Words and Their Meanings (12 page)

27

S
he's still leaning up against the orange stucco building when I come out ten minutes later.

“You totally want to hear what he had to say.”

“Nope. I totally don't,” I respond, plugging my ears for good measure.

“I'll sing it at the top of my lungs, operetta style, if you don't listen to me right this second.”

“You wouldn't.”

Four glass-breaking notes later and I'm yelling, “Okay!”

“He only hasn't called because he feels bad. He said he was pissed at first, but then realized it was stupid to be pissed.”

“Wow. Impressive vocabulary.”

Pinching my lips shut with two fingers, Nat tells me to button up and let her finish.

“He said he thought it would be best to leave you alone
. But then he told me he couldn't leave you alone. Because you've been on his mind, like, constantly. Honest to God, that's what he said. In fact, he said he's never had this happen—where he couldn't get into cooking or whatever and just tune everything out—until now. It didn't sound cheesy, by the way. He didn't even ask to talk to you when I said you were right inside. He just asked how you were.”

She hops up and down a little, triumphant.

“See! Something good! He really likes you, and hello, he could have any freaking girl in Chef Nancy's kitchen. Or could have had. When he still had a job. Eh, this is beside the point. He likes you, and you like him, and together that equals something good!”

“How did he have your number?” is all I say in return.

Nat shrugs. “We exchanged digits when he took us to the alley. And we talked a couple times right after your Gramps … when I was being an awful friend and not calling. He's a good guy, Anna. Don't make trouble exist where it doesn't.”

“I'll keep that in mind,” I say, walking away. I can tell she's standing there, maybe perfecting her sad fadeout shot, but I don't look over my shoulder. Instead I pull out my phone and call Sarah-of-the-stinky-roses.

Above me, thunder rumbles, long and loud. The sky hangs thick with greenish-gray clouds, like it has the flu. Sarah answers just as rain starts falling. And within two
minutes of talking, I've got her. The nervous laugh. The fast “yes” to coffee. The way she held the “o” too long when she said Joe's name. And the last words she says before hanging up: “There's things I want to say.”

It's like he's right here, watching me unfurl his little riddle, wing by wing. Maybe this was his intent all along. To make me guess. To tell me his secret by way of clues, not sobbing confessions.

Maybe there's more I don't know about Joe. Maybe there's more to discover about a person I thought I knew so well, but didn't really know at all.

28

S
ar
ah's already at Third Eye when I get there. She's wearing her blonde-streaked hair in two braids that reach to the top of her tank-top dress. She's also wearing a bunch of silver and beaded bracelets on one tan arm. Three silver rings on her hands. There's a splash of freckles across her nose, which she's twitching a little while fiddling with the string of her tea bag.
She's got that
au naturel
prettiness Joe loved and she's nervous. Strike two.

“Hey, Anna!” she says, and then looks around because we both realize her voice came out all rushed and loud and off key.

“Sarah,” I say with a tight-lipped smile. “Thanks for meeting me. It's nice to see you.”

I stretch out my hand to give hers a squeeze and catch her checking out the bracelet dangling from my wrist. She meets my eyes and quickly looks away.

“I was surprised you called,” she says. “Can I buy you something?”

“Huh?”

“To drink. Can I go order you something?”

“Oh, no. I'll get it. Thanks.”

When I get back to the table with my latte, Sarah's brought over a game of checkers and is stacking the pieces in two neat rows.

“My brothers and I always called checkers smoke and fire,” she says without looking up. “Because the pieces are black and red.”

I sip the frothy milk and tell her I prefer chess.

“Joe was on my mind the other day when my sister-in-law and I were at the mall. One of those all-Christmas, all-the-time stores just opened.”

I raise my eyebrows and nod, to say both “go on” and “so what?”

“Didn't Joe ever tell you the story of Christmastime our junior year?” Sarah's getting animated now, giggling and leaning forward.

“We were partners for a history project on the Constitution. Crazy boring work. So we decided to take a break and went for a walk around my block. One of our neighbors goes a little nutty with plastic Santas and snowmen and nativity scenes. When we passed the house, Joe got a wicked grin and snuck onto the lawn and snatched light-up baby Jesus. We took off running, and eventually ended up driving over to Laura's and sticking it into the top of the snow fort she built in her front yard. It ended up becoming this thing—we stole like, fifty-nine different yard ornaments and ‘rehomed' them. David Paschel? He alone got thirteen Santas one night. We even made it into the
Township
newspaper, as the ‘Christmas Decoration Deviants.' We never got caught. But I'm probably boring you. You knew all those stories, right?”

I take a huge swig of latte. It burns my throat.

“On the phone, you said you wanted to say something to me.” I cut right to the chase. I'm not here to pave a memory (or fake memory) lane for her.

“What?”

“On the phone,” I repeat, trying to keep impatience out of my voice.

“Oh. Right.”

Sarah pulls both braids down and and rocks side to side a little. Then she wraps both hands around her cup of tea and sighs.

“How come you asked me here?”

I'm aware there is a table of sophomores sitting a few feet away who went from hysterical giggling to silent in the last thirty seconds. I can almost hear their ears popping from eavesdrop strain. Hanging out with Mateo made me forget how much most people from my school know about me. I shift in my seat and cast the girls a punk rock-worthy glare. They straighten up, lean together, and whisper.

“I don't know. I guess because no one thanked you for the roses you brought over on the dea—uh, on the anniversary. I just haven't seen you in a while.”

Sarah tilts her head to one side and bites the corner of her lip.

“Don't laugh or hate me,” she says finally, “but I was kinda hoping you had, like, a message for me or something. From him. Maybe like something he never got to tell me … ” Her voice drifts off, retreats into the dream she's playing in her head.

Bingo.

“Why would you think—I mean, you know he and Sameera—”

“I know,” she interrupts. “It's just, well, the last night we stole Santas, I slipped on the ice. He caught me right before I hit the ground, but then we both slipped and sort of fell together and … ”

“Yes?”

Before she can speak again, my phone beeps. I hold my hand up to pause her. It could be Mom.

Except it's Mrs. G from next door. Who apparently thinks all texting must be done in capital letters.

ANNA HI IT IS MRS G I AM WATCHING BEA AT YOUR HOUSE RIGHT NOW AND SHE SAID TO SEND YOU THIS MESSAGE BECAUSE THERE IS A BOY HERE WITH A PLATE OF FOOD. SMELLS
GOOD. THE FOOD. NOT THE BOY. I DIDNT TRY TO SMELL HIM. BEA SAID I SHOULD WRITE LOL. WHAT DOES LOL MEAN? IS IT A SWEAR? ARE YOU COMING HOME? HE SAID HE WOULD WAIT.

I look from my phone to Sarah's eager, waiting face. A scream builds because she needs to finish the story but my fingers have already moved to hit reply: Mrs. G—I'm on my way.

“I gotta go,” I say to a bewildered-looking Sarah. “Something came up. We do need to get together again, though. Maybe next week. There's some stuff I think I want to say to you too.”

I take my cup to the counter and ask for it to go, and then duck out the door, energy from what I maybe almost learned rushing through me. It's pouring now, and my hair is dripping across my bare shoulder by the time I get to my car. I curse Patti for giving me the idea of cutting the neck out of my black T-shirt, and lean over to the passenger seat to ring out fabric and hair and emotion.

Mateo's at my house.

His Jeep is parked at the end of the driveway, as if he wasn't sure he wanted to be there once he arrived.

The three of them—Mrs. G, Bea, and Mateo—are sitting in the living room. He stands up when he sees me. He's wearing a white T-shirt that hugs against him just right. He wipes his hands on his jeans, like he's nervous.

“I brought some tortillas made from my mother's recipe, and fillings—beans, cheese, some chicken—for your mother, because of your grandfather being ill.” He's formal, nodding toward the kitchen. I walk in and he follows. There's a large dish covered in aluminum foil sitting on the counter. The dish has little green vines running across it.

“I also brought some extra masa, with instructions, in case your mom doesn't know.”

I take it and try to peek under the foil, because I have no idea what
masa
means. He steps closer and thrusts a sheet of paper, folded once, into my hand. The writing is neat and slanted. It's the complete opposite of my haphazard scrawl. Penciled illustrations line the sides. Onions and cast-iron pans, peppers and a plate heaped with steaming food, a hand reaching out to it. I'm about to ask who drew these things when Bea pounces in behind us.

“My gramps isn't ill. He's a vegetable. Not like a carrot or broccoli but like a guy who can't eat or walk or talk or even blink. He's got machines that breathe for him and they sound like Darth Vader, or at least that's what I heard Anna tell her friend Nat on the phone this morning. I wouldn't know because my mom doesn't let me see
Star Wars
. But I haven't asked her in a year. She probably would now. Maybe I should see it before I go see my gramps, so I know what to expect. They haven't let me go past the waiting room yet, because they are afraid I'll freak out. I heard Mom say that to my dad.”

She nods and puts her hands on her hips, like she's the most astute seven-year-old on the planet.

Mateo lets out a laugh.

“You're pretty smart, huh?” he says to her. I notice how he bends down so they are eye level.

“Yeah, even though I have to do summer school, I'm smart,” Bea says with a proud grin. The way she smiles at Mateo is shattering my heart, glass against pavement.

“Do you want to see my rubber band collection? It's in my room,” she says, holding out her hand.

He takes it without pausing. They are about to walk up the stairs when the front door opens, and I hear Bea's little feet pound up the stairs at lightning speed.

“Beatrice!”

Super. Dad's here.

“Hi, Gloria,” he says. It comes out as a sigh.

I hear Mrs. G introducing him to Mateo and decide I'd better shuffle out into the front hall.

“Jack,” I say through gritted teeth.

“Anna, don't call me that.” Everything he says, it seems, comes out as a sigh.

He turns back to Mrs. G, who is standing beside Mateo. Mateo, who is standing a little taller than normal. He's got a good three inches on my dad, unless you count Dad's eternally out-of-control hair. Most guys his age would kill for a tenth of Dad's locks. I notice he has on my mom's favorite shirt—a vintage Detroit Tigers one with blue sleeves—and I wonder if he remembers she gave it to him, with a pair of behind-the-plate tickets, for their anniversary five years ago.

“Gloria, I'm sorry I'm late picking Bea up,” he says, rubbing his temples. “I was at the hospital with Tess and I just lost track of time.”

“Why were you there? What's going on?” I ask. “What is it?”

“Calm down, honey,” Dad says. “Your mom just has a lot of decisions on her plate. She called and asked me to come help her sort through some of the options.”

“What decisions? What options? She could have called me. I told her I'd watch for her text or call if she needed anything.”

“Sweetie, it's grown-up stuff.”

“Oh, of course,” I snap. “So you can swoop in and be part of our family again? Lori okay with that?”

Mrs. G sucks in her breath, fidgets with the book in her hand, and quickly excuses herself. When the door shuts, Dad is still staring at me.

“What?” I ask him. It's a dare.

He doesn't take it.

“So, Mateo, you're a friend of my daughter's?” he asks, thumbing toward me.

“I am, sir,” Mateo replies.

“Sir, huh?” Dad's eyebrows rise. He used to tell Joe to always call Sameera's dad sir, out of respect for the girl he adored. And also, so Sameera's dad didn't want to punch his face in for, you know, sweeping his daughter off her feet.

I blush.

“Well, it's nice to meet you,” Dad says, reaching out to shake Mateo's hand. “If you'll excuse me, I have a little Houdini to find.”

He disappears upstairs, and we're left alone again. I walk back into the kitchen and sit on the counter, next to the food Mateo brought us.

Mateo steps close.

“You're here.”

“I'm here.”

“You brought me food.”

“I brought your family food.”

“After I got you fired.”

“After I got me fired.”

I stare at him for a long minute, searching for an explanation. Why would a boy like this want a girl like me?

He moves in a little, draws a circle against my knee with his fingertips. He smells like mint and smoke.

“You're here.”

“I like to help. With food, you know? It's my thing or whatever.”

I wrap my legs around his, and take his hands into mine.

“Your dad,” he says, pulling back a bit.

“Is inconsequential in my life.”

“You don't mean that.” He lifts my hand to his mouth. Kisses my knuckle then moves to the opposite side of the counter.

“You don't know what you're getting into.”

He shoves his hands into his pockets and rocks back on his feet. The window beside him is streaked with rain. Everything outside is bleeding together, a watercolor painting.

“I think I do,” he says, not meeting my eyes.

“Do you know Pablo Neruda?” I ask.

“No, should I?”

“He's a poet. He's dead. But he's from South America.”

“Where?”

“Chile.”

“You know that's nowhere near Mexico, right?”

I look at him and smile a little, because that is exactly what Joe would have said to me.

“Yeah, I know.”

We stand there not speaking. Mateo's waiting for me to finish what I started, to explain why I brought it up in the first place.

But how do I say this without sounding crazy? How do I tell him about Mrs. Risson—how she brought me a book of Neruda poems the day after the funeral? How do I explain the way she sat with me on the front porch and read each one while I watched blades of grass bend with the breeze?

How do I say Mateo reminds me of the poem that cut deepest? The one so full of fear that one break in stillness is enough to bring joy and hope and life?

I don't.

“Never mind,” I say, sliding off the counter and taking his hand. “I should probably go help find Bea. It's a special talent of mine.”

We sort of fall together in a slow, careful way. His forehead rests against mine.

“I'm not going anywhere,” he whispers, before walking out the door.