Emily Goldberg Learns to Salsa (14 page)

“How did you guys leave things for the summer?” he asks. So much for not pressing.

I toy with my fork, dragging grease trails across my plate. “We didn't.”

Except for our extended game of phone tag, that is.

“I mean, I guess we didn't come to any decisions. Why would we? We didn't know I would be away all summer. So I guess . . . that means . . . things are still . . . on,” I say with a complete and total lack of confidence.

“But?” he leads.

“But it's weird,” I admit. “We haven't really been able to talk—it's been total phone tag—and the thing is that next year, I'm going away to college and so is he.”

“To a different school.”

“Yeah. I'll be at Brown, in Rhode Island. He's going to Northeastern, in Boston.”

“Not too far apart,” he says. At my look he says, “What? I'm not allowed to know some things?”

“What about you?” I ask, tired of being in the hot seat.

“What
about
me?” he asks, adopting an innocent posture.

“What about you and Lucy? You two never got together?” They have such a familiarity with each other that it's hard to believe they never did. Also, it would explain her annoying possessiveness.

Ricky shrugs. “We did.” He looks sheepish. “But that was back in elementary school.”

“Oh, you were like her fifth-grade boyfriend?” I tease.

He blushes. “Something like that.” He sighs. “Rafael came to our school in sixth grade, and that was it.”

I whistle. “Really? They've been together that long?”

“Oh, yeah. They're the real deal. They get each other.”

I can see what he means, even from the little time I've spent with the two of them. What's more is that he doesn't sound at all wistful or jealous, just matter-of-fact. Which is cool. I've never had much luck with platonic guy friends myself. Which begs the question of what Ricky is becoming to me.

“What are your friends doing this summer?” he asks, and for some reason, I'm surprised that it even occurs to him to ask. It's a nice reminder that I do have friends, a place where I belong. That I seem like the type of person who would have those things.

“Road trip,” I say, struggling to keep my voice neutral. “They're probably”—I check my watch as though their itinerary is printed on its face—“halfway to Chicago right now.”

“You were supposed to go with them?” It's a question, but one that he knows the answer to.

I nod. “Yeah. But then . . .” I trail off. Then my grandmother died. A fact that still hasn't hit me with the appropriate gravitas. At the time it was unfathomable that I would reschedule my summer for a woman I'd never met, a woman I'd been led to believe didn't mean all that much to my mother. A woman who, I had deduced, my mother left behind to pursue a different lifestyle. But now . . . now it's hard to picture myself in the backseat of the car with the girls. The image in my mind is growing blurrier with every day that passes. True, Lucy hasn't exactly welcomed me into the fold, but I feel, in some odd way,
right
, right where I am.

“But then I came here,” I finish lamely. I pick up the leftover crust of my pizza, contemplate taking a bite, and decide better of it. I put it back down on my plate, push the plate aside.

“Well, the great outdoors will always be there,” Ricky says, wisely leaving off the part where my friends and their itinerary may not be.

I'm suddenly homesick and overly full. I shake my head, take one last sip of diet soda. Yak. Diet Coke tastes like chemical sludge. I don't know why I drink it. I guess it's just something that girls do.

Ricky senses my abrupt change in mood. “Ready to go?” he asks graciously, as though it had been his idea all along. I am overwhelmed by his perceptiveness, adore him just a little for it.

 

We toss our trash, step outside. The air in the parking lot is crisp, cleaner than the dingy environs would suggest. His car, a “spunky” two-door Ford Escort that has definitely seen better days, is on the far side of the lot. We cross the blacktop briskly, my flip-flops making a smacking sound that punctuates my every step. I can't think of anything to say that wouldn't be stupid. The moment feels pregnant, tense, brimming with potential and unspoken promises. I can't put my finger on why.

Ricky comes around to my side of the car, leans past my body to open the door for me. It's an old-school gesture, charming. Noah's car has automatic locks, which I guess shouldn't preclude chivalry but somehow does.

Ricky turns the key in the lock, pulls at the handle, opens the door just enough so it sits just slightly ajar, waiting for me to get in. Then he steps back.

All at once Ricky is standing upright and I realize that he is very close to me. So close that I can smell him, mostly shampoo, a green, earthy smell that is distinctly masculine, mingling with a sharply sweet, antiseptic odor. Aftershave? His breath reverberates off my cheek softly. He is looking at me, a sidelong glance out of his peripheral vision. It's a look that I recognize but vaguely, like I'm seeing it through a soft-focus lens.

Quickly, almost instantly, Ricky's face has dipped in toward mine. In a flash it registers—he is trying to kiss me!

I'm stunned, but not surprised. Confused, but eager. Hesitant, but racked with guilt. I have no idea what to do.

I dodge just in time, shrinking backward. It's awkward. Ricky has to stop himself from tilting too far forward. He pauses mid-swoop, straightens again, coughs for good measure. He looks over my head, behind me, off to one side. Anywhere but my eyes. Which is a relief and also torture.

“Sorry,” I say. It sounds tinny and pathetic, suspended between us in the thick air. What was refreshing a moment ago has become cloying, suffocating. What am I sorry for? Any number of things. But the apology can really only do so much. It doesn't dispel the awkwardness.

Mercifully Ricky says nothing, only circles the car back to the driver's side. He gets in, buckles up his seat belt, and I do the same.

 

The ride home is one of the longest of my life. For once I wish Ricky were more of a traditional Puerto Rican driver—faster, more aggressive. He pumps the brakes for every yield, cranes his head methodically at every turn. I fidget, twisting the rings on my fingers, fiddling with the zipper on my bag.

I am desperate for someone to say something, for something to happen. But all that happens is that Ricky decides to try the radio. Something, anything, to kill this hideous silence. My bright pink elephant is here with us right now, balanced precariously on the hand rest, trumpeting loudly between us. The radio explodes into a burst of static quickly replaced by a blaring remixed beat. Ricky coughs again, turns it off. I want to laugh and choke back the impulse wisely, but not without effort.

He signals; we turn onto my street. Well, of course it's not my own, but somehow I've come to think of it that way. He pulls into my (there's that word again) driveway and puts the car in park. He leaves the engine running.

“Um, thanks,” I say, my voice hoarse. “It was great having pizza.”

Egad.
It was great having pizza?
You'd think I'd been raised by a nomadic tribe of tree dwellers. I cringe.

“Yeah,” Ricky says, short, noncommittal. He doesn't sound angry as such. Just deeply detached. It's unsettling. “Glad you liked it.”

I grab my door handle, click open the door. The rush of night air is a stark contrast to the climate-controlled environment of the car, but it's welcome nonetheless. I think I'm choking. Siddhartha probably never had AC, I think wildly. Siddhartha. Almost forgot about him.

This is the mental equivalent of babbling, this train of nonsensical thought. I gather myself, take a deep breath. I peek at Ricky through the corner of my eye. His gaze is focused; he stares directly forward, as though willing himself not to falter, not to cave and look my way. I realize: this moment is overwhelming and not in a good way, but there's nothing to be done about it now. “See you soon,” I say, too softly for him to hear me clearly.

I step out of the car, and it's all I can do not to dart up the front steps. I pace myself, force myself very deliberately to walk like a normal person or as normal as I can be now that I've been possessed by the spirit of someone much, much spazzier than I. When I get to the front door, I grab at it, open it, step eagerly into the foyer. I fight the urge to glance back over my shoulder. Only after I'm inside do I collapse back against the door.

 

I'm listlessly nursing a cup of lukewarm coffee the next morning when my mother comes into the kitchen. “Good morning, sleepyhead,” she says, smiling. My mother has never been one to smile in the morning, not even under the best of circumstances. This is an interesting development. I must say that the island agrees with her.

“Morning,” I mutter. I'm too preoccupied with running through the events of last night to make idle conversation.

“You got in late last night,” she comments.

“I didn't realize I woke you. Sorry.”

“You didn't. Well, just for a minute. But it was no problem. Did you like the movie?”

Suddenly I go blank, can't even recall what movie we watched. Oh, right.

“Uh, yeah,” I tell her. “It was . . . action-y.”

“What are the movie theaters like here?”

“Same as movie theaters back home,” I snap, surprising myself. What is up my butt? I am not one to talk to my mother that way.

Fortunately, she chooses to ignore my minor temper tantrum. “I'm going to shower,” she says. “Rosa took the girls this morning.”

“Cool,” I say, feeling guilty but unsure of how to go about apologizing. Sometimes I am such an ass. Not often, but sometimes. More and more lately, I guess.

My mother exits the room without fanfare just as Lucy is entering. “Don't you have work?” I ask.

“I'm doing a later shift today,” she says. “
¿Qué pasa
? What did you say to your mother?”

“Huh?”

Lucy shrugs. “She looked upset.”

Okay, so I wasn't super-polite and perky at this semi-ungodly hour, first thing in the morning. But please. It's not like I freaked out on my mother or anything. Lucy is totally overreacting. For a change.

Of course, so am I. I'm totally having an internal tirade. More mental babbling.
Perfecto
.

“It's nothing,” I brat. Not that it's any of Lucy's business.

“Sure, whatever,” she says.

“What does that mean?” I ask, trying but failing somewhat to keep the edge from creeping into my voice. I'm overtired and apparently more than a little crabby and confused about the events of the previous night.

“Nothing,” Lucy says. She adds under her breath but loud enough for me to hear, “Just that I wouldn't expect you to care about someone else's feelings.”

My skin prickles; my blood boils, tingling in my veins. I hate, hate, hate conflict, would rather douse myself in hot oil than deal, but Lucy is pushing exactly the wrong buttons. She's jealous, I know, of the fact that Ricky likes me. She's pissed that I blew him off—though how she
knows
I blew him off, I have no idea. Either she's making an incredibly lucky guess or they talked this morning. Either way, screw it. Screw her. Does she think this is easy for me? Any of this? That I wanted to hurt Ricky in any way?

I haven't been this furious in a good, long time.

“What would you know about it?” I say. My voice is low, but my tone is unmistakable. “You're so
totally
open-minded.” Not exactly fighting words, I know, but for me, it's practically a physical assault. I'm shaking with nerves, rage, frustration.

“You're such a princess,” Lucy hisses. “Everything is easy for you.”

“Right,” I say. I rise, somehow manage to deposit my coffee mug into the sink without shattering it into a thousand tiny porcelain shards the way that the fantasy me is dying to do, and storm out of the room. “You're exactly right.”

That second part I say in my head, naturally.

M
y mother is still in the shower; I can hear the rush of water coming from the direction of the bathroom. Lucy has disappeared into her bedroom, and I have nothing to say to her right now anyway. Or at least nothing pleasant. In my head I've begun and abandoned several scathing diatribes that I know I'll never have the guts to speak out loud.

We decide to visit El Yunque for the afternoon, the rain forest. We drive the two hours, watching through the windshield as the landscape evolves from desolate strip malls to rickety low-income housing and finally to twisting, winding roads leading into lush, leafy mountains. The car winds up a hill, slow and steep.

We watch a little filmstrip in the visitor center. (“The
coquí
is a small amphibian that inhabits El Yunque; you can hear its cry if you listen closely.”) Then we decide to hike.

I must confess, I am not much for the physical activity. Back home I am occasionally talked into a half hour on the elliptical machine when Isabelle is facing an “obesity crisis.” But left to my own devices, I'm very sedentary. I huff as we make our way up the craggy inclines of the hiking path.

“Are you sure this is the easy trail?” I gasp, weary.

“Emily!” my mother exclaims. “It's only been twenty minutes. Besides, I'm the smoker.”

“Not today,” I point out.

“And I think, soon, not anymore.” She smiles. “It's nice, isn't it?”