A LITTLE something
SIX
Come Out and Play
***
Friday evening and Leslie shows up at my house with an overnight bag. I don't have to let her in because
(surprise, surprise) she's got a key. Her very own key, she informs me, right after she unlocks the door and
catches me sneaking through the house in my underwear.
"Sorry," she adds, as I shriek and make a run for my bedroom.
When I return, wearing a baggy pair of U.M. sweatpants, she's in the process of rifling through the
kitchen. Pretty soon most of the cabinet doors are open, exposing the dishes, canned food, and various
knickknacks.
"What are you looking for?" I settle down on a bar stool to watch.
"Oh, a food processor. Do you have one?" She bends over and begins to systematically search the
cabinets below the countertop.
Even though it's a bit redundant at this point, I say, "Probably not."
"I guess I'll need to bring the one from home next time." She pulls out a tablet from her purse and
makes a note of it and several other things, too. I wonder if this is exactly how it happens, how grownups
come to say things like: Oh, you know, one day we realized we were basically living together, so we
decided to make it official. Is part of Leslie’s master plan to move in one appliance at a time?
"What else did you bring?" I ask, suspiciously. There are roughly ten bags on the floor, each one about
the size of a domestically-inclined electrical device.
"Oh, the essentials. Food, toiletries." As she starts the business of shutting the cabinet doors, I nudge
open the closest bag with my foot. Inside are bed sheets, a sea green shower curtain, and a shiny silver box.
I can't quite see the label on the box, so I lean closer to get a better look…
Oh. My. God. Con-
"So…" Leslie says, and I jump about ten feet before she swivels around to face me. "How was school
today?"
It takes a moment to recover from being confronted with my father's sexuality. Eventually, I say, "Um,
okay."
"Are you feeling alright?" She stares at me in concern.
"Yeah," I nod. Just want to throw up in my own mouth. Thank you very much. "Fine."
"Are you sure? You seem flushed."
"Positive." You hussy.
"Okay." She starts unpacking the contents of a brown paper bag, pulling from it: organic pasta, a bell
pepper, sweet onion, and spinach. "I'm making pasta primavera. Sound good?"
"Yeah, but…" I point to the spinach. "Leslie, my dad's allergic to spinach." Which, I can't help but think
is something she should know after dating him for nearly a year. "They give him hives."
"Really? I thought I saw him eat spinach once…" She looks at the bag like she's having a hard time
believing that those leafy greens might cause her true love harm. "Maybe I should just double check with
him real quick?" She reaches for her cell phone. I guess she doesn’t trust me to get this small detail right.
“My mom," I say, not (hmm... well, maybe not) meaning to put as much emphasis on the word as I do,
"never gave my dad spinach because she said he was allergic."
Leslie sighs, slips her phone back into her purse, and says, "I guess your mom would have known." She
moves to the sink and begins to wash the other veggies. An awkward silence follows, and I feel both guilty
(because maybe I did put a lot of emphasis on the word mom) and annoyed (because how can she get mad
at me for warning her against giving my dad hives?). I mean, what does she want me to do? Never mention
my mom? Or pretend that I don’t know my dad better than she does? Because I do.
"Leslie?" I say.
"Yeah?" She replies, without turning around.
"Maybe just the girls can have some eggs tomorrow with spinach?" I suggest, expecting her to be
slightly grateful for the olive branch that I'm extending, even if it's flimsy and slightly anorexic, but she just
nods, like I haven't said much of anything. Her attention remains focused on the onion she's now peeling. I
stand there, waiting for some official sign that we're okay, but it doesn't come. So, eventually, I walk away.
*
Thirty minutes later and just in time for dinner, Marisol and Ryan show up at my door. Like her mother,
Marisol drags behind her an overnight bag, but unlike her mother, she actually rings my doorbell.
“God,” she moans the minute the door swings open. "What took you so long? I’ve shvitzing out here!”
“Shvitzing?” I repeat, pretty sure she's not speaking English.
“Ryan's teaching me Yiddish.” Marisol smiles adoringly at Ryan who, in typical boyfriend fashion,
holds the other half of Marisol's luggage, which includes her over-stuffed makeup bag.
“It means sweating," Ryan explains.
“Okay.” I step aside to let them in, noting their nauseating decision to wear matching O.G. t-shirts.
“What’s up with the Tweedledum and Tweedledee school-pride look?" I ask.
Marisol rolls her eyes, while Ryan grins like a goofball, but neither offer any sort of explanation.
Instead, they exchange conspiratorial glances. The sound of my dad's laughter floats out from the kitchen
and soon Leslie's softer, feminine voice follows.
"They're so cute," Marisol says.
"No, you're cute," Ryan responds.
"No, you're cuter," Marisol says.
And then they're kissing in my foyer.
Oh Lord, I think, what have I done to deserve this? Because, honestly, this is what hell must be
like--being single while constantly surrounded by a happy-mushy-couple convention.
"Did you bring the movies?" I ask, trying desperately to steer the conversation back in the right
direction. Friday night is our movie night, an ongoing tradition that has lately included Ryan, which
sometimes I find okay, and at other times, such as now, completely irritating.
"Not exactly," Marisol says, digging through her overnight bag. She pulls out another orange t-shirt,
and tosses it to me.
Surprisingly, I catch it with one hand. “What’s going on?”
“We’re going to a game!” Ryan declares.
“A what?” They must be kidding. After all, I am the girl that nearly failed P.E., due to my inability to
understand the concept of team sports.
“A game!” Marisol echoes Ryan's enthusiasm, but then when he's distracted by Mogley, who just
wandered into the room to sniff his shoes and give his leg some loving, she gives me a warning look and
whispers, “He's excited, okay? What do you want to do? Spend your entire life indoors?”
Yeah. Obviously. And what does Ryan's excitement have to do with me anyway?
"It'll be fun," Ryan says, once he's stopped Mogley from attending to his calf. "You don't want to go?"
“Um...” I look to Marisol, who is glaring at me now. “But isn’t football season over?" I ask, cautiously.
"It’s not like we won the homecoming game-”
“Oh, we’re not going to a football game.” Ryan gives me a broad, but suspicious smile.
“Okay? So, what kind of game are we going to...?” I ask, and it’s only then that the answer becomes
painfully clear.
"Oh, come on!" Marisol calls after me, as I stride angrily into the kitchen. The room is absent of our
parents. On the counter is an empty bottle of wine. My mind drifts back to the package of...
Exactly where are my dad and Leslie?
"Susie!" Marisol says, suddenly appearing beside me. "Please." She bounces up and down a little,
like a child who has to pee.
“No way!” I say.
Again, laughter fills the house. This time it comes from my dad's office. I lean past Marisol and glance at
the door. It's closed. They wouldn’t… Not with us still in the house?
“It’s perfect. Ryan, come here and tell her!” Ryan, who is still standing patiently in the foyer, holding
her loaded-down makeup bag, obediently marches into the kitchen. His eyes are huge with excitement.
“It was kind of my idea,” he admits.
“Your idea? Marisol! You’re discussing my life with him behind my back?” I want to kill her right
now. This is a clear violation of the best-friend code.
“It’s not like that,” Ryan interjects. “She was asking me generic questions, trying to figure out–from a
guy’s perspective–the best way to get you and Danny back together.” Ryan gives me a pleading look,
one that says, Don't get me in trouble with Marisol, but I’m relentless. I puff up my shoulders and thin
out my lips and stare at them both until they look away. “Seriously, Susie," Ryan says, eyes on the kitchen
tile, "I dragged it out of her.”
“Susie,” Marisol says, “who cares whose idea it was? Who cares if we were talking about it together or
not? You still have feelings for Danny. It’s obvious.”
“Is it? Because I'm not even sure how I feel.” My voice is intentionally loud, because I'm trying to lure
Leslie and my dad out of his office. But my scheming doesn't work. Instead, a stereo clicks on from behind
the closed door, and Frank Sinatra comes blaring out.
Ugh.
“Look," I turn back to Marisol, because this is a battle that I can still win. "I never said I want to get
back with Danny. You said that-”
“Yes,” Marisol interjects, “and you haven’t denied it-”
“Why should I?” I toss the shirt back at her. It hits her squarely in the face with a soft thud, and then
falls to the floor. “You’ve already decided that this is the way it is, so it must be that way!”
“What’s your problem?” Marisol says. “I’m just trying to help you!”
“I don’t want your help.” I step back and collide with one of the bar stools, which only makes me
angrier.
“Yes, you do.” Marisol stoops down to pick the shirt up off the floor. She sets it down on the kitchen bar.
“You’re just being stubborn.”
"I just want you to leave me and the whole subject of Danny alone!"
"Fine," Marisol says, "If that's what you actually want! But is it?" She watches me, like she needs me to
figure that out this minute, which is obviously impossible. So, I turn to look out the window, leaning the bulk
of my weight against the stool. I stare at the garden—the garden my mom started before she died—and try
to have a logical thought. Do I want to go to the game? Do I want to see Danny Diaz tonight? Do I want
nothing more than to gaze at him for several uninterrupted hours?
God, yeah. So why am I being so difficult?
You're scared, a voice in my head seems to shout. You're afraid.
And I am. God, I'm afraid of a million things, but mostly I'm afraid of Danny's reaction to my being
there. What if he doesn't notice me at all? What if I'm insignificant, just one small fragment of a larger blur?
Or what if he does notice me but ignores me? In the infinite number of what ifs that run through my mind,
that possibility seems the worst.
“Susie.” Ryan's deep voice is close by. "You know why you should go? Because if you don’t go, you’ll
never know.”
Sometimes I want to dislike Ryan, particularly since he's constantly invading my home turf, but he
makes it hard, because he's so good to Marisol and so darn nice to me, and in this case, perceptive and right.
If I want Danny back, I have to make an effort.
“Come on.” Marisol slides up behind me, and wraps her arms protectively around my shoulders. “Take
a chance.”
“Okay,” I mutter, my voice shaky. I look at the shirt on the bar top. “But promise you won’t leave me
alone.” I wait until Marisol gives me her word, and then I turn to Ryan, who is already holding out his right
pinky. And it's in this moment–with Marisol’s arms around me and Ryan’s pinky twisted into mine–that I
realize how truly blessed I am to have friends who will push me to go after what I want, even when what I
want is the thing that scares me the most.
Missed the first book? Check out NOT anything.
