Not Anything (5 page)

“how do i look?”

Marisol’s mom, Leslie, is a psychologist, and she’s usually 100 percent confident, except for tonight. Tonight, she keeps asking how she looks. It’s really annoying because the whole conversation sound like listening to a CD for the millionth time. It’s like this:

M
ARISOL:
Mom, you look great.

Time passes.

M
ARISOL:
Seriously, Mom, you look perfect.

Time passes.

M
ARISOL
(with a really bad French accent): Mom, you are
tres fabulous.

And it’s true, Marisol’s mom does look fabulous.

Tonight is Halloween. The night that Marisol and I rent all the Halloween movies from the video store, curl up on the family room sofa, and eat all the candy that we’re supposed to be passing out to the neighborhood kids.

Even without all the candy (okay, slight exaggeration), I’d still have fun on Halloween. Marisol and I dress up every year. Last year, we were the two crotchety old men from
Waiting for Godot.
This year, we’re paying homage to Lewis Carroll. I’m Alice and Marisol’s the Mad Hatter. Very appropriate, I told her.

“Do you think this outfit is too skimpy?” Leslie asks, indicating that we’ve moved on to the second phase of the evening: The
am I a slut or what?
portion.

Ever since Marisol’s parents got divorced, Leslie has spent Halloween night worrying that she looks slutty, which would be equivalent to calling an Amish girl a whore.

See, Leslie’s super-big on respecting yourself and your body. That’s not to say that she doesn’t make the most of her assets. The woman has buns of steel. She runs every day and takes spinning classes three times a week. She says exercise and shopping are her forms of therapy. She keeps inviting me and Marisol to speed-walk at the mall. Me? Speed-walk at the mall? As if. But Marisol…well, Marisol is on the fast track to becoming a junior shopaholic. And her butt looks pretty tight, too.

“Well?” Leslie takes another spin in front of us, and both Marisol and I try not to giggle. Last year, Marisol’s mom was a cop, and this year, she’s a construction worker. Both outfits were tremendously skanky before Leslie spent twelve hours modifying them. Now they were absolutely puritanical.

“Mom, please.” Marisol pops open the first three buttons of Leslie’s blouse. “They’re just breasts. Let them breathe.”

“I don’t know…Susie?”

“You look great.”

“Yeah? Thanks. I wonder what your father will wear.”

Which shows how little Leslie knows about my father. “He’ll wear Dockers and a polo shirt.”

“Dockers and a polo shirt? You think?” Leslie asks no one in particular.

Leslie invited my father to her friend’s annual Halloween party because (as Marisol put it) she’s concerned that my dad spends way too much time alone (i.e., he’s about to crack up and shouldn’t we pull an intervention?). Whatever. Anyway, the real surprise was that Daddy Dearest said yes.

That’s right. Yes.

I’m assuming that this is his way of thanking Leslie for helping him research his latest novel. It’s a psychological thriller about blah, blah, blah. (Okay, I never really pay attention to what he’s writing.) But still, I have to give Leslie props. I can’t remember the last time my dad went out, even with me.

“You told your dad to be here at seven, right?” Leslie asks for the twentieth time.

“Uh-huh.” Actually, I told my father seven fifteen because Leslie is notorious for being late, and my father is notorious for being overly punctual. I figured if I fudged the numbers, the imbalance of their two personalities would even things out. Clearly, I was wrong. It’s now seven thirty, and Leslie’s still standing by the window hoping to spot him.

“Do you think I should call? Oh, wait. There he is.”

I glance out the window, and sure enough there’s dear old Dad dressed in beige Dockers and a white polo shirt with a sheepish grin on his face.

“Sorry.” My father apologizes when I greet him outside. “I lost track of time…writing.”

“Uh-huh. Is that for me?” I grab for the Godiva bag he’s clutching to his chest like a safety blanket.

“Actually”—he deflects my hands and plants an awkward kiss on my cheek—“I had trouble deciding what to wear. Leslie said to wear a construction hat and faded jeans, but I don’t own faded jeans.”

“But you own a construction hat?”

“Anyway, I’m a college professor.” He points to a pencil tucked behind his ear and a super-tiny edition of
Wuthering Heights
nestled casually in his back pocket. “What do you think?”

“Very original.”

“Yeah?” He seems relieved.

“No.” I shake my head at him.

“Well.” He peers over my shoulder as the door opens behind me. “We’re about to find out.”

“There you are.” Leslie stands behind me and gives my shoulder a light squeeze. “You’re normally so punctual. We were starting to get worried.”

“I’m sorry—”

“No, don’t be.” She pinches his arm playfully. “I’m teasing. What do you have there?”

“This”—my dad thrust the Godiva bag at her—“is to thank you for your invitation.”

“Oh, no thanks needed,” Leslie says, opening the bag. “I’m just so glad you could come. Wow, Godiva.” She smiles brightly at him. “Thank you. That’s very nice.”

“Well.” My father clears his throat the way that he always does when he’s extremely nervous. “Let’s just say that I haven’t been invited out in a real long time. Thank you,” he finishes quietly.

“I’m glad you could make it, Joe.” Leslie touches his hand lightly. “And I like your costume,” she says sincerely. “The book is a nice touch.”

“Is my mom flirting with your dad?” Marisol whispers to me.

“I don’t think so,” I whisper back, my stomach suddenly turning. Is Marisol crazy?

“It looks like flirting to me. And I think your dad is flirting back.”

“That’s not flirting. That’s being polite.”

“No,” Marisol says sweetly, “that’s flirting.”

I follow Marisol’s gaze. What is she seeing that I’m not? Two grown adults can go out to a coed gathering without it meaning SOMETHING. Yeah, sure, my dad was still standing in Marisol’s foyer wearing the same sheepish grin he walked in with. And, sure, Leslie’s hand was lingering uncomfortably close to my dad’s hand so that if they sneezed, they might accidentally touch. But when did that constitute flirting?

OMG, are they flirting?

“Okay, girls.” Leslie kisses Marisol gently on the forehead and hugs me tightly. Which totally pisses me off. Not at Leslie, but at Marisol. I mean, how could Marisol imply that her mother—her wonderful mother—might try to steal, I mean flirt with, my dad?

“Okay. Susie”—my dad pats me twice on the back—“be good, and don’t eat all the candy.”

“I won’t,” I promise, grabbing him by the collar and unexpectedly digging my face into his shoulder.

“Oh, okay.” My dad places two more awkward pats on my back. “Okay.”

“Remember, don’t let any strangers in the house. Don’t open the door for anyone who doesn’t have children, and”—Leslie smiles at the both of us—“no boys.”

“Okay, Mom.” Marisol shoves them toward the door.

“And lock the—”

“Door,” Marisol finishes, slamming the door shut. “Finally.”

“Finally,” I repeat.

“Boys,” she says.

“As if.”

“So, our parents, huh?”

“Whatever,” I mumble, looking out the window. My dad is helping Leslie into the passenger side of his car.

“Let’s put in a movie,” Marisol yells from the family room.

“Coming,” I yell back, but I can’t…not until they’ve driven away.

“i’m ready to quit.”

One hour later, Marisol and I have handed out nearly three-fourths of the candy, and I’m having the time of my life. All the little kids love my costume. They keep calling me Alice and tugging on my blond wig.

“Why?” I’m totally not ready to give up the fun.

“’Cause,” Marisol whines. “We’re not going to have enough candy for all the movies. And I’m sick of seeing kids that we know from school.”

Marisol does have a point there. So far we’ve seen at least ten kids from OG. Some were actually trick-or-treating, which was ridiculous, so we didn’t open the door for them. And others were with a younger sibling. Lisa, a girl from my trig class, showed up with her niece.

“Yeah, well they haven’t all been so bad,” I say, adjusting my wig. “Lisa was nice. But you are right about the candy. We’re running out.” No leftover candy was a possibility that I had not considered, and one, I was sure, that I could not live with. “Okay, we’ll do just one more.”

“You’re getting off on this Alice thing, aren’t you?”

“Just one more. Think of the kids!” I grab my belly and moan. “Those poor, chocolate-deprived, sugar-starved, middle-class kids.”

“You’re crazy,” Marisol says laughing.

“And you”—I slap her oversized hat off her head—“are mad.”

“Funny,” Marisol says dryly.

“I do try,” I respond as the doorbell rings. “What?”

Marisol is eyeing me most suspiciously, and I know why. For most of the night, we’ve been arguing over candy distribution. Thanks to quick feet and fast reflexes, I’ve done 70 percent of the distribution, not that Marisol hasn’t put up a fight. She’s got a fast right elbow, and during our last encounter I took a blow to my side. I’m still slightly in pain, but when Marisol screams, “Doorbell!” and leaps for the basket of candy on the dining room table, I can’t help but spring into action.

“My turn, again,” I yell tauntingly, snatching the basket from her hands. She grabs my blond wig and sends me tumbling backward, managing to catch the basket in midair before it hits the floor.

When I finally get the door open, I’m out of breath and holding Marisol at bay with one hand. “Trick or treat,” I tell a bouncy strawberry-blond mini-person wrapped in a pink tulle ballerina outfit.

“Trick or treat,” Marisol whispers weakly behind me.

“Is that your monster?” I ask the girl, pointing to a six-foot green-eyed monster standing behind her. The little girl nods her head solemnly and then thrusts a plastic pumpkin basket at me.

“Ooh, you remind me of cotton candy,” I tell her, and she does. From her pink bun to her pink dance slippers, she seems fluffed up. “You’re very bouncy,” I tell her, noting the way she hops from side to side. “Good dance moves.”

“Let me look,” Marisol jumps up and down behind me.

“Are you going to be nice?” I whisper.

“Yes,” she answers reluctantly.

“Okay,” I open the door wider, and Marisol squishes in beside me.

“What’s your name?” I ask the ballerina, kneeling down.

“Lucy.”

“How old are you, Lucy?” Marisol asks.

“I’m five.” She holds up five fingers with one hand.

“Wow,” Marisol says. “You’re a big girl. Is that your Daddy?” Marisol asks, pointing to the monster.

“No, that’s my cousin.”

“Okay, well, do you want to say something?” Marisol prods.

“Uh-uh,” Lucy shakes her head eagerly.

“Trick or treat,” I whisper as a reminder.

“Trick or treat,” Lucy says. “I gotta pee.”

“Oh, you’re going for a trick,” I tell her. “That’s clever. Well, here’s your treat anyway,” I pat her bun. “Should we give one of these to your cousin, Lucy? Would you like one, too?” I ask the silent monster. “That’s a good choice,” I tell him when he picks the mini Snickers bar.

“I want one, too,” Lucy yells. “I gotta pee!” She bounces faster than before and squeezes her legs together.

“That’s a funny trick,” I tell her, shaking my head at Marisol.

“Why does she keep doing that?” Marisol asks pointing at her.

“I don’t know. Are you trying to show us a new dance?” I ask.

“Maybe she’s stretching out?” suggests Marisol.

“Or maybe she stepped in an ant pile?” I hypothesize.

“Or maybe,” interjects the monster, “she really has to pee.”

“Spoilsport,” Marisol and I yell at him.

“Do I…?” I stare at the monster. Something in his muffled monster-voice seems oddly familiar.

“Lucy,” the monster reprimands, “I told you to go before we left.”

“That voice,” I whisper to Marisol, “is really familiar.”

“I really gotta pee,” Lucy says, putting her hands between her legs.

“Can she use the bathroom?” the monster asks.

“Sure—”

“Hold on.” Marisol puts her hand out like a crossing guard. “Give us a minute,” Marisol says before slamming the door shut. “What if this is a total setup?”

“The girl has to pee,” I tell Marisol, trying to pull the door open.

“Don’t you think that monster looks suspicious? And if you recognize his voice, maybe he’s one of the jerks from school.”

I look at the monster through the peephole. He really does look suspicious, but, then again, what monster doesn’t? And why do I recognize his voice? I peek out for a second look. Lucy is no longer bouncing frantically, she’s crying.

“She’s crying,” I tell Marisol. “I really think we should let her use the bathroom.”

“Man…” Marisol shifts indecisively. “Okay.”

We open the door. The monster is crouched down next to Lucy, his mask pulled up.

“Isn’t that Danny Diaz?” Marisol asks, turning her head sideways.

And it is. It’s Danny Diaz, standing in Marisol’s doorway in a puddle of pee.

“Wow. Weird,” Marisol says.

“Yeah,” I say, because what else can I say? What are the chances of this ever happening to anyone else but me? “Weird.”

“i really am sorry,” danny says apologetically. “that was
completely gross.”

It’s true, something as small as fifteen minutes can really make a difference in your life. Just look at me now. Here I am sitting in Marisol’s living room with Danny Diaz staring at me and Marisol kissing a five-year-old’s butt in the kitchen. And all of that happened in just fifteen minutes.

And two weeks ago, I was sitting in my living room across from Danny Diaz, having the most intimate conversation of my entire life—and that experience really only lasted like fifteen minutes, too.

And every Wednesday at three thirty, I sit across a library desk and stare at Danny Diaz for an hour. And every fifteen minutes, I can’t help thinking,
What if…?

It’s just a weird coincidence, is all I’m saying.

Sprinkles of laughter tumble out of the kitchen, where Marisol and Lucy are playfully fighting over the exact location to wedge a Snickers bar in the enormous ice cream sundae that they’ve concocted. Guilt always turns Marisol into the ideal host.

“My aunt should be here soon.” Danny looks at his watch. His gaze wanders over his shoulder, toward the kitchen. “You think they’re okay—alone and stuff?” He looks nervous. I’m pretty sure he’s wondering what other accidents Lucy’s planning on having tonight.

“Don’t worry,” I reassure Danny, “Marisol’s got her covered. Thank God her old ballet clothes fit Lucy. I can’t believe how loud she can scream.”

“Yeah, she can be real loud sometimes. It’s a Latin thing,” he says with a wink.

“Don’t let Marisol hear you say that,” I tell him. “She’s totally against the idea that Hispanics are loud.”

“What is she? Cuban American?” he asks.

“Two hundred percent,” I tell him.

“Me, too. How about you?” he asks me.

“With a last name like Shannon?
Puh-leeze.
” I give him a look. “I’m a combo—half Irish from my dad’s side, half Puerto Rican from my mom’s side.”

“That’s weird,” he says. “Shannon, huh? Your dad
is
pale like Casper.”

“No, he’s not.” I toss a throw pillow at him in protest.

“Yeah, he is.” Danny grabs the pillow and tosses it back. I duck so that it doesn’t hit me. “But”—he leans forward and takes in the features on my face—“you have a little bit of color. You must look more like your—”

“So, do you watch Lucy a lot?” I change the subject quickly.

“Sometimes.” Danny gives me an odd look. He glances toward the kitchen. Lucy’s is asking Marisol a thousand and one questions about our costumes and
Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland
. “Lucy’s father left when she was like two, and my Aunt Ana likes for her to have some, you know, male role models around.” He shrugs his shoulders like he’s embarrassed.

“That’s real sweet of you,” I say.

Danny tilts his head to the side, and the light rests fully on his face. I notice that he’s shaved. His curly hair is barely wavy, flattened by the weight of his mask.

“That wig makes you look different,” he says.

Automatically, I tug on the ends to straighten it. I like the way I look in this wig. My hair isn’t so crazy, and my face looks less angular.

“No, it doesn’t.”

“Yeah, it does.” He looks at me, and I feel like he can almost see right through me, which is stupid, I know. It’s just sometimes I feel like I might be able to be comfortable around him, which is a huge step for me. I can barely be comfortable around myself.

He closes his eyes, rubbing his temples. “Would you mind dimming the lights a little?”

“Do you have a headache?”

“Feels like it,” Danny says.

I turn off the lights, and we sit in the dark. He rests his head on the cushion. With his eyes closed, I take in the contours of his face. I imagine what it would be like to run my fingers through his hair, to inhale his scent, to see if he tastes like Zest, to do all those things that I read about in Leslie’s
Cosmo
magazines.

“It’s nothing.” He opens his eyes and catches me staring at him.

“Huh?”

“The headache is nothing, really.” He closes his eyes again and massages his temples.

“Is it a tension headache?” I ask. “Because if it is, there’s this point between your eyebrows here”—I point to the indentation in the center of my eyebrows between my nose and my forehead—“called the third eye, and if you press it just right, the tension should go away.”

“Yeah?” He shakes his head at me. “How do you know?”

“It’s called acupressure. It’s ancient,” I say, my confidence in this subject suddenly shaky. “It’s Chinese.” I add for clarity, “Like from China.”

“That’s like Asian. Like in Asia?” He asks with a smile.

I nod my head stupidly, even though I know he’s teasing me.

“Can you do it?” His voice is low and slippery.

“Me? No…” I shake my head. What have I gotten myself into? “I’ve never actually done it. I’ve just seen it done…to my dad—”

“By a real doctor?”

In the family room, Marisol and Lucy are laughing over a Charlie Brown cartoon special, and I wonder why I’m not with them. Why am I here? ALONE? With Danny?

“No, my mom. She studied holistic medicine in nursing school. She used to do it to my dad.”

“Used to?” He rolls his head along the side of the cushion and opens his eyes. The noise from the television fills the space between us, and I look away slowly.

“Do you think you could do it to me?” he asks.

“Now?” I whisper.

“Yeah,” he says, his voice catching in his throat. “Now.”

“I don’t know,” I retreat farther into the cushions of my seat. “It works on my dad, but I’m not sure that it would work on you.”

“Why don’t we try?” I watch him eliminate the safe space between us. He sits on the floor and, like it’s the most natural thing in the world, rests his head on my thigh.

We are touching.

“I…don’t think I can…” The missing pieces of my sentence float out the open window into the cool October air.

“Here.” He reaches back for my hands. He places them on his forehead between his eyebrows. “Please…” His voice is as thick as honey.

I press my finger on his third eye and hold. My thighs squeeze together. I think,
There is a boy shuddering between my thighs.

And like that—I stop breathing. My heart stops beating. My body takes one huge pause. And I wonder how things like this, unexpected things, can happen so quickly and make me feel so alive.

that’s how marisol finds us. five minutes later, when the
doorbell rings, she passes through our moment and finds Danny still sitting at the base of my feet. When she reaches to unlock the front door, we untangle ourselves.