Are You Still There Read online

  I’m offended (a little) and alarmed (more than a little). “Why are you laughing?” I snap.

  “Oh—sorry.” She dabs at her eyes with a tissue, and now she really does have circles underneath them because she’s managed to smear her eyeliner. “I’m fine, Gabi.”

  “Why are you laughing?” I ask again.

  “Because you sounded like a shrink.” She giggles. “But no worries. Right now I’m fine.” She tosses the wet tissue, now a dark gray, into the trash. “Things are good.”

  “I’m glad.” And then I get curious. “Why are you fine right now?”

  I can tell by the way her lips purse that she’s going to joke around. “Because God made me fine.” She tosses her hair dramatically. “Fine ass, fine face, fine, fine, fine.”

  I catch myself rolling my eyes in the mirror. “At least you’ve got good self-esteem.”

  “No—I’m fine because I have a new boyfriend.” She winks at my reflection.

  “Really? Who?” Super curious. I didn’t know she’d dumped that freshman.

  “Not telling yet. I’ve got to get to know him better first.”

  “Oh, okay.” And I smile. Because I’m thinking of Eric. And Miguel. And wondering if I might have a boyfriend of my own pretty soon. I’m warming up to the idea.

  “Why are you smiling?”

  “No reason.” I try to even out my lips, and I can’t. “I guess I’m just thinking I better ask how you’re doing more often.”

  We’re both still facing the mirror, but she scoots over and slaps my butt. Hard.

  “Ouch!” I complain.

  “You’d have a fine ass too, if you gained five pounds.”

  Now it’s my turn to laugh.

  Chloe’s fine, I reassure myself. She’s not depressed. She’s not the kind of person to draw a noose around the neck of a queen of hearts. She probably just dug through Dad’s stuff, and I did the exact same thing, so who am I to judge? And as to why she looked so upset yesterday? Seeing a creepy card like that would be upsetting for anyone. It’s normal.

  Chloe’s fine.

  Honestly, she’s probably better adjusted than I am. She’s funny, laughing, dating new boyfriends. At least she knows what kind of guys she’s into. I’m clueless. Maybe I just need some experience to know what I’m looking for. I used to swear up and down that mint chip was the best ice cream in the world. Until I tasted double java chip, which is, hands down, a million times better. Maybe I won’t really know what kind of guy is my type until I take a risk and start to date.

  16

  My “risk” comes sooner than I thought.

  I’m not prepared.

  Eric and I sit at the kitchen table talking government and working through some calculus problems. My sister lies sprawled across the couch in the next room. We had a half day today, so he came over right after school.

  Mom keeps buzzing in and out of the room for random things she “forgot,” and after she buzzes out for the zillionth time, Eric leans over and catches my mouth with his. Quick, determined, and mostly close-mouthed—although at the end he pushes his tongue in and it surprises me. I’m stunned, and all I can think is, Did he really kiss me?

  He pulls back, almost embarrassed-like, and looks at me. “You are so pretty,” he whispers, looking at me like I’m not real and he wants to touch me to make sure.

  Okay, so this is awkward. Because what am I supposed to say back? Am I supposed to try to repay the compliment and say something nice to him? And you’re brilliant! Or, You might be cute in a few years. Or, Gee, thanks. None of those sound right. So I say nothing. Instead I just lean back in and give him a peck on the cheek. His skin feels sandpaper rough to my lips, like maybe he had some stubble there that he’d shaved off.

  Eric sits the rest of our study date with this goofy half-smile, and I swear the kiss has vacuumed his brain cells away, because he doesn’t know his government from his English lit. And I’m sitting there thinking, That was all right. Not great, not horrible, but all right. And I’m hoping he can hold on to some of those brain cells and still help me keep an A in government.

  Eric takes off an hour before my helpline shift. He squeezes my hand before he goes and looks like he wants to kiss me again. But Mom is still buzzing around, and there’s just no time for that, so I stand there wondering whether I even want him to kiss me again. Maybe. As long as he doesn’t drool on me.

  But the moment passes, and he wraps his arms around me for an awkward hug, even though my mom’s standing right there. She doesn’t say a word. Maybe if I only date guys with IQs higher than mine, she’ll be cool with it. He heads off, his backpack strapped to his shoulders and looking like it’s carrying a library full of books. For some reason, this is a bit of a turn-off.

  My phone buzzes on the table. Text from Janae. Can’t make it to the shift tonight. Got the flu. Hope I didn’t already give it to you. That means Miguel and I will be on our own.

  Thank goodness the shift starts with a bunch of easy calls. “My best friend’s using drugs, what should I do?” Since we can’t give advice, we just read down a list of referral numbers for counseling and for drug treatment. “My boyfriend broke up with me and boohoo.” Piece of cake. Just listen and validate feelings.

  When Miguel answers the phone, I scoot my chair in so I can reach his notepaper. When he speaks, there is something soft in his voice that lulls me. Maybe it’s just his attempt at being supportive. He speaks in low tones, and I quickly stop paying attention to what he’s saying, so his words run together, but they almost sound musical.

  Ping! Man problems. Need advice.

  “I’ll take this one.” I elbow Miguel.

  “Not sure you’re qualified.” He elbows me back. “You don’t date, remember?”

  Good point. “Well, I’m more qualified than you!”

  Men! What’s up? I type.

  Why do they always seem so nice at first?

  I look pointedly at Miguel. “Okay, maybe you are more qualified. Answer this question: What’s up with this nice-guy act?”

  “Ahem. I can only speak for myself. I am truly nice. Can’t help it.”

  We must have taken too long to respond, because she (I’m assuming it’s a she) texts again. But when they get what they want, they morph into assholes! Explain this to me.

  I look at Miguel. He holds up his hands. “Those guys give men a bad rap. That’s not me.”

  Again, I’m not going fast enough for her. Advice?

  So I’m not actually allowed to give advice. But I can give you a referral for counseling.

  Seriously? I don’t need a shrink. I just need someone to talk to.

  Is there anyone at home you can talk to?

  Uh, no. That’d be why I’m texting you. No one at home would understand. They’re all perfect, and they already think I’m screwing up my life.

  What’s more important is what YOU think. That must’ve caught her attention, because she doesn’t text back right away. What do you think?

  I think I deserve to be treated better than this.

  You go, girl! After I press Send, I gasp. “What if that wasn’t a girl? It could’ve been a guy.”

  Miguel smiles. “True. Good point.”

  Hopefully I didn’t offend him-her, because he-she texted back. Thanks.

  In between calls we decorate the office, joke around, and tack our homemade bracelets to the office walls in a great, big peace-sign shape. Miguel’s arm keeps bumping into mine. I pull away. I feel like he’s got some kind of electric current running through him, and every time he touches me I get shocked. It’s not a bad feeling exactly, but it surprises me, and I’m not sure what to make of it.

  Miguel stands back from our peace sign and studies it. Then he turns and studies me. “So you survived almost a whole shift without your bodyguard,” he jokes.

  “Who, Janae?” Now that’s funny, because Janae’s about my size. “If I wanted a bodyguard, I’d have picked Garth. Besides, I can protect myself.” I go to
sock his arm, but he grabs my hand and pulls me toward him. He smells so clean, like always, like he just stepped out of the shower and his clothes are fresh from the dryer.

  “¿Puedo besarte?” he says, reverting back to his new-immigrant persona.

  “What?” I’m stalling. I’ve had four years of Spanish. I know what that means. I step away. He’s not my type. But what’s my type? And wasn’t I just telling myself to take a risk? To experiment a little to see what I like?

  Miguel’s grinning. Like he already knows I want him to. “Look, I’m not like one of those guys our texter was talking about. I’m a nice guy. I promise.” I see a tiny dimple in his upper right cheek that I never noticed before. “And you are muy bonita. Can I kiss you?”

  His shirt is pretty tight. I try not to notice how his chest presses against it. He looks like he’s fit underneath it—not like he lifts weights, but more just naturally fit. He waits expectantly. Crap. I answer in Spanish, as corny as that sounds. “Está bien.”

  He pulls me in again, and he doesn’t hesitate. I hold back at first, tense. Take a risk, take a risk, I tell myself. I close my eyes and allow myself to relax. Then I’m melting into his arms, my mouth melting into his mouth, and every single hair on my body is standing on end. So electric. The rest of the world blurs and there is only him. His hands cupping my face, moving to my shoulders, and settling around my waist. Our hips touch and my body is on fire. So this is a kiss. I want more. I am hungry for more.

  When we pull away I have no idea how much time has passed. Was that one kiss? Or a marathon of kisses?

  “Wow,” he whispers in my ear. His breath sends tingles down my arms. “We got to do that more often.”

  I don’t say anything at first, just stand there, catching my breath and drinking him in with my eyes. “I think you have a point.”

  That seems to be all the invitation he needs, because suddenly I’m melting into him again, feeling warm and cold and tingly and like I’m floating. Everything I see bleeds into something else, all my senses are on overload, and my thoughts are ricocheting around in my brain. Like I might lose my footing at any moment.

  Even after we stop kissing, the goose bumps last twenty minutes. And the tingles last an hour.

  When I get home, I realize something terrible. I’m a player. I can’t believe I just kissed two different guys in one day. Or, more accurately, two guys kissed me. I’m the kind of girl Beth and I normally hate.

  Both the kisses were nice. But Eric’s kiss was all about the physiology of it—lips meeting lips, tongue meeting tongue. Miguel’s kiss involved all the same body parts, but the end result was tingling electricity. No comparison. Just the thought of Miguel’s minty taste makes my body light up again.

  And suddenly it feels wrong. I feel wrong.

  I can’t be kissing two guys in the same day. Especially not two guys who know each other. That’s a recipe for disaster! It’s the kind of reality-show drama Chloe would love. And the kind I avoid like the plague.

  I’m not sure if I’m feeling panic, or my heart is just racing because I’m thinking about Miguel’s kiss. But I know I have to do something right away. Take a risk, I prompt myself. If I want to try dating someone (and I most definitely do), then I need to decide which one.

  But it’s not a decision. My mind was made up from the moment our lips connected. I want to be with Miguel.

  So I corner Eric at school the next day. And I lie. A great, big, fat lie about why I don’t want to study together anymore.

  I don’t mean to lie. I mean to give him a mostly true explanation about valuing his friendship and not wanting to mess that up. I think through at least five different ways to say it, but none of them sound right.

  And then because I start to tell him without thinking it all the way through, I lie. I say, “I’m just not into guys right now.”

  I see him digest this meaning, and I know within seconds that he thinks I just told him I’m gay. I’m not, of course.

  But I don’t correct it. Letting him believe this about me seems like an easy way to let him down.

  As long as he doesn’t find out otherwise.

  Stranger’s Manifesto

  Entry 11

  I stand corrected.

  I have a friend.

  A new friend.

  Guess it depends on how you define “friend.”

  I send her messages.

  I give her presents, if you can call them that.

  I talk to her on the phone.

  Granted, it’s a tad contrived.

  Oh well.

  Got to take what you can get.

  Besides, she’s a part of my plan.

  She just doesn’t know it yet.

  Because my bomb threat

  Was like a tidal wave,

  Surging, rising, powerful, strong

  But it fell flat. Forgotten already.

  Perhaps the school

  Needs a little reminder.

  17

  EARLY DECEMBER

  Beth takes tiny bites of her turkey sandwich, edging around the crust. “Gabi, as your best friend in the universe, I’m compelled to share my concern.”

  I’m scanning the campus for Miguel. We’re officially “together” but we haven’t transitioned to eating lunch together at school. Mostly because when I picture Beth’s reaction to Miguel, my stomach sinks to my toes. I won’t be able to keep our lives separate for too much longer, because this weekend I’m supposed to go to a family party with him.

  “Seriously,” Beth goes on. “I’m no doctor of course, but I’m diagnosing you with a raging case of senioritis.”

  “This is possible.” And perhaps a complete personality change, because even though I’ve considered Beth a “best friend” all through high school, we suddenly don’t feel that close.

  “You’ve lost your focus. Forgotten your mantra. Remember ‘keep your eye on the prize’?” She pauses appropriately, but I’m still looking for Miguel. “Bruce and I are worried about you. We’re considering an intervention. Right, Bruce?”

  He nods.

  I interrupt. “Bruce, speaking of which, what’s the name of that cute girl by the snack bar? The one who keeps looking at you?”

  Bruce glances up from his lunch. “Katie Smith.”

  “Let’s invite her to sit with us, Bruce. I think we need to expand our horizons. Stop being so separatist,” I say. “Whaddaya think?”

  “O-kay.” He’s easy to please.

  Beth sets down her sandwich. The crusts have been nibbled away. “Gabi, I’ve been wanting to talk to you about this for weeks, and you’re not even taking me seriously.”

  “As your best friend in the universe, I have the right to ignore your advice.”

  “Maybe. But what if you get a B? You’ll never forgive yourself.”

  “Beth, what if we go through our entire high school existence and we never feel like we lived? Think of the opportunities lost. What if we graduate this year and Bruce never gets to know Katie? They could be soul mates.”

  Beth crosses her arms. “They say people change, but I never thought you would. It’s your senior year, Gabi. I just don’t want you to have any regrets.”

  “My point exactly,” I tell her, and then dump my quinoa salad in the trash on the way to introduce myself to Katie Smith.

  I stand in line at the taco cart, the beat of salsa music thumping in my ears. I’m wearing my white strappy sandals, because thanks to Southern California weather, it’s in the high seventies—and I move my toes in time with the beat. I’ve somehow lost Miguel in the crowd, but it doesn’t matter. I’m happy not to know anyone, because it means I don’t have to fake any kind of small talk. I just get to listen to the sizzle of the tortillas on the outdoor stove, to the lyrical words in a language I don’t understand, and to the music I can almost see when I close my eyes.

  Arms slip around my waist, and I feel Miguel’s mouth near my ear. “I bet this is the best quinceañera you’ve ever been to.”

&nb
sp; I get the tingles again, but we’re in public and I don’t want him to think he can get too comfortable too fast, so I turn far enough to sock him in the arm. “You know this is the only quinceañera I’ve ever been to.”

  “Then it’s automatically the best.”

  I breathe in the onions, the spicy pico de gallo, the fresh corn tortillas, the melting cheese, and the fresh ground beef. “It definitely smells the best.”

  “I’ll help you make a plate.”

  “I have eaten Mexican food before. I’m not a complete idiot.”

  “Going to Baja Fresh doesn’t count.” Miguel grabs a white paper plate, the thick kind that can handle heavy food without disintegrating. He shovels on rice, beans, guacamole, and a funky fruit salad with cucumber, orange, and jicama. “You’ve got to try this salad. It’s got a little kick because it’s made with pico de gallo salt, but it’s the bomb.”

  We sit under a large tree with sloping branches. Dried pine-cones have fallen all around, and as we talk, I pick them up and break them into small pieces. Miguel chews slowly. “I hope we see my mom soon so I can introduce you. You nervous?”

  “A little.” Meeting his mom seems like a big step. There’s no way I’m ready to introduce him to my parents. I’m pretty sure they’ll flip. I think I’ll wait as long as possible.

  “She’ll love you.”

  I try a tiny bite of the fruit salad. I cough. “You weren’t kidding. This really does have a kick.” I’ve never had fruit salad that didn’t taste pure sweet. But somehow this wakes up all my taste buds and sends them spinning. “So what’s your mom like?”

  Miguel just looks at me for a moment, a long moment, and his face is as proud as if he’d made the salad himself. “Mi madre. She’s awesome. She’s my idol.”

  “Really?” I’ve never heard anyone say that about a parent. Mostly we all complain. Too strict. Too mean. Works too much. Drinks too much. Irritating.

  “Check this out. She came to this country with twenty dollars in her pocket, and eight months pregnant with me.” Miguel takes a sip of his drink. “She came over twice actually. She got deported when I was in middle school. Took her a couple years to get back over here.” His voice catches. “We’ve been through so much shit together, so I try to do right by her.”