says.
“Okay”—my upper lip trembles—“truth.”
“Do you,” she asks quietly, “like Danny Diaz?”
I hesitate, which is all but verbal confirmation of my feelings. A part of me wants to say yes, but the feelings are so new that I’m not exactly sure how to own up to them.
“I like tutoring him.” I give her the safest reply I can muster.
“Hmm…” She fixes her eyes on me. “Okay, just answer yes or no to the following questions. Okay?”
I nod yes.
“You liked touching him?” she asks slowly.
Did I like touching Danny Diaz? I think about my hands coursing through Danny’s soft hair. I inhale the palm of my hand to see if I can still smell him. I nod yes.
“Did he touch you?”
“Yes.” I look up at the ceiling. I remember Danny’s hand reaching for mine.
“So, duh”—a grin flashes across her face—“you like him.”
I nod my head because it’s true. I like Danny Diaz.
“Now,” she says with a wicked smile, “the question is, does he make you tingle?”
“Don’t be stupid.” I throw a stuffed animal at her, which she skillfully dodges. “People don’t tingle.”
Marisol gives me a doubtful look.
“Have you ever tingled?” I ask.
“This isn’t about me. This is about you.”
“Whatever,” I say, because of course Danny doesn’t make me tingle. But when I’m around him, I do feel something else. I guess I feel okay, like really, really okay, which is saying a lot.
“Why are you so excited about who I like?” I bury my face in the part of her comforter that smells like strawberries.
“I’m not.” She purses her lips like she’s thinking.
“Are you coming off a sugar high?”
“No…I’m just happy for you. Is there something wrong with that?”
“No, except there’s nothing to be happy for.”
“Not yet”—she gives me a strange smile—“but soon.”
In the candlelight, Marisol looks a lot like her mom. They both have eyes like saucers, long narrow noses, and swollen pink lips. But it’s the symmetry of their faces that makes it work. It just all adds up. And sometimes, like now, as the light flickers across her face, Marisol can be breathtaking.
Not like me.
“Do you think I look like my mother?” I ask Marisol.
“Huh?” Marisol rolls over on her bed and looks at me. “What brought that on?”
“Oh”—I stare at my reflection in the mirror opposite me—“I don’t know. Do you think that I do?”
“Well…” Marisol stares at me for a long time. “I don’t know.” She tilts a candle so that the melting wax drips onto her skin. “It’s been a long time, you know.”
“Yeah,” I say quietly, “I know.” I close my eyes and try to conjure up an image of my mother. But I can’t.
I can’t.
TWELVE
secrets
wednesday, november ninth.
IT HAPPENS. The world, specifically Ryan Rosenbloom, figures out the one thing that I already know. Marisol is beautiful.
“I said yes,” Marisol sighs and smiles. She is in heaven. We’re eating lunch in Siberia, which, technically, is a canal five minutes away from school.
Her head rests on her book bag. Her hand stretches to the sky, tracing a cloud that passes overhead. All around us ducks screech, diving after crumbs thrown from the old man’s bag.
“What do you think his name really is?” Marisol nods toward the old man.
“I thought we agreed it was Carlos,” I tell her impatiently. I want to get back to our prior conversation. I want to know more.
“God. What is it with you and your stereotypes? His name could be Bob. How do we even know he’s Hispanic?” She raises an eyebrow inquisitively as if we’re discussing philosophy or some other great big mystery of the universe.
“You’ve seen the way he dresses. The guayabera, the straw hats…I guess he could be Bahamian or Jamaican.” I shake my head. “Stop trying to change the subject.”
“The lake is absolutely lovely today.” Marisol eyes Siberia. She’s practically glowing.
“It’s a man-made
“Okay”—my upper lip trembles—“truth.”
“Do you,” she asks quietly, “like Danny Diaz?”
I hesitate, which is all but verbal confirmation of my feelings. A part of me wants to say yes, but the feelings are so new that I’m not exactly sure how to own up to them.
“I like tutoring him.” I give her the safest reply I can muster.
“Hmm…” She fixes her eyes on me. “Okay, just answer yes or no to the following questions. Okay?”
I nod yes.
“You liked touching him?” she asks slowly.
Did I like touching Danny Diaz? I think about my hands coursing through Danny’s soft hair. I inhale the palm of my hand to see if I can still smell him. I nod yes.
“Did he touch you?”
“Yes.” I look up at the ceiling. I remember Danny’s hand reaching for mine.
“So, duh”—a grin flashes across her face—“you like him.”
I nod my head because it’s true. I like Danny Diaz.
“Now,” she says with a wicked smile, “the question is, does he make you tingle?”
“Don’t be stupid.” I throw a stuffed animal at her, which she skillfully dodges. “People don’t tingle.”
Marisol gives me a doubtful look.
“Have you ever tingled?” I ask.
“This isn’t about me. This is about you.”
“Whatever,” I say, because of course Danny doesn’t make me tingle. But when I’m around him, I do feel something else. I guess I feel okay, like really, really okay, which is saying a lot.
“Why are you so excited about who I like?” I bury my face in the part of her comforter that smells like strawberries.
“I’m not.” She purses her lips like she’s thinking.
“Are you coming off a sugar high?”
“No…I’m just happy for you. Is there something wrong with that?”
“No, except there’s nothing to be happy for.”
“Not yet”—she gives me a strange smile—“but soon.”
In the candlelight, Marisol looks a lot like her mom. They both have eyes like saucers, long narrow noses, and swollen pink lips. But it’s the symmetry of their faces that makes it work. It just all adds up. And sometimes, like now, as the light flickers across her face, Marisol can be breathtaking.
Not like me.
“Do you think I look like my mother?” I ask Marisol.
“Huh?” Marisol rolls over on her bed and looks at me. “What brought that on?”
“Oh”—I stare at my reflection in the mirror opposite me—“I don’t know. Do you think that I do?”
“Well…” Marisol stares at me for a long time. “I don’t know.” She tilts a candle so that the melting wax drips onto her skin. “It’s been a long time, you know.”
“Yeah,” I say quietly, “I know.” I close my eyes and try to conjure up an image of my mother. But I can’t.
I can’t.
TWELVE
secrets
wednesday, november ninth.
IT HAPPENS. The world, specifically Ryan Rosenbloom, figures out the one thing that I already know. Marisol is beautiful.
“I said yes,” Marisol sighs and smiles. She is in heaven. We’re eating lunch in Siberia, which, technically, is a canal five minutes away from school.
Her head rests on her book bag. Her hand stretches to the sky, tracing a cloud that passes overhead. All around us ducks screech, diving after crumbs thrown from the old man’s bag.
“What do you think his name really is?” Marisol nods toward the old man.
“I thought we agreed it was Carlos,” I tell her impatiently. I want to get back to our prior conversation. I want to know more.
“God. What is it with you and your stereotypes? His name could be Bob. How do we even know he’s Hispanic?” She raises an eyebrow inquisitively as if we’re discussing philosophy or some other great big mystery of the universe.
“You’ve seen the way he dresses. The guayabera, the straw hats…I guess he could be Bahamian or Jamaican.” I shake my head. “Stop trying to change the subject.”
“The lake is absolutely lovely today.” Marisol eyes Siberia. She’s practically glowing.
“It’s a man-made
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