Swept Away (2 page)

I lie on my bed and look around my room. I was forced to take down my posters of rock bands, my parents fearing they were having a negative effect on me. I miss my “Get Bent!” poster. There are naked spots all over the walls. At first, I felt naked without Frankie, but then, as the days passed, as Camilla brought me to my senses, I realized that Frankie’s hold over me wasn’t healthy. I wasn’t his property. And I wasn’t naked.   

I look down at my night shirt. The Florida nights can be warm, so my legs are bare.  I notice the time is still early. I’m wide awake, my mind in overdrive. I distract myself with music, securing my earbuds. The iPod is new, a gift from my parents for good behavior. The music works. I find myself drifting away, but before I enter my dreamscape, I set my alarm early for tomorrow. I’ve been running every morning. It’s been cathartic. I settle myself under the sheets, my head against the pillow.       

Peace eludes me. I’m falling, falling into a dark abyss, full of water. I’m drowning. The mysterious stranger arrives, his hand reaching out to me, but I can’t reach him. I’m in hell. The water pushes me down, down, down. The end is near, and I welcome it, when a hand grabs me, pulls me from the raging sea. He carries me in his arms and lays me down on a blanket of warm sand. The sun, in all its glory, shines down upon on us. Only us.   

He kisses my lips. “It’s all right, now. We’re together. We’re together, my love.”

His voice is strange, as if he’s speaking to me from far away. I blink and he has vanished. I stand and scan the beach. The distance is vast, yet I see him, on the other side of the ocean. He’s pained. He’s speaking, but I can’t hear him. 

I step into the water, determined to swim to him, but he vanishes, body turning to sand, falling into the water. I cry out, but the water silences me. I’m drowning, and this time, there’s no one to save me.

I hear a beeping noise. I open my eyes to discover I’m not drowning. I’m in my room. I was in my room the entire time. It was only a dream.

I slap the alarm off and stay under the covers. I glance at the window. It’s still dark outside, but already humid. I throw the sheets off and change into my running clothes.  I look into the mirror and see the same girl as yesterday, only with unkempt, shorter hair. I hope my parents don’t think I’m having a mental breakdown. I hide my scissors, just in case.

I’m in the kitchen, doing warm-up exercises, listening to my iPod, when I feel a tap on my shoulder. I jump and turn, seeing my father.

He notices my hairdo. “What happened?”

“I got gum in it,” I lie.

“Okay,” he says, his tone suggesting he doesn’t believe me. He appraises my attire.  “Be careful out there.”

He’s told me this every day of every week of every month that I’ve gone out running. At first, he went with me, thinking I was going to run away. I mentally shake my head. I’m glad those days are over. 

We say goodbye and I exit the house. There’s a nearby park that I go to, and I make my way there. I go around and around, running and running. I stop and rest, noticing a trail I’ve never seen before. It was obscured by trees that have been trimmed. Curious, I advance. I start out with a light walk, then jog, taking in the scenery. It’s so nice in the mornings here, just me and nature. I stop in the middle of the trail, for a rest. I hit pause on the song I’ve been playing. I hear the birds and the squirrels. I hear a twig snap.

Wait. 

I freeze and wait. I dare to look around, but see no one. It must have been an animal, hopefully, a friendly one.

I continue down the trail, the music blaring in my ears, until my earbuds pop out. I stop to adjust when I hear it again. Snap.

I can’t breathe. I’m drowning, but it’s not as bad as before. I decide that I’ve had enough exercise, and turn around, exiting the trail, from where I started. I hear another twig, snapping. I turn and see, through the trees, a figure. I panic and run away, finding myself on Santa Maria Circle, at Camilla’s house—my sanctuary.  

It’s still early morning. Mrs. Vargas lets me inside, and I find Camilla asleep.  Camilla’s cat, Lola, greets me with a yawn, and then curls back up at the foot of the bed.       

I let Camilla sleep and scan the pictures on her corkboard. Frankie has been cut out of all of them. I’m standing next to gaping holes.

I hear Camilla murmur in her sleep. I decide to approach.

“Hey, it’s Daria.”

“Hmm?” she says, sleepily.

I poke her. “Hey, get up.”

She mumbles again and turns over.

I turn her towards me. “Camilla!”

She finally opens her eyes and screams. “What the hell happened to your hair?!” she yells.

I wave a hand at her. “I cut it, no big deal. I have to tell you what happened at the park this morning.”

Camilla moans, wipes her face, and sits up. Lola comes to sit beside her. Camilla strokes her fur.

“What, the park?” she says, still groggy. 

I sit on her bed. “I saw someone.”

Camilla shakes her head. “And?” she asks.

“It wasn’t another runner or someone out for a stroll. I saw a figure—I think of a man—I think…” I shake my head. “I think it was that mysterious stranger, from the beach yesterday.”

“You saw him?”

“Not really, but I felt…”

“Felt what?”

“I felt like I was drowning. I felt that way at the beach, I had a dream about him, and I was drowning, and now, this morning, at the park….”

Camilla scratches behind Lola’s ear. “But what does it mean?”

I sigh. “I have no idea.”

Camilla falls silent, and then asks, “Daria, what’d you do to your hair?”

“Gum,” I say.

“What’d you do, roll around in it?” she asks, yawning.

I pull her off the bed and away from furious Lola. “Get some coffee in you and take a shower.”

“Well, you stink too,” she says.

“Thanks, I love you too.”

It’s Saturday and we’re going shopping for clothes: Mrs. Vargas, Camilla, and me. I haven’t seen
him
in days. I haven’t drowned in days. And I haven’t had any dreams about him in days. Whoever he is, I hope he’s gone.               

I inform Camilla of his absence, while we scan the sales rack.

“So, why do you look so sad?” she asks, sizing up a tube top against her chest.

“Your mom is never going to let you buy that,” I say, and take it from her, putting it back on the rack. “And I don’t look sad. Do I?”

Camilla shrugs. “Maybe it’s the hair. What’d your mom say?”

“Well, first she gasped, and then she said, ‘It’ll grow out, don’t worry,’ as if someone had attacked me with a pair of scissors while I slept.”

“It does look like that.”

“Shut up.”

Camilla and I separate, each to our own tastes in fashion. We smile and wave at each other from across the store. Mrs. Vargas finds her daughter and frowns at every tube and crop top she’s shown. Camilla rolls her eyes, says something in Spanish, and then storms off. I continue browsing. I feel fine, great, until I don’t—the sensation, the pressure, the darkness has returned. I’m drowning, adrift, and then I rise, above the water, and breathe in the fresh air. I find Camilla, my anchor, but I don’t tell her what happened. I don’t want her to worry. 

We continue shopping and I’m done before she is. I check out and Mrs. Vargas hands me the keys to her car, so I can secure my bags. The humidity is stifling and I’m glad I’m wearing shorts. I’m almost to Mrs. Vargas’s car when I’m pulled under again, drowning. It’s so intense that I drop the bags and fall on the hard cement, scraping my knees bloody. I raise my head, trying to get above the surface.

He’s here. What is he doing to me? Haven’t I suffered enough?

I hear a car, speeding away. I can breathe again. The waters have receded. I take my time to the car, placing the bags inside. I’m hesitant to return to the store, to let Camilla see my distress. I breathe, in and out, calming my racing heart. I’m on dry land again.               

I reenter the store to find Mrs. Vargas and Camilla arguing, in Spanish. 

It’s music to my ears.

Camilla decides we’re going to eat lunch at Libertad. 

“Hopefully, Alejandro will be there,” she says to me, winking,

I roll my eyes.

Libertad is busy, as it always is. Vibrant music is playing. Cuban and American flags adorn the outside. Patrons switch back and forth between Spanish and English.              

Cigar smoke fills the inside, so Mrs. Vargas insists that we eat at an outside table. 

“Alejandro,” Camilla yells, as she waves.

I turn to see him approach, smiling at me.

I cut my eyes at Camilla.

She waves a hand at me. “Can you take our order?” she asks him.

“Of course,” he says, but talking to me. “Hey, Daria, how are you?”

“Good,” I say, in a soft voice, suddenly shy.

Camilla puts her arm around my shoulders. “She’s great, isn’t that right, Daria?”

“Yeah,” I say in an unenthusiastic tone.

Camilla smiles, and says to Alejandro, “Do you have a girlfriend?”

He blushes. “Uh, no,” he says.

“Great,” says Camilla. “Daria is single too.”

“Camilla,” says Mrs. Vargas in a stern tone, “you and your friend can talk later. He’s on the clock.”

Camilla rolls her eyes and opens her menu. She tells Alejandro her order and snaps her menu close. “Happy, mama?” she asks.

“Delighted,” Mrs. Vargas says in a dull tone, and then orders.

“Daria?” says Alejandro, waiting, pen over pad. He’s smiling.

I scan the menu and order a simple sandwich, water, nothing special.

He takes the menu from me and our hands brush. He feels nice. I secure my hands in my lap. He promises to come back with our drinks, and then departs.

I pinch Camilla’s arm.

She slaps my arm. “What? He’s a great guy.”

“Yes, he is, but I’m not ready.”

“Camilla, leave her alone,” says Mrs. Vargas. “It’s too hot to play matchmaker.”

We eat our meals in silence, each fuming at the other. Alejandro pops by, every once in a while, to check in on us—or rather
me
. I find myself speechless around him, making odd gestures. When the meal is finally over, the bill paid, and the tip on the table, I’m ready to run. As we’re walking across the parking lot, I hear someone calling my name.

I turn to see Alejandro, running towards me.

“Hey, Daria,” he says, when he’s caught me, alone.

“Hey,” I return, almost inaudible. I find my voice. “Did we not leave enough of a tip?”

He shakes his head. “No, no, I was just wondering if—if you’d like to go out—sometime?”

“Yes,” I say immediately, surprising myself, and then say, “No,” watching his face change from a smile into a frown within seconds. “I’m still on probation. I have a curfew. We couldn’t go out at night.”

He looks relieved and smiles. “That’s okay. We could do something in the daytime.”

“Yeah, we could, but I don’t know if my parents would allow me to go on a date,” I say, suddenly realizing that my parents and I haven’t discussed boys. 

They freaked when they found out I wasn’t a virgin. They made me get tested for everything. It was horrifying.

“Well, how about a new friend? Or a reacquainted friend, considering we’ve known each other ever since we were kids. They wouldn’t object to that, would they?”

I bite my lip, and then release it, saying, “I guess not.”

“Can I have your cell number?”

“You’ll have to call my house.” I feel so embarrassed. “I don’t have my cell phone back yet.”

He smiles. “That’s okay. I’m not afraid of landlines.”

I laugh. “Okay, I’d—I’d like that—I mean, for you to call me—on a landline.”

I feel my face blushing as I write my number on his notepad. I hand it back to him and this time, I can tell he purposely brushes his fingers against mine.

He tucks the notepad away, securing it. “Great.” He’s grinning. “I’ll give you a call.”

“Great,” I say, and then abruptly turn to leave, walking fast away. 

I’m not ready. What have I done?

I’m lying on my bed, reminiscing over the day’s events, when the phone rings. I rush downstairs and answer it.  It’s Camilla.

“Has Alejandro called?”

“No, and I don’t think he will.”

“Why do you say that?”

“I don’t know.” Because I secretly hope he doesn’t.

“You think you know everything, Daria, but you don’t.”

“All right, what?”

“Alejandro has had it bad for you, ever since the ninth grade!”

“How do you know?”

“Tony called me, said that he met with Alejandro, who was talking non-stop about you, so excited to have your phone number.”

“Oh, wow, um…”

“Yeah, wow! You could’ve been with Alejandro this whole time! You would’ve never hooked up with Frankie. You would’ve never—“

“Yeah, yeah, I get it: sunshine and roses. Well, ifs and buts, Camilla. Alejandro was shy, barely able to say two words to me, and Frankie…well, Frankie showed interest. He may have been messed up, Camilla, but I think, deep down, he cared for me.”

Camilla sighs. “Well, I guess you got to go through the bad to get to the good.”

“You sound like my therapist.”

“Well, in that case, you owe me a hundred dollars for this session.”

“Can I do installments?”

“Talk to my secretary.”

It’s late at night, and I’m listening to my iPod, when my mom enters my room. 

“The phone’s for you,” she says.

I roll my eyes. “Is it Camilla again?”

“No, someone named Alejandro.”

My mouth drops open, briefly, and then I recover. “Oh, he’s a friend.”

She’s furrowing her brow, deciding how to respond. Finally, she says, “Okay, well, don’t keep him waiting.”

I make it down the stairs, slow and steady, staying my urge to run and flee. I enter the kitchen and pick up the handset.

“Hey,” I say. It isn’t the best conversation starter, but it’s all I can muster, nervous.

“Hey, what’s up?” he says. 

I can hear his smile. 

“Nothing much—just chillin’. What about you?”

“Yeah, chillin’,” he returns.

“So, uh, how was work today?” I ask, cringing at the question.

“Good, I made lots of tips. Of course, my day got better when you showed up.” 

“Oh?” I say, not knowing what else to say.

“Yeah, uh, I think you’re great and it was just really nice to see you today.”

“Oh,” I say again, sounding like a broken record.

“Um, well, I was calling to see if you wanted to go bowling tomorrow afternoon?”

“Oh, well, I need to ask my parents first, okay? Can you hold?”

“Sure, Daria, I’ll wait for you.”

I peek out from the kitchen, and into the living room, to see my parents, pretending to watch TV. I inform them of Alejandro’s plans. They give me the okay, as long as I call them if I’m to go anywhere else—and the curfew still stands. I smile, thanking them. We’re making progress. If Alejandro called me months ago, my dad would’ve insisted on being a chaperone.   

“It’s a go,” I say to Alejandro.

“Great,” he says, and I can hear his smile. 

“But…I don’t know how to bowl,” I inform, embarrassed.

“It’s okay. I’ll teach you.” His tone deepens, the word “teach” becoming suggestive.

“Okay, well, I have to go. See you tomorrow.”

“Okay, Daria,” he says, sounding disappointed of my imminent departure. “Bye.”

“Bye,” I say, and hang up.

My heart’s beating normal again. I can breathe. 

When I walk past my parents, heading towards the stairs, my dad says, “This Alejandro…”

“He’s a friend, that’s all,” I inform. “He works at Libertad,” I add, as if having a job will help improve Alejandro’s status in my dad’s eyes.

It does. “Oh, that’s good of him, working.”

“Yeah,” I agree, and head up the stairs, as fast as my feet will take me without tripping and falling.

I reach my room without injury and collapse on my bed, eagerly anticipating tomorrow, yet dreading the day.