Not Anything (3 page)

a week later around midnight, my dad and i cross paths in
the kitchen.

“How’s school?” he asks, his face buried halfway in the refrigerator.

“Okay. I’m studying for a trig test.”

Even though my dad and I have shared space for fifteen years, I’m always unsure how to begin conversations with him. I guess it’s because I haven’t had enough practice.

“How’s it going over there?” I nod toward the study, my dad’s home away from home. He spends like 90 percent of his time there, when he isn’t teaching lit classes at the University of Miami.

He shrugs his shoulders. His eyes are red and droopy.

“How’s Grandma?” I ask, partially because I want to know, partially because I can’t think of anything else to say.

“Still forgetful.” He grabs a water bottle from the fridge. “Dad’s taking her to see a specialist on Friday. Hopefully, the doctor will be able to give us some answers.” He shifts uncomfortably on his heels. “Well, I should get back.”

“Yeah.” I grab an apple from the fruit basket. “Me, too.” And just like that, we go our separate ways.

during the year that i was ten, i used to crawl into my dad’s
bed, because I was too scared to sleep alone. And no matter what time of night it was, I always found him doing the same thing—lying quietly on my mother’s side of the bed, his head turned into her pillow.

At first, I tried to get him to notice me. I’d call out his name from the doorway, but then I realized that it didn’t matter if I was there, because he couldn’t see me, not really. So I climbed up on the bed, too, and pushed myself against him so that I could feel the heat from his skin. I lay as still as possible next to him. I rested my head on her pillow. I closed my eyes and imagined that the breathing that I heard next to me—my father’s breathing—was her breathing.

Each night, I pretended. And slowly, very slowly, I learned to sleep again. But not my father. He never slept. Not in that room, maybe not in any room of the house. He never slept. And I wondered if it was because he didn’t know my trick. I wondered if I should have taught him to pretend.

two wednesdays later, i wait for danny in the library. we’re
meeting for our third weekly tutorial, and he’s late. Thirty minutes late to be exact. Which is so unsurprising that…I’m annoyed at myself for being surprised.

It’s not like he’s responsible. I mean, responsible students don’t get behind in their classes. Right? Responsible students don’t need tutors. Responsible students don’t make me wait. ALONE. At school. It’s like having someone stamp
LOSER
in bright red ink on my forehead. Not that I need the stamp.

Where is he? I prop my head up with my fist and write out a list of places where he might possibly be. I come up with the following:

1. He’s decided that he doesn’t need me anymore to pass his midterm, so he’s blowing me off without even saying why.
   
2. He’s a jerk, just like I thought he was, and he’s totally taking advantage of me and my time.
   
3. He’s outside buying me a pack of Combos because he knows how much I love them.
   

The third thought unexpectedly pops into my head. I erase it immediately.

“Wait long?” I smell the stench of sweat and muddy grass long before I hear Danny’s voice.

“You are”—I consult my watch again to gauge the exact extent of his tardiness—“thirty-five, no, make that thirty-six minutes late.”

“Oops.” Danny shrugs his shoulders and smiles, as if dimples were meant to stand in for all apologies.

“Oops?” I repeat.

“I must have lost track of time. I just got out of practice.”

“I can tell.” I lower my eyes back to my textbook. “I can smell you.”

“Huh?” he says uncertainly.

“Look at you.” I point to his sweat-soaked body and greasy, Combo-less hands.

He glances down at his uniform. It clings to him. “A water pipe broke, so the showers were closed. Do I really smell that bad?” He takes a whiff of his armpit and bursts out laughing. “Okay…if the rest of me smells like that, you’re in trouble.”

“You couldn’t smell yourself before you walked in?” I cover my nose with my hand.

“No…” He plops into the seat across from me with a loud
thud.
“Stop all the drama.”

“I’m not being dramatic. Okay? Just open your book. Okay?” I reach for my notebook and turn the page. I head it the same way I have for the last three sessions: DANNY DIAZ in capital letters. Underneath I write:
The Scarlet Letter.
Then I wait patiently (or impatiently, if you count my several sighs of aggravation) for him to locate his book.

“Crap. I think I left my book in my locker.”

“You left your book in your locker?”

It was one thing to show up late, but he had to show up late AND stinky AND unapologetic AND unprepared.

“I’m sorry,” he says, dumping the entire contents of his backpack onto the library table. “I thought I grabbed it before practice.”

“You thought you grabbed it before practice?”

“Yeah.” He tosses aside his cleats and rummages through fifty loose papers. “I don’t have it.”

“But you had your soccer clothes. Your”—I push the offensive cleats away—“cleats.”

“Yeah, and?”

“So you were prepared for soccer, just not prepared for me?”

“What’s your deal?” he snaps.

“My deal?” I repeat, feeling an inexplicable amount of frustration.

“Yeah,” he says, glaring at me. “YOUR DEAL.”

“My deal,” my voice rises impatiently, “is…YOU…”

And this is where I stop talking. I stop talking because I want to say,
You aren’t even sorry. You aren’t taking my time seriously. You don’t care that I’ve been sitting here like an idiot for the last thirty minutes, while everyone around me thinks that I’m a loser because I’m here—alone.

But I can’t say that, can I?

So when I start again, I say, or rather I yell, “You STINK!” which makes every single person in the library turn around and stare at ME.

Danny is also staring at me. “You’re so loud,” he whispers with a smile.

“And you’re so stupid,” I whisper back while I gather my things.

“You’re kidding? You’re leaving again?”

“You,” I force myself to lean forward, “really stink…and you were late and unprepared. I can’t tutor under these circumstances.”

“‘I can’t tutor under these circumstances,’” he repeats after me.

“Don’t mock me,” I hiss.

“‘Don’t mock me,’” he says in a high-pitched, whiny voice.

“I don’t sound like that,” I say hotly.

“Yes, you do.” He raises an eyebrow at me.

“Screw you,” I burst out.

“Oh, okay…”

His tone is playful, but I don’t care. I want to slap him.

“Well…?” He’s laughing openly now.

“Well, what?” I narrow my eyes until I can barely see. Why don’t I just walk away?

“Are you or are you not going to—”

“Just shut up!”

“You shut up,” Danny whispers, “The librarian is comin—”

And that’s when it happens—my first outward moment of temporary insanity. I don’t realize I’ve tossed a hardcover dictionary at him until I see the book flying in slow motion across the top of his head. All I feel is the adrenaline that saturates my brain and encourages me to lean forward to maliciously whisper, “You stink,” before I stalk past the reprimanding librarian and out the green double doors.

“i can’t believe that you tossed the dictionary at him.”

That night, I call Marisol and give her a play-by-play.

“I know! I know!” I screech. I’ve never been so brazen in my life. I am, without a doubt, high on the rush. “I was insane. I was like, ‘Pick your mouth up off the floor, asshole.’”

“You called him an asshole?”

“No, but I thought it.” Actually, I didn’t think it, but it just makes my story sound that much cooler.

“You’re crazy,” Marisol laughs. “Do you think he’ll say something to you tomorrow?”

“Oh, crap.” I hadn’t even thought about tomorrow. To be honest, I hadn’t thought past my conversation with Marisol.

“Well, don’t freak out. He can’t fight you. He’s a guy.”

Well, duh…guys don’t fight girls. Do they? Last year Piper Blythe got into a fight with a guy. He called her a bitch for cutting the lunch line. She called him an asshole for calling her a bitch. He said if the name fits. She tossed her milk at him and the next thing you knew, they were fighting.

“What if he tries to fight me?” I ask Marisol.

“Danny? No way,” Marisol chuckles. “At worst, he’ll get Dalia to knock you out.”

“Thanks,” I say sourly.

We’re quiet for a couple of minutes. Without the hum of the phone, I’d have no clue that we were still connected.

“Marisol?”

“Sorry, I’m having a
Gilmore Girls
marathon. My mom just bought me all seven seasons on DVD. Hey, does Lorelai ever get with—” Her voice cuts out like she has another call, which is strange because she has her own phone line and, as far as I know, I’m the only person besides her dad who has her number. And her dad never calls.

“Do you have another call?”

“No,” she says, sounding distracted, “my phone’s…dying. I…um…have to recharge. I’ll see you tomorrow, okay? Bye.”

“Yeah,” I say to the sudden disconnection.

And then I wonder: when did Marisol get a cordless?

after i hang up with marisol, i’m conflicted. will danny
confront me? He doesn’t seem the type, but then anything is possible—just ask Piper. Should I apologize to him? No way. He’s completely obnoxious.

I dig out my trig book, and this time I try in earnest to study. But I find myself doodling—asteroids falling to earth and little punk girls with heads that explode. It doesn’t take a rocket scientist to figure out that my subconscious is speaking out.

I toss my book onto the floor and roll onto my back. I really should tidy up my bedroom. It’s piggish.

“Are you organized?”
Danny’s question pops into my head.

“Always.”

Yep, I’m a big pretender.

I’m too nervous to clean, so I pick up my guitar and begin to strum it. I mouth the words to a song that I’m working on. It goes something like this:

And that’s about as far as I get. I play a little longer, but I can’t think of anything else. The only thing I can think of is Danny. Why does he keep creeping into my head?

I put my guitar away in utter frustration and turn out my bedroom light.

And that’s exactly how my dad finds me—curled under my covers, sighing so exceptionally loud that for once he can’t avoid me.

“Everything okay?” He stands awkwardly at the end of my bed and gives one of my curls a light tug.

“Stop.” I move my head out of reach.

“How’s school?” he asks

“Fine. Work?” I counter.

He tries to stifle a yawn.

“You know, sleep is actually a good thing,” I tell him.

“I will. Soon.” He smiles, but the smile seems worn. “How was school today? How was tutoring?”

“Well, actually today I had…” I start, but then I glance up and find him staring absently at the goldfish alarm clock perched on my nightstand table. “A great day,” I finish with as much enthusiasm as I can muster.

“Sounds like you have everything under control,” he says.

“Yeah.” I look at his saggy face. I remind myself that I should feel sorry for him. He’s Mr. Robotic. He doesn’t need food. He doesn’t need conversation. He doesn’t need anything, not even me.

“Dad?” I pull him down onto my bed and rest my head on his lap. I keep his hand in my hand. I watch him, the lines that have settled like canyons across his face. It’s so rare for him to be near me—so rare for him to touch me. It’s like he’s slipping away.

“Yes?” His breath smells nice, like mint Listerine. I inhale deeply.

“Do you think we could spend this Saturday together?”

He tries to pull his hand away, but I hold on. “Susie, you know I’m on a deadline. I’m almost done, but until then, I really should buckle down and finish the manuscript.”

“Okay.” I mask the disappointment in my voice. I let his hand go and it hovers above my ear. “Well, maybe then?”

I wait for him to answer, to make a commitment to me, knowing that just like his hand hovers above my ear, the words that I want to hear are there, hovering on his lips.

But the words don’t come. And maybe it’s selfish of me to want to hear them, but I do. So I lie as still as I can and I hope. Even as he presses his lips against my cheek and shuts my door, I hope.