A LITTLE something
FIVE
Gossip
***
The only thing I want to do after school today is sleep. So that's what I do. I go home, bury myself beneath
my covers, and slide into oblivion. Only it’s not exactly oblivion. It’s that twilight that precedes the before
and after of sleep, where you feel like you’re stuck in a dense fog, and the noise of the neighborhood
creates weird dreams that have no particular meaning, except to make you feel even stranger about your
life after you wake up.
When Marisol finds me here several hours later, I'm wrapped around a pillow, rocking myself back and
forth, and kind of moaning. "You sound miserable," she says, sitting on the bed.
“And your breath smells like garlic,” I say, “but like last year’s garlic.” I roll onto my back to stare up at
her. I’m groggy and crabby and slightly passive aggressive. And she knows as well as I do that she's at least
partially responsible for my mood.
"Are you still mad about lunch?" Marisol asks, rolling her eyes.
Today at lunch, Marisol admitted that she didn’t tell me about her sleepover convo with Leslie because
she didn't want to upset me, which, ironically, only upset me more.
“How did you get in?” I ask. My dad was off somewhere with Leslie, so I know he didn’t let her in.
“Spare key,” Marisol says. “Your dad’s at my house, being all cutesy with my mom. It weirds me out."
“Well, get used to it,” I snap. "That's going to be our lives from now on."
Marisol obviously doesn't get that I want to be left alone, because she settles in beside me, resting her
head on my pillow. We both stare quietly at the ceiling, until she sighs and says, “You know, it’s just a
sleepover. It's not like they're getting married or something. Lots of grownups are together for years
without that happening, and by the time it does, I bet we'll be in college or something. Trust me,
nothing's going to change all that much.”
I consider what she's said. It’s true that lots of kids have a parent in a long-term relationship that
doesn't result in full-out shacking up. Still, the thought of accidentally overhearing my dad and Leslie… Ugh.
I turn on my side to look out the window. The sun is setting and so the sky is that brilliant orange with
swirls of violet and gold. Everything outside looks glorious, which makes me feel worse because I’m
determined not to enjoy it. But why? Why can’t I just trust that everything will be okay? Why do I spend so
much time worrying about things, like where my dad’s relationship is going or if Danny still thinks about
me? Why can’t I just be happy with right now: Hanging out with Marisol and having Mogley wrapped
around my feet and looking at a sky that belongs in a Monet or something?
“Oh,” Marisol says. “You’re getting lost in your crazy thoughts, aren’t you?”
This makes me laugh. Marisol knows a lot about my tendency to catastrophize everything. And I'm so
sick of it. I just want to change into one of those people that always looks on the bright side of things. But
how? Suddenly, I have an idea. I slide up the headboard, shaking out my arms and rolling my head in a wide
circle. I even pump my legs, like I’m riding a bicycle.
Marisol sits up. “What are you doing?” She's trying not to laugh, which makes me act goofier, so that I
can get a response out of her.
“I’m releasing all my negativity,” I say. I hop out of bed and flap my arms around. I kick my legs out a
few times, too. Mogley rises. He must think I’ve decided to play the best game ever with him. Soon he’s
barking at my feet and wagging his tail. He looks like he can’t wait to lick every part of my face, which he
does the minute I collapse back onto the bed.
“You’re insane,” Marisol says. She's laughing so hard now, tears roll down her face.
I close my eyes, letting Mogley lick as much of my skin as he can, because dogs like to show love and so
sometimes you just got to let them. Marisol might be right about my being insane. That’s what it feels like,
going through all these emotions in one day. But then again, what’s wrong with actually feeling your life?
Last year, I hid my feelings from everybody, including myself, which brought me trouble. So, doing the
opposite ought to bring some good, right?
When Mogley is finished with me, he curls up near my feet again, an oddly satisfied look on his face,
like he knows he’s shown me a lot of sweet love.
“That’s completely disgusting,” Marisol says, but I can tell she's a little jealous.
“Just a family perk. Right, Mogley?” Mogley raises his head and blinks his eyes, which in doggy
language means he agrees.
“So, you might want to sit up, because I’ve got some gossip…” she says.
Marisol loves gossip, and sometimes it’s actually interesting, but other times it’s the boring kind that
has nothing to do with me, like which teachers are hooking up. But this gossip might be both good and
involve me, because her smile is suddenly three zip codes long. I sit up. A second later, Marisol bursts out
with, “It’s nothing major. Just about a very public fight Danny had with Tamara at homecoming.”
My heart just kind of stops, and it takes at least thirty seconds for me to finally get out, "Wait. What?
Are you sure?”
“Oh, yeah. I heard it from Amanda, Ryan’s cousin Jared’s girlfriend, and she never lies. So, I’m
absolutely sure it’s true.” She pauses to take a deep breath. Then she adds very casually, “And you know
what else? They were fighting over you!”
Her last sentence is more like a shriek, like this bit of news is equivalent to winning the lotto. Even
though I’m still doubtful about the whole fight, my mouth falls open in speechless wonder.
Marisol nods her head vigorously. Her blond locks swirl around her, like she's in a Pantene commercial.
“Amanda didn’t hear the whole thing, but apparently Tamara was pissed at him for talking to you after
what you did to him, and then Danny said that he didn’t want to talk about it. And then Tamara accused
Danny of never wanting to talk about anything, and that led into some really weird fight about his shoes not
being dressy enough, and how he was totally trying to ruin her night.”
“Amanda knew about his shoes?” I ask, recalling Danny's Converses that night, and how he admitted to
me that they upset Tamara.
“Yeah. Like who cares what shoes he wore, right?”
How would Amanda know about the shoes, unless this piece of gossip was... TRUE. And if it were
TRUE...
Marisol's still talking, but I stop listening. I'm too busy reviewing the facts:
1. Danny talked to me at homecoming.
2. He also asked me to write a meaningful message on the back of my yearbook picture before I give it to him.
3. Danny got into a fight with Tamara over me.
4. Danny and Tamara got a room together after homecoming.
If you forget about Fact 4, then the others might point in the direction of...
“What if Danny’s still into you?” Marisol blurts out, like she's reading my mind again.
“Doubt it,” I say, but the tremor in my voice tells us both that I’d do anything to make it true. But how
can I forget about Fact 4? Tamara in her little red shirt on a hotel bed...
“Why not?” Marisol prods. “I mean he met you halfway at homecoming, and he’s fighting with
Tamara. I think it’s possible.”
I know I should tell her about the photo, but if I do, she'll want to analyze its significance, and the
thought of doing that right now feels too painful. Besides, what new information would it reveal? It was
pretty cut and dry: Tamara has visual proof that Danny is still into her. Her skimpy shirt, the tiara on her
head, her victorious smile. That picture has I WON. EAT MY DIRT, SUSIE all over it. She couldn't have
staged it better if she tried.
Wait? WAIT!
“Susie? Are you even listening to me?” Marisol says, but I'm not. My mind is off and running in another
direction. See, the only pic of Tamara and Danny AFTER homecoming isn’t even a pic of them together. It’s
just Tamara ALONE. And Dalia did confirm what I've always know: Tamara's a huge fake. But is she fake
enough to stage a picture like that just to make me back off?
Maybe.
“Yes! Exactly!" Marisol shrieks. “Maybe!”
"Huh?" Did I say that aloud?
"So, you think it might be true?" Marisol asks. "Because I do!"
I shrug my shoulders, still torn.
"You never know," Marisol says, encouragingly.
And then, because I can't help myself, I say it again. "Maybe."Only this time the word sounds solid and
possible. And I want to believe in it more than anything else.
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