Crazy in Love (6 page)

“I guess we should get back to the party,” I said.

“It’s probably just about over by now.”

“Hey, what’s your name, anyway?” I always hate asking people that. It sounds so contrived, somehow. I don’t know why. Maybe because I’m used to meeting people in normal, everyday situations where their names just kind of become associated with them by circumstance. Like in school. You never ask anybody’s name, but you always know who’s
who.

“Saul.” He shook my hand, which I found totally
charming.

“I’m Sallie Spooner. Do you go to our school? I don’t
remember having seen you.”

“No. I live in Brooklyn. I’m just here in the city for the
evening.”

Coming from Boston, I always think it’s funny when
people who live in the other boroughs—Queens, the Bronx,
Staten Island, or Brooklyn—refer to Manhattan as “the
city.” After all, to the rest of the world,
all
those places constitute New York City.

“How do you know Sharon, then?”

“I worked with her brother this summer. Construction.”

“Oh.” I looked at him more carefully. “Saul? What kind
of name is that? I mean, I don’t want to be rude or
anything....”

“It’s okay.” He smiled that smile again, hitting me with a
view of two perfect rows of pearly whites. “It’s really
Saul—it rhymes with Raul.” He pronounced it Sa-ool.
“Only people outside my neighborhood call me ‘Sol.’ You
know, like the sun.”

“Oh.” I guess I still looked confused. “What nationality
is that? I never heard of ...”

“It’s Spanish. Or really Puerto Rican.”

“You’re Puerto Rican?” I don’t know why, but I was totally surprised
.

“Yup. Saul Rodriguez, when I’m in Brooklyn. In
Manhattan, I’m just Saul, like Sol the sun god. It’s easier
that way.”

“Did you always live in Brooklyn?” I asked cautiously.

“You mean do I come from Puerto Rico?” he teased. He
could tell I was having trouble digesting this whole
situation. I turned red again. “No, I was born in Brooklyn.
But my parents are both from Puerto Rico.”

“Where do you live in Brooklyn?”

He tweaked my nose then and said, “It’s not a very pretty neighborhood. I bet a cute little girl from Manhattan like
you never even heard of it.”

“Hey, wait a minute.” Having my nose tweaked sets off
the same reaction in me as being called Sal. I see red. “First of all, don’t touch my nose. Second of all, I’m not from Manhattan; I’m from Boston, at least originally. And third, I don’t
appreciate you being so condescending.”

He looked surprised, maybe even hurt. “Hey, I’m sorry. I was just kidding. Still friends?” He held out his hand again.
I could feel the old familiar melting feeling starting up
again.

“Friends.” I shook his hand. “Wait a sec. Before we go back to the party, or whatever’s left of it, can I ask you
something?”

“Sure. What?” .

“You know WROX, the rock music radio station?”

“Of course.”

“They’re having a songwriting contest, and, well, I’m
looking for somebody to collaborate with. Do you think maybe we could try writing a song together and enter the
contest as a team?”

Saul thought about my offer for a few seconds, then said,
“Sure. Why not?”

“Great!” I told him where I lived, and he agreed to come
over the very next day to see what we could come up with.

We went back to the living room. I was kind of
disappointed that no one had even missed me. But I was
also experiencing a strange kind of euphoria. I wasn’t sure if it was the thrill of finally having found a musical partner, or
having met someone as nice as Saul. One thing was for
sure: the way my insides were jumping around and the way
I started talking a mile a minute and laughing hysterically at every little thing made me wonder if perhaps there was such
a thing as love at first sight after all.

The next day could not come soon enough. All night I
dreamed about flashing white teeth and mysterious dark
eyes. In the morning I washed my hair, even though it was still clean. I told myself that cleanliness is next to godliness.
I kept having to remind myself that the reason Saul
Rodriguez was coming over was to write music, not to live
it.

“Mom,” I said casually over our Saturday afternoon
lunch of grilled-tuna-and-cheese sandwiches, “I have a
friend coming over after lunch to work on songs. You know,
for the WROX contest.”

“That’s nice, dear,” she said dreamily. She seemed much more interested in scraping away at the melted cheese stain
that Jenny’s sandwich had predictably left on the tablecloth.

“That’s great!” Jenny exclaimed. “So you finally found
yourself a partner. See, I told you it would work out. Who is
it?”

“Somebody I met at Sharon’s last night.”

“Male or female?”

I cast a dirty look at Jenny. Usually she’s okay, but every once in a while she starts acting like a little sister. Or maybe
I was just being overly sensitive.

“It happens to be a person of the male persuasion,” I
answered coolly. “But let me assure you that my interest in
him is purely professional.”

“Hey, I never doubted it.” Jenny sounded defensive, but
I could see that she was hiding an impish grin behind her sandwich.

“What’s his name, Sallie?” Mom had succeeded in getting rid of the cheese stain, so now she was ready to move on to more interesting concerns.

“His name is Saul.”

My father looked up from his plate. “Saul? I’ve never
heard of him before.”

“Daddy, I just told you. I met him last night, at Sharon’s
party.” I swear, sometimes I wonder how my parents
manage to function in the outside world. It can take such a
long time for things to register with them.

“Does he go to your school?” Mom asked. All of a
sudden, I started getting irritated over the fact that Saul was
becoming the main topic of conversation.

“No,” I answered grumpily. “He’s a friend of Sharon’s brother.”

“Oh, dear. How old is he, Sallie?”

“He’s seventeen, just like me.” Her concern was only
natural, because Sharon’s brother is an old man of twenty. I
guess she was afraid I was going to start running around
with some wild crowd. I could easily predict the questions
that were to follow, so I went ahead and answered them in advance: “He’s a senior in high school, lives in Brooklyn, is
not and never has been a member of the Communist party.”

“I think our Sallie is in love,” Jenny said matter-of-factly as she reached across the table for the bowl of cole slaw.

“Jenny, hon, don’t reach,
ask,”
Mom interrupted. “And
don’t tease your sister.”

“It doesn’t bother me,” I answered, keeping my cool.
“She can say whatever she wants, because I know, in my
heart of hearts, that Saul and I are just business associates.”

“Saul,” my father repeated. “What’s his last name,
Sallie?”

“What difference does that make?” I answered too
quickly. My mother glanced up at me, surprised. Even
Jenny remained silent.

“I just like to have some idea of who my daughter is
hanging around with,” Dad answered. “Not to mention
who it is who comes to my home.”

“I’m sorry. His name is Rodriguez. Saul Rodriguez.”
Suddenly self-conscious, I buried myself in my glass of
milk. “He’s Puerto Rican,” I offered timidly.

“That’s nice.” Mom stood up and started clearing the
table. “Jenny, since Sallie has company coming over, will you please help me with the lunch dishes, even though it’s
her turn? Fin sure she’ll do your lunch dishes for you
tomorrow.”

“I’m going to see if I can fix that bathroom sink.” My
father sighed. “It’s been dripping for days. The thing drives
me crazy at night. It’s all I can hear as I’m lying in bed,
trying to sleep. Drip ... drip ... drip
...”

It was odd to feel relieved. I was tempted to kick myself,
but we all know that mental torture can be much effective
than physical torture. I felt lousy over what had just
transpired. Here, Saul was one of the sweetest, nicest
people I’d met in ages, and yet I’d still felt that I had to
apologize for his background.

“You don’t deserve him as a friend,” I told myself.

Still, by the time he showed up, all that had been
forgotten. I was trying so hard not to be nervous that I’d
no time to ruminate over social issues. All I knew was that a guy I thought was pretty special would be showing up at my front door any minute, and I really wanted to impress him, I

 had even dragged out the lavender overalls again, because
they have the power to make me feel beautiful and
irresistible. Some women get that effect from expensive
French perfume; for me, it’s the feel of purple corduroy
against my skin.

I must admit, though, that at that point, I was optimistic about our future together. Saul and Sallie. Sallie and Saul. There was certain poetry to the combination of our names that convinced me that we were destined to become more
than just a crackerjack songwriting team. I have an
overactive imagination, and by the time he appeared, I
already had us married, a rich and famous musical duo that
was the toast of two coasts.

“Hi, Sallie!” he said when I flung open the front door in
response to his knock. “How’s it going?” He was wearing
his baggy jeans again, and a different plaid flannel shirt. His
guitar was slung over his shoulder in a canvas case, as if he
were some modern-day troubadour.

“Terrific.” No. I vowed right then and there never again
to use that word in the presence of a male. “Fine. Come on
in.”

“Sallie, I think I heard someone at the front door....”
Jenny wandered in from the kitchen, where she and a couple of her friends were baking cookies for some school thing. She wore a look of complete innocence. “Oh, I’m sorry. I
didn’t realize you had company,”

“Hello, Jenny.” Saul beamed at my sister, then extended
his hand. “I’m pleased to meet you.”

Jenny shot me a triumphant look as she shook his hand.
“So, you’re a songwriter, too, huh? You know Sallie writes
songs all the time.”

I waited for her to say something cutting and little
sisterish. Instead, she surprised me by coming out with,
“My sister is a musical genius. And she tells me you’re
pretty good, too, I’m expecting great things from you two.” I took that little speech to mean that she approved of Saul.

“We’ll try not to disappoint you,” Saul assured her.
“Any particular themes that are favorites of yours? We can
write according to specification, I’m sure.”

“Hmm.” Jenny frowned pensively. I could tell she was really enjoying all this attention. I think that when you’re a younger sister, you must end up feeling slighted a lot of the
time, especially by your older sister’s friends. “Love songs
are always nice.” I wasn’t sure, but I thought I saw her
wink at me.

“Okay, we’ll try. But first let me ask you one thing.”

“What?”

Saul leaned over until he was at eye level with Jenny.
“Why is it your sister has red hair, and yours is blond?” He
tugged gently on one of the pigtails she had braided her hair into after lunch.

“Because blonds have more fun,” Jenny answered
smugly. She grinned at Saul, then turned on her heel and
disappeared back into the kitchen.

“I think you just made my sister fall in love with you,
you heartbreaker,” I teased as I led him down the hall. “Is it okay if we work in my room? It’s probably the quietest spot
in the house.”

“Fine with me.”

We settled into my room, sitting cross-legged on the
floor.

“Well,” I began, “you’ve already heard just about every
song I’ve ever written, so you know all about the kind of
stuff I write.”

“The same goes for me. I think we should start by
deciding what kind of song we’ll write. You know: fast or
slow, romantic or something else, optimistic or sad.”

I thought for a minute. “Maybe we should take Jenny’s
advice and go with a love song.”

I was kind of disappointed that Saul was so eager to get
down to business. If all we ever did was talk about music,
I’d never get to know him better. It was true that my main purpose in getting together with him was to advance my musical career, but I figured that a little socializing never hurt.

“That’s a good place to start,” he agreed. “Let’s see, a
love song. Hmm.
I
don’t know about you, but I’m tired of really depressing songs about love affairs that have failed.
You know, all those sad lyrics about being lonely and sitting
by the phone and broken hearts. I’d like to try for something
more upbeat, something hopeful.”