Happy That It's Not True (9 page)

              “I guess.”

              “That—and feeling like I’m a foreigner most of the time.  I’ve never experience any racism, except from my own race.  Why do people have such a problem with me?  Why should I act or talk a certain way?  Who cares what I listen to?  Latino music is all mindless celebration.  What is there to celebrate?  We have an evil stepfather and Dad’s messed up from the war.  What if he ends up one day like those homeless vets?  I don’t see anything worth celebrating.”

              “You know—people’ll accuse you of being a self-hating Hispanic.”

              “Only dorks accuse other people of stuff.”

              “At least you don’t get beat up for being a coconut.”

              “Did someone hurt you?”

              “I get a little roughed up sometimes.”

              “Sorry Fathead.” 

              Alex resumed the game and turned down the volume, so he could talk over the sounds of alien wars.  “You love Matt, don’t you?”

              Cara covered her eyes with her hand.  “Oh no—” 

              She had hoped that Alex would continue his politeness and ignore the planets that may or may not collide.  Somewhere there seemed to be a tiny chance that if Matt spoke to Cara at any length, he would realize that she was interested in him and that by comparison, Sheryl was someone too unbalanced, too unstable, too maladjusted, too neurotic to drain precious life from such a sensitive, caring soul. 

              The fact that Matt was going off to law school was another variable that might somehow drop into an advantageous realm of fate.  Perhaps there were forces in the universe too great to fathom.  If half the battle was truly showing up—that left her little choice but to drive thirty miles into the heart of Miami, to risk the possible humiliation of knowing no one to see what form might emerge. 

              Cara got up and walked to the door.  “Good night.”

              “Be careful—remember, Matt’s got a girlfriend.”

              “I know, I know.”  Cara was quiet for a moment.  “I think there is something really wrong with me.  I think I’m mentally ill.”

              “No you’re not.”

              “I think I am.  I really do.”

              “You’re an artist-”

              “And I’m not just crazy, I’m a bad person.”

              “No you’re not.”

              “I think so.”

              “I wish I were your older brother so I could protect you.”
              “I love you, Fathead.”

              “Even if they put you away in a padded cell, I would come by and visit you every day.  And look on the bright side, if it ever came to that, nothing bad can happen to you in a padded room.  It’s all good.”

              Cara laughed.  “You’re the best brother in the whole world.”

              “You know what you’re doing doesn’t make any sense.  You shouldn’t be chasing after anyone.  You have looks and talent.  The world should be chasing after you.”

              “Well, I don’t feel so special.”

              Cara left, and Alex ran to the new refrigerator to binge on the cookie dough ice cream.

...

              Cara was stunned by the scope of the party at a large two story home on a cul-de-sac.  The reverberation of the techno music could be felt inside the car.  She turned off the engine, took the keys from the ignition and held them in her lap.  “This is so stupid,” she said as she put the keys back in the ignition.  “This is so—so stupid.”  She shook her head, rolling then closing her eyes, pulling the keys out again. 

              She opened the door and pressed the lock button so she wouldn’t have to make a sound with her car remote, wanting to enter the house without being noticed.  As she neared the doorway, several young people were outside photographing each other with their phones in group shots.  She was almost past them when one of the young men noticed Cara and said, “Hi!  Go in through the garage.”

              “Thanks,” Cara said.

              Passing the scorched perennials and thriving Mexican Heather, she saw the glow of an open garage door and heard laughter.  She adjusted her tank top one last time, then took a deep breath and turned the corner to enter the gates of revelry and drama.  As Cara walked through the garage, she was shocked by the madness of the party, the undoing of social grace.  Words became incoherent—the mind aghast—older college boys, some men—maybe in their thirties, maybe older, surrounding their prey like wolves. 

              In the midst of the aggression was an inexhaustible Sheryl Janzovich kissing a bearded man—smeared lipstick and mascara—the trail of beer—a man shouting, “she’s so drunk”—another young man stroking her back with his hand, “está buena!”  —The dance music transferring spirit to machine—that was where Sheryl’s spirit must have gone, past the angelic and worldly, far into a numb glaze and loss of self-control.  Sheryl, the high priestess of emotional pain—the cutter, her kiss, a cry with nothing to say. 

              She wore a white long sleeved work shirt and blue knee-length shredded denim shorts, scores of long beaded necklaces—The clothes, soaked in perspiration that at some point in the evening must have touched against Cara’s secret love, Matt.

              Cara, unable to fathom Sheryl’s pain or dishonor, or to hide the blur of the moment, turned her head in disgust.  In Sheryl, she was almost afraid that she would find something of herself, repressed like the reason she had come this evening.  Sheryl—detached—unashamed—ravaged by the attention of men—grotesque men without names—didn’t see Cara. 

              Cara crossed the garage and entered the house, her eyes wide with disbelief.  She stood, staring into a blank wall, her heart pounding as hard as the music.  As Cara turned the corner and entered a crowded open kitchen, she could see the dancing and celebration—an enormous, dimly lit living area filled with young people, bouncing, stumbling, faltering—powerful yet fragile, capable of any transgression.

              Again, Cara felt like she was trying to walk in a boat on choppy seas, like a magnet forever attracted to Matt.  And then Matt saw her.  Cara, resplendent—stirring—sensual—angelic—many things that seemed all the same.  She saw the smile that she had brought to his face. 

              Matt concluded a conversation with a tall, thin young man, who glanced at Cara and then winked at Matt.  Cara’s heart beat even harder, causing her to catch her breath.  Matt walked around the dancing mob—his eyes on Cara—smiling, slowly lifting his arms for an embrace.  Cara received him with a light hug.  They kissed each other on the cheek.  Matt leaned in to Cara and shouted above the music.

              “Cara!  Hey, it’s good to see you—”

              “Good to see you too,” Cara said.

              “Alex isn't here, is he?”

              “No, he’s not.”

              “Good!  He’s way too young for this party,” Matt laughed.

              “I would say so.”

              “This party is intense.”

              “Yeah!” Cara almost burst into laughter, after what she had seen in the garage, Sheryl, doling out her affection.  Maybe she had been right all along—she needed to be there tonight. 

              “I think Sheryl’ll be glad to see you.  I think she liked talking to you last time—on the boat.  By the way, you look simply smashing,” he said assuming a British accent.

              “Thanks,” Cara laughed.

              “Let me go find Sheryl, before she finds me with a beautiful woman.”  Matt squeezed her hand and walked away in the direction of the garage.  The room suddenly felt balmy to Cara, her face tingling with sweat.  She turned and followed Matt with her eyes, not caring if anyone could see or laugh at her infatuation. 

              Cara leaned against the wall, waiting, hoping the night would forgive her.  A discomfort in her stomach began to take hold.  What seemed like a century of time opened before her, to torture her—the stalker.  She realized the sadness of the moment, her hypocrisy of having spoken once to Sheryl like a friend, and now waiting like a scavenger, to feed on the death of a relationship. 

              Cara turned her thoughts to her mother, lying in a hospital room.  If she only knew how sick Matt was making her, causing her to selfishly malign priorities, fettered to her obsession.  Dirt.  I feel like dirt, Cara thought. 

              An enormous wave of self-consciousness swept over Cara, deeper than anything she had yet felt that evening.  I don’t belong here with college students—I’ve never even wanted to be on this planet, much less take on the stress of college—can’t deal with a structured life—I’m an artist—who can understand me?  Would Matt think I’m just a dumb girl who didn’t like school?  I bet I’ve read more books than Sheryl Janzovich.  Has she fallen in love with Keats and Yeats?  Rumi and Tagore?  Is her mind possessed with the voices of poets?  Does she think with her heart?  No.  No—she doesn’t love Matt.  She is cruel—forbidding—she might give herself away to all men, but none could ever have what is crucial, her heart.

              Matt walked back into the room, despondency and agitation in his eyes.  Cara saw him moving across the opposite side of the room, disappearing and reappearing behind heads moving to electro funk, the darkness strobing with camera flashes.  Matt found his friend and spoke to him at length, eventually the two collapsing into an embrace.  Cara had never seen such tenderness between straight men. 

              “Wanna dance?” a man with large eyes said.

              “Oh—I’m not feeling well,” Cara said tersely.

              “Okay.”  The man walked away, looking at her out of the corner of his eye, shaking his head. 

              Cara noticed the DJ laughing and looking at her, gently hailing with both hands.  She couldn’t help but smile at the chubby man with emo hair and a gray suit who reminded her a little of Alex.  First she tried to hide her embarrassment, but then chose to make a full confession with her eyes, smiling as she walked toward him.

              “Hey gorgeous—I know everything,” said the DJ.

              Cara chuckled.  “Oh really—what’s that supposed to mean?”

              “I am the god of par-tay—I know everything that’s going on.  I’ve been watching how you’ve been watching that guy over there.  Whatever happened to him, you already saw it coming.  So you also know a lot—maybe—just maybe—you know more than me.” 

              The DJ grinned and tilted his head with self-satisfaction.  Cara laughed and revealed her astonishment by looking away.

              “What are you playing?”

              “Right now, I’m playing some German Acid-House—it’s a remix—crazy sick bass.  So—what’s your next move?  I wish I had women chasing me like that.”

              Cara, completely disarmed by the DJ’s warm eyes, sighed.  “I have no idea what I’m doing.”  She felt as though she were plotting to do something, like an assassin that had not quite yet decided on the exact location for what needed to be a clean hit.

              “All right, so hang out with me so the guys will stop hitting on you.”

              Cara nodded and chuckled.  “Okay.”

              The DJ raised his index finger and eyebrows.  “But!”

              “What?”

              “You have to come back here and dance with me.”

              “Oh—not into techno—”

              “That’s okay, just watch me.”

              The DJ jerked his head and simulated the bouncing of a basketball with his left hand and high bouncing ball with his right.  “See—low ball—high ball!”

              “Very impressive.”

              “Now, watch this!”  He reached up into the air like he was picking fruit off a tree.  “Picking the citrus—picking the Florida citrus!”  

              Cara surrendered to the frivolity and soon found herself moving to techno, then Latin music.  She was astonished to find that the experience of dancing could be so stirring, despite how strange and disorienting life had become—the power of being one with many, the indistinct faces, the sensing that she was living a new life—a life that would care for her, refusing to let her stand by a wall, waiting, consumed with a maddening self-awareness. 

              Being in the midst of the celebration with the par-tay god created a strange distance between herself and her anxieties—and it wasn’t that she wanted to be at the center of the universe, only that she had unexpectedly found transcendence—a fire from within or above.  Maybe the DJ was some kind of god or divine spirit, Cara thought.  But how could he not know about Sheryl and Matt? 

              Lost in a capricious abandon, tension melting away, Cara was enlivened by her own stubbornness—her determination to be near Matt.  She looked at him again, and it took away a little of her smile.  Matt was describing something with his hands, his friend nodding in sympathy.  Cara couldn’t see the expression on his face and looked back to the DJ who was smiling and nodding as if he could read every one of her thoughts.  She gave him a playful glare, accepting his omniscient status.