Текст книги "From What I Remember"

Автор книги: Valerie Thomas

Соавторы: Stacy Kramer
сообщить о нарушении

Текущая страница: 11 (всего у книги 23 страниц)

’m on the 5:25 bus to Buchwald and Center. I know I shouldn’t be. But once I had the idea, I couldn’t stop myself. I can meet Kylie at school and we’ll go home together.

I have two Luke Skywalkers, one Darth Bane, three Yodas, a Poggle the Lesser (which is very rare), and a Darth Vader with me. I forgot my Tavion Axmis. I will not forget Tavion Axmis next time. I should have brought four Luke Skywalkers, because I have lined them all up on the seat next to me and they look uneven. I move the Yodas to the front, but I don’t like it. I put one of the Luke Skywalkers in a fighting position.

“Excuse me.”

Someone is talking to me, but I’m not going to look up.

“Excuse me, may I sit here?”

I’m not looking up. Sometimes I like company, but not now.

“No,” I say. I’m not looking up. Are they gone?

I move one of my Yodas right next to Darth Vader. They are contiguous. I love that word. Contiguous. I think they’re gone.

We’re passing One America Plaza. The top of the building looks like a screwdriver. Every time I see it, I can’t believe how cool it is. I could stare at it all day. The tallest building in the world is Burj Khalifa in Dubai. It’s one hundred and sixty-three stories. Almost five times as high as One America Plaza. Burj Khalifa is also the tallest structure in the world. Which is different than a building. The KVLY-TV mast in Blanchard, North Dakota, is the second-tallest structure in the world, and the CN Tower in Toronto is the second-tallest freestanding structure.

I stare out the window and count buildings. I know Mom will be angry with me that I just walked out of the house, but I need to see Kylie. I’ve never done anything like this before. But Kylie’s never missed dinner without telling me. And Dad did everything wrong. He’ll probably be happy I’m gone.

The bus pulls up to Buchwald and Center. It’s 6:17. Exactly fifty-two minutes. Excellent time, especially in rush hour. But the buses have special lanes. I walk the seven blocks to Freiburg. I know exactly how to get there. Mom and I used to take Kylie to school all the time. I count the cracks on the sidewalk as I go. Twenty-five cracks every block. One hundred and seventy-five cracks by the time I get to the main stairs of Freiburg.

The school is so big and bright, it looks like a castle. I walk up the main staircase. There’s no one around. I try the door.

It’s locked. All the doors are locked, chained shut. I knock on them, hard. Maybe Kylie’s locked inside. Will she even hear me?

A man with a mop opens one of the doors.

“Can I help you?”

“I’m looking for my sister. Kylie Flores.”

“Everyone’s gone home. It’s the last day of school.”

“She’s probably in the library. She likes to read.”

“No one’s in the library. I just finished cleaning the place.”

“She said she was staying late at school, so she must still be inside. Can I come in and see?”

“I’m sorry. School rules. No one’s allowed inside. Hope you find your sister.” The man with the mop shuts the door.

I’m alone. I’m not sure what to do or where to go.

’ve seriously never eaten this much before,” I tell Max.

“I am a beached whale.”

“I feel you, sister,” Max responds.

“You ‘feel me, sister’? Who are you, Snoop Dogg?”

“What? I’m too white to talk like that?”

“Uh, yeah. I’m too white to talk like that and I’m half Latina.”

“Kylie, there’s something you don’t know about me.”

“What’s that?”

“I’m only white on the outside. Underneath, I’ve got a dark, hip, urban rapper center. I’m like a vanilla Tootsie Pop.”

“You’re more like a Blow Pop. With a bright, chewy bubble gum center.”

“Okay, I’m pretty sure that’s offensive. I’m not crazy about the image.”

“Better than being a dumb jock.”

Max raises an eyebrow at me. I know he worries that he is a dumb jock, or that people only see that side of him.

“You’re not one, by the way,” I say. And I mean it. I feel bad for even introducing the subject. I don’t think he’s a dumb jock. Maybe a few hours ago, but not now.

Max and I are lying in a neon orange hammock, strung from two palm trees in Manuel’s backyard, having just finished what seemed like a fifteen-course meal. If I had to write this scene, I’m not sure I’d be able to do it and make it believable. The school loner and the school heartthrob are pressed together on a hammock, high above the harbor in Ensenada, swinging to the gentle sounds of salsa and cicadas. His foot rests on hers, her shoulder pushes into his.

It sounds so cheesy, even I don’t buy it. And it’s currently happening to me.

Somewhere between my second cup of sangria and a long session of singing Beatles songs with Manuel, Max, and a guy named Fresco, Max and I fell onto the hammock. And little by little, our limbs began to intertwine, as if by some will of their own. I’m still thinking about my dad, but less and less. A little girl named Felipa, dressed in a Spider-Man costume, crawled into the hammock with us. She curled up at our feet and fell asleep.

This is probably the closest, physically, I’ve ever been to a boy other than Jake or Will. So far, it’s all pretty innocent, except for a few mildly scandalous thoughts (I’m sure only on my part). Thanks to a nice sangria buzz that I’ve managed to keep going by pacing myself, I’m not nervous. At all. I am wondering what happens next, though.

“I’ve eaten Mexican food my whole life and never once had turkey mole. Are you sure it’s the national dish of Mexico?” Max asks a woman sitting on the grass nearby. They’ve been having an on-and-off conversation for the past few minutes. I’ve been listening in.

“I’m sure. I teach history in high school,” she tells Max.

“Well, then, I guess you’d know. I always assumed it was tacos or burritos,” Max says.

The woman laughs. There’s that easy rapport again. Hanging around Max, I think a little has rubbed off on me. I’ve been chatting it up with everyone here, as if that’s what I normally do.

As Max talks to the woman, I study his face, committing every detail to memory. I may not pass this way again. His thick, wavy locks are the color of straw. His eyebrows arch perfectly and then taper down ever so subtly. He has a tiny mole on his left ear, right above his earlobe. And he has lovely long eyelashes that make him look like he’s always slightly sleepy.

I hear a click.

“This one’s definitely going in,” Max says, pointing at his iPhone. He’s been taking pictures since we got to Mexico. He’s creating an album as a kind of record of the trip. He shows me a photo of a baby gecko clinging to the side of the tree where the hammock is hung. The gecko is looking right into the camera, completely ready for his close-up. It’s really a brilliant shot.

“Let me see what you’ve got so far,” I say, taking his phone. He’s been clicking away, but I’ve barely seen anything he’s taken.

I scroll through the photos. There are so many of me, it’s a little freaky—mostly when I wasn’t aware he was taking them. I can’t help wondering what Lily will think if she sees them.

There’s one of me standing in the bus station, pissed. One of me driving the truck, with my hair whipping in my face, the window down. One of a road sign with an image of a giant rotisserie chicken dripping juice into the mouth of a man. Each picture is artistically angled, deliberate and striking. A perfectly captured moment. Max is way talented. I know it’s condescending, but I’m surprised by this revelation.

“That’s a keeper too,” Max says, peering over my shoulder to look. It’s a photo of me wearing my dad’s yellow soccer jersey. Number twenty-seven. Manuel gave it to me, and I’ve been wearing it ever since.

“I don’t know. I think I look fat.”

“Why do girls always say that? You do not look fat.”

“My arm is bulging out there, and I look like I have a double chin or something.”

“You look great. Even in a thirty-year-old soccer jersey.”

Because of the way he says it, I believe he means it.

I turn the phone around and snap a picture of the two of us. We both stare at the shot. It’s just our faces tilted toward each other. Neither of us is smiling, but we look relaxed and comfortable. Good together. It’s almost too intimate; something about it makes me feel awkward. I’m about to say something snarky to diffuse the moment, but I change my mind when I turn toward Max. He’s staring at me so intensely, I swallow my words.

It hits me hard how attracted I am to him. And not just because he’s gorgeous, which is undeniable. I’m liking the whole package, much to my surprise. He’s not an asshole. It’s funny I couldn’t see it. Makes me wonder how often I’m missing stuff. Or maybe it’s just that Freiburg brings out the worst in people.

We’re friends now, I guess. The way hostages bond during capture, maybe. How long it will last, once we’re free, remains to be seen. But right here, right now, this feels right. It’s just too trippy to even make sense of. He was always the arrogant, silver-spooned, dim-witted jock that ruled the school as a result of his good looks and good fortune. I don’t know how to square that image of him with the Max I’m with now, the smart, funny, kind Max. Was he there all along? Or is it just a temporary deviation from form, a Mexican morphing effect? I think about all the times I watched him strut around campus with his arm draped over Lily’s shoulder, looking so entitled and cocky, and my infatuation deflates a little.

“You always seemed like such an arrogant prick. How is it that you’re not really like that?” Even I’m surprised that I just said that. Nice work. Really subtle. I’m destined to be single forever.

“I’m sure you mean that in the best possible way.” Max laughs. “You always seemed like a psychopathic loner. How is it that you’re not like that?”

“Is that really what you thought of me?” That stings. Is that what I’m putting out there?

“Not really. To be honest, I didn’t think much about you, Kylie. I was into my boys, Lily, and squash. I didn’t have much interest in anything else. Which I guess makes me kind of an arrogant prick. The moral of the story is, always go with your first impressions.”

“You said it.”

“That’s kinda splitting hairs. You said it ten seconds ago.”

“I qualified it.”

“Yeah, but you were hedging. You think I hang out with assholes, so I must be an asshole.”

“No comment,” I say, because, why bother? We’ll never find common ground on this issue.

“You act like you hate everyone. Except Will. And these are people you’ve never spent any time with. So how do you know they’re such jerks?”

“Those were your words, not mine. I don’t hate everyone. It’s just, I don’t find your crowd particularly interesting.”

“But it’s not like you’ve tried with any of us.”

How did I manage to turn what was a perfectly lovely, intimate moment into something closer to an argument? I have a real skill at driving people away. Like father, like daughter.

“It’s not like anyone’s tried with me, either. I know you say Charlie’s a great guy, but I’ve just never seen it. He practically called me trailer trash on the squash court the other day.”

“Yeah. That was way off base, knee-jerk. He was just defending me. He gets pretty territorial about friends. He’s like a big bear, loyal to the core. He once beat the shit out of a squash player who called me a guido fag after I beat him eleven–zero in three straight sets.”

“You’re Italian?”

“That wasn’t really the point of the story.”

“It’s just, you don’t look Italian. And Langston doesn’t sound Italian.”

“My mom’s half Italian. Her last name is Gradassi. I guess the guy knew that somehow. Anyway, the thing is, Charlie is a good guy. You would like each other if you actually hung out.”

“’Kay. If you say so.” I seriously doubt it.

“Look, you’re right, plenty of people at Freiburg are dicks. Like Richie Simson and Lacey Garson. Even I don’t love hanging with some of them. But you can’t just write off most of the class.”

I’d like to agree to disagree, but if I don’t offer more than that, it ends here. We never go into deeper waters, we never get close to bridging the chasm. We’ve come this far, might as well travel the rest of the way.

“I don’t know, maybe it’s easier for me to write people off instead of getting to know them. And then having to deal with them. And their stuff. And my stuff. And all the other stuff that goes along with that.” I’m rambling now. I should stop, but I don’t. I keep going, much to my chagrin. “With Will, I know what to expect. He doesn’t judge me. I don’t judge him. And, honestly, I don’t really want people judging me, and I feel like Freiburg is a really judgmental place.” As soon as I’ve vomited it all out, I regret it. It sounds incoherent and psychobabbly. I feel pathetic and defenseless.

Max looks at me for a moment, quiet. What’s he thinking? That I’m even more of a head case than he thought?

“I don’t know what I’m talking about. I’ve stopped making sense.…”

“No. I get it. We all do it,” Max says.

“Not all of us. Only the most screwed up of us.”

“Everyone’s screwed up. Just in different ways.”

Maybe I don’t have to be afraid of him, now or when we get back. Maybe he is actually a good guy. Maybe I’ll see him again after Mexico. Maybe, maybe, maybe…

“There’s not a lot wrong with you, Kylie, from my perspective,” Max says.

“I wish I had your perspective.” I pull myself up and out of the hammock.

“Where you going, Flores?”

“I’ve gotta pee,” I say. And I also don’t want to talk about this anymore. I no longer have the urge to go the distance. I’ve already over-shared too many times today.

“Well, have a good one. Come back soon. We’ll miss you.”

“Who’s ‘we’?”

“Me and the snoring child at my feet? Me and the gecko? Take your pick, Flores.”

“Are you drunk, Max?”

“I’m getting there. And what about you? Why aren’t you blasted? You’ve never even drunk before, and here you are, all composed.”

“I’m pacing myself. That, and I’m superhuman.”

“Can you grab me another beer? You can carry me home, Catwoman.”

“Back to La Jolla, on my shoulders.”

Max smiles goofily. I smile back at him. The lightness is back. Max resurrected it from the dead. He’s got a gift.

I have a quick pee, grab Max a beer, and find myself wanting to return to him after only a few short minutes apart. I think I’m getting a little too attached. Will is going to be here soon, and this fairy tale will come to an abrupt end. I should gird myself for that reality, but instead, realizing how limited our time is together, I want to ask him a million questions. I want to spend what little time we have left together lying in the hammock. I head back outside, toward Max. I’m going to have to fit a lifetime into the next few minutes. Unfortunately, when I get back to the hammock, Max is passed out. The little girl and the gecko are gone. Max looks too beautiful, sleeping peacefully, slowly swinging back and forth in the breeze, to wake him. I gingerly climb into the hammock, slide in beside him, and stare up at the darkening sky, wishing we had more time, wishing this wasn’t the end but the beginning. But what’s the point of that?

I must have drifted off, because the next thing I know, I see a man leaning over Max, planting a kiss on his lips.

Before I can react, Max opens his eyes, screams, “What the—?” bolts upright, and knocks us both out of the hammock and onto the ground.

“Hey, guys!”

We look up to see Will standing above us waving and laughing. He’s wearing…overalls? Striped denim overalls? Come again?

“What the hell was that, man?” Max asks Will.

“Just saying hello. Seemed like the best way to wake you, sleeping beauty.”

“Will…” I scold.

“Don’t worry. What happens in Mexico, stays in Mexico,” Will says.

“Shit, that was messed up, dude,” Max says.

I stand and give Will a hug. “I’m glad you made it!” I say, wishing he hadn’t gotten here yet.

“Barely. Just by the skin of my chinny chin chin. But that’s a story for later. Much,” Will says.

With the abrupt arrival of Will, whatever spell was beginning to form between Max and me has dissipated, and now I’m back to feeling a little awkward.

“This town seems like party central. We should check it out,” Will says.

“Will, it’s late. We need to head back.” I’m saying what I’m supposed to say even thought my heart isn’t entirely in it. Because this is what I do. The responsible thing. This is who I am. Allowing Will to lead us down the garden path couldn’t possibly be a good idea. Despite the fact that the garden path is calling my name.

“We should say our good-byes,” I say to Max, looking to him for confirmation.

“Yeah, guess so.” I’m surprised to hear the hesitation in Max’s voice.

Still, it’s late. We’ve got to go.

“Don’t I, at least, get a little food and drink? I mean, I know I’m just the driver, but still, the help’s gotta eat,” Will says.

“Suppose we have time for a taco. Let’s get you a plate,” I say, looping my arm through Will’s and walking him into the house. Max trails us.

“‘We’re gonna bring this party up to a nice respectable level. Don’t worry, we’re not gonna hurt anyone. We’re not even gonna touch ’em,’” Will says.

“‘We’re just gonna make ’em cry a little, just by lookin’ at ’em,’” I say, finishing the quote.

“What are you guys talking about?” Max wants to know.

“It’s just some lines from Some Kind of Wonderful,” I offer.

“The old movie?”

“The genius old movie by the brilliant Sir John Hughes.”

“Oookay, whatever,” Max says.

Will has wedged himself between us. Literally and metaphorically. Our ritualistic behavior must seem strange to Max. I’m hoping Will can keep our little routines to a minimum. It’s too much information for Max.

“What are you wearing, Will?” I ask. The overalls might be more shocking than anything else that’s happened in the last ten hours.

“Carhartt dungarees. They’re all the rage in Milano. I picked up a pair in Tijuana.”

“Seriously? What?”

“I needed a change of clothes, and this is all I could find at the border. They could use a major retail infusion here. Someone should get word to H&M.”

“What happened? You drove down naked? Your clothes got ruined? I mean, really, you look insane.”

“Kylie. Leave it alone,” Will warns. I rarely hear that tone in his voice.

“Got it. Let’s get you a nice big glass of sangria and introduce you around.” I will leave it alone, if that’s what he wants. Will is my best friend. He’s trekked all the way down to Mexico to rescue me, and if he wants to dress like a gay farmer, so be it.

Will sniffs at me. “I gather from the fact that you smell like a sailor on holiday that you’ve taken up drinking?”

“Yes. Only in moderation.”

“I’m shocked! Shocked!”

“You’re always on me for not having fun. I’m having fun now.”

“I thought you’d be a bloody wreck. Weren’t you kidnapped? This gives a whole new meaning to Stockholm syndrome.”

“These aren’t the people who kidnapped us. These are my dad’s old friends. And we didn’t really get kidnapped. More like accidental abduction in a truck of stolen electronics.”

“Your dad has friends?”

“That’s your takeaway?”

“That was the most shocking part of that sentence.”

I laugh because Will knows my dad almost as well as I do.

“Apparently her dad had a lot of them. And fans as well. He was a soccer star in Mexico,” Max offers.

Will raises one eyebrow and looks at me.

“I can tell you all about it on the way home,” I say.

Will, Max, and I enter the kitchen to find Manuel’s nephew Juan making a fresh round of sangria. Juan is the poster boy for tall, dark, and handsome. I can practically feel Will’s eyes caressing him, hear Will panting after him. The temperature in the room rises twenty degrees as Will moves in on his target, all focus. Oh God. I brace myself for what is sure to be a debacle.

Juan is so not gay. But there’s no stopping Will once the wheels are in motion.

“Hey, you,” Will says, eyes only for Juan.

“Hi there,” Juan says, perfectly innocuous, almost perfunctory, to all three of us. But somehow Will takes it as an open invitation.

“How are you doing tonight, gorgeous?” he asks Juan, sounding like a parody of a gay man on some Saturday Night Live skit. Max and I share a look, both wincing at the tacky line.

“I’m, uh, good,” Juan says. I can tell he has no idea what to make of the flamboyant Will.

“It’s good to be good. I’m good too. Better, now that you’re here,” Will says, full of innuendo that Juan seems oblivious to.

Oh, dear God. This is embarrassing. Where did Will find these lines? In some dusty old book from 1984?

“Juan, this is my friend Will. He just drove down from San Diego to take us back,” I say.

As Juan turns to grab a few glasses, Will leans in and whispers to me, “So gay.”

“Don’t think so,” I whisper. “Your gaydar is off.”

“It’s never off,” Will says.

“Sangria?” Juan offers Will a glass.

“I thought you’d never ask.” Will takes the glass from Juan, grazing his hand.

Juan looks awkward and quickly moves his hand away. I shoot Will a look, hoping he’ll cease and desist before things get downright mortifying.

“So, are you guys going back to San Diego now?” Juan asks.

“Not quite yet,” Will says.

“But pretty soon,” I add.

“So, what do you do when you’re not making sangria, Juan?” Will asks, polishing off his drink and pouring himself another. Guess we just lost our designated driver. Looks like I’ll be needing a Big Gulp of coffee en route.

“I’m at architecture school at UCLA.”

“Ooooh, I love architects. They have such big buildings.”

Oh Lord, let the floor open up and suck me into the ground. Better yet, take Will.

“Uh, not all of them are big. Some are quite small. It all depends on the client,” Juan says.

“I’m sure yours are very, very big.”

“Yeah, well, I’m still in school, so I’m not really building much other than models at the moment.” Poor Juan looks hideously uncomfortable.

“I bet you’re really good with your hands, all that drawing and building.”

“Yeah, we do take a lot of drawing classes, so, you know…”

“No, I don’t know. Why don’t we go outside and you can tell me all about it.”

I can see Max choking back laughter. This is turning into some kind of strange performance piece. I’m pretty sure Juan’s not enjoying himself. I know I’m not. Time for a curtain call.

“I think we should really get on the road,” I say, taking Will’s hand and pulling him out of the kitchen. “So, uh, hope to see you again soon, Juan.”

“That was awkward,” I say.

“You were freaking that guy out,” Max tells Will.

“He’s gay. Trust me,” Will insists. “He wants me.”

“You’re out of your mind,” I tell Will.

Manuel approaches.

“We’ve got to head back to San Diego,” I say. “My friend Will just got here.”

Will goes to shake Manuel’s hand, but Manuel pulls him into a tight embrace. The guy is a hugger. I can’t even imagine how he and my dad were best friends.

“Promise you’ll be back soon,” Manuel says to me.

“I promise.”

“And try to bring your dad next time.”

“That I can’t promise.”

“You have to go so soon?” Juan asks, suddenly appearing at our side. “I could tell you a little about architecture school,” Juan offers to Will. “If, you know, you’re really interested,” Juan asks.

“I’m really, really interested,” Will responds.

“So, you can stay for a little bit?” Juan wants to know.

“Not really…no…” I say.

“Forever, if that works,” Will pipes in.

“We need to get going. We’ve got graduation in the morning,” Max says.

“You guys could e-mail,” I offer helpfully. As much as I want to stay, I know time is ticking away. We don’t want to get to the border too late. Mom is expecting me. If we lose Will it could be days before we get out of here.

“We could take a short walk, talk architecture, and then you can leave with your friends,” Juan offers.

Before I know what’s happening, Will and Juan are heading out the door.

“Nice overalls, by the way,” Juan tells Will as they walk away.

“I’ve got a kilt in the car. I could change,” I hear Will say.

“Wait. What just happened?” Max asks me.

“No idea,” I say, feeling dazed and confused.

“Is your friend gay, by any chance?” Manuel asks.

“I don’t think there’s anyone gayer,” Max responds.

“You may want to go after them if you plan to get back to San Diego tonight. Juan is, how do you say, on the low down.”

“You mean the down low?” Max asks.

“He doesn’t think we know he’s gay. But we know. We’ve all known forever. We’re just waiting for him to tell us.”

After hearing this, Max and I charge outside, but we’re too late. Will and Juan are speeding down the street and out of sight in Will’s Mini.