Things I’ll Never Say (20 page)

I tell him about logarithmic expressions, line segments, and trigonometric ratios. He sighs. His breath is sweet from Pop-Tarts. The other day I asked him, “Do you remember what I told you about Heisenberg's uncertainty principle?” And he said, “I'm not totally sure.” That was so witty, I liked him the best of all my BFs. For a minute, anyway.

I said, “Observing quanta affects behavior. Now do you remember?” So he said, “Like when I look into your eyes?” His eyes, BTW, are some kind of not-quite-done gray, like whoever it was painting them just put down the brush. But the whites are the whitest white of any white ever, including the T-shirts on TV ads. I teased him and said, “Will you come to the next Time Travelers' Convention with me?” And he said, “Okay, if we can get back the day before we leave.” He might not be a whiz at math, but he makes me laugh.

Eventually I leave him alone so he can get his homework done and I can catch up on my missed calls. They're always from Rory or Alberto or one of the other BFs, which is fine and I love that, but my dad promised he'd call again and how long am I supposed to wait? Like, forever?

I text the BFs back while Alan puts both hands in his hair and tugs, like the solution to multiplying two binomials is attached to his follicles. I don't do anything until he's finished all the problems and I've checked his answers. If everything is copacetic and if Mom is vacuuming or something so I know where she is and I'm a little disappointed and semi-lonely, I whisper, “Let's play ‘The Seven Bridges of Königsberg.'”

Alan lies on the bed. I unbutton his shirt and draw Königsberg and its bridges on his tummy. My task is to visit every part of Königsberg and cross every bridge only once. I trace the paths with my index finger. He starts to breathe faster. “Dead end,” he whispers. “You'd better start over.” So if Mom is still busy, I do.

I love playing “The Seven Bridges of Königsberg”! I hate for the game to end. I don't like to be alone. If I'm alone, I take out the picture — the one Mom doesn't know I have — and look at it. And if I take out the picture . . . Well, let's just say I text somebody as fast as I can and tell him to call me.

Don't get me wrong. Shawn and Alan are great. But sometimes I want to get on my skateboard, careen down a street where rich people live, and have them call me names. Wolfie (aka Edward Lee) does more radical stuff than that. He meets me at school and tells me about it. Shows me on his phone some insane trick he pulled off.

For the record, Edward is called Wolfie because he's a lone wolf for sure. But the name is super-apt because he's also feral. As in wild and untamed. I'm like the only girl he ever took home. (I told my mom I had to stay after school because I was on the spring dance committee, and she said, “What spring dance? Who said you could go to a dance?” And I said, “Relax. We're just trying to decide between Awesome Eighties and Tropical Para-Dance.”)

When we got to Wolfie's place that day (not to meet his parents or anything lame like that), he just said, “Wanna see my room?” So I said, “Maybe.” We didn't go inside, just around the side of the house. There were these slanty doors that open out like wings and a few crumbly concrete steps and then two or three of his brothers all curled up together. So not a room. A den. I said, “Wow.” He said, “I knew you'd like that.” Wolfie has the driest sense of humor in the world. He kicked a gnawed-on bone out of the way and said, “Looks like we'll have to settle for fast food.” Which we did. Compared to my other boyfriends, Wolfie is über-laconic. We sat at Burger King. Sk8r grrls looked through the glass enviously. I knew they were thinking, “WTF?” He glanced at me, gave this cool little smirk, and took one of my french fries. How did we ever hook up?

Here's how that happened: We're in Biology, okay. Dissecting-a-frog day. I'm done super-quick. Wolfie is by himself in the corner. I show Mr. Rios my specimen, get a pat on the back and another A. Mr. Rios says, “Want to help out a struggling classmate?” I go and stand by Wolfie. He says, “I just keep thinking Froggie isn't goin' a'courtin' anymore, is he?” I say, “Want me to?” And he says — and it was so courtly my knees got kind of weak — “If you wouldn't mind.” So it was ventral side up, pin those little arms and legs down, three quick cuts. “There you go.” He's too cool for a high five. He just extended one semi-grubby index finger; I touched it with mine and something like electricity shot through me.

I never have to tell Wolfie when my Mom is gone. He just knows. I open the back door, he slinks in and stops so I can pour milk into a saucer for him, and then we go up to my room. We sit on the floor, his head in my lap. Mostly I pet him. Nobody has touched him in years and years. Sometimes he sleeps, shudders a little. His arms and legs churn. He whimpers. A couple of days ago when he woke up, he took my hand, kissed it, showed me on his phone some trick called a Dark Slide where he's on this rail like six feet off the ground and somehow his feet are on the bottom of the board, the part where the wheels are, and he grinds along like that until he kicks out and nails the landing. Then he says, “I did that for you.”

Of all my boyfriends, Wolfie is the only one who calls me on the phone and howls. I love that. It's like he's just outside my window in the moonlight, so I'm not really alone.

Alberto doesn't howl like his heart is broken. We've never even been on a date. (My mom says she really doesn't trust musicians because Dad played with a tribute band and toured a lot.) But I see Alberto at school, and he and I manage to talk on the phone constantly. He's
very
passionate. He says I'm Juliet, he's Romeo. I'm Beauty and he's the Beast, I'm Rose to his Jack and Catherine to his Heathcliff. He calls, his voice all husky, and says, “We can never be together.” I choke back a sob as I say, “I know.” I'm only half pretending. Our relationship is all yearning. Brought together by circumstance, torn apart by fate.

Here are the Circumstances: the same school, the same Spanish 1 class. His beautiful eyes with the longest lashes I've ever seen on a boy. His gorgeous accent. Here's the Fate: He's Hispanic; I'm not. He's Catholic; I'm not.

After my mother called his mother, I did get to go to his house right after school once to work on a dialogue for our teacher, Ms. Quinones. His parents were really nice, but his grandmother (
abuela
) sat in the corner, glared at me, and crossed herself about a hundred times. I never felt so Anglo in my life. Or like such a pagan. Our innocent dialogue took on a deeper meaning. It could have been written with a fiery quill, smoke rising from the parchment at every syllable.

¿Cómo estás?
How are you?

(Desperate, burning with unrequited love. You are all I think about.)

¿Qué estás haciendo?
What are you doing?

(Staring out the rain-streaked window. Lying sleepless in the night, clutching your picture.)

Tengo hambre.
I am hungry.

(Hungry for your love, the sound of your name, the touch of your lips.)

Hace mucho frío.
It's very cold.

(Never in my heart, beloved. It is always summer there.)

The stuff in parentheses is what my English teacher calls subtext. I'm surprised everybody in the class wasn't fanning themselves when Alberto and I were presenting our dialogue.

Alberto is kind of a relief from my other boyfriends, who can get a little physical, if you know what I mean. I don't blame them because I'm pretty and popular and know how to put together interesting outfits that are super-cute despite what some skeevy girls in my class say.

With Alberto I can just kick back in my jammies. He calls me every night, puts the phone down, and raises the trumpet to his lips. Then he plays “The Power of Love,” and “Love Will Keep Us Together,” and “I Can't Stop Loving You,” and “Endless Love,” and finally something he makes up on the spot, something just for me, something low and breathy, something wistful and ardent, something I could listen to all night long. But ten o'clock is his bedtime.

After we hang up, I'm in a funny mood. I don't want to, but I can't always help myself. I get out my dad's picture. You know what? I can't exactly remember what he sounds like anymore. His voice, I mean. When he does call, will I know it's him? All that makes me want to cry, but I don't. I text Rory. He's a night person and likes to talk on the phone.

The day I met Rory I was at REI buying sunglasses. He was climbing that wall they've got there and so focused I didn't think he saw me, but the next day at school he stopped me in the hall. He always looked ready to go right up some rock face — tight T-shirt, cargo pants with a carabiner or two hanging from the belt loops, Keens, a cool little goatee with a lot of red in it, and a Mother Earth tattoo on his suntanned shoulder.

He smiled (great teeth, BTW) and said, “What if we go hiking sometime.” You'd think the last thing I needed was another BF, but I heard myself say, “Okay, and if you want to go climbing instead, I'd be up for that.” He shook his head. “I don't climb outdoors anymore. I tried minimal impact for a while, but there's always impact. Chalk, worn-out ropes, bolts in the rock face, even poop.” Maybe TMI with that last item, but it totally fit in with how natural he looked, so I said, “How's Saturday?”

Mom likes it when I exercise, so when I said that I was going hiking, she was all “Wonderful, Stacy. Good for you!” Not that I'm fat or anything, but everybody in the world could stand to lose a few pounds, right? So I rode my bike to the trailhead at the top of Lake Avenue and met Rory.

He wasn't from LA, so he didn't know the story of Queen Califa and about how California was named after her or how she led a bunch of Af-Am Amazons who had these griffins that were trained to kill any man they saw. So I told him.

He said, “That's just a story, right?”

I said that yeah, it was just a story, and he didn't have to worry because I wasn't an amazon and my griffin was locked up at home.

When we secured our bikes, he threaded the chain around his crossbar and then mine until we were locked together. He had this sly smile, and that little beard made him look kind of mythological. I wondered if his ears were pointy under all that hair. I hoped he wasn't a satyr but just a gung ho environmentalist, because if there was a pop can or granola bar wrapper on the ground, he picked it up.

We'd just stopped to get our bearings when I looked around and said, “Follow me.” I led us right off the trail, weaving in and around, climbing a little, scrambling a little, until we came to this grove of trees. It was unbelievably quiet and peaceful. The trees, all of them, swayed together even without a breeze. They were beautiful in a kind of absentminded way, which means they didn't have to try like I have to try just so people will like me.

“How'd you know about this place?” he asked. I said that I didn't know. I just had this feeling.

We sat down for a while. My phone rang and I checked it. I hate when I'm with somebody and he does that, but I can't help it. How pitiful is that? It was just one of my BFs calling because I make him, probably, and not even because he wants to. So I started to cry. Rory was really nice and I liked crying in his arms and his hands only roamed a little and when I said I should probably go home he said he understood and would call me. Which he did. And does.

Which brings me to Marco, who was never really a BF. He was more like the last straw.

After fifth period, I was walking by the auto shop (we have Voc Ed), and one of the gearheads draped over this rust bucket looked up and said, “Hey, cutie. Want me to get your motor running?”

I just looked at him and said, “Gee, it's true, isn't it? Gasoline fumes really can give a person brain damage.”

That just made him start gunning the engine of that piece of junk he was working on, so there was this
RRrrrr, RRRrrrrr
sound track in the background, and I just knew he and his whole crew had seen the entire Fast & Furious franchise way too many times, guzzling Mountain Dew and looking all radioactive from Cheetos.

Just then this big guy slid out from under the car on this little wheelie thing and got to his feet. Marco (he had his name on his coverall) said to me, “They're not the greatest conversationalists in the world, but they're harmless. Let me apologize on their behalf.” Six foot two easy, a spotless blue coverall with the collar up, motorcycle boots, and he smelled like lemons. I told him I could take care of myself, and he said, “I don't doubt that for a minute.” And that was that.

And then — wouldn't you know it. Ten minutes later, out in the parking lot, my bike had a flat tire. I was about to just walk it home when Marco appeared. Again.

He said, “Flat or just low?”

I said, “Probably just low. It's been doing that.”

“I've got a pump on my Huffy. Sit tight.”

Five minutes later, I was good to go. I said, “Thanks.”

“Want to chill tonight?”

It's funny. I didn't really want to, but I was used to saying yes to boys. So I said it.

He suggested, “I'll come by your house.”

“No. I'll meet you at the Dairy Queen.”

After dinner I told my mom I was going to just ride my bike a little. I started for the door, then turned around, and blurted, “Did Dad ever keep his promises to you?”

She took a deep breath. “Why this all of a sudden?”

“Did he? Like when you were first married, anyway?”

“He was a good-looking guy in a band. I tried to be realistic.”

I leaned on the couch. “He told me he'd call me.”

She reached for me. Her hand was warm from holding a teacup. “He always knew what to say. He just usually didn't mean it.”

I leaned in and hugged her. “I'll be right back.”

Ten minutes later, there was Marco, talking to some boys who checked me out. When I cruised up, they slunk away.