"Maria!" I call out - she willfully ignores me. I don't let that stop me and try to take advantage of the current of the student traffic. It takes little time to get closer, moving with the flow, and we nearly bump into each other a second time. I pull back with a second to spare, and righting myself at her side, she seems less annoyed with me. I point to the silky green dyed tips of her hair, “Hmm, bold choice, do you think I could pull off a look like this?”
Her exasperation humors me, and I catch the eye roll she gives me in my peripheral, "So, how do you plan to make up for making me drop my notebook?"
She's very blunt, but I guess I can't really joke like that with her yet, "Can I ask you a question first?"
"Sure, Mr. Me-First. Shoot." Her tone is rough, but I think this is her making a joke.
"Why are the hallways so packed like this? I swear I have never seen this many students in any of the classes," as I say this, we are jostled by a group of what I assume to be freshmen.
"Well, Mr. Private-school, it is because you are in a Florida public school. You haven't seen anything yet, I promise you." This sounds less promising and more of a threat. She nudges me, “So, you owe me, what are you going to do?”
I'm about to make a comment about her not using my name, then it strikes me that I never told her my name, "My name is Johnathan, by the way, and I think I may be sorry I asked." I say, and her amused look tells me I'm doing okay so far. "As for making it up to you... That depends on what you want. Do you want ice cream? A ride home? A dinner date? Or the most appealing and valuable option, a new friend?"
She laughs, and the smile that accompanies it lights up her face with a brilliance that is undeniably beautiful. She sighs, "I guess a new friend will do." She quirks her eyebrow at me, “Although that ice cream sounds really appealing.”
I fake deliberate over it. “If I'm a new friend, am I not obligated to attend every future ice cream meet-up?” I ask. I hold up my keys and wallet as if they could turn into said ice cream.
“We can make it part of the terms and conditions." She winks at me. She's seemingly content until a sudden sigh falls from her,"I typically go straight home to my tutor, but that sounds way more fun,” she whines. She looks conflicted before she gives in, “Yeah, tutoring can wait. Let’s meet up at Crystal’s Creamery.”
“Are you sure that’s an ice cream place?” I ask. I know the joke is in poor taste, but it is too easy.
“My aunt owns that store, don’t poke fun. I have to work there on weekends,” she chuckles and doesn’t hide the snorts that find their way in between the gleeful sound.
“That’s… um really unfortunate, actually,” I observe lamely. Faced with Maria's misfortune, we both fall into the kind of laughter where we wheeze and end up laughing at how weird the wheezing sounds. We continue joking with ease as we reach the parking lot and part ways only long enough to get into our cars and head to the inattentively-named ice cream shop.
When we arrive, the logo itself is just as bad as the name, and while I try to hold in my laughter, I look at Maria's face, and it bursts out of me riotously. This, in turn, earns me a sharp punch from Maria as we enter. The cooler is lined with large tubs of homemade ice cream, and I settle on caramel brownie delight in a cup. Maria, after talking to her aunt in Spanish for a minute, gets a coconut dreamcicle cone. I pay for the two of us, and when we sit down, Maria’s phone goes off.
“Now, I told you to call your mama. I will not get in trouble for your shenanigans. You should’ve gone to your tutor session, chiquita,” Crystal says sternly.
She responds back with something that sort of sounds like, “See tea ah, jose, boy.” I think I need to learn some Spanish... “Excuse me,” she tells me as she steps towards the bathrooms. I hear loud shouting from her direction, but it sounds like it is all coming from the phone. Eventually, she comes back with a proud smile. “She says I can stay, as long as we get some work done while here. I don’t want to make her mad, so let’s just do as she says, okay?”
I realize it's kind of strange that I don't have parents who would have a problem with me going to get ice cream and hang out with friends on a school night. "Yeah, my parents would want that too," I say stupidly and pull out my math homework. I've been working on it fairly diligently, only to find that Maria hasn’t even pulled out work. She is staring out a window, enjoying her ice cream. “Do you have stuff to even work on?”
“Pfft, no!” She laughs. “I get all of my work done while in class. Typically, when I am working with the tutor, he has to make up assignments, so mama thinks I am being productive.”
“Well, that makes me feel real great, thanks…” I look back down at my work. With only a few more problems left, I put it away. “So what? I just buy you ice cream, and you brag?”
“You’re the one who owes me. I don’t owe you anything,” she says matter-of-factly. She bites a chunk off the cone as she lazily stares into the distance.
I want to know things about her, and I guess, actually, make a friend. Yet I swear I've forgotten most questions that aren't inherently interrogational. “Okay, so what kind of things are you into? You like the Dolphins? I mean, because you’re wearing their jersey, obviously,” I say.
“Uhm, yeah. I like the Dolphins. I don't really watch football, but sure, they're cool." She shrugs and seems to be just as lost as me.
It would be really pathetic if she could guess I am an agent because I don't know how to make friends. Not that someone would think that... right? I have to ask a decent question. "So, what are your hobbies?" This feels like a first date question... I try to remind myself that if we are, very clearly, in a room with her aunt, it can't be mistaken for a date.
"I don’t know, I draw…" She wavers, then glares at me. "Before you even ask, no, I won’t draw you. I guess I like riding my bike, and, um, I work here?” She looks genuinely lost. “I don’t think there’s a lot to me. How about you, Jonathan?”
Say something basic, normal. “I doodle, I wouldn’t call it drawing, because it’s very scratchy. I'll draw you if you want; although, it won't look anything close to Jack's French girls,” I wink. She fake gags, and I smile, “I play guitar, and I, seriously, love water parks.”
She snorts, “You came to the wrong part of Florida, if you 'seriously love’ water parks."
“Yeah, well, I don’t get to choose where they send me,” I say. I go back to eating my ice cream, but realize how suspicious that just sounded. Either Maria didn’t notice, or she doesn’t care, because she doesn’t question it.
Brushing back a stray strand of hair, she asks,“So, how is Crestmont High treating you so far?”
Her tone doesn't match the bored look in her eyes. “I don't know how much I really have to go off of. I was not really in some of my classes today. From what I know, Elly is a bit much." She laughs. "But otherwise, this school feels very grey. I know schools can be like prisons, but did they really have to decorate it like one?"
Maria nods, “I hear you. Over the years, many kids have tried to spice up the halls, but principal Wyatt has said that painting a red dick in the hallway isn’t quite the paint job the school is in desperate need of. No worries, though, the senior class is already planning the prank. When they pull it off, it’ll be epic!” she gushes. She seems to be in on this prank, and I wonder if she's helping the seniors with this endeavor. She might be a senior.
“And probably illegal,” I add, trying to get a feel for how problematic this practical joke might become to my mission.
“Epic, illegal. Same difference,” she smiles, and while I'm ready to argue the difference, I smile back as genuinely as I can, a normal teenager. I finish my ice cream and throw away the empty cup, as she wipes down the table with a rag that materialized out of nowhere. Crystal probably gave it to her.
“This was fun,” I say. Then, because I want to hang out with her again, I suggest, “Would you want to go see a movie sometime?”
She turns to me, her eyes severe and intense, “Did you just ask me on a date?” If she’s upset or surprised, I can’t quite tell. I glance over to where Maria's horror-stricken gaze is fixed. Crystal covers her mouth and runs to the back, saying something that sounds like, “cheese-may”. I definitely need to learn Spanish...
I stumble over my words, “Date? No! Oh, wait, like not a date. I like you! But I want to… uh- you know- hangout? Only as a friend!” I don’t know how I could make this more embarrassing. I’m not trying to ask her out on a date; not that I would mind going on one, but that would be rushing it, wouldn’t it? Suddenly, Maria is doubled over in laughter. I think I'm smiling awkwardly as I eye the door. Can we just pretend this didn’t happen? Why does ‘go see a movie’ have to be synonymous with ‘go on a date’? I feel like ripping my hair out.
“You're funny, you know that?” Maria says. She grabs her stuff from the floor and strides toward me. She gets really close, and her chin is tilted down in a way that darkens her eyes. It is so attractive that my breath catches. Then she gets on her toes, and I think she is going to kiss me. I should push her away; this is moving way too fast, but impulse makes me close my eyes. Then she whispers in my ear, “I would never go on a date with you.”
I am so caught off guard, my heart is racing, and the uncertain excitement falls to pure mortification with a tinge of frustration. I’m wide-eyed and gaping as she begins to cackle at me. “Hey! What was that? I could take you out on a date. I haven’t been trying to charm you, but you never know.” A whooping sound comes from Crystal in the back, and I don't know why, but this makes my blood boil. I want to freeze time and escape from this train wreck of a moment.
Maria laughs even harder, and I decide it’s time to turn tail. I am trudging to my car, frustrated to be made the butt of a joke I don't even understand. I don’t need to take this. How could she be so cruel? I thought Elly was mean, but geez! I hear her footfalls behind me as she runs, “Wait!" She sounds panicked and apologetic. So, I turn around, but still not sure if I want to get over just how rude that was. "Look, I'm sorry. That joke was really mean and uncalled for. It's just, you can charm me all you want, it won't work. I like donuts, not long johns.” Her eyes add emphasis to this statement. What does liking donuts have to do with me? Then the hidden meaning dawns on me, and I feel the shame return just as hot.
I stare at the pavement, trying to get my composure. The revelation does make the situation funny, in a sense, but I'm still annoyed at the cruelty of her ‘joke’, “How was I supposed to know?” I retort, my emotions are fizzling out, and I feel exhausted by the rollercoaster I have just been put through.
She pulls a hair tie I didn't notice until now off her wrist, and she ties her hair up as she looks me in the eye. “Nobody really expects you to know, but for the love of... whoever you worship - do not assume every girl you meet is straight. My advice is just treat them as you would anybody else. If they're attracted to you, congrats! But it's better if you don't assume, that goes for all women. Trust me on that. I'd like to be friends and even see a movie, though.”
I’m confused by her admonishment, that’s come out of seemingly nowhere. "How'd you even know I was attracted to you? ‘Go see a movie’ doesn't always mean date," I remark angrily.
"True, I'm sorry about that, too." She nods. "I like messing around with people, and it doesn’t excuse it, but you had that look in your eyes that men get. I know it wasn’t the right way, I just wanted to put a stop to that before you really mistook things..."
I wasn’t even aware there was a ‘look’ men get when they’re attracted to a woman... I stare dumbfounded and disbelieving. "Does that happen often?"
Her eyes are locked on her shoes; it’s clear a memory comes to mind. I almost pity her. "Often enough," she mutters sadly, "If that situation just scared you off, it's probably for the best. You seem pretty chill though, so if you want to just be friends, I'm down."
I take a breath, still unsure how I feel about letting this go. “That sucked, by the way. And I'm going to be upset about that for a while," I warn.
She half-smiles, "Fair. Note-to-self, no pranks on Johnny Boy."
The moniker breaks through the tension, and clearing my throat, I propose, "As your friend, would you want to swap numbers? We need to have a way to plan the movie hangout."
With a nod, she pulls out her phone, and we exchange numbers. Eventually, we part ways, and she goes to deal with her mother. It’s only 4:30, so I head home to do the rest of the work assigned to me. On the drive, I have my police radio switched on, I listen for current reports, hoping I didn't miss anything important while I was being made a fool of in the ice cream shop. It's just a lot of static, but then some codes are called out. There have been gunshot noises in a suburban area just outside of town. Apparently, the noise disturbance has lasted around half an hour and is still ongoing.
If I had certain training, I could go investigate it. But with all honesty, regardless of lacking that specific training, I'm better trained than half of the nincompoops in this town's police force. It irks me that for this very important mission, the most I am allowed to do is complete some stupid math homework. It just annoys me that I can't participate, so I find myself switching off the police radio. I flip over to a random station and “Death of a Bachelor” by Panic! At the Disco plays out as I pass rows of palm trees and cloud-covered skies. When I get home, I see Charlene sitting in a golf cart I’ve never seen before with a gaggle of women who could be on the cover page of a golf magazine.
“Oh, L- little Johnathan," nice save, Charlene... "I missed you so much! How was your day at school, sweetheart?” she calls out to me in front of these women as I exit my car. I consider asking how necessary the golf cart is when we have three functioning cars, but that would necessitate actually talking to the woman. I grab my stuff and give her a curt thumbs-up. Then I hurry in through the open garage door, saying nothing. Her voice calls behind me, “Lo-John? Jonathan? Teenagers, am I right?”
I deposit my bag in the kitchen chair and settle at the table to finish my math sheet. Then I write up a summary for Chapter 3 of The Scarlet Letter by Nathaniel Hawthorne. I’ve read this book at least 3 times across my various missions, and the lack of diversity in the literature presented in the U.S. public system doesn't fail to disappoint. Like, why teach Shakespeare in every high school nationwide all four years of high school when authors like Chinua Achebe or Yoshiko Uchida exist? Shakespeare's not bad, I'm just bored with the same material.
Charlene has left her gossip circle and joined me in the kitchen right as I push through my discussion post for U.S. Government. “The least you could have done is say, ‘Hello.’ It makes me look bad when my son won’t even greet me,” she complains.
“Look, you’re not my real mom, as cliché as it sounds. Also, normal teenagers don’t respect their parents or hold long conversations with them either. Not that parents really care about what we have to say, so just consider it hyper-realistic acting and leave me be,” I respond, repacking my stuff to head to my room.
She blinks in astonishment and reddens, “So, what if I’m not your real parent? You should at least treat me like one, Logan! And I’m certain all parents care about what their children have to say. But when their teens tend to be over-dramatic, it's hard to know what's actually upsetting them. You know how to properly communicate, Logan. There is no reason why you can’t add maturity to your 'hyper-realistic' acting around me. Lighten up! I mean, for God's sake, it’s been 6 years,” she rolls her eyes and stomps to the fridge, and pulls out a bottle of water. “You should know better.”
A cold laugh rips from my throat. I'm pissed now.“ You know, for someone who observes so much, you seem clueless, yourself, about basic human decency. It's laughable how inconsiderate you can be at times. I find the most mature response sometimes is to stay silent." I take a deep breath and slow myself down, steadying my tone. It is deep and threatening as I continue, "You're correct, I can communicate, but I know it's not worth the effort, when I will not receive the same respect." Previous missions pop into my mind, and it infuriates me once more that I have been placed on yet another assignment with Charlene. “I understand that you are my guardian and authority for the sake of this mission. But assuming my ambivalence toward you is a symptom of my trauma is fucked up. And telling me to ‘lighten up’ about the murder of my entire family is sickening."
I grab my bag from the chair and give her my final two-cents because she wanted so bad that I 'communicate' what's wrong, "I haven't been acting like this because of my trauma, it's because you are so incompetent at your job that you can't even remember to use the right name for your 'son' in public, let alone in this house. I should have reported your ass already, but I chose silence instead. I won't let you mess up this mission, too.” With that, I freeze time and walk away from her. I want to have the last word. I release my grip on time as I close and lock my door.
I flop down on my bed, and a huge sigh of relief pours out of me. It was hard to say all of that, but my father would be proud. He was not one for bottling up emotions, and he would often prod me with a “Out with it, boy, too much emotion in that tiny body will make you explode!” His tone was always joking, but the genuine concern that underlay the phrase every time would make it easier to scream or cry in front of him. And every time I was sad or anxious or angry, he would sit with me and listen patiently until the emotion had passed. When it was a positive emotion, he would join me in hysterical laughter or whooping. He always shared in the ups and downs of my life and was proud to do so. My heart aches as I wrap myself in my blanket and think of my family portrait, hidden away.
I remember trying the phrase on him sometimes, when he looked especially dogged. Once he chuckled weakly and simply said, “There are bad men in the world, and they've decided to do bad things, and it makes dad tired.” Another time he admitted, “We don’t have the money to buy a new washing machine right now, that’s okay though, right bud? We just get to play 'Laundry Pool Day' again.” And reflecting back on those little things he confided, even if I didn’t understand at the time, made me feel like I had just as much of a right to the emotions I had as my father did. I admire him for that, honestly. I'm grateful he was in my life long enough to teach me that.
I feel a warm tear slide down my cheek; it’s not surprising. Still, I've hoped that one day I wouldn't cry thinking about all I've had taken away from me. I embrace the sorrow, as I know my father would want me to, and pour the emotion into my guitar, playing a melody that I haven't heard in a short while.
ns216.73.217.39da2
and then Add to home screen.