Not Anything (6 page)

I turn on the lights. Marisol takes charge. She speaks to Lucy’s mother, makes the proper introductions, returns Lucy’s wet clothes, and ushers Danny out the door. Then she flicks off the light and tells me to follow her. But I can’t. If I move, I might lose the feeling of Danny’s body so close to mine.

So I sit alone in the dark, and, for the first time in my entire life, I experience what it is to ache.

around midnight, marisol persuades me to play truth or
dare. It’s a game that we play on a regular basis. It’s our way of catching up with each other. But tonight it feels dangerous. I make sure to go first. The plan is to steer the conversation past Danny Diaz, past his head resting on my thigh.

“Truth or dare,” I begin, lighting several candles perched delicately on Marisol’s nightstand table.

“Truth.”

“Do you think your mom likes my dad?”

“Yes,” Marisol replies quickly. “My turn. Why was Dan—”

“Really? You think so?” The answer makes me feel uncomfortable. “Why?” My dad is a hermit crab. Why does she like him?

“It’s my turn,” Marisol says, ignoring my question.

“But, it’s a quick question to answer.”

“The rules,” Marisol snaps. “Stop breaking the rules.”

“Fine,” I say with a glare, “but I don’t appreciate your tone.”

“Whatever. Truth or dare?”

“Dare.”

“Huh?” Marisol gives me a suspicious look. “You’ve never picked dare before.”

“Dare,” I repeat.

“Okay, I dare you…”—she gives me a wicked smile—“to drink water from the toilet bowl.”

“What?” Secret or no secret, I wasn’t drinking water from a toilet bowl. “That’s crazy.”

“No.” Marisol stands up. “It’s a dare. It’s supposed to be daring.”

“Well, I’m not sticking my face in a toilet bowl.”

“Yes, you are.”

“No,” I tell her, “I’m not! You can’t give me something really gross as a dare.”

“It’s not gross. My dog drinks water from the toilet bowl, and dogs have the cleanest mouths in the world.”

“Your dog eats her own shit!”

“And she washes it down with toilet water.” She pauses dramatically. “Okay, I dare you…to make out with Danny Diaz.”

“You can’t dare that—”

“Why? Because he’s super-ugly, right?”

“I didn’t say that!” I protest.

“So…then he’s cute?”

“The whole school thinks he’s cute. It’s not my opinion,” I exclaim. “It’s a fact!”

“Well,” Marisol says calmly, “according to the rules you can’t back down on a dare that’s not gross. So this Wednesday when you tutor him, you have to absolutely make out with him—”

“You can’t force me to make out with some guy on a dare.” My voice rises. “And you know that we have a professional relationship. A professional relationship!” I scream so loudly that Lola, their dog, starts howling outside.

“A professional relationship? Hah!” Marisol points accusingly in the direction of the living room. “Since when does ‘professional tutoring’ involve sitting with your
pupil
between your
thighs
?”

“He had a tension headache! I was applying my fingers to his third eye.”

“More like his third leg—”

“Wh—what?” My mouth flops to the floor. “That’s just gross.”

“Well, hey,” she says in a whiny voice, “where can I get a dumb, hot soccer player with tension headaches? I want one of those!”

“So you admit he’s hot?” I thrust my finger accusingly in her face.

“Hellooooo?” Marisol flicks me in the nose, and the tension cracks.

“You’re such an über-bitch,” I tell her.

“I know.” Marisol plops down on her bed, and we both bust out laughing.

“Were you really going to make me drink toilet water?”

“Yep.”

“Make out with Danny Diaz?”

“Yep.”

“Why do you think whenever we use his first name in a sentence, we follow it with his last?”

“Because it sounds cool,” she says.

“Yep.”

“So, scoop.” Marisol curls up in a ball and tucks her pillow between her thighs. “What’s going on between you and Danny Diaz?”

“Nothing…”

“C’mon,” she prods.

“Nothing…I mean it.”

“Then take truth,” she says.

“Okay”—my upper lip trembles—“truth.”

“Do you,” she asks quietly, “like Danny Diaz?”

I hesitate, which is all but verbal confirmation of my feelings. A part of me wants to say yes, but the feelings are so new that I’m not exactly sure how to own up to them.

“I like tutoring him.” I give her the safest reply I can muster.

“Hmm…” She fixes her eyes on me. “Okay, just answer yes or no to the following questions. Okay?”

I nod yes.

“You liked touching him?” she asks slowly.

Did I like touching Danny Diaz? I think about my hands coursing through Danny’s soft hair. I inhale the palm of my hand to see if I can still smell him. I nod yes.

“Did he touch you?”

“Yes.” I look up at the ceiling. I remember Danny’s hand reaching for mine.

“So, duh”—a grin flashes across her face—“you like him.”

I nod my head because it’s true. I like Danny Diaz.

“Now,” she says with a wicked smile, “the question is, does he make you tingle?”

“Don’t be stupid.” I throw a stuffed animal at her, which she skillfully dodges. “People don’t tingle.”

Marisol gives me a doubtful look.

“Have you ever tingled?” I ask.

“This isn’t about me. This is about you.”

“Whatever,” I say, because of course Danny doesn’t make me tingle. But when I’m around him, I do feel something else. I guess I feel okay, like really, really okay, which is saying a lot.

“Why are you so excited about who I like?” I bury my face in the part of her comforter that smells like strawberries.

“I’m not.” She purses her lips like she’s thinking.

“Are you coming off a sugar high?”

“No…I’m just happy for you. Is there something wrong with that?”

“No, except there’s nothing to be happy for.”

“Not yet”—she gives me a strange smile—“but soon.”

In the candlelight, Marisol looks a lot like her mom. They both have eyes like saucers, long narrow noses, and swollen pink lips. But it’s the symmetry of their faces that makes it work. It just all adds up. And sometimes, like now, as the light flickers across her face, Marisol can be breathtaking.

Not like me.

“Do you think I look like my mother?” I ask Marisol.

“Huh?” Marisol rolls over on her bed and looks at me. “What brought that on?”

“Oh”—I stare at my reflection in the mirror opposite me—“I don’t know. Do you think that I do?”

“Well…” Marisol stares at me for a long time. “I don’t know.” She tilts a candle so that the melting wax drips onto her skin. “It’s been a long time, you know.”

“Yeah,” I say quietly, “I know.” I close my eyes and try to conjure up an image of my mother. But I can’t.

I can’t.

wednesday, november ninth.

IT HAPPENS. The world, specifically Ryan Rosenbloom, figures out the one thing that I already know. Marisol is beautiful.

“I said yes,” Marisol sighs and smiles. She is in heaven. We’re eating lunch in Siberia, which, technically, is a canal five minutes away from school.

Her head rests on her book bag. Her hand stretches to the sky, tracing a cloud that passes overhead. All around us ducks screech, diving after crumbs thrown from the old man’s bag.

“What do you think his name really is?” Marisol nods toward the old man.

“I thought we agreed it was Carlos,” I tell her impatiently. I want to get back to our prior conversation. I want to know more.

“God. What is it with you and your stereotypes? His name could be Bob. How do we even know he’s Hispanic?” She raises an eyebrow inquisitively as if we’re discussing philosophy or some other great big mystery of the universe.

“You’ve seen the way he dresses. The guayabera, the straw hats…I guess he could be Bahamian or Jamaican.” I shake my head. “Stop trying to change the subject.”

“The lake is absolutely lovely today.” Marisol eyes Siberia. She’s practically glowing.

“It’s a man-made canal,” I tell her. “There’s nothing lovely about it.”

“Yes, there is.” She smiles again, and I want to shove my sub down her throat. What right does she have to be so happy? What right does she have getting asked to homecoming? I didn’t know the thing existed until today when Marisol told me that Ryan Rosenbloom asked her.

“You should go,” she tells me all casually. “It’ll be fun.”

I look at her eager expression, and I want to crush her. “Let’s see,” I say, my tone equally casual, “I’ll just select one lucky guy from my many admirers, find the perfect dress, and have an absolutely
lovely
time.”

“You don’t have to make fun of me.” Her voice oozes deflation.

“You’re right, I don’t, but I am.” I choose my next words carefully. “Marisol, what’s happening to us? We don’t do dances.”

“We,” she says, her voice slightly clipped, “don’t do
anything.
That’s the problem.”

“That’s so not true!” I say, but maybe it is? “Besides, didn’t Ryan’s best friend call you ‘brace face’ for all of seventh grade?”

Marisol’s eyes narrow. “Ryan hasn’t been best friends with Jeff Henderson since eighth grade. So what’s your point?”

“Well, Ryan never defended you. That’s my point. Seriously”—my voice drips with false concern—“how can you trust a guy like that?”

“Well”—Marisol squishes her eyebrows—“correct me if I’m wrong, but you never defended me either.”

“Yeah”—I squish my eyebrows back at her—“but that’s because Jeff used to call me ‘caterpillar face.’ And”—I rub the now hair-free space between my eyebrows—“that was a very traumatic experience for me.”

“Whatever.” Marisol smiles victoriously. “That makes Ryan and you one and the same.”

“Whatever.” I pout in silence.

“What’s your problem?”

“Nothing,” I tell her, which is a lie.

I watch Carlos. Or Bob. Or whatever his name is. I wonder if he ever went to homecoming. Or maybe he’s one of the last people in America who understands what it’s like to never have a date? But that doesn’t make sense, I remind myself, because he has a daughter. We’ve seen her out here with him. So he’s had at least one successful date.

So now I know that there is absolutely no one left in America besides me who understands what it’s like to be without a date, or worse, to be without the hope of dating.

I give Marisol a sidelong glare. Marisol used to understand everything, but now she wants my father to date her mother, and she wants to go to freaking dances and sit with the Jewish clique and forget me.

“You’re sure?” she asks.

“Sure about what?” I toss out the attitude.

“Not going. I think Ryan’s cousin Jared doesn’t have a date.” Marisol’s voice trails up hopefully. “Or at least he mentioned that to me before.”

“That must have been one long conversation.” Today is the first day Marisol ever mentioned talking to Ryan, but now she was using words like
before
?

“Why?” she looks confused.

“For him to feel comfortable enough to mention his lonely, half-retarded cousin.” I watch her shift uncomfortably on the grass. “I’m just saying he must have felt extremely comfortable with you.”

“Well…” She picks nervously at a weed.

“Well, what?”

“Ryan’s been calling me since the middle of October.” She doesn’t lift her eyes from the weed.

“That’s like a month ago,” I say slowly.

“I know.”

“So you’ve been keeping this from me. Why?”

I search her face for clues. When did we become the type of best friends to keep things from each other? What happened to our truth nights, to knowing everything? Why the secrets?

“I don’t know.” She shrugs her shoulders. “I don’t want to keep stuff from you. Just, lately, I want to
do
stuff. I want to go out. And you always want to stay in.” She lifts her eyes back to mine.

I don’t know what to say. I mean, what can I say? It’s kinda true. But it’s not my fault that I don’t want to go out. I just don’t like crowds. I don’t like people. People are…well, they can be scary sometimes.

“But why couldn’t you tell me that before?” My voice cracks, just a little.

“I don’t know.” Marisol taps a finger under my chin so that I’ll look at her. “I wanted to wait until…”

“Until what?” I prompt her.

“I thought for sure that Danny would ask you to homecoming. I thought that if Danny asked you, well then you might really go. And we could do something fun for once.”

“Oh.” I’m spinning. My mind is processing like a hundred thoughts but one sticks out: she thinks we never do anything fun together. She’s bored of me.

“We could still go to the dance together,” she says.

“Oh.” There’s not much else to say.

“I just wanted us to belong for once.” Her voice wavers.

“Oh.”

“Is that all you can say?” She snaps.

“No,” I say rather quietly.

The truth is there is a lot more that I could say, like
What’s wrong with you? When did you stop liking me, start lying to me? Where are you going? Where am I going? Are we going to stop being…

No, I can’t say that. I can’t even
think
that.

I study her carefully. I try to think of one moment in my life that she has ever let me down (not hurt my feelings, but actually let me down), and I can’t. So I suck it up. Marisol has the right to be happy, even if it gives me heartburn.

“I think it’s great,” I say finally.

“Really?” She gives my hand a gentle squeeze. I bite my lip to stop myself from saying,
Don’t go. Don’t leave me alone.

“Yeah, I really do.”

“Good.” Marisol smiles, and her blue eyes twinkle in the sun. “I’m super-excited,” she says.

“Yeah, it’s great.” I nod my head and force a smile.

But I don’t think it’s great. In fact, I think the whole thing sucks.