Heartbreak Histrionics -- Part 1

He had a feeling his was going to be an unwelcome face inside the Pavilion.

Four months had made this place uncannily foreign turf. Like a soldier returning home from war or a dad from a protracted business trip—not that he would know what any of those felt like—this experience felt phantasmagoric. Would they still recognize him? And if they did, what would they think? He steeled himself in the back seat of his Über ride, his foot tapping an erratic beat on the clean-swept car mat as he gazed through tinted window at the overhead marquee.

“This it, bub?” said the driver, knocking him out of his distressed reverie. It was his way of saying, pay me and vamos.

 “Yes,” Josh snapped back, his voice somewhat tinged with retaliation. Then, after a brief pause, he added apologetically, “Sorry, boss. You were the bomb.”

He exited the vehicle and as he closed the door shut, he thought he heard the driver mutter nutty pendejo, but maybe it was just his ears deceiving him. They had a habit of doing that.

Josh was never good at goodbyes. But he was worse at this—picking up where he’d left off as if only a very long weekend had passed. Reading people was too difficult. People were fickle and enigmatic. Girls? Worse. Teenage girls? Theworst. He reminded himself who he was here to see. A kind, sweet girl; a little 12-year-old kid who wanted nothing more than to see her big brother in the audience tonight. He wasn’t her biological brother, of course. Josh and Vi just had that kind of relationship. But Josh sensed that he wasn’t really here to see Vi, no matter how much it pained him to say so. He was still, after all, a horny 18-year-old…man? No, that didn’t sound right.

He still saw her in his dreams. The irony wasn’t lost on him…he’d mustered the will to block her number and unfriend her on social media, but her memory still crept into the most private of places. Phoebe. He choked on the name. It sent his stomach into a flurry he couldn’t quite assess. It started off like butterflies, an innocuous, adolescent heartache and slowly matured into something sinister, ruining his appetite, burning his head with some invisible, purging heat until, snapped back to reality, he found himself in a cold sweat, shivering at the vestige of that irrepressible fever. No, this wasn’t heartache. Not anymore, at least.

            He did his best to distract himself from the harrowing possibility that he had become a total, incorrigible fuckboy. In vain, he deceived himself into thinking that he saw more in Phoebe that a fat ass and a pair of tits. Let’s see…there’s her personality (insipid), her smile(perfect, post-braces), their bond(surface-level). Alas, what he really liked about her was, well…to put it bluntly, she didn’t look fifteen. He’d told her at the end of summer that if she found someone else next year, he would rather she follow her heart. Attending different schools made this sort of teenage romance an improbable affair. Never…never could he have seen himself as the one to end the blissful fervor.

Did he regret the breakup? Absolutely. It was hard not to when he was reminded of what they had every day. Sure, he’d cleared house, expunged her smell from the bedsheets of his mind, drowned the taste of her blossom lips from his parietal lobe with Lysol, but the scaffolding all remain unchanged—theater class, mutual friends. The Pavilion.

            He handed his ticket to the usher. “Second row to your left,” she instructed, motioning behind her. “Enjoy the show.” Josh smiled back gregariously, wondering if she could detect his whirlwind of anxiety and pretentious machismo.

            “Well, there he is,” uttered a voice from inside the foyer. He could recognize that self-assured lilt with his eyes closed. It ushered forth a wave of memories. Of hot, summer afternoons on the scorching sand. Of cool summer evenings lounging poolside. Of Phoebe. Josh cursed silently to himself. It’s tough having the same best friend as your ex. 

            Josh plastered on a congenial face and turned to greet his friend. Riley was thronged by Mitchell, a fellow high schooler and Mrs. Rylan, the mother of another of Josh’s exes. All three beamed at him. Josh breathed a sigh of relief. These were people he could handle.

“Been a while, my man,” Josh said, affectedly. It had been more than a while, but this was a game he and Riley played—this clamoring for insouciance. Their relationship was an enigma to those in the Pavilion who had never seen two teenage boys cleave to each other as they did. Was it a bromance? Was it a brotherhood? Occasionally, Josh would pick up earfuls from those who envied what Josh and Riley had. Josh couldn’t help but laugh, not out of scorn or pride, but simple incredulity. There was no place in PV so proud of its group-centered ideology — “the Pavilion family,” “a second home for thespians,” etc. – yet so ridden with lonely adolescent vagabonds blindly grasping for semblances of affirmation. Josh couldn’t fathom why so many chose to remain strangers when they could open up as he had done to Riley.

Mrs. Rylan took her leave. She had neither the need, nor energy to comprehend the complicated energy between Josh and Riley. Plus, this was a boy who had emotionally wrecked her daughter, guiltlessly dumping her with a list of insecurities as extensive as his ego. She refused to harbor resentment for a teenage boy (how petty that would make her), but she would not suffer anything more than disingenuous small talk with him either. Mitchell lingered, simmering with jealousy, but displaying only a warm repose. He could never have what his best friend had with Josh.

            “He’s dressed like an e-boy,” Mitchell said with his eyes trained on Josh, vainly reeling Riley back into him with esoteric lingo Josh could only assume was his subdued way of disbarring an intruder from overstaying his welcome.

            Riley chuckled. “I don’t think he knows what—” he started. “You don’t know what an e-boy is, do you?” he said to Josh.

            Josh shook his head coolly.

            “Like an emo-boy,” said Mitchell, still glaring at Josh. Josh couldn’t help but detect the smugness in Mitchell’s voice as if he were relishing in the pride of having caught him unawares. Riley glanced sidelong between the two of them and then, as if recognizing his centrality to the conflict, summoned up a deep, cordial laugh. There was an awkward pause as Mitchell released Josh from his choking stare to shoot Riley a questioning glance. 

Josh glanced down at his paper ticket. “Well, I’d better be off. Need to find my seat,” he said. Josh started off for the nearest door and then, with his eyes fixed on Riley, added suavely, “I’ll catch you later.” He couldn’t really tell who he was talking to, but out of his periphery, he could swear he caught Mitchell grimace. Mission accomplished.

“Wait! Don’t you wanna sit with us?” pleaded Riley.

“Naw. Can’t give up my front-row seat, can I? Where are you, the mezzanine?” 

A sheepish grin spread across Riley’s face.

“Hey, I’ll catch you at intermission,” repeated Josh, with a pat on Riley’s shoulder. Riley nodded in concession. Then, his nose crinkled. 

He leaned into Josh, inquisitively, and sniffed.

“Smells like college grad,” he said with a wink.

...

Like Any Normal Day

         ***

   Every morning is a race to get ready. Mommy says that if I’m downstairs before Katlyn is, I can go play with my bike or my baseball bat before school. As I brush my teeth, I try to decide what I will do today. Bike or baseball, baseball or bike? Both sound fun.

            “On any normal day, you would always be the first one downstairs in the driveway,” begins my family friend, Caroline. At 5’2”, I dwarf her in size, but her strict, Singaporean, tiger mom mentality could reduce me to a sorry puddle of broken self-esteem any day.

She continues, “You had already eaten, got dressed, brushed your teeth, did everything. And you would use that time waiting for Katlyn and mom to just play. You’d get your bike out or baseball bat or soccer ball or just run around or do bubbles or do chalk on the driveway. And that used to annoy your [twin] sister intensely. Because she would come down and she would see you playing, but she couldn’t play because she had already made you guys late, and you guys had to jump in the car. But, it was quite a sight to see your sister’s face change when she saw you playing outside. And she, just, at the age, at five, didn’t understand that if you got up early, ate when you’re supposed to eat, got dressed in a reasonable amount of time, that you would have time to play. In her mind, she thought that mom was being unfair.”

            Daddy steps in the bathroom to say hello. His gigantic frame fills the doorway. I gurgle back a reply with a mouthful of toothpaste. The white, foamy liquid overflows and dribbles down my chin as I smile back at him. He always smells so good. He looks good, too, with a t-shirt and workout shorts. Mommy says Daddy works out every morning before work. 

Daddy chuckles at me and leaves me to finish getting ready. I like when Daddy laughs. When I grow up, I want to be just like him. 

I turn to my mom. I know this is not a day she wants to remember, but I need her to start talking.

“It was just a normal wakeup, going to school day,” she starts, matter-of-factly. “Daddy and I always got up early, earlier than you and made sure we were up and showered and dressed by the time we got you guys up. I think Caroline came over that morning.

“You guys went downstairs and I think I was straightening upstairs. I’d made your breakfast already and I think Caroline was sitting at the table with you and Daddy and Katlyn. You were already dressed for school, and I was in the kitchen making sure your lunches were packed and making sure you had what you needed for school ready.

“And then I remember Daddy saying, ‘Oh, I have a headache, I have a headache, I have a headache.’

 “He moved from the dining room to the living room and sat in the big, blue chair. Yes, his head was really hurting, really hurting. And then went into the living room and I had asked him do you want something hot? Something cold to put on your head? And he said, ‘No, no.’ And he was lightly groaning because his head really hurt.”

“Your dad was in that little lazy boy lounger with Katlyn on his lap,” added Caroline, “and I knew by the sound of his voice that he was irritated like Katlyn was annoying him. But I didn’t know at that point that he was suffering from a headache.

“And then there was some conversation about calling Artiesta, and then after that, Artestia said to call the paramedics. And at that point I said, ‘Okay, I need to take you guys to school.’”

I want to play now, but Caroline says we have to go. That’s not fair! I’m all ready and Katlyn hasn’t even had breakfast yet! I put on my best pouty face. Usually that does the trick, but today, Caroline fixes me with a stare I know means trouble. I give in.

            Kindergarten isn’t much fun. It’s school, but it’s pretty boring. I can’t wait for mommy to pick me up.

            My mom continues, “I called Artiesta, who was a nurse, our neighbor. And she talked to the dispatcher after she took daddy’s pulse and looked at him. And then the paramedics arrived and daddy’s doctor in the meantime returned my phone call and said that daddy was just having a bad case of vertigo. And the paramedics came and checked him and put him on the stretcher and they let me ride in the ambulance with him.

“And then on the way to the hospital, they had stopped working on him.”

After four grueling hours of kindergarten, we’re out! I scan the pickup line for our white Ford and see it rolling up behind a line of cars. I call to Katlyn. This is our ride home. 

But as the car inches nearer, I see something wrong.

Mommy’s not there.

“It was a normal pickup,” says Caroline. “I prepared you in that I said there’s people over at the house and mom has something very important to tell you. And you were just like your normal self, you and Katlyn, just yabbering in the car.

“You were the first out of the car, you ran upstairs, and I was waiting for Katlyn. And by the time I walked up, I assumed mom had told you what had happened.”

I run upstairs from the garage. I have so much to tell Mommy and Daddy and I want to beat Katlyn to the chase, but when I open the garage door leading into the house, I realize there are more people here than just Mommy and Daddy. 

“I think there were several people there by then,” recounts my mom. “I think the ladies that Daddy worked with and I think Mary Ellen was there and Artiesta maybe, I’m not sure. Oh, and the Dunns. Was Mrs. Dunn there? I’m just…”

She trails off, her brows furrowed in concentration. I can tell the cogs in her brain are moving a mile a minute, and this whole story is rapidly exhausting her. Caroline helps out.

“I don’t remember any of the other people, but I remember Mr. Dunn being there. Oh, and Michelle was there,” says Caroline.

My mom nods and continues, “And Caroline brought you guys in…and this is the hard part.” Her voice cracks. She pauses for a long second, looking past me rather than at me. Her lips quiver and I almost take the words right off her tongue.

“And I had to tell you that daddy had gone to heaven.”

            Daddy’s in heaven?

            Her voice is now reduced to a whisper, “And you guys were so calm about it, so good about it. And then I remember Mrs. Dunn gave Katlyn a bath and everyone just kind of took care of us and tried to keep everything as normal and calm as possible for you guys. But you guys were so good.”

She smiles, sadly, but she talks as though her heart were full. As an afterthought, she remembers, “And you know what you said that was so cute- oh gosh.” 

For the first time during our interview, I hear her laugh. It’s a startling, saturated giggle that surfaces in spite of her swelling throat.

“You said, ‘God musta wanted somebody who liked to talk.” Because Daddy liked to talk. It’s the total truth, it was adorable.”

I’m fighting with all the frail machismo I have in me to steady my quavering voice, but I’m failing miserably.

“And…what happened after that?” I say, nasally, choking on every word.

Caroline chimes in for my mom, “You turned around and you saw Mr. Dunn and you asked Mr. Dunn if he knew how to sword fight. And then Mr. Dunn said sure. And he took you upstairs and the two of you were sword fighting.

“That was it, because I guess the adults had already discussed—I wasn’t around—that the best thing for children is to keep their day as normal as possible, you know, you go about your normal activities.”

I don’t get why Daddy can’t sword fight with me. He said he couldn’t this morning and he’s not here to do it now, but at least Mr. Dunn is here. 

Mr. Dunn’s pretty good, too, but not as good as Daddy and definitely not as good as me.

It’s been over thirty minutes now, and my mom looks like she’s just finished an Ironman. The skin around her eyes has swollen a pinkish-red and her grey eyes, usually so clear, have gone glassy. Her face glistens with a sheen of sentimentality from an all-too-real trip down memory lane. She looks just as she might have that day.

She trudges on, “I was sitting in daddy’s chair and somebody had brought me tea. And I had a blanket over me. And someone brought me warm socks. And everything had been left just as it was that morning. Oh, and you and Caroline and Katlyn and I were going to sleep in the bed together. And Katlyn started suddenly crying and I had to take her into her room because it was starting to upset you.”

“Did you ever cry that day?” I ask, gently.

“I don’t think I did, I think I was just in shock. Your body goes into shock.”

Caroline speaks up, abruptly. It’s as if something’s been on her mind for a decade and she’s only just beginning to express it now.

“To me, it never occurred to me that that would be the last time I would see your dad. Because it was just a headache! I thought he would just be treated and the headache would subside by itself and that would be it…”

I miss Daddy. I wonder when he’s coming back.

“I miss him,” I blurt out. I can’t really help myself. I always wonder how different my life would be now, were he still here. At how many swim-meets would he have been there to cheer me on as I took home yet another medal for the win? At how many theatrical performances would he have come to bellow his bravos from the front row? I know what my mom always says is right, that he’s never really left my side and if he’s not here in person, he’s here in spirit. Sometimes, I get a tingly feeling that he’s looking down on me, saying, “I’m proud of you, son.”

I suppose that’s all that really matters.

“I do too,” my mom says, as her eyes, brimming with the pain of memory, squeeze out one, final, sparkling drop.

2016

            I knew a girl once. I now know her as a mistake, but it was a mistake I was willing to make for reasons I have yet to discover. In the time I knew her, I loved her the way one enjoys the thrill of a fleeting high. We made as much of our time together as we could, but there was only so much to squeeze out of our tiny, teen romance. In the blissful darkness, we blindly toyed with each other, gentle caresses that hinted at something more—I was almost convinced we’d had it all. 

            Later, looking back, I shone a light on all the broken promises, unfulfilled milestones, and lies upon lies upon lies. It disturbed me just how much I couldn’t see when I was caught in her embrace.

            But, oh, those lips. Who can ever forget the taste of black cherries? Or that forest of curling hair, seductively bursting with the scent of heaven (or hell?), too much it was too good. Too much, it was overwhelming. Too much, it could kill grown men. I wandered in anyway. 

            She was my biggest and best mistake all wrapped up in one delightfully excruciating year. It was the year I had my first girlfriend, the year of my first kiss, the year of my first break up. In just twelve short months, she brought out the best of me and she brought out the worst. She knew me better than I did, and for that, I will never forgive myself.

Winter

            Unlike most love stories, it started in the winter. Out of the ashes of crinkling leaves and skeleton trees grew two hearts, pierced together with a poison needle. On the day she invited me to her sister’s birthday, she was the last thought on my mind. Her soft smile was still inextricably imprinted on the preceding school year, when we had said our final adieus. She was to attend boarding school in Switzerland, a natural byproduct of wealthy and busy parents. I was to embark on my first year of college, four years prematurely that is. 

            We hadn’t spoken much in the intermediate time. She had called once in the fall, begging for me to stay in touch, but besides that, our interactions were largely perfunctory. She would send a picture of her dorm room and in exchange, I would cursorily catch her up on the latest in L.A. She would wish me a Happy New Year and I would reciprocate. But, one winter’s afternoon, that all changed.

            A zephyr blew cold air through the wind chimes on the porch of my small townhouse, and from my room, I relished in the light clanging of metal on metal. When my phone dinged, I could barely distinguish the noise.

            “Hi, are you free tomorrow night?” read the text. “My sister, some of my family and a lot of her friends are going to a movie to celebrate her birthday because we will be away on the actual day, do you maybe want to come?”

            Trust her to ruin my plans. “Tomorrow night,” I was to see a play with my mother, who had reserved tickets months ahead of time for the two of us. But, at the moment, I knew—or thought I knew—where my proprieties laid.

            “I’ll see you tomorrow!” I texted back.

            When I arrived at the AMC theater, I quickly found her among the mass of shuffling bodies all gathered for the celebration. It didn’t take me long to figure out why she had invited me: she had no one else.

            Later that night, upon returning to her house, we snuck upstairs to her room while the remainder of party guests entertained themselves downstairs.

            “My mom’s in a good mood, so she’s letting us be alone tonight,” she told me. I wasn’t sure what to make of her comment.

            We sat, watching a horror movie, my arm around hers. Somehow, it felt as though we had never left each other. Those interceding months between when I saw her last and now became one terribly long night, swept away with the coming of this party and the horrific images flashing before us. We had awfully little to say to one another, but all to do.

            She sealed that night with a kiss. The kiss was…average, but the seal was deadly. I couldn’t see my surroundings well that night—the room was washed solely in the soft glow of the TV screen—but somehow, she had led me into a bed of quicksand. Resist her and I only fell further. 

Spring

            We didn’t talk much in the Spring, but we texted…a lot. It was clear that she had me under her thumb, but I derived a sort of pleasure from my pathetic inability to keep her out of my mind. Those were the days when every incoming text pulled at my heartstrings and every time it wasn’t her pulled even harder. Long hours I would sit by my phone restlessly, my mind preoccupied on our scheduled FaceTime appointment due to begin any minute. I would wait for her call and of course it would never come.

            Finally, she broke the silence.

            “Alright, so I have an idea,” she texted. “I think we should just be friends until I get back.” I could see my heart in the palm of her hand. She squeezed and it bled. If she wanted to, she could even make it burst.

            “Just friends. Just until I get back,” she added. “Quick break, only 5 five weeks.”

            Only five? Oh right, summer.

Summer

            How could I have been so stupid? 

            We sat on the beach together, the warm, moist sand curling around our fingers. Only an inch of space separated our bodies, but something within in me held back from closing the gap. The inch between us was small but scorching. 

            Malibu Beach had been blessed with the best weather there was to offer that day. The waves lapped gently along the powdery shore. The air was cool and the sun shone brightly on the water, making it sparkle. Why had she chosen to tell me now? Her words were white, hot, and irritating, entering one ear and darting out the other—maybe my body was allergic.

            “I just wanted to get it off my chest,” she concluded.

            Silence cut through the void between us, spreading an inch into a mile.

            “So let me get this straight…these breaks you asked me about weren’t even breaks? They were just whenever you felt like-”

            Don’t say it, don’t say it.

            “Yes,” she interrupted, a little too loudly. “I’m sorry. You don’t have to forgive me.”

            Another silence.

            Could I forgive her? Could I let her get away? All that time I’d been giving, giving, my heart bleeding for hers and all that time she’d been coquettishly kindling fires under boys I had never seen? Boys sheonly knew in passing? Could I forgive her? Better question: how could I not?

            “I understand, but don’t do it again.”

Fall

            A short while before school started, she moved back to L.A. Without further explanation, she pointed out how our close proximity would bring uscloser together. For a brief moment, I was elatedly convinced it would. But things were different from when she had lived five thousand miles away. Then, our conversations had been long, detailed and meaningful. Now, they were brief, stilted, and hinted at the coming of the end.

            “Ok…I need to say something,” she texted, finally.

            Then, moments later: “I’m calling a break.”

            I could have texted back, “I knew you would,” but somehow, I thought better of myself. I’d give her time to think, to process, to reconsider. Maybe she’d come to realize the gravity of her suggestion. One year of careful preservation, one year of a long-distance relationship that survived in spite of stretches of empty silence and betrayal, in spite of that summer confession—one year, and she had the gall to propose that we let it all waste? I’d give her time to think.

            A week later, my phone dinged like an exhausted timer.

            “Ok, I should be clear,” she said. “It’s not a break. I think we’re broken up.”

            She added, “I must sound so harsh but I’m really doing this for you.”

            I replied quickly with my prepared response, “Ok, you are someone really special to me. I just want you to be happy. What’s bothering you about me?”

            What came next was a spattering of flustered words, not full sentences, just bits and pieces of broken answers all hinting at a deeper, graver question: “Do you understand what I’m getting at?"

            Unlike the day on the beach when she refused to let me excavate the foul words that danced upon her black cherry lips, here now was an invitation to do so. But the invitation came too late, I guess, because I had already gathered her meaning. It tasted like a mouthful of sand, bitter, coarse, and absolutely impossible for the tongue to forget, similar to the word I couldn’t get out on that perfect summer’s day because she couldn’t, wouldn’t let me.

            I actually didn’t know how to respond.

            “Follow your heart,” I said, and then I switched my phone to vibrate

Burning the Rebel's Oil

You probably won’t believe me when I say I still sleep with my mom, but it’s true. Not in the same bed, of course, but in the same room. Until I was about ten, my mom demarcated what she referred to as her side of the plush, queen-sized bed—that had proven comfortable for us both—from mine. In an act of ultimate motherly devotion, she afforded me an equal share of the bed, in spite of the fact that I was only three-quarters her size. But by the time puberty kicked in and my feet sprouted from under the covers at the foot of the bed, we both knew it was time to say our merry good-byes. And so, a sofa bed mattress was brought in and stationed beside her royal palanquin. I became her right-hand man, a newly knighted sentinel.

            But a poor sentinel I was.

            It was only a matter of time before I discovered secret privileges that sleeping in a separate bed granted me, like sneaking out of the room late at night. My mother, in her lofty fortress suspended three feet above me by four wooden pegs, couldn’t see past the glare of her iPad, on which she would watch movies till the crack of dawn. I couldn’t sleep with the light flitting off the walls, so instead, I flitted downstairs.

            During those hot summer nights of my rebellious ecstasy, I would will away the time, reading books, playing games, watching movies, exercising, and anything else I could think of to keep my mind off the temptation of sleep. My bed became a prison I actively avoided; every minute, every second spent awake was a second I felt in control, autonomous, and free from the constraints of parental pressure.

            Soon, I stopped caring.

            I took fewer precautions when making my midnight escapades, not bothering to close the door behind me with the same care that I used to take. I thought my mom couldn’t possibly see or hear me leave, but perhaps I was missing the larger point. As my guard lowered, so too did my opinion of my mother. She became someone I took pleasure in fooling again and again, night after night, to make up for all the ways she tied and bound me during the day. The fact of the matter was, I had lost all respect for her.

            On occasion, at one o’clock in the morning when I strode back into my room to capitulate to my bed’s warm embrace, I would regret my reckless behavior, but this feeling would just as easily sink away into the abyss of sleep.

            One evening before bed, I propped myself up on one elbow and reached to turn off my light, offering a cordial “goodnight” to my mom, which by this point had become a deeply ingrained lie. But just before I heard the auspicious click of my bedside lamp, my mom cleared her throat.

            “I hope you pray to God tonight, because you need all the help you can get.”

            Cold water shot through my veins. Could she know I’ve been sneaking out?I thought. Is she going to punish me?

            “What?” I asked, willing away the tense ambiance with nervous laughter.

            Without a word, she turned to her iPad to resume her nightly routine. 

            I flipped the switch and so succumbed to the burden of sleep.

Hot Water, Cold Feet

She dipped her toes into the steaming pool of water.

            Bobby had always loved it when she brought him to the jacuzzi. They would often make midnight excursions to this happy spot, just a few minutes walk from their cozy townhouse, yet miles from where their anxieties had lain. Usually, she would begin by asking Bobby how his day was. His day was always “great.” Nothing more, nothing less. Just great. Naturally, she would probe what little she could out of her stubborn son, and he would toy with her, preparing to pull out his ace card at any minute…

            “How was your day, sweetheart?” she had said.

            “Great,” croaked the pubescent eighth-grader.

            “Oh really? So no different from yesterday, or the day before, or the day before that?” 

            She had wanted to make it clear to Bobby that she was getting agitated. But Bobby had soaked it all up.

            “Well, I gotta say, today was a lot better than yesterday…or the day before that.”

            She had leaned forward in her chair, preparing for the kill, “How so?”

            “For one thing, I got back my English quiz…”

            “And how’d you do?”

            Bobby had almost cracked before he said it, “Great.”

            He could feel the intense suspense with which he had held his mother evaporate as her expression turned to exasperation.

            “But you know what?” he had added, “I’ll show ya the results if you take me to the hot tub!”

            “That’s not fair!” she had retorted. “That’s like- like….” she was searching for a word on the tip of her tongue…

            Blackmail. Yeah, that’s what it was. She hadn’t said it then, but she knew it now. Oh God, he was a smart kid, always knowing how to get on her nerves one minute and then make her feel like the luckiest mom the next. 

            She was now fully submerged in the water, with her chin barely peeking above surface level. She breathed in the rising steam and exhaled, fighting the tense knot in her throat.

            The heat was unbearable and she could sense the edges of her vision starting to blur, but that was okay. She’d be with Bobby soon.

            

            

I Love You

***

Ever since he’d first laid eyes on her at Northwood High School’s freshman orientation, Tommy knew she was the one. Her strawberry red hair and cupid’s bow lips drew his focus like a magnet. She had a lean, flowing form that could have come out of one of those fashion mags Tommy’s mom kept piled up in her room. From what he could tell, Lucia was smart, interested in guys, and available, all Tommy had ever wanted of a girl.

Only problem was, he was too afraid to talk to her. Tommy was the “smart" kid, and at Northwood High, “smart” came with connotations. It meant shy, reclusive, and inordinately bookish. It meant a boy who hadn’t even thought of working out, let alone packing on muscle, and who had nothing to offer a girl but tutoring help. It meant a skinny boy of five foot four inches, with a baby face and disheveled, black hair that sometimes obscured his already poor vision when it got in the way of his thick-rimmed glasses. Tommy didn’t mind these stereotypes, though, because admittedly, they were true. So he resorted to stalking her on social media, about as close as he was willing to get to approaching her.

His friends had often told him to just “suck it up” and ask her out, but frankly, the thought scared the shit out of him. He hadn’t held a conversation with a girl for over five seconds, let alone asking one out on a date. Juan told him that was all he needed: five seconds and he’d be through the doorway. But Tommy was more bothered by what he would say or do afterwards. On the date, that is.

After a lot of undue pressure and cajoling, Juan managed to convince Tommy to impress Lucia by showing off his perfect grades. He attained easy A’s on all of his assignments and Mr. Marx, their math teacher, had promised to hand back their midterms on Monday. He’d have to make the move then. During the test, he’d found it strange why his calculator had been returning values that made some of his graphs look a little wonky, but he hadn’t gotten around to checking the settings due to time constraints.

As Tommy worked his way through Northwood High’s start-of-the-week hallway traffic, he tried to tune out the ensemble of noisy yawns from students’ whose minds were stuck back at Saturday. Usually Tommy would have joined in the chorus, but today he was a man on a mission. Juan tagged along with him, furiously rubbing the sleep from his eyes. Tommy’s were fixed ahead and his intense stare cut through the crowd of students like a knife. Once he got to math class, he’d find a spot in the front row, close to where Lucia always sat. Mr. Marx didn’t assign seating, but by this time of year, most kids already had claimed territories. Most likely, Tommy would be pissing off some guy in the front row for a better view of the monitor because his vision was crap, but Tommy’s mind was too preoccupied with Lucia to care. Once Mr. Marx returned his midterm, he’d show it off to Lucia by holding the exam up in a way that revealed the big, fat, glorious A plus on the front page.

“Why’re you so interested in me getting with her, anyway?” said Tommy suddenly, stopping to face Juan. “Like what’s it mean to you?”

Juan didn’t answer, but only smiled suggestively, a slow grin that spread across his face.

“You’re not…you don’t like her, do you?” said Tommy, dying for Juan to deny this.

“C’mon, dude, that’s crazy. I got my own chicks.”

That instant, Tommy caught a glance of red from the corner of his eye. Sure enough it was Lucia at the end of the hall. She looked more stunning today than ever and didn’t need a dab of makeup to prove it. That was what Tommy loved most about Lucia: she was self-confident and obviously couldn’t have cared less about a trip to Sephora or Ulta Beauty. Nor should she; she looked perfect just the way she was.

But as Tommy moved closer, he noticed something off about her that he couldn’t shake. There was an arm slung around her shoulder, and as Tommy traced the dark leather sleeve back to its source, his eyes finally landed on his worst nightmare. Juan followed Tommy’s gaze, but before he could utter a word, the bell rang.

Underneath the din, Tommy felt his knees wobbling. It was confirmed: Zack and Lucia were dating. The very thought almost made him vomit. He stared in horror as Zack hugged Lucia and strolled off to class. Tommy had seen Zack frequently on Lucia’s Instagram, but didn’t think it was anything more than a friendship. He was the most fashionable guy at school and probably had girls lining up to date him. Why did he have to go for Lucia? Tommy needed to get away to process what he had just seen, but before he could even take a step, Juan blocked his path and held on to both of Tommy’s shoulders. 

“Hey, calm down. Doesn’t mean a thing. Lots of girls have guy friends…Lucia included,” he said, obviously concerned, but also slightly amused.

Tommy shook his head in response and tried to break free of Juan’s grip, but his friend held him tight. 

“Are you a man or what?” he said, this time completely serious, “‘Cos if you’re a man, you’ll go out there and show Lucia why she deserves to be with you.”

Upon entering math class, Tommy made a beeline for the front row. He’d never sat in this part of the room before, but Lucia always sat here and he was pretty sure she’d be taking the desk next to him.

Just remember what Juan said, Tommy thought. Keep calm, cool, and confident. And don’t think about Zack- wait I just did.

Tommy looked skeptically back at Juan and tried to signal S.O.S., but his friend was already buried in a science textbook, obviously cramming in study for next period. Some of the kids in the front row glanced up at Tommy. He smiled at them politely and, so as not to look awkward, took his seat. 

Tommy didn’t even need to turn around to know that Lucia had entered the room. It was like they had some sort of supernatural connection that he could just feel her presence. 

His heartbeat quickened.

Suddenly, Tommy’s nostrils filled with a wave of invigorating, fruit-scented perfume. He didn’t dare look to the right. Sweat collected on his forehead and he wiped it off with the back of his hand.

It’s now or never, he thought. Turning to face Lucia, he opened his mouth, but was interrupted by a voice from the back of the room.

“Okay, class!” boomed Mr. Marx, traveling down the center aisle to the front of the classroom. “What’s it going to be? Midterms back now or later?”

The class mumbled in disunity, with some nervous laughs interspersed throughout the room.

“I can’t hear you,” said Mr. Marx.

“Now!” shouted a voice from behind. It was Juan.

“Noted,” said Mr. Marx, taking out his pile of exams. “In that case, let’s start with…you! Juan…”

As Mr. Marx continued down the list, Tommy could feel his nervousness mounting.

“Tommy,” Mr. Marx finally announced.

Tommy’s hand shot up. He deepened his register and emitted a husky “here.” 

He reached out to grab the exam from Mr. Marx’s stern grip and quickly checked his grade: C. At the bottom of the last page, Mr. Marx had written in bold, red ink, “Check your calculator and see me after class.” 

Tommy’s cheeks burned a deep red and stayed that way for what seemed like an eternity. He propped his elbows on the table and cupped his temples with the palms of his hands, staring, shaken, at the sickening letter. The frame of his glasses dug into his face.

Tommy felt a hand on his shoulder. He jerked his head up to see Lucia.

“Are you okay?” she asked.

“Uh, yeah,” Tommy said weakly. “Just a bit out of sorts.”

Out of sorts? Who says that?

Lucia scanned Tommy’s face, looking concerned.

“Do you need tissues?” she asked.

“Huh?” croaked Tommy. He hadn’t even realized how wet his face was, an ugly mixture of smeared tears and sweat. He took off his glasses and quickly wiped his face with the backs of his hands.

“Oh, no. I’m okay. Thanks, though…for offering,” he said.

“Yeah, no problem,” she said. “Feel better.”

“Thanks,” said Tommy.

There was a brief pause.

Lucia added, “You know I wouldn’t feel too bad about that midterm. I only got a B plus.”

Tommy’s heart lightened, just a bit. But it was all he needed to get out what was on his mind.

“Hey, maybe you’d wanna start studying together then so next time we could both get A’s?” he blurted. 

Lucia’s gaze fell to the floor. Then her color started to change. It took him a few seconds to realize she was blushing, two perfect rose petals flowering across her cheeks.

He quickly added, “Your boyfriend wouldn’t mind, would he?”

She looked up at him inquisitively. The blush was still there, but rapidly fading.

“You’re with Zack right?” Tommy inquired.

Lucia shook her head and laughed.

“Oh no! I love him, but he just so happens to be gay.”

Tommy was blindsided, but only momentarily.

“Well, in that case, wha’d’ya say we have a study date?”

At the end of class, Tommy met up with Juan at the back row. Juan raised an eyebrow and Tommy said, cooly, “I’ll tell you about it at lunch.”

As they started for the door, Tommy heard a voice from behind. It was Mr. Marx.

“Tommy,” he said, “I thought I asked you to meet me now?”

Tommy nodded and motioned to Juan to leave without him.

Juan made out to leave, but then turned around and asked, “So did you do it?”

Tommy held out a fist and unfolded it. In the palm of his hand lay a slip of paper with a number written in beautiful cursive. Each number had a girly flourish and the whole thing was topped off with a heart tagged at the end. Pocketing the note, Tommy turned to face Mr. Marx.