Every Girl's Guide to Boys (6 page)

“Did you just get
home?” he asks. “I told you to text me.”

“Oh,” I say. “No, I’ve
been here for about an hour. Sorry, I was doing Trigonometry homework.” It is
not a sorry
sorry
, but a perfunctory
sorry,
and I don’t know why
I’m even apologizing for doing homework—when has it ever been a crime to
do homework? (Of course, I know that homework is not the real issue here. But I
am tired and sad and confused and I feel like crying, and I don’t know what
else to focus on.)

“That’s okay,” he says,
like he is making an effort to be mature and understanding about this, like I
am a wayward kid he has to be patient with. “Would you like to have coffee with
me now? I can pick you up.”

Did I not just say I
was doing homework? I struggle to put at least a hint of a smile in my voice, “I
can’t, Nico. I have to do my homework.”

“That’s okay,” he says
again, in the same patronizing tone.

“Okay,” I echo, just to
keep the conversation going. I wonder why I can’t think of anything to say to
him. After twenty years of marriage, my mom and dad still don’t run out of
things to tell each other at the dinner table. Usually, they’d ask me and
Justin first how our day was. I’d say something about school, and Justin would
give us a recap of a whole episode of
SpongeBob SquarePants
he had watched that
day, laughing over the funny parts himself before actually narrating what
happened to Patrick or Squidward or Plankton. And then my dad would turn to my
mom and ask, “How was your day, dear?” and my mom would tell him about one of
her students (you’ll know who her favorites are for the semester because she
talks about them more often), or about a novel she’s reading that she was
absolutely sure my dad would love. My dad would then tell her about a new
customer in the restaurant who promised to visit again, or about a regular one
who keeps coming back and bringing different sets of friends with him. My
parents do this every night at dinner, and although the stories tend to overlap
and repeat themselves, they never seem to get tired of hearing about the details
of each other’s day. I wonder how some couples can do that—be together
for an entire lifetime and not get bored with each other. I wonder how you keep
track of the bigger picture, your marriage, above the errands and deadlines and
all the little things that stress you out every day. I wonder if Nico and I
will end up like my mom and dad. They say children who were born to parents who
stay happy through the years will always choose love over hate, laughter over
anger, and forgiveness over resentment, no matter what. I wonder whether or not
I shall prove this true.

Nico tells me, “Well,
you should probably go back to your Chemistry.”

“Trigonometry,” I
correct him.

“What?” he asks.

“Trigonometry,” I say.
“I never said I was working on Chemistry.”

“Well, you should
probably go back to your Trigonometry, then.”

“Why did you think
that?”

“Why did I think what?”

“What made you think I
was working on Chemistry?”

“Nothing.”

“It can’t be nothing.”

“I don’t know, I
thought I heard you say Chemistry.”

“I never said Chemistry.”

“Yes, Chrissy, we’ve
already established that.” I can almost see him gritting his teeth in
frustration, and the fact that he is getting frustrated with me is making me
feel frustrated, too. “Why is this such a big deal to you?”

“It’s not a big deal,”
I lie. “Look, I just...”

“I know, I know,” he
says. “You don’t have time for me right now. Go. I’ll talk to you tomorrow.
Bye.” He hangs up and I am left wondering why if I’m the one who has to go, I’m
still the one who ends up feeling abandoned. I am left wondering how Nico can
alternate back and forth between making me feel like I am special and beautiful
and worthy, and making me feel like...this.

But I don’t have to
wonder why it was such a big deal to me: It bothers me because he hears
Chemistry
when I say
Trigonometry
, because he hears
I don’t have
time for you right now
when I say
I have to do my homework
; and yet he doesn’t
hear
I
think that’s an awful idea
when I say
That sounds like a great idea
. It is a big deal
because he hears things I don’t say, but never when I need him to.

Rule number 6:

Learn to listen.

I wake up
on a Sunday morning to the sound of all-out bawling coming
from the front yard. Oh no, did Justin fall off his bike again? I knew I should
have bought him those knee and elbow pads. Worried, I jump out of bed, take the
stairs two steps at a time, and run outside. Justin is sitting on the grass,
his face a scary shade of red, contorted into an expression that can only be
described as a hysterical sort of upset. He can barely breathe from all the
screaming, and he is clutching clumps of grass and dirt in his fists. His light
blue shorts are stained with mud, and his shirt is soaked with sweat. Mom is
crouching helplessly beside him, trying to calm him down.

“What happened?” I ask.
Justin is a generally well-behaved kid and rarely throws tantrums, so this is a
cause for alarm. I can barely hear myself above his crying.

“We went next door for
his playdate with Gio, only to find out they were gone,” Mom explains.

“What do you mean,
gone? Gone where?”

Mom pulls me aside and
whispers, “The guard at the gate says Mrs. Diaz drove a loaded van out of the
village last night, with Gio in the front seat. Gossip travels fast around
here, and apparently, she caught her husband with another woman. They had a
huge fight, things got ugly, and now she and Gio are moving to Cebu to stay
with her sister for good.”

 
“Oh my God,” I say. I feel myself
involuntarily plopping down on the grass as well. The Diazes seemed like a
lovely, picture-perfect family, so this was extremely shocking news. They lived
in a nice house, owned a nice car, dressed up in nice clothes. They seemed
content and cheerful, and they had warm smiles and friendly greetings for
everyone. From an outsider’s point of view, they were a portrait of happiness.
I wonder what the rest of the world looks like from
their
perspective, and I
wonder how they had managed to keep up their pretenses when the very structure
of their family was crumbling from within. Justin and Gio have been best
friends since they were toddlers—literally growing up together—and
I understand now why my brother is so devastated. I stroke his back. “It’s
okay, sweetie,” I tell him, trying to make my voice as comforting as possible.
“Don’t cry, please.” It breaks my heart watching him, because really, how do
you expect a five-year-old to deal with being suddenly abandoned? How do you
explain to a little kid that abrupt changes and unwelcome surprises are two of
the most consistent curveballs life will throw at him? I continue stroking his
back, and this seems to soothe him a bit, because his bawling eventually turns
to sobbing, and his sobbing quiets down to whimpering. He looks up at me and
Mom with big, innocent eyes and asks, “Is Gio ever coming back?”

Mom and I glance at
each other. She says softly, “No, honey, I don’t think he is. I’m so sorry.”

Justin’s lip starts
quivering, but he takes a deep, brave breath and doesn’t cry again. Instead, he
wipes his tear-stained face with his dirt-smudged shirt, then waits for me to
stand and pull him to his feet. He takes my hand and lets me lead him back
inside, lets Mom help him change into clean clothes, and lets me feed him Honey
Stars in bed, the way I do when he’s sick or sad or not feeling well. I resist
the urge to crawl in under the covers with him. He drifts off to sleep in the
middle of the day, and I stare at him wistfully, wishing I could shield him
from all the
pain in the world, before
tucking his blanket under his chin, kissing him on the forehead, tiptoeing out
of the room, and carefully closing the door behind me.

 
“You know what
your problem is?”
Rickie asks me. I know she’s not really asking me, because my answer will not
matter to her, because she’s going to tell me what my problem is anyway. I do
not need Rickie to tell me what my problem is. I know what my problem is.

Anna pipes in, “She
doesn’t know, Ric. Tell her.” I gave them permission to come over because they
promised not to gang up on me, but both of them are clearly enjoying putting me
on the spot. We are seated around the dining table, eating peanut butter
waffles, and technically trying to patch things up.

“Your problem,” Rickie
says authoritatively, “Is that you don’t even know you have a problem. You
think everything will be okay even if you don’t actually get up to do
something, you think things will work themselves out naturally.” I don’t know
where this is coming from, and why she thinks she has a right to say this,
although for as long as I’ve known her, Rickie has always been bossy and a bit
of a know-it-all. I should be used to her acting like this, except it’s no
picnic when the target is me.

“That’s ridiculous,” I
say. “Of course I know there’s a problem.”

“Oh yeah?” She raises
an eyebrow at me. “Have you talked to Nico about his new career path?”

“No,” I reply. “Not
yet. Besides, where he wants to work and what he wants to do with his life is
his choice, not mine. And I don’t think it has anything to do with me anyway.”

“Really, Chrissy?”
Rickie says in a voice that should be used when speaking to a bunch of
three-year-olds with learning disabilities. “You think it’s just one big
coincidence? You think he’ll show up for his first day of work and be like,
‘Oh, hey there, girlfriend! How’s it hanging? Silly me, I totally forgot you
studied here. Isn’t this the coolest? I can make you
bantay
every day!’ Come on,
Chris. Even you can’t be that naive.” I know I should be royally pissed at her
because a) she is making fun of Nico, b) she just called me naive, and c) by
“naive,” I know she meant “stupid.” But I find her mockery amusing rather than
insulting, and I have to stifle a laugh because a) she just made Nico sound
like a cross between a
kikay colegiala
and a stoner surfer dude, or a Teenage Mutant
Ninja Turtle, b) Nico would never say “make you
bantay,
” and c) Nico would
never use the word “girlfriend” in that context. Actually, now that I think
about it, he might never use the word “girlfriend” in reference to me, because
“let’s take things slow” could mean “I don’t ever want
commitment,” and this realization is not funny at all
.

“You really think it
has nothing to do with you?” Anna asks. “Or with Nathan?”

“I would like to
think,” I say, in a controlled, even voice, “that I know Nico better than you
do.” There. I have pulled out the Us Against the Universe card, and nobody can
argue with that.

 
“This is not a competition,” Anna tells
me. “Of course you know Nico
better
.
But do you know him
enough
?”

“We grew up together,”
I remind her.

“Yes,” Rickie says.
“And then he moved away.”

I look down at my soggy
waffle, take a few bites, and chew slowly, letting the three of us simmer in
our own silence for a few minutes. I am trying to come up with a valid response
to Rickie’s last statement, and the best I can manage is, “But he’s back now.”
I sound whiny and self-absorbed, like someone who is used to having everyone
cater to her demands the minute she makes them, used to everyone working around
her versions of the truth. I almost expect them to reply,
He didn’t come
back for you
. But we all know he could have, maybe just not for the right
reasons.

Anna waves the white
flag first. “Okay. We’ll leave you and Nico alone. But we hope you know what
you’re doing.”

“I do,” I say firmly.

Rickie
looks like she wants to push the subject, but instead, she says, “So are we
done fighting now?”

I smile. “The question
is, are you done grilling me to a crisp now?”

Anna
smiles, too. “You felt like we were grilling you?”

“Of course we weren’t
grilling you!” Rickie exclaims.

I
jump up from my chair, rubbing my butt and cringing. “Really? ‘Cause that sure
felt like the hot seat!”

They groan at my lame
joke, but I start giggling, and pretty soon, all of us are doubled over in
laughter. Then, like a corny scene from a teen movie, we get up and squeeze
ourselves into a cheesy group hug, and it feels like my best friends are back
to being on my side again.

Most people’s problems
revolve around their inability, or
unwillingness, to listen.

Exhibit A is this girl
named Megan, who always asks me for advice but never seems to take it to heart
(actually, she never seems to take it, period—all she does is argue with
me). I don’t know why she keeps writing to me, but I do know she’s one of the
site’s most loyal visitors, which makes it hard to get mad at her and tell her to
stop wasting my time. This is how a normal correspondence between us would go:

Dear Chrissy,

      
I saw you
talking to Nathan in the canteen the other day. I know it’s none of my
business, but you guys seem miserable without each other. Don’t worry, I’m not
judging you. It was just an observation.

      
Anyway, the
real reason I wrote is because I think my best friend Kevin is in love with me.
I say this because his world seems to revolve around me—he’s always
fixing his schedule around mine, changing his plans just to be with me, and
basically being willing to do everything for me. I have a feeling if I tell him
to drop out of school and be my homework slave, he’d agree in a heartbeat. I
don’t know what to do. I don’t really like anybody else right now, and I could
sort of see myself with him, but I’m scared I’m just taking advantage of him,
that I just keep him around because I like the attention. I don’t want to be
that kind of girl. It doesn’t seem healthy or fair, and I’d like to be able to
set things straight.

Love,

Megan

Dear Megan,

      
Don’t be
too hard on yourself. It’s not like you’re forcing him to do all these things
for you. He’s doing them voluntarily and sometimes we just need to take things
as they are. Sometimes we just need to trust that other people’s intentions are
good and true, and be thankful that there are people who love us, instead of
doubting their motivations and checking behind their backs for hidden agendas
all the time. You’re not being selfish, and you’re not using him. The very fact
that you’re writing to me for advice is proof that you care for him, too.

But what you
need to ask yourself is this: do you deserve everything he’s been giving you?
Sometimes, fairness is not strictly a matter of reciprocity—I’m sure he’s
not asking you to fix your schedule around his and change your plans just to be
with him. Maybe all he’s asking for is that you show how much you appreciate
him. Another thing to consider is that maybe he’s treating you
just right
; maybe it’s
not too much. Maybe you’ve just been around jerks all your life, and you’re not
used to someone treating you the way you should be treated. Think about it.
Good luck, Megan. I wish you well.

Love,

Chrissy

Dear Chrissy,

      
Thanks for
your speedy response. I hate to disagree with you, but unfortunately, I don’t
think anyone else our age is mature enough to understand the concept of
fairness that goes beyond reciprocity. I get your point, that just because he’s
doing all these things for me doesn’t mean he expects me to do them for him as
well. However, I’d just feel too guilty leading him on when I’m not even sure
if I like him as more than a friend. And as for me being around jerks all my
life, I hope you don’t take this the wrong way, but isn’t that a bit harsh
coming from someone who’s dating a guy who sneakily but publicly stole her from
somebody else?

Peace,

Megan

See? She. Does. Not.
Listen. I don’t even know what to say to her next time. Maybe I should just
pretend I haven’t been getting her letters.

Exhibit B is Justin. He
knocks on my door and calls out,
“Ate
, are you busy?” I am browsing through
all the other letters in my inbox, but I turn off my computer and open the door
to let him in. He always drops by my room before going to bed, and I smile
because he looks adorable in his red and white striped pajamas and fluffy teddy
bear slippers. He settles into my purple beanbag and pointedly asks, “Why did
Gio leave?”

“Oh,” I say. “I’m not
sure, sweetie. I think his Mommy and Daddy were having problems.”

“What problems?”

My parents have never
fought in front of us (I don’t think they even have serious, major fights at
all), so I struggle to think of a way to make him understand that doesn’t
involve outing Mr. Diaz’s adulterous ass. “Well, you know how sometimes Daddy
teases Mommy too much about her tummy, and Mommy stops talking for a while?
It’s sort of like that.”