back?” Pablo asks, studying the family pictures on the wall.
“Friday,” I say. “The parlor is that way. I’ll be right back.”
Mrs. MacInerney keeps the watering can in the kitchen. I stand at the sink to fill it and try to peer into their backyard, but it’s too dark. All I can see is my own reflection in the glass. God. Anybody could be out there watching, and I wouldn’t know. I lower the blinds, just in case, and put my hand on the Blessed Mother that sits on the windowsill.
I water Mrs. MacInerney’s prized Chinese evergreen first. Then I climb the stairs to get the two spider plants that decorate the upstairs hall.
Usually the MacInerneys’ house is filled with Kathleen’s dirty towels on the floor, with the static of the police scanner, with Mr. Mac’s stories from the firehouse, with all those family moments that I watch and study: pecks on the cheek, easy jokes, chores. Their absence makes the house seem strange, as though I’m walking through some sort of Museum of the Ordinary American Family. I step into Kathleen’s room. Gloria, a ball of blond fluff, is standing on her hind legs, waiting for me and twitching her nose. We were ten when Kathleen bought her. We named her after Gloria Steinem, our favorite feminist.
“Hey, Glo.” I pull her out and place her inside the nightstand drawer where Kathleen keeps her corn nuts. Then I change her water and stroke her head for a while as she munches. A stack of old Tiger Beats is tucked near her cage. We shred them for lining now, but not long ago we used to decorate Kathleen’s room with all the pinups that came inside. Our first Freddie-Prinze-in-a-tux came straight from the back cover, in fact. The sight of those relics of our growing up suddenly reminds me of when we used to put Gloria in the Barbie car and give her rides with Ken. It makes me sort of sad.
When I finish upstairs, I go back to the parlor, where I find Pablo sitting in Mr. Mac’s favorite chair. There’s no rule, really, but nobody ever sits there except Mr. Mac.
“What?” he says. The TV is tuned to Switch, that crime show about an ex-cop and an ex–con artist fighting crime.
“Nothing.” I sit on the couch.
“It’s this or Jesus of Nazareth,” he says. “Or maybe neither?”
He joins me on the sofa and wraps his arms around me. Then he buries his nose in my hair and takes a deep breath.
“What are you doing?”
“I can’t help it. It smells nice, like lemons.”
“You’ve been working produce too long,” I say.
“Either that, or you’re incredibly hot.”
Everything bad between us melts away as soon as we start kissing. He moves slowly and sweetly, until eventually, we’re lying down next to each other, our legs intertwined on that narrow couch. He hooks his fingers through the belt loops at the small of my back to stop me from falling off.
“Staring contest,” he says. “I warn you: I am undefeated.”
His eyelashes brush against mine as he keeps his eyes steady. I breathe in his spicy smell of aftershave and study the yellow and green in his eyes that I haven’t noticed until now.
What’s going to happen tonight? We have a whole empty house to ourselves. No cop is going to appear to shine a light into our car. No passerby is going to interrupt us from whatever. But I’ve only just started to date Pablo. I’ve been down this road with Angel, haven’t I?
Tears fill my eyes as I fight to keep them open for our contest. He, on the other hand, looks completely calm, a smile curling at the edge of his lips.
“Do you surrender?” he whispers.
“Never.”
“Be stubborn, then.”
He disappears into a blur as the stinging finally forces my lids closed.
“Damn,” I whisper. “You’re freakish.”
I bury my face in his neck. Every part of me feels weak and fluttery, though in the back of my mind I wonder if he’ll throw the switch, morph into a groping beast like Angel.
Still, when he kisses me again, I find myself falling away from all those worries. He’s pressed against me in a way that makes me shiver, and I can feel him go hard. He bites my lips softly and nuzzles my neck, but unlike Angel, Pablo’s hands don’t wander where I don’t want them yet. Everything about him feels good.
The phone rings.
We freeze mid-kiss, as if caught.
Four rings, then silence.
He smiles at me and we start to kiss again, but again the phone sounds.
Could it be one of the neighbors wondering about the lights on?
“Should I answer it?” I whisper.
He shakes his head, still running his lips along my neck and collarbone. Six rings sound this time before the caller hangs up.
No one is with us, and yet it suddenly feels like someone is right here, tapping me on the shoulder. It’s harder to concentrate on Pablo. When the phone rings yet again, I finally sit up.
Pablo sighs heavily. “Maybe Kathleen’s messing with you,” he says.
“She doesn’t know we’re here,” I say.
Eight, nine times.
I can’t stand it anymore, so I pick it up. If it’s a curious neighbor, I’ll say I’m here watering plants.
“Hello? MacInerney residence.”
There’s no one on the other end.
“They hung up.” I glance at the clock: just past eleven. “We should probably get out of here.”
He gives me a disappointed look as I slip out of his arms and head to the bathroom. I splash water on my face to clean the smudged mascara from around my eyes and run Kathleen’s favorite brush through my hair. Then I gather my hair back up into a ponytail.
When I come back, Pablo has turned off the TV. He hands me my sweatshirt and follows me through the house, clicking off lights behind us. We walk through the house in pitch-black, groping along the walls and giggling nervously as the old floors creak.
My hands are sweating as we reach the side door. Somehow I can’t bring myself to step outside. The driveway patch where Kathleen and I once drew hopscotch suddenly seems eerie.
Pablo must see my fear.
“It’s okay. Wait here.” He steps outside and peers into the yard before jogging to the front of the house. He comes back for me. “We’re good.”
But when I follow him toward the sidewalk, I hear a rustling in the bushes and freeze. When I look, I see that it’s only Tripod. His hackles are up, though, and his teeth are bared. When he sees me, he dashes off in the direction of the buildings.
Pablo slips his hand in mine as we hurry toward the car. I can’t shake the feeling that we’re like those paper ducks in a carnival shooting range. Maybe he feels the same, because we’re practically running.
He opens my door and I climb inside, fast. But when he gets to his side, Pablo doesn’t get in.
“No . . .” he says.
“What?” My heart is pounding the longer we’re out here in the dark. “Get in!”
But Pablo doesn’t listen. He walks around his car, his lips drawn to a hard line. I have no choice but to get out to see what’s the matter.
Long key scrapes mark the entire length of his car. The grooves have dug out the blue paint all the way down to the metal. Someone has keyed his car from his door to the rear fender. He pounds the Camaro’s roof in frustration and looks up and down the street, his jaw set tight.
“Who the hell did this?” he says.
I get back in the car and stare straight ahead as he starts the e
ngine and pulls out, clearly upset.
Coincidence. I force the word through my mind, but it won’t stick. My hands are shaking when I get out at my building. I run up my walkway, but it’s not just the shooter I’m worried about. I have a tight feeling in my stomach that I always get when I want to “unsee.”
Why was a Zippo lighter lying near the tires?
“Where were you last night?”
“‘Where were you last night?’”
Hector has always been good at mimicking me. He can say the words at the same time I do. Sometimes you can’t tell who is doing the talking and who is copying.
I take a deep breath.
“Only creeps stalk people, you know that? Creeps like the shooter.”
“‘Only creeps stalk people, you know that? Creeps like the shooter.’”
He grins.
“Did you follow me last night, Hector?”
“‘Did you follow me last night, Hector?’”
“Did you keep calling the MacInerneys?”
“‘Did you keep calling the MacInerneys?’”
“Stop.”
“‘Stop.’”
“It was you, wasn’t it?”
“‘It was you, wasn’t it?’”
“You can’t mess up someone’s car.”
“‘You can’t mess up someone’s car.’”
“Did you key Pablo’s car?”
“‘Did you key Pablo’s car?’”
“Answer me.”
“‘Answer me.’”
“Asshole.”
A snort, the finger. Conversation over.
Sal closed early today for Good Friday, and I’m waiting for Kathleen to get home, if for nothing else than to get out of here. Hector is clicking through questions about rock formations on the Cyclo-Teacher. We’ve been giving each other plenty of icy space. He hadn’t hassled me about the mirror again, and I haven’t tried to force a confession about Pablo’s car. I know he’s behind it. I feel bad for Pablo, though. There’s nothing I can do about it except give him the name and number of a good body-shop guy. He’s the one Mr. Mac used to fix the mysterious scrapes on the Impala.