“And we don’t like to argue. You, on the other hand—”
“Don’t finish that.”
“Dad and I would bore the crap out of you. What would you do in a house where people didn’t argue?”
“Shut up.”
I tried to picture her living with us. I shot her a look. She practically did live with us. I didn’t think it was a good idea to verbalize what I was thinking. Verbalize was a Sam word.
“Oh, and by the way, Mr. I Follow All the Rules—?I’ve seen you down a few beers at parties.”
“I don’t go to that many parties—?and have you ever seen me drunk?”
“I’d love to see you drunk. Then I could tell you what to do.”
“You already tell me what to do.”
“Snark, snark, snark.” We both laughed. “I just don’t get it, Sally. Your father’s an artist. How the hell did he wind up being such a straight-edger? I bet he’s never even done drugs.”
“I wouldn’t know.”
“Have you ever done drugs?”
“Why do you always ask me questions you already know the answers to?”
“Why don’t you just let loose, Sally? Let yourself go. Live. The now.”
“Yeah, the now. Look, you let loose enough for both of us.”
She gave me another one of her looks. We both knew she was no stranger to experimenting with mood-altering substances. She especially liked 420. Not me. I tried it once at a party and wound up kissing a girl I didn’t even like. I took kissing very seriously. When I kissed a girl (not that it happened very often), I wanted it to mean something. I just wasn’t that casual about things.
“Get me the eggs from the fridge.”
She opened the refrigerator. “Crap! Look at all that food.”
I shook my head. “Most people’s refrigerators have food in them. I hope you know that.”
“God, you are snarky today, white boy.”
She knew I hated being called white boy. Even though I was technically a white boy, I was raised in a Mexican family. So I didn’t qualify as your average white boy. Not in my world. I knew Spanish better than Sam—?and she was supposed to be Mexican.
She handed me the carton of eggs. She knew I was ignoring her comment.
“Chill,” she said. She opened the refrigerator door again. “Nope, this does not look like my refrigerator at all. I don’t even know why we have one. Maybe I should sell it on eBay.”
“And what would Sylvia say about that?”
“She probably wouldn’t even notice it was missing.” She watched as I cracked two eggs and fried them in bacon grease. “Who taught you how to do that?”
“My Mima.” I wanted to add, You know, my Mexican grandmother, just to underline my point that I was not your ordinary milquetoast white boy.
“Wish I had a Mima,” she said. “My mother says she doesn’t want anything to do with her family. You know what I think? I think it’s the other way around.” She scarfed down a piece of bacon. “I love bacon. Did you go out last night?”
“I went to a movie.”
“Who with?”
“Fito.”
“Why do you hang out with him? He’s a dork. He always has his face stuck in a book, and he cusses way too much.”
“Are you telling me that you, Samantha Diaz, find cussing offensive? Really?”
“You’re mocking me.”
“Yup. And you know I’m a dork too.”
“Yeah, but you’re an interesting dork. Fito is definitely not interesting.”
“Wrong. He’s interesting as hell. I like the guy. He actually knows how to think. And he knows how to hold his own in an intelligent conversation—?which is more than I can say for most of the guys you hang with.”
“Not that you’d know.”
I rolled my eyes. I may have been a dork, but I wasn’t an idiot.
“Like how many of my boyfriends have you ever gotten to know?”
“You never give me a chance. They’re here one day and gone the next. And I do know the guy you’re going out with now. Let’s just say he’s not college material.”
“Eddie’s nice.”
“Nice. That guy wouldn’t go near that word with a ten-foot pole. He spends all his money on body art.”
“I like his tats.”
“What’s with you and all these bad boys?”
“They’re handsome.”
“In a raised-by-wolves kind of way. I mean, you go for a certain kind of aesthetic.” Aesthetic was a Sal word. And then I grinned at her. “Besides, I’m handsome—?and you don’t go out with me.”
She grinned back at me. “Yeah, you are handsome. Not very modest—?but handsome. But you don’t have tattoos, and, well, you’re not boyfriend material. What you are is best-friend material.”
That made me happy. I liked our friendship just the way it was. It worked for me. It worked for both of us. But the guys she went out with? Bad news—?every single one of them. No bueno. “Look, Sammy,” I said, “these guys always wind up hurting you. And you wind up crying and sad and depressed and sullen and all those things, and I wind up having to talk you down from the tree.”
“Well, since you don’t have a life, you have to get your drama from somewhere.”
I rolled my eyes again. “I don’t do drama.”
“Yes, you do, Sally. If you didn’t do drama, you wouldn’t be my best friend.”
“True that.”
I loved Sammy.
I really loved her. And I wanted to tell her about the guy I’d punched because he’d called me a pinche gringo. I wanted to tell her that there was an anger in me that I just didn’t understand. I’d always been this sort of patient guy—?and now I’d started thinking I was surrounded by idiots. The guy next to me in English class passed me a note asking for Sam’s number. I passed a note back: “I’m not her pimp, and I ought to kick your ass.” So much for being laid-back and calm.
But Sam, she had this image of me that I was a good boy, and she was in love with that image. She was in love with simple, uncomplicated, levelheaded Sally. And I didn’t know how to tell her that I wasn’t all those beautiful things she thought I was. That things were changing, and I could feel it but couldn’t put it into words.
I felt like a fraud.
But what if I found the words? What then? What would I do if she didn’t love me anymore?
WFTD = Maybe
DAD AND I sat at the kitchen table. He was making spaghetti and meatballs for dinner. I watched him form the meatballs. His hands were big and rough. I guess it’s because he was always making frames, stretching them, painting. Painting and painting and painting. I liked his hands.
We were listening to the Rolling Stones. I liked his music, but it was his music, not mine. “Dad,” I said, “why don’t we listen to something else?”
“Something wrong with my music?”
“Move forward,” I said.
“Hmm. Not sure I want to.”
I smiled.
He smiled. “Every generation thinks they’re the coolest canoe that’s ever come down the river.”
“That’s not true.”
“Yes, it is. Every generation thinks they’re the ones who are going to reinvent the world. News flash: the world has been around for millions of years.”
“But it keeps changing. Besides, what’s wrong with thinking you can improve the world? Just a little.”
“Nothing wrong with that. When I was in college, high-tech meant having an electric typewriter.”