by Lucas Rocha
“Stop disturbing me!” she says, scratching her head under her thick hair, closing her eyes, and slamming a fist against her forehead. “RNA: ribonucleic acid; controls the synthesis of proteins in cells. DNA: deoxyribonucleic acid; holds the necessary information for the construction of RNA proteins. Nucleotides: building blocks of nucleic acids formed by the esterification of phosphoric acid nucleosides. Esterification—”
“My God, Vanessa, you’re going to work yourself to death!” I yell. How she manages to keep all these terms straight is a mystery I’ll never unravel.
“I know, I know!” She throws the book on the couch and proceeds to let herself fall to the floor in a dramatic gesture, her legs and arms open and her stomach up, like the Vitruvian Man. “I’m gonna lose my mind. I’ll never get into college and will spend the rest of my life selling fake jewelry in Copacabana. Do you think if I make some DNA necklaces, people would buy them?”
I can’t help but laugh. I close my notebook, then walk to where she is and offer my hand. Vanessa eyes me for a few seconds, makes a dramatic sound from the back of her throat—something like “Uhhhnnn I don’t waaant to get uuup”—but finally accepts my help and takes my hand. Her body is light, and she yelps when I pull her hard, making her get up quickly.
“The test is this weekend, Ian,” she mumbles, grabbing the book again and placing it on her lap as she sits on the couch. “It’s Thursday. I know nothing. I’ll never get in.”
“Of course you will. You just said a bunch of super-hard biology terms without even looking at the book, and for a moment it seemed like you were actually studying for the last semester of med school. You got this.”
“But it’s so hard!”
“Of course it is. And if you don’t get in, there’s always next year. Or other options!” I say, trying to get her to realize that not going to college is a valid alternative.
“No! There are no other options!” she answers, unyielding, and picks up the list of terms from where she stopped. “Esterification: chemical reaction in which a carboxylic acid reacts with an alcohol, producing ester and water. Carboxylic acid: organic oxyacid that contains a carboxyl group. Carboxyl—”
“Dear Lord!” I decide to give up on trying to convince Vanessa to slow down, and join her instead.
I go to the kitchen and make some coffee for the two of us, since I also need to finish my microeconomics project, as it’s half my final grade. I make some extra, because I know this family runs on caffeine, and it’s likely that everyone will want some, even though it’s almost ten p.m.
While the coffee maker whirs and wafts the delicious smell of hot water mixed with ground coffee, my phone beeps with a new text. From Gabriel.
Gabriel:
You busy?
Ian:
Just another day trying to survive in this zoo I call home.
Gabriel:
LOL. I’ll call. I have news.
The phone rings right away.
“Guess what?” asks Gabriel, without even saying hi.
“You won the lottery?”
“No.”
“The last pig you inseminated gave birth to a cow?”
“No.”
“Okay, I give up.”
“May eighteenth.”
“What?”
“May eighteenth,” Gabriel repeats. “Save the date.”
“Why?”
“Because you’re going to be my best man.”
“What?”
“Daniela said yes, man! I asked and she said yes, and now it’s official: We’re engaged and have a date to get married. May eighteenth, after the two of us have graduated.”
“Hold on, hold on— When did that happen?” I ask, surprised by the sudden information. “Last time you talked about Daniela, you told me you didn’t know if you were ready for the next step, and now … now you’re getting married? Since when have you been planning on asking her to marry you?”
“Right? I’m as surprised as you are! I kind of just asked her, actually. It was all so sudden. You’re the first person I’m telling this to.”
“Why didn’t you tell me you were planning this?! Gosh, that’s great news, but … I thought you and Daniela were just … temporary, you know?”
“I didn’t plan it! I just saw a freaking ring at a mall and thought it was perfect for her, and then one thing led to another and— Oh my God, what have I done?”
He seems as surprised as I am, as if he is having a Great Revelation at this precise moment. Or a stroke.
“Gabriel?” I ask when the phone goes silent and all I can hear is his loud breathing.
“Hold on.” I hear him pressing something on the phone and then placing it somewhere. “There, you’re on speaker. I need a drink.”
I hear his footsteps, a cabinet opening and closing, and the clink of a glass by the phone. He’s probably having a shot of whiskey, like one of those tycoons in American TV shows who needs something strong to help him relax.
“I proposed to Daniela.”
“Have you calmed down?” I ask, not quite knowing what to say or how to give him advice in case he reaches the conclusion that it probably wasn’t the best idea he’s ever had.
“I proposed to Daniela,” he repeats. “Fuck.”
“Yeah. Can you imagine how jealous Vanessa is going to be?”
He croaks a laugh. “I love Daniela,” he says, and I hear more liquid being poured, the clinking of ice against glass, and the noise of a throat gulping whiskey very quickly. It must be whiskey. He’d never drink wine to try and calm down. Or even beer.
“It sounds like you did the right thing. Do you regret it?”
“Not at all.”
“Okay, well, that’s good. That’s great. No regret is the best thing to feel when you make such a decision,” I say to encourage him.
“Yes. It was an impulsive decision, but a good one. It was the right one. Was it the right one?”
“Of course it was!” I say reassuringly. “You love her, and even though I don’t know her that well, I know you were made for each other. And that’s all there is to it.” That’s the best supportive speech I can come up with on such short notice.
“You’re going to be my best man, right?”
“Of course I am!”
“And who’s going to be my second-best man?”
“Second-best man?” I ask. “What do you mean?”
“It’s custom that your best friend’s boyfriend also gets to come to the wedding, right? I don’t know how these things work, but that’s what it’s like in the movies, so that’s how this is going to be. So, who’s my second-best man?”
“I think you should get yourself a bridesmaid, my friend, because things aren’t really going anywhere around here. My only boyfriend right now is Hal.”
“Hal?”
“Hal Varian, who wrote Microeconomics: A Modern Approach.”
“Ugh.”
“Yeah.”
“And how are things in your life?” he asks, relaxing, thanks to either the whiskey or the change of topic. I know that when he says your life, he means the meds, the HIV, and the new routine. I smile. I love knowing he cares.
“All right” is my summary, because that’s more or less the truth.
“No crises?”
“A different one every day, but I can now deal with all of it without complications. People say it gets better, but we can only really believe that when we start living one day at a time.”
“That’s really good to hear, Ian. It really is.” Gabriel takes a deep breath. “I hope one day HIV will be only a footnote in a life full of good stuff and nice people.”
“It will,” I answer.
I’m about to start asking about Gabriel’s schoolwork and how long until he has to defend his thesis, but I’m interrupted by a ripping sound followed by the clatter of a million books falling on my bedroom floor. Vanessa’s voice comes next in a string of curses that I never thought I’d hear from such a small mouth.
I go to the bedroom and see that the bottom of her backpack is torn, and at least eight dictionary-sized books are scattered around the floor. She’s still cursing, grabbing each one and tossing it on her bed, and then she proceeds to kick the ball of frayed fabric that her backpack has become.
“Vanessa is a bit worked up because the exam is this weekend,” I say to Gabriel, who has gone completely silent and must be curious about the string of curse words on my side. “I have to go.”
“I’ll text her, but tell her I’m sending positive vibes.”
“I will.”
I hang up the phone and start helping my sister pick up the books from the floor. She’s sitting on her bed with a physiology textbook she borrowed from her school library, her eyes a little empty, staring at a random spot on the wall.
“Vanessa, you need to get some rest.”
“I need to study,” she whispers back, then clears her throat and takes a deep breath. “My God, I am so tired.”
I yank the book out of her hands and put it back with the others, then grab them two by two and place them on the table. I turn on the TV, go to Netflix, and start the next episode of Grey’s Anatomy, which she’s stopped watching.
“You have to be less like Cristina Yang, Vanessa,” I say as she sees the episode. Watching this show was always her compromise to let herself stop studying yet still continue to be immersed in the world of medicine. Little by little, I found myself watching with her and becoming invested in these fictional characters. “Come on, let’s watch this.”
“I don’t have a backpack to use for school tomorrow.”
“You can use mine. Just take out my books and leave them on the table.”
“How will you take your things to class?”
“I’ll put two pens in my pocket and grab a piece of paper from someone; that’s all I really need.” She rests her head on my lap, and while we follow the dramatic lives of Meredith, Bailey, and Cristina, she closes her eyes and falls asleep immediately.
+
After my microeconomics class on Friday morning, I decide to kill some time at the mall. The Rio de Janeiro heat is unbearable, and the air-conditioning in that mecca of brand names and unnecessary products is very attractive.
I go to the bookstore and leaf through some books, thinking about buying one but reach the conclusion that I won’t have time to read it. I go to the movie theater to see if there’s anything good playing and end up buying a ticket for a Disney cartoon starting in a half hour. I don’t have much to do, so I go to Starbucks for a coffee, find a seat, and wait for them to call my name.
It’s one of those rare moments when I’m not thinking of anything bad. I think about my finals, about what might have happened between Henrique and Victor, about Vanessa’s stress over her exam, and about what’s in store for Gabriel and Daniela, but I don’t really think of the bad things that have been going through my mind recently. I don’t think of medicine or defense cells, viral load or blood tests. In that gap when I’m thinking about my coffee, I’m just a normal guy, killing time until I catch a movie, who—even though he is currently alone—doesn’t feel lonely. I’m comfortable in the soft chair, staring at the menu attached to the wall with its Refreshers, brownies, and cupcakes. I watch the baristas move around with their cups and liquids and sweet syrups, all so concerned about being efficient that they barely have time to think about their own lives, their futures, and what happiness means to them.
“Ian?” I hear the barista call, and I pick up my coffee. I check the clock on my phone, and when I go back to my seat I’m suddenly aware of how crowded the place is, how everyone is talking over one another, and how the background music isn’t really making the place feel more welcoming.
“Anyone sitting here?” a guy asks, and I shake my head. He smiles and sits in front of me, opens his backpack, and pulls out a book the size of a weightlifter’s arm. It’s a new copy, still shrink-wrapped, which he opens eagerly like a child tearing open a present.
I see the cover and can’t help but laugh when I notice the title.
Microeconomics: A Modern Approach by Hal Varian.
“Some light reading to pass the time?” I say, starting a conversation. I’m not sure what makes me do it. I usually stay silent, preferring to listen to people’s conversations around me as if I were one of those writers who likes to base their characters on the lives of strangers.
He looks up at me and smiles. “For how much this baby cost, it better be more exciting than Game of Thrones.”
“A financial fight for the economic understanding of microenterprises, land production, commodities, and services,” I say in the voice of a narrator, trying to sound dramatic. “The second half in particular is drenched in blood, sweat, and tears, with individual and market demands, elasticity, uncertainty, and the greatest villain of economics: the Slutsky equation.”
“I heard macroeconomics is grander.”
“Nonsense. That’s for people who can’t appreciate the microcosm. It’s like saying Lord of the Rings is better than One Hundred Years of Solitude just because it takes place on a continent instead of in a small village in rural Colombia.”
“Whoa, a literary economist. And people say you can’t meet anyone interesting at a coffee shop.”
I’m a little embarrassed by the comment. Is he flirting with me? I take a better look at him. He’s my age, maybe a little younger, since there’s no hair on his face. He has thick black hair, hazel eyes, and tanned skin. He has a tattoo on his arm, mostly covered by his sleeve, and all I can see is the end of what looks to be a tribal pattern, or a key, or a turtle. Or a tribal pattern depicting a turtle with a key for a tail. Who knows.
“And you’re a freshman,” I say, trying to ignore the fact that he possibly and perhaps maybe definitely for sure just flirted with me. “That or you’re really into Hal Varian.”
“I start next semester. If I get in, that is. I should know in the next month or so.”
“So you’ve already bought the book before you even know if you got into the program?”
“Yeah. It may sound strange, but it’s a thing I do: Every time I try something new, I start thinking about what it would be like if I were already doing it, and I act accordingly. I was at the bookstore, saw the book, and thought, Why not?” He shrugs as I try to follow his unique reasoning. I’ve never heard anyone say anything like that.
“It’s a little risky, isn’t it? I mean, let’s assume you don’t get into that program. The book would be like a ghost tormenting you, reminding you that you didn’t get in.”
“I’m not that much of a pessimist. I have three heavy coats I bought before a trip to New York that I ended up not taking; two tickets to the Kaiser Chiefs concert in São Paulo, which I didn’t attend; and three criminal law books from when I tried to get into law school last year and failed.”
“That sounds a little …” I try to find a word that’s not too mean, but I’m afraid he might take offense.
“Stupid? Idiotic? A waste of money?”
“Yeah.”
“Everyone thinks so, but I don’t mind.” He smiles, and I see he really isn’t offended. His smile narrows his long eyes to the point of almost closing them, and I’m sure his family is native Brazilian or Bolivian, or both. “We spend so much money on useless stuff. This is my useless stuff, and who knows if in the future it won’t do me some good, even if I end up donating it to someone who needs it more than I do.”
“Fair enough,” I answer, checking my phone for the time. “But it still means you’re the kind of person who has expectations about things that haven’t happened yet, and that might not always work out so well.”
I take a sip of my coffee and hear the barista yell, “Gustavo!” which makes him get up and walk to the counter. I assume he’s not coming back, that he must be so offended by my attempt to psychoanalyze him after only a two-and-a-half-minute conversation, but he comes back and sits across from me, holding a green Frappuccino.
<
br /> “They sell kale Frappuccino here?” I ask, curious.
“It’s green tea,” he answers. “I don’t drink coffee.”
That should be a crime, but I don’t say anything.
“Right,” he says, because my expression doesn’t hide how surprised I am. “My mom almost disinherited me when I told her I don’t like it. She said that Colombian children who don’t drink coffee are as offensive as Americans who don’t eat barbecue and don’t believe in meritocracy. But the heart wants what the heart wants, and the stomach wants what the stomach wants. And mine has never wanted coffee.”
“A valid point,” I say, which provokes a smile. I check the time again.
“Are you late for an appointment?” he asks, meddling a little too much. “Or waiting for someone? Your girlfriend, maybe?”
I look at him with my best “You’ve got to be kidding me” face.
“Okay, fine. Boyfriend, then,” he says, and then grins when he notices I don’t take offense.
“A movie,” I say. “I’m catching the next showing. By myself.”
“If I had time, I’d go with you.”
“And who says I’m not one of those guys who prefers to go to the movies alone?”
“It’s a public place, so there’d be nothing you could do to stop me.”
This time, I’m the one smiling. He’s very forward.
“That doesn’t mean we can’t watch another movie some other time,” he adds. He opens the backpack in his lap, grabs a pen from a pencil case, and scribbles something in his notebook. Then he rips the page, folds the paper in half, and hands it to me. “If you feel like it, text me. I also added my handle so you can find me on Instagram, in case you’d like to.”
I grab the paper pinched between his index and middle fingers, not sure how a quick stop at Starbucks has resulted in me getting an interesting guy’s phone number.
This has never happened to me before. It’s almost as if the universe were throwing Gustavo at me. Not that I believe in fate, destiny, or any of that BS.