Down to the Bone (12 page)

She cracks a loving expression. “Hey.” I jut my chin in the direction of her fingers and whisper lightly, “Are those
my
fingers?”

She wiggles them, throws me a shining grin, and whispers as low as if we were in church, “They’re all yours.”

“If they’re
all
mine, then I want them to stay
here
with me. Don’t take them back to Puerto Rico, please.”

She looks down at her delicate hands with a wilted expression.

I know what she’s feeling. I get that she doesn’t want to leave, but she has to. I guess my bugging her to stay is like rubbing vinegar on a cut. But still, I hate that she hasn’t found a single way for us to see each other. And she didn’t fight to stay, either, like she did last time and won.

We’re inching our way through Little Havana’s Calle Ocho’s Parque de Dominó, where tons of men and a woman are playing dominoes and drinking
cafecitos.
The sugary smells of
guarapo
and
mamey
shakes seep into the taxi.

“The Castro family, those bastards!” a round-bellied man screams to a shriveled up
viejito.
The little old man looks like a heap of leather under a sombrero. Loud domino sounds slap around the tables.

Now I say something on my mind I left for the last minute. I despise talking about things that bother me right away. I let them simmer till they’re just about to explode inside me.

“Mar, please don’t keep dating Rick. You know he’s in love with you.”

I’d never go out with a guy or another girl while involved with Marlena. I feel upset knowing he’s back in Puerto Rico, waiting for her to arrive, and I don’t count.

Her look turns so intense it practically throws me off my seat. “I’ll have to date him. If I don’t, my family will become suspicious.” I see anguish in her face. “You know I love you and only you. I’ll be with you forever. There’s nothing to worry about.”

As if I shouldn’t be concerned about Rick the Dick being desperate to get into Marlena’s pants. She’s not into guys
at all.
If you ask me, she’s playing with fire.

She keeps talking about why she has to see the damned guy. It’s not upsetting because she’s faking it with him. Part of why it bothers me so much is because no one considers our feelings, as if she and I don’t have a right to be together. Rick gets to have her in public. I don’t.

“Well, have a blast with Rick. Maybe I’ll go out with Syrio, a friend of Soli’s who thinks I’m fascinating
and
scorching.”

“Really?” I guess I caught her attention.

On occasions, like when Rick was visiting her, I was known to improvise. I felt compelled to tell her that unless she dumped him, I’d date this one or that one. She’d say, “Don’t! If you do, that’s the end of us. You know I’m only seeing him so people will never find out about us. I’m doing it for us, so we can be together. I’m pretending to be into him. Please don’t mess things up for us. I love you with all my heart.” I stopped giving her anxiety or risking losing her for good.

“Yeah,” I tell her now. “He’s a long-haired guitarist who wants to become a zoologist. He writes his own lyrics and is planning on traveling the world during summers doing odd jobs. And even though he’s straight, he volunteers for homeless gay kids.” She knows that would be my type of person.

She coughs and clears her throat. “Well, that’s nice.”

“Nice?” This isn’t the response I want from the girl of my dreams who never wanted me to risk our relationship by starting to date other people.

She whispers something barely audible. “Go out with him. Make him your boyfriend so your mom will let you back home.” She sounds like a different person. “Try being his girlfriend; it’s not a big deal. It’s so easy. Your mother will think you like him, and she’ll stop giving you a hard time.”

I’m biting my thumbnail. Marlena has always taken a strong dislike to guys I’ve thought were handsome or whom she wrongly thought liked me.

Out of nowhere, she sighs deeply and changes the topic. “There’s something I haven’t told you.”

“That you’re coming back soon, and we’ll live together forever?”

Her face contorts into a sorrowful expression and her eyes become watery. “I wish.”

“What then?” I sit up straight and face her.

“My brother found my journal. That’s why he left early. He took it with him to Puerto Rico.”

“What?” I feel my heart pounding in my chest. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

“I wasn’t about to spoil our last days together. I didn’t want you to worry like I was worrying. You’ve been through enough.”

Marlena’s diary is far worse than any text she’s ever written me about our times together. In her journal, she writes her most intense feelings, desires and poetry about us in our most intimate moments.

I look out the window at the whirling gray streets, wondering if this craziness will ever stop. “Arturo swore he wouldn’t tell anyone if I quit seeing you.”

I feel a glimmer of hope in my heart. “You lied and promised, right?”

“Yes, but he texted me this morning that he’s changed his mind. He’ll tell my parents, but no one else.” She closes her eyes as if in prayer. “I tried calling him back but he wouldn’t answer the phone. I’ve texted him dozens of times but he won’t respond.”

“How can we make him stop?” She should have learned from what happened with me. One thing I’ve gathered from all this is that private texts and e-mails must be written in code.

“It’s not in our control.”

“I hope he never tells your uncle Marco.”

“Don’t worry. He won’t. Arturo said the more people know, the more my name will be smeared. He says he’ll kill me if I get a bad reputation and Rick finds out.”

“He better not touch you.”

I feel scared for Marlena. Arturo is a big, argumentative guy known for verbal outbursts. He’s so intimidating and irritating that I find ways to leave when he’s around.

“There’s nothing we can do. We’ve lost. I wish I’d never written those texts or anything about you in my journal.”

“We haven’t been beaten if we still love each other. You never think outside the box. What’s wrong with you? We can find a billion ways to stay together.”

She speaks in a sad, low tone. “It’s impossible. We’re doomed. We’ll never be able to see each other again. Arturo said my mom is going to stop paying for my cell phone. He said I won’t be allowed Skype or a video phone.”

“We’ve got e-mails, IMs, chat, Facebook—”

“Arturo is changing our home phone number. He’s making my parents stop paying for my e-mail service too; he’s gone crazy. We won’t be able to contact each other anymore.”

“You can use your friends’ laptops.”

“No way. I won’t risk them finding out about us.”

I shut my eyes really hard and rub them. “You can e-mail me from the library or text me from a friend’s cell.” There are so many quick solutions. “We can IM every day. I’ll save money and buy you a BlackBerry, iPad, iPhone, whatever you want, and pay for the monthly fees from here.”

She takes a big gulp and whispers so low I must force myself to listen. “They’ll search me and find it. I can’t deal with this. It’s too hard. I’m not strong like you.”

“Don’t talk like that.” I stare out the window, at the fluffy clouds. They always soothe me, but it’s not working right now. I glance back at her. “Listen, just lie and promise your parents you’ll never communicate with me for as long as you live.” I rub my face with my hand. “I know they’re really religious. Tell them their favorite guy, Jesus, was all about loving people like prostitutes and sinners. Let them know if Jesus pardoned Mary Magdalene, they can forgive you.”

It’s strange how some people follow a series of myths in the Bible, written by men over two thousand years ago, that weakens them and makes them followers instead of free thinkers.

“Oh, Shai.” Her seriousness makes my stomach ache. “Arturo read me parts of my diary where I talk about how much I love kissing your entire naked body . . . and the way you . . . we . . .” she doesn’t finish her sentence and takes a deep breath. “He said he’s going to read every detail to my parents. Can you believe it?”

“What a sicko.” Memories of Fart Face reading my texts to the class crash into me. It’s a double-whammy of burdens stitched together making a senseless string of more troubles for us to become untangled from.

“Everything’s changed. Nothing will ever be the same. I’m sorry I didn’t tell you about the diary sooner.” She looks gently into my eyes. “How can we stay together with them knowing and without things getting worse?”

“Just stay. Don’t go back.” I rub my temples. I’m getting a huge headache. “Don’t board that plane. We’ll figure out a place for you to live.”

“I can’t do that. Arturo will come find me.” I see sadness etched across her face. “I’m trapped.” She wrings her hands. “I know my mom will hound me twenty-four hours a day now. She’s neurotic about anything gay.”

Ignorance sucks. Parents are so inept sometimes. They should be worried about their children’s well-being, not intimidating them or hating them for being who they are. I’d like to put up a colossal sign outside their home stating,
LOVE not H8.

I look away from her. How could she not want to find ways to ever see or talk to me again? What’s gotten into her?

“You’re breaking it off?”

“I don’t want to, but what else can we do?” Her voice is meek. I know she doesn’t mean what she’s saying. She’s just terrified.

“We’ll figure something out.”

“Okay,” she says, but she doesn’t sound convinced.

I feel sorry for Marlena. I know what awaits her is hell. If anything, we should be upset with her brother and my teachers. Don’t we live in the United States, the land of the free? Aren’t there laws about privacy to protect us? Just because we’re teens, can’t mean we don’t have civil rights.

I look out the window and remember last night. We scanned her uncle’s neighborhood from the roof one last time. The wind howled as we sat with legs crossed, holding hands in silence. We kissed and kissed and kissed. I’ll never be able to do that with her again.

We get to the airport, inch up the ramp, and park. “
Gracias
.” Marlena pays Hairy Taxi Guy. We dart into the airport, push through the crowds, and before you know it, it’s almost time.

I see a sign on a bathroom door that says “Fresh Paint. Do Not Enter.” We walk in, lock the door behind us, and rush into a mandarin-smelling stall. “I love you with all my heart and soul.” She caresses my hair and face with the gentlest touch in the world. “I’ll miss you so much. I’ll die without you.”

“I love you with all that I am.” I hold her face in my hands and fill it with soft kisses. “I can’t wait till you come back.”

Her voice cracks. “I don’t think I’ll be coming back. I’m serious. You’ve got to believe me. I won’t be able to handle being with you here. It’ll be too stressful.” She breaks down into sobs.

I lift her chin with my index finger and kiss her tears. “Please, don’t ever say that.”

She squeezes her cheek gently against mine. “I’m so sorry. I’m so very, very sorry, Scrunchy.”

I gently glide my hands against her dark velvety face. “We’ll work it out, Mar. Our love is powerful; it’s for eternity.” I kiss her cherry mouth, then her closed eyelids. “Don’t ever say we’ll never see each other again.”

She kisses my entire face. “You’re right. We’ll find a way. I’ll miss you so much.”

I squeeze her in my arms. “You’ll be all right. I went through it. We’ll be together forever, no matter what.” I wait for a response.

Instead, she checks her watch. “Hurry! It’s time!”

We rush toward the screening area.

We sink into a sad silence, hugging hard, holding onto each other.

She lets go of me and walks stoically through the metal detectors. Tears streaming down her face, she turns to wave to me one last time and calls, “Take good care of yourself.”

It sounds as if we’re never going to see each other again.

I mouth, “You too.”

10—Pink Petunias

Since Marlena left, whenever I have free time, I work on learning art design, photography, sculpting and film/documentary. A girl on Facebook who attends Yale sends me her homework, and all her old books, in exchange for a Renaissance style portrait I did of her. On my own, I’m learning the history of art and see slideshows of all the masters’ work. I’m also learning architecture, with information I get from one of Soli’s clients who goes to the University of Miami’s School of Architecture—I exchanged a portrait of his dog for the info. I’m fascinated with Gaudi’s wild-style Spanish architecture and Cuba’s mix of Colonial, Art Deco and Modernism. I also love Miami Beach’s Art Deco and spend as much time as possible sitting across Ocean Drive under palm trees for shade, painting the buildings from across the way.

No matter how busy I keep myself, not a day goes by that I don’t think of Marlena.

It’s midnight, March 26th and Marlena’s seventeenth birthday. Soli and Viva are asleep. I steal into the dark back porch with Neruda at my heels. I sit on Viva’s rocking chair and rock back and forth, back and forth, squeezing Neruda to me. I hear clapping thunder, and watch thin veils of rain covering the trees.

Days have been longer without my Marlena. She left seven months and four days ago. At first, she wrote me long snail mail love letters dripping in beautiful words every day with pictures of her attached. She wrote about playing tennis, swimming at the ocean with a bunch of new straight friends.

As time went on, her letters stayed passionate and sounded like this:

“My old friends found out. I can’t believe how fast word spreads. I’ve made new friends. I don’t think they know or I’m sure they’d shun me too. I wish you could live here. It’s even more fun than Miami. The only setback is not being with you.

“I dissolve into tears sometimes, from being unable to communicate with you the way we did. At nights, I close my eyes and visualize you next to me. I allow myself the illusion that our bodies are touching . . .

“I found my old ballet shoes in a box. I’m sending them to you with a pair of shorts and the tight jeans you loved me to wear. You said they smelled like me, and you loved how they looked on me, remember?