We Are the Goldens (11 page)

IT WAS ALL TOO MUCH
for one day. But I came back from 24th Street and we packed our things and returned to Mom’s and got our homework in order and chose our outfits for school and hit up Mom for lunch money. We had soccer finals coming up and I had play rehearsals and there were quizzes to study for, because life wants to be lived. You can’t just sit on a bench all day outside a donut shop, wishing everything were different.

You and I didn’t say another word about Mr. B. There were so many things I wanted to ask you on Sunday evening: Is this what you imagined that day on the sidewalk outside Madame Mai’s when you twirled around like a foolish little girl? That you’d love a teacher? A man who had a reputation when it came to his students? But I also didn’t want to talk about it anymore. Like Felix said, sometimes talking about things makes them real.

Mom homed in on my mood. She eyed me across the living room, where I sat trying to read the last chapter of
The Good Earth
. This should have been my sweet spot, but I couldn’t focus.

“ ‘When something is wrong with my baby,’ ” she said, “ ‘something is wrong with me.’ ”

“I’m not a baby.”

“Those are song lyrics, Nell.”

“Well, that’s a stupid song.”

She went back to the Sunday paper and let me be.

I had Intro to Visual Arts Mondays third period.

I thought about skipping, going to that café near the park for a mocha latte or maybe sitting in a stall in the second-floor bathroom. Anything to keep my distance. But I went to class, dutiful as ever.

I felt queasy; when I entered, the art room seemed distorted. A few degrees off its axis. I managed to find my way to my drafting table and sat down next to Sean Black. He smiled and said, “ ’Sup, Nell?”

Mr. B. is having an affair with my sister. It’s not just a rumor. It’s real this time. Oh, and did I mention that my best friend’s dad has cancer? Can I borrow a pencil?

I just shrugged.

I watched Mr. Barr for any sign of anything having shifted, and I felt pretty certain that he had no idea you’d told me. Did he even know how close we are? Did he worry we’d talk? Did he warn you not to tell me?

He caught my eye. He thought I was staring because I was paying attention.

“So, Nell, which is it?”

“Um … which is what?”

“Is
Piss Christ
by Andres Serrano a ‘deplorable, despicable display of vulgarity’ or is it ‘darkly beautiful, ominous, and glorious’?” He moved the pointer around the slide in circles. A crucifix soaking in the artist’s own piss. Was he trying to divert my attention? “Who’s right? The conservative senator from New York or the renowned art critic?”

He is great-looking, I’ll give you that. Dark hair. Blue eyes. Red lips. Broad shoulders. Nice smile. I could go down the list and check off all the boxes in the handsome column.

“Um … I don’t know?”

“That’s a perfectly respectable answer. It’s hard to pass judgment on work in its time, isn’t it? So you’re saying wait and see?”

I stared at a doodle on my drafting table. “Yeah, I guess.”

“Excellent.”

Mr. Barr removed his plaid flannel shirt and flipped to a new slide. He wore jeans and a black T-shirt that revealed his Dalí tattoo. The melting clock. Time is irrelevant? Age doesn’t matter? I tried reading all I could into his inked skin until the screeching of chairs pushing backward snapped me out of it. I went on to my next class.

I found Felix in the cafeteria at the end of his lunch period while I was just starting mine. He was sitting with a girl I’d
seen him talking to once or twice, a sophomore. I couldn’t remember her name.

I didn’t want to just walk over and ask about Angel. For one thing, it had been less than twenty-four hours, so there wasn’t likely to be any change. For another, Felix was clearly working on his game.

I approached anyway, to say hi and let him know with a look that he hadn’t left my thoughts.

He kissed me on the cheek, using me to make this girl jealous, but I didn’t mind. Much.

“Nell … Andie. Andie … Nell.” He looked back and forth between us. “Best friend … girl I’d like to date. Girl I’d like to date … best friend.”

Andie blushed and swatted his arm.

“Sorry. Is
girl
demeaning? Do you prefer
woman
?”

She laughed and walked off with her tray.

He turned to me. “You think
girl I’d like to date
was too much?”

“How about
girl I’m trying desperately to get into the pants of
?”

“It ends with a preposition. That’s a deal breaker.”

He piled all the dishes and napkins from the table onto his tray, not only his mess, but the stuff less-thoughtful students had left behind. That’s Felix for you.

“You okay?” I asked. At that moment Mom’s lyrics came back to me.
When something is wrong with my baby …

“Hanging in. Staying positive.”

“You sure? Anything I can do?”

“Yes. Continue to act as my foil whilst I pursue the fairer sex.”

“Is that what I am?”

“You make me look better than I deserve.” He smiled at me. “You’re the very best foil a boy could ask for.”

I watched him walk away, and in that moment, much as I love you and Mom and Dad, I wanted to live in a world with a population of two: me and Felix De La Cruz.

Play rehearsal was the beacon guiding me through the rest of my day. I could give you some bullshit about how inhabiting a different character might take me out of my own perplexing life, but honestly, I was seriously psyched to see Sam.

I didn’t wait for him to approach me. I walked right over and took the empty seat next to him in the theater. Felix hadn’t arrived yet, so I found the courage from someplace else.

“Hey there, Nell. Great game on Saturday. You killed it.” He put his hand up for a high five.

“Thanks, Sam.” I slapped his palm but then held on. Gave his hand a squeeze. Then two more. He wouldn’t have known our family’s secret code—three squeezes =
I love you
. And that’s not even what I meant, because I didn’t love Sam, but I wanted to find out if I could love him someday.

Why was I so bold? Touching him like that? Sending a convoluted signal? I guess I figured all bets were off. If Felix could tell a girl he hardly knew that he’d like to date her, if you could have Mr. B., if that wasn’t just some silly schoolgirl fantasy, then maybe I could have a boy like Sam Fitzpayne.

When someone gives you the three squeezes, you squeeze
back twice:
How much?
Then that person squeezes your hand as hard as she can, to let you know that she loves you with every ounce of strength she can muster. That’s the family code. Remember your favorite joke? You’d squeeze three times:
I love you
. I’d squeeze back twice:
How much?
Then you’d let your hand go limp in mine and laugh.

I laughed too, but honestly, that always broke my heart just a little bit.

Sam looked at me.
What’s with you today?
He had a mischievous glint in his eye. I liked getting looked at that way, having my layers peeled back.

“HAMLET!” Ms. Eisenstein bellowed.

“Bummer. Gotta go.”

We’d starting costume fittings, and Sam disappeared backstage to return in tights that didn’t leave much to the imagination.

“Holy Banana Hammock!” Felix whispered. He’d taken Sam’s seat. “There is no way in hell I’m getting into a pair of those. No way.” We both stared.

“I don’t get it,” I said. “I thought this was
Hamlet
in a San Francisco high school? So what’s with the Elizabethan getup?”

“Clearly Ms. Eisenstein just wants to see Sam’s junk.”

“Or maybe she’s having some fun with, uh … anachronism?”

“Or … maybe
you
want to have some fun with
Sam’s
anachronism,” Felix said. “Especially after seeing him in those tights!”

Not really. I didn’t think about things like that. It’s sort of hard to admit, but what I wanted was the
spin-around-on-the-sidewalk-to-music-that-isn’t-playing-with-a-grin-as-wide-as-a-freeway
kind of crazy love. Stupid, huh? Naive? I mean, after everything I’ve seen with Mom and Dad, and everything I knew about what happens with most kids, especially in high school. Still: I wanted real love. I wanted what I saw in your eyes, even if I worried that what gave you that look was wrong.

“What’s with that girl, Felix?” I asked.

“What girl?”

“Andie? The one you’d
like to date
?”

He sighed. “I don’t know. She’s cute. I need distraction. Hazel Porter doesn’t know I exist and you’re in love with a man in tights. What do you expect me to do?”

I nudged him with my knee. It was an old joke that Felix only bothered with other girls because I wasn’t available to him, but we both knew that our bond was different and would never be romantic. There were times, though, when I wondered if maybe we had it all figured out. That maybe we were in the midst of the best that love can offer.

“She likes you. I can tell.”

“And Sam likes you.”

“You’re just saying that because of what I just said.”

“Nope. This ain’t a quid pro quo. And if you need proof, just look at his tights.”

“Jeez, Felix. Obsess much?”

When rehearsal ended I took my time packing up my stuff. Felix bolted so he could meet his parents for dinner. After my earlier move with Sam, I wanted to see if I could sit back and wait. See if maybe he’d come to me.

“Hey, Nelly G.”

I liked that. I liked that a lot.

“Hey, Sam.”

He reached for my backpack. “May I take your bag?”

“Um, sure.”

He walked me out to the street in front of school.

“Your ride here yet?”

“If you mean the number forty-three bus, then no.”

“The bus? After dark? A young girl like you?”

I shrugged.

“Not on my watch.” He slung my backpack over his shoulder and reached for my hand. “I’m driving you home.”

Any other day I’d have said no or called to get permission. I know the rule. No getting in a car driven by someone not known to Mom or Dad. When Mom was a teenager in suburban Chicago, four kids from her high school died in a car accident. The driver wasn’t drinking or using drugs, she was just a seventeen-year-old taking her friends home from school. Maybe the music was on too loud. Maybe she was distracted by something that happened that day. Who knows? But because of this tragedy some forty years ago, I’m not allowed to get in a friend’s car unless Mom has given this friend the third degree, like it would make any difference. Accidents happen. That’s why they’re called accidents.

But I didn’t call Mom because it wasn’t any other day; it was the day after you’d confirmed that you were in love with your art teacher, so I figured hitching a ride with Sam amounted to a pretty minor infraction of Golden rules and regulations.

“It’s not too far out of your way?” I asked.

“I don’t even know where you live, but wherever it is, it’s not out of my way.”

We walked two blocks to a parking lot. The daily rate was twenty dollars. And you wonder why Mom and Dad won’t buy you a car?

He drove a Mini. Like he wasn’t already adorable enough. Put that boy behind the wheel of a burnt-orange Mini Cooper with a black-and-white checkered roof? And then have him go and open the door for me?

Forget about it: I was done.

The bus ride home always feels like it lasts a lifetime, but the drive with Sam went way too quickly. We took Masonic and drove through the Presidio. Sam unrolled our windows so we could smell the eucalyptus. What boy cares about smelling nature? How did he know how much I loved that stretch of road with its tall, wondrous, dying trees?

“Do you know about the Goldsworthy?” he shouted over the music and the rushing air from the open windows.

“Nope.”

“Andy Goldsworthy has an installation,
Wood Line
, in that grove right there.” He pointed to his left. “We came on a field trip for Mr. B.’s sculpture class. It’s awesome. You can walk on it.”

“Sounds cool.” I tried not to betray the distress caused by the mention of Mr. B.’s name.

“I’ll take you sometime.”

“I’d like that.”
I’d like that?
What was I? A Shakespearean
maiden? “I mean, that sounds like fun.” I took in a deep breath of the medicinal, earthy eucalyptus. “How about now?”

“Now?” He looked over at me. “It’s dark out.”

I held up my phone. “There’s an app for that!”

He pulled off Presidio Boulevard onto a side road, and parked.

“Don’t you have to get home?”

I don’t know where the boldness came from, really I don’t. “Yes,” I said. “But I’d rather walk on the Goldsworthy.”

He looked at me. I pressed the flashlight app on my phone and shined it in his face. “What, are you afraid of the dark?”

We climbed out of the car and wandered into the eucalyptus grove. It was silent but for the sound of the cars on Presidio Boulevard and the dried leaves and twigs crackling under our shoes. A paved, lit walking path lay to our right. I’d been on it a few times with Dad. Dad is the type to always stop and read every sign aloud to us whether we’re interested or not, so I knew that path was called Lovers’ Lane because soldiers as far back as the 1800s took it from the army base to visit their wives or girlfriends in the city. I thought of mentioning this to Sam. Show him I knew things too. Even if I’d never heard of Goldsworthy, I knew about Lovers’ Lane. But it was too flirty, even for the new, bolder me.

We found the art installation—a long, snaking line of logs fused together to look like one fallen tree, bending and curving impossibly through the forest. He hopped up and then motioned for me to step in front of him.

“Ladies first.” He offered his hand.

I took it and he hoisted me up. I started walking, heel to toe, arms out wide, like I’d learned on the balance beam in SF Gymnastics all those years ago. I was never particularly poised in my hot-pink, too-small leotard, but on this night, in these woods, in front of the boy I adored, grace found me.