The Truth of Right Now Page 3

  “That makes no sense to me. Someone with your credentials. Did you thoroughly research the company to prepare?”

  “Yes.”

  “Then what do you suppose went wrong?”

  Izzy plays with the food on her plate as if she were seven instead of twenty-seven.

  “I misspoke,” she breathes.

  “Can you speak up, please?” he asks.

  You know you heard her.

  “I spoke out of turn. Said something I shouldn’t have.”

  Their dad eats his dinner quietly for a few minutes as if he actually hasn’t heard anything she’s said. But he has. He hears everything.

  “Maybe you don’t want to work. Maybe you’d rather I support you until my death. Is that what you want?”

  “No.”

  “Then I suspect you had better learn how to speak properly to your superiors. If this conduct continues, I’ll have to tutor you in the area of workplace decorum. And I do not have the time for that.”

  “Yes, Dad.” She looks up at her little brother and smiles sadly. Dari can’t stand it. He wants her to be angry. He wants her to challenge him. Cuss him out. Why can’t she—

  “Dariomauritius?”

  Shit.

  “Yes?”

  “How was school today?”

  “Fine.”

  “Trigonometry? Had a quiz today, yes?”

  Whoops. He totally forgot about that.

  “How did you do?” he asks. He holds his water glass up to the light, looking for something to criticize. Maybe Dari didn’t pour it correctly.

  “Fine.”

  “Just fine?”

  “Spectacular !” This little outburst comes and it’s now out there. He glances at Izzy, her eyes the size of softballs. Their dad turns to his son, an unfamiliar expression on his face. More confusion than anything else. Before he can say anything, Izzy bursts out laughing. That kind of laughter that hurts because you’ve been holding it in forever.

  “You are a fool, Dari.” Izzy shakes her head, trying hard to calm herself.

  “A fool. Yes,” their father agrees. He does not laugh.

  The meal proceeds in silence. When they all finish, Dari helps Izzy clear the table and load the dishwasher. She turns the kettle on.

  “Dariomauritius?”

  Jesus Christ, just call me Dari!

  He sighs. “Yes?”

  “How was history class?”

  “All right. I’m not impressed with the curriculum.” Sometimes Dari attempts to speak to him as if he were a human being. Just to see what will happen.

  “That’s not for you to judge.”

  Dari doesn’t respond and arranges the silverware in the grate. Their father’s quiet again, but Dari can feel him staring, studying him.

  The kettle whistles, and Izzy makes their father’s evening cup of tea. Oolong. She places it in front of him and he nods to her, the closest he ever comes to saying thank you, and sips the steaming liquid. Why doesn’t it burn his tongue? Is he immune to physical pain?

  Izzy makes herself a cup. Dari washes his hands.

  “What about English? What are you working on?”

  What is he talking about?

  “Why do you ask?”

  For the first time tonight, Dari catches his father’s eyes lurking behind his horn-rimmed glasses. Dark and beady and mean. A specific kind of mean he only trots out for special occasions.

  “I don’t need a reason to ask you anything. What did you do in English today?” he persists.

  “Well,” Dari begins, trying to imagine what he missed. “We read the first chapter of Slaughterhouse-Five and discussed it.”

  “Oh, Vonnegut. Very good. Sit down. Tell me: where do you think the book is headed?”

  Izzy looks with longing toward the window. Wishing she were anywhere else. Dari does as he’s told and sits down next to his father at the table, but makes sure to sit up straight as a reminder that he is now a good five inches taller than dear old Dad. (Six one and still growing. What what!)

  “Well, it’s hard to say, but I think that the book is . . . I think it’s going to be about the futility of war. All war. I think it’s going to be universal in that way. But with Vonnegut, who knows, right?” Not a syllable of that came out sounding as intelligent as it had in Dari’s mind.

  Dear old Dad picks up his cup and throws the contents into his son’s face.

  Tea bag and all.

  Izzy gasps.

  Tea in his nose, eyes, dripping off his chin, down his neck. At least it has cooled. Somewhat.

  “How dare you lie to me in my house after eating my food. They called me. I know you weren’t there today.”

  “They called you?”

  He nods slowly, trying to suppress a grin. So proud of himself.

  “Thought you were slick, didn’t you? I explained your problem with attendance to your vice principal, and he agreed to let me know of each and every single one of your absences.”

  Oh my God.

  “Well? Have you nothing to say for yourself?”

  He wants an apology.

  “Yes, I have something to say for myself. I was there today. I just left after first period.” Dari is not sorry. Izzy rubs her eyes in worry and frustration. So what? He’s ready for him. Whatever he’s got. Open hand. Closed fist. It could be anything with him. Instead, he just stares at Dari in disbelief.

  “Get out of my sight. You disgust me. Ismene, dear, another cup?”

  Dari leaves the room as Izzy, no doubt, has jumped up to refill the kettle.

  He can’t help but smile. Really? Is that all you got, old man? Maybe he’s getting soft.

  In the shower he scrubs away the stink of oolong and imagines Mireille Darc in the shadows, talking about breaking eggs in inappropriate places and violent car accident pileups and car fires and bourgie idiots worrying about their junk instead of their souls. He tries to imagine his dad in the movie and can’t. He can’t see him in any situation beyond his control. He tries to picture him on his deathbed wishing he’d been nicer to his family, and this works. At first. In the next frame, he sees his frail father tearing at the sheets on said deathbed to find the label—wondering if they cheapskated him out of designer sheets for his finale. Trinidad must be a hellscape on a par with Guantanamo to create someone like Dari’s old man. No wonder his mother drank so much. It’s not an excuse for her, there are no excuses, but he can’t imagine being married to Maynard Gray and being sober at the same time. Whatever. Dari is getting out of here. Izzy can stay forever if she wants to. But Dari is not Izzy.

  * * *

  Next morning, after his father has left for work and Izzy heads out for another round of interviews, Dari pokily eats his cereal. He will go to school today. He will do his best to stay there the whole day.

  He washes his bowl, puts it away, and hops online to search for a phone number. Once he has it, he takes a drink of water, clears his throat, and dials.

  “Good morning, this is Vice Principal Monaroy’s office. How may I direct your call?” a cheerful-sounding receptionist asks.

  “Good morning, Madam. May I please speak with the vice principal? It is important.”

  “One moment.”

  “Thank you.” Since Dari’s voice changed when he was thirteen, he has been able to effect a spot-on impression of his father’s voice, accent and all. He used to do this to entertain Izzy, but he got so good at it, it frightened her. He stopped.

  “Yes, Monaroy speaking.”

  “Hello, Mr. Monaroy. This is Mr. Maynard Gray, Dariomauritius’s father.”

  “Oh. Yes. How are you?”

  “I’m well. But, you see, after speaking at length to my son last night, it occurs to me that perhaps I was being . . . a bit overprotective. I’d like to retract my request. Please don’t feel the need to contact me unless Dariomauritius’s behavior gets out of line. If I have any further concerns, I’ll call you directly.”

  “Fine. No more eyes on your son.” He so
unds relieved and indifferent. “Anything else I can do for you?”

  “No, that will be all. And thank you for your understanding. Good-bye.” Dari hangs up.

  Who’s slick now, bitch?

  * * *

  He attempts to eat the cafeteria offerings for the day, guessing what he has in front of him is stew, though it tastes more like a failed paella. It’s food, so he eats it until he can’t take it anymore. With no interesting subjects anywhere in sight, Dari draws a fictitious woman—a bald Vietnamese woman, specifically—standing on the edge of an active volcano. She has an important decision to make.

  A shadow clouds his light.

  “Excuse me.” He says this though he’s not the one that needs excusing.

  “I’m sorry. Was I . . .” She trails off. She’s a little confused. He waits. He has no intention of helping her finish her thought, whatever that thought might be.

  “You’re always drawing,” she says. She sits down without an invitation.

  “Yeah. I can’t stop.” It’s true.

  “Can I see?”

  He hands her the sketch pad. She could be a lunatic, but he just hands it over like a zombie, and she starts flipping through all of his work. “These are amazing.”

  “Thanks.”

  She takes her time, concentrating on each one as though she needs to imprint them permanently on her brain. If her behavior weren’t so strange and interesting, it would be rude. When she’s finally satisfied, she delicately closes the pad and slides it back across the table.

  “May I ask what your name is?” Her voice hovers just above a whisper. So timid.

  “You can call me Dari, but my name is Dariomauritius.”

  “Wow.”

  “No, it’s not ‘wow,’ it’s terrible. Some pretentious, nonsensical Greek shit my dad invented.” She’s a little startled by this. Maybe cursing was a bad idea. She’s like a rabbit. One misstep and she’ll disappear.

  “I like it,” she says.

  “And you are?” Dari ventures.

  “Doesn’t matter.”

  “Why?”

  “Because I’m nobody you wanna know.” She asserts this with sudden confidence.

  The bell rings, and she jumps as if it had been a gunshot.

  “Bye,” she whispers and vanishes before he can respond. She is practically a specter, and Dari truly wonders, for almost a full minute, if he hallucinated her.

  He smiles.

  He has found a subject.

  NEW CANDY

  Because I’m nobody you wanna know.” I figure I should be honest. The bell rings, and I run away. I race down the hall to French and I can’t believe my nerve. Walking up to strange boys and talking to them about their art is not in my repertoire. But then again, I don’t even have a repertoire. Either way, it was an impulse. An impulse I followed because I didn’t much like the alternative.

  Before feeling so bold, I got a taste of the alternative.

  About nine and a half minutes earlier.

  “Nobody joins AFS anymore, Marie. Not unless they’re planning to go abroad and you are not. Joining just to join went out with Timberlands and V-neck sweaters.” Jackie can easily equate any number of life choices with current or past fashion trends.

  “I want something easy. I can’t join anything that’s going to take up my time,” Marie whines. I have been enduring lunch with Jackie, Tracy, and Marie for about two weeks, and I know and they know that this is not an ideal situation. As soon as I greet them and sit down, Jackie always smiles as though she’s proud of me for successfully dressing myself, and the others pretend not to notice my entrance. My intrusion. I know they don’t want me here, and I don’t want to be here, but I don’t have the courage to flip everyone the bird and sit all alone. Like him.

  Tracy mumbles a suggestion.

  “What?” both Marie and Jackie say.

  “The Folio. We need staffers. No big deal.” She says it quietly, staring down at her carrot sticks. Marie glances at me out of the corner of her eye. Jackie looks like she might vomit.

  “No offense,” Tracy says, looking at me head-on for the first time since June. Before June, actually. May.

  “Tracy,” Jackie snaps. “What is wrong with you?”

  “It’s fine,” I offer.

  “Don’t make excuses, Lily. Tracy, you are so insensitive.”

  “All I said was we need staffers. Christ, can’t I even mention it? It’s not like I’m blaming anyone for running the journal into the ground or screwing up my shot at a first publication or anything. Life doesn’t just stop because someone had a nervous breakdown!”

  The table falls silent. Truthfully, though, I’m glad she said it. I hate being handled with kid gloves. I’m not a flower. It’s useful to know what people really think. Tracy is really, really mad at me. She has a right to be.

  “Yeah. It was shitty. I’m sorry.” Then there’s this horrific pause and, because I can’t stand it, I stupidly try to fill it. “If you guys have any, like, questions or anything, I can try to answer them.”

  “You’re not a sideshow act, Lily,” Jackie says.

  “I didn’t say I was. But I went through some things that, uh, a lot of people don’t ever want to talk about. What I’m saying is . . . I can talk about them if you want.”

  “I don’t mean to be rude or anything, but before you sat down this conversation was about extracurriculars, which are kind of important,” Marie says. “And I think you should probably not spread all your pain around so easily like that.”

  Neither Jackie nor Tracy says anything to challenge Marie’s opinion. I swallow. Okay. Well. I tried my best.

  “I’m gonna go.” I stand.

  “You don’t have to leave,” Jackie says.

  “I think I do. Thanks anyway.” I take my tray and dump it, knowing there are still about five minutes left in the period. Knowing I no longer have a safe haven. But I don’t much care. And since I’m not caring much about anything, I decide to talk to the beautiful boy who always sits alone.

  * * *

  I wait in the ferry station on the bench, watching the hordes of people file over to the gate. I ride this boat just about every day after school, but the light drizzle steadily increases in power, and I’m not quite feeling it today. I decide to just sit for a little while to watch the ferries dock and depart. Dock and depart. If I squint, I think I can see Staten Island from here. I think about all the people living there. One in particular. I wish I didn’t, but I can’t help myself. I wonder what their schools are like, if they have bowling alleys, bookstores, coffeehouses like we do. That’s stupid. Of course they do. I can’t believe I’m imaging SI as a tiny foreign nation with its own language and customs, so different from what I’m used to. In a weird way, I guess it kind of is: It is so close to me, so accessible. And I will never go there.

  “Do you have any idea how much I love you?”

  “Liar,” I say aloud, responding to a shadow of a memory, not caring who hears me. Staten Islanders. They make terrible boyfriends. Pretty subpar teachers, too.

  * * *

  Back at home, I lounge on the sofa flipping through TV stations as Mom finishes her yoga routine.

  “Are you sure you don’t wanna come with me? I know they can work it out.” She says this in child’s pose, so I only make out about 75 percent of it. The rest I guess from the context. My mother intellectually understands that an important aspect to yoga practice is silence, but talking is like oxygen for her. She stops, she dies.

  “I’ll be fine, Mom. It’s only three days.” I have no intention of joining my mother on a “wellness retreat.” Besides, imagine the looks on those poor fools’ faces if they saw their guru’s basket-case daughter. They would certainly want their deposits back.

  She slides into cobra.

  “Might be good for you.”

  “No, it wouldn’t.”

  Camel pose. Her yoga clothes for the day consist of a sports bra and formfitting capris. While her head reac
hes for her heels, I briefly imagine flinging a nickel onto her exposed solid abs just to see the ugliness, the disorder of her reaction to such a violation. My mother is very beautiful. As far as I know, she always has been.

  “What would you do all by yourself?” she asks.

  “The same thing I do when you’re here. Nothing.” A music video comes on one of the cable access stations. Chris Brown. I mute him and study his stupid face. I fantasize about gathering a posse of all the toughest women I can find, knocking on his door, dragging him outside by his toes, and drawing and quartering the son of a bitch, Elizabethan style, in the middle of Times Square. This will serve as an eternal lesson for any guy who wants to beat the shit out of his girlfriend. The world will be a better place. But then again: violence to punish violence? Is that a good message to send the world? I think it over for a second. Yes. In this case, yes it is.

  “Lily? Why are you smiling like that?” She seems genuinely alarmed. I must be wearing quite the expression.

  “Uh, I don’t know. Maybe I can try to write a new song. If I have the apartment to myself.” She looks uncertain. “Mom, come on. It’s not like I’m gonna have a party. You know that could never happen.”

  “Now, that I would actually find far healthier than you sitting here alone, staring at the walls.” Sun salutations. She breathes into her asanas for a minute, so I think she’s done with the subject. She is not.

  “You could stay with Grandma.”

  “That would be punishment for me and her.”

  “Lily—”

  “What? It’s true.”

  She rolls her eyes as she slides into warrior two. I only see Grandma on important holidays and when she’s sick. That’s it. One of her hobbies is trying to guess which forms of cancer she’ll get before she dies. Another is falling asleep with her stove on. The idea that she could be a passable chaperone for anyone is ridiculous.

  I turn off the TV and head into the kitchen. In the cupboard is a giant bag of gummy bears. I stick my hand in without bothering to wash it first, and cram a bunch in my mouth. I hear the faintest hint of the song I’ve been trying to remember and hum a bit of it, then I beat out a rhythm. It’s not only in 4/4 time. I feel 3/4 and 2/4 happening. This is complex. I drum the side of the cupboard lightly and the brown-and-white bottle hiding in the back falls to its side. Cymbalta. Only opened once. The song evaporates.