Hard Love (13 page)

I was glad the light was out. It helped me think what I wanted to say.

“Thanks for reading it to me. Really.”

“Yeah, yeah.”

“I have just one question. Where’s the sign-up sheet?”

“What sign-up sheet?”

“Where I sign up to be your best friend.”

She didn’t say anything for a second, but I thought her breathing sounded a little ragged. “Go to sleep, goofball,” she said finally.

“I’ll see you in the morning,” I promised.

“Not if I see you first,” she said, pretending to be the grumpiest girl in the world.

*   *   *

He must have been standing right outside my door. “Wake up in there! Hot coffee and croissants from the bakery!”

What in the hell was going on? Usually I didn’t even
see
my dad on Sundays until the middle of the afternoon when he was ready to drive me back to Darlington. I grabbed the clock off my night table: 10:08
A.M
.

Then I heard Marisol groaning and twisting in the
covers, and it came back to me suddenly why I was sleeping on the floor. Jesus! How was I going to get her out of there without running into Dad?

“Marisol!” I called up to the lump in the bed. “My Dad’s up! He wants me to have breakfast with him!”

“Who’s stopping you?” she mumbled.

Maybe if I went out and had a cup of coffee, he’d leave me alone, and Marisol could sneak out later. “I’ll be back,” I told her, pulling a flannel shirt on over the T-shirt I’d slept in. I eased out the door and closed it behind me.

Dad was in the kitchen arranging pastries on a big platter, enough for a half dozen people, it looked like. “You’re up kind of early, aren’t you?” I asked him.

“John!” he bellowed.

God. Why hadn’t I thought about this problem?

“Where’s your friend?” he asked.

“What friend?” He really caught me off guard.

The old turnip gave me this sly grin. “You thought I wouldn’t notice those size two black jeans hanging over the shower rail?”

Damn it; why hadn’t I thought of that? “Oh, yeah. Well, she’s still asleep.”

His eyes grazed my forehead, and he smiled. Before I could stop it, my hand flew guiltily up to check on the twin trails, skinny but swollen.

“What’s her name?”

“Uh, Marisol. Look, Dad, this is going to sound crazy, but could you call me Gio while she’s here? The thing is, she thinks …” This was too humiliating; he was chuckling
already.

“Gio? Like in Giovanni?”

“It’s not that important.” Who cared? She was bound to find out anyway.

“No, no, Son. Whatever you say. I don’t want to screw your thing up for you.”

Screw my thing up? This was getting ridiculous. I hadn’t seen the old bum so happy in years. I guess he was thinking, “like father, like son,” or some such bull.

“Do I smell coffee?” Dad and I turned around so fast we bumped into each other. There was Marisol, puffy-eyed, wearing my father’s pajama top, her hair relaxed around her face as if it hadn’t woken up enough to get mad. Dad got this goofy grin on his face, and it occurred to me he was kind of excited to see a young woman inside his own slinky sleepwear.

“Good morning!” he said jovially. “Hot coffee for the little lady, coming up!”

Man. I waited for Marisol to start fuming over the “little lady” crack, but she just smiled uncertainly, her weight shifted onto one hip.

“Gio, have you got a bathrobe or something? It’s a little chilly.”

“Sure!” I raced back into my room and came out with the ratty, gray robe I’d had for years, from the time it was way too big for me until now, when it barely tied around my waist. It was plenty big for Marisol though, and I liked to see her snuggled into it.

“Sit down, kids.” Dad put the mugs and the pastry
plate on the island between the kitchen and the dining room, pointed to the stools surrounding it. Marisol picked up her coffee and downed half a cup of scalding liquid before she sat.

Dad refilled her immediately. “So, Marisol, why haven’t I met you before?” He was grinning at her in this smutty way. It seemed pretty lousy to me to have my father so deliriously pleased that I’d spend the night with a girl.

“This is the first time I’ve been here.” She wasn’t going to give anything away. She thought maybe I wanted him to think what he was obviously thinking.

“Well, you’re welcome any time,” he oozed.

“Thanks.” She smiled politely, the perfect girlfriend.

“I didn’t know
Gio
had been dating anyone.”

“We’ve known each other a few months,” Marisol told him, careful not to lie, only to tell the truth incompletely.

The whole stupid conversation was making me sick. I downed my coffee a.s.a.p. “Marisol, you need to be someplace this morning, don’t you?”

She searched my face, trying to figure out the right answer. “Right. Thanks for reminding me. I’ll finish my coffee while I get dressed.” She scurried into the bathroom.

“Tiny little thing, isn’t she?” Dad said, eyeing the closed door.

“Dad …”

“Which I’ve always liked too. I admit it. Small women seem sort of helpless.”

I had to laugh. “Believe me, Marisol is not helpless.”

“Well, you would know.”

Oh, for God’s sake. “Listen, it’s not what you think. We went to a concert together—we’re just friends. It got over late, and she missed the last train to Cambridge, so I said she could sleep here.”

“Son, it always starts somehow.” Could he be more patronizing?

“That’s not what I mean.” Marisol emerged from the bathroom just then, stuffing her comb into her backpack, ready to roll. “We weren’t sleeping together. Marisol is gay. She’s a lesbian.”

Well, that was worth waiting for. The old guy took a step backward, couldn’t quite get a handle on it, couldn’t find the words. “Oh, well. I just assumed …”

“You shouldn’t assume,” I said.

“… when I saw the jeans …” He sputtered to a halt.

Marisol smiled at me, then let it slide over toward Dad. “Nice to meet you, sir.” She stuck out her miniature hand.

“Yes. Of course.” He shook her hand. “Welcome here any time,” he mumbled.

“I’ll walk you down,” I said, eager to get away from him, and any dumb questions he might be thinking up, like
Why would a pretty girl like that want to be lesbian?
I’d hate to have to hit him.

We were quiet until we got down the steps. Then Marisol said, “Did we really freak him out, or what?”

I shrugged. “He’ll rally.”

She poked her usual elbow into my ribs, but softly this time. “It’s good you told him the truth.”

“I cannot tell a lie,” I lied.

“Gio, I’ve been thinking. Maybe what I’ll do this morning is go to a couple of these secondhand clothing stores I know of. Sometimes you can get clothes that are very funky, but still dressy, you know? That you wouldn’t mind actually wearing.”

I wasn’t following her at all. What did I care about secondhand clothing stores?

“I mean, you know, something I could actually wear to a … prom.”

I almost didn’t believe I’d heard her right. “You mean it? You’ll go with me?” Don’t grab her, don’t scare her off, I lectured myself.

“Well, you went to Ani with me without knowing what you were in for. How bad could one evening in Darlington be?”

I was ecstatic. How
bad
? It was going to be terrific. A night I’d never forget.

“Anyway, I owe you,” she said, taking two fingers and running them across my scar trails, erasing her mistake.

Chapter Ten

“Brian!” I yelled after him as he and Emily pranced down the sidewalk to the parking lot. “It’s all set. We’re going with you.”

“To the prom?” Emily squealed. “Yes!” She hopped up and down while they waited for me to join them.

“Marisol can go.” I have to admit I was kind of enjoying this little fantasy of Marisol-the-girlfriend, even though I knew it would make her furious.

Brian banged me on the back. “Who’d have thought three months ago that we’d be going to the prom, huh?”

“Not me, that’s for sure,” I said.

“Not me either,” Emily said. “I
never
thought I’d get to go.”

“So we need to figure out about the limo and all, before they’re all booked up,” Brian said.

“Limo? We don’t need to go that far, do we?” I could just imagine the look of scorn on Marisol’s face if she had to climb into one of those big white hearses. “They’re so expensive. Can’t we just take your car?”

“Oh, please?” Emily begged.

“
My
car? That piece of junk? Come on.”

“Well, then, I’ll get my mom’s car.”

“It’s a station wagon, for God’s sake. You don’t drive a station wagon to the prom!”

“The girls can chip in too,” Emily said. “Marisol wouldn’t mind, would she?”

I was afraid by now Marisol was regretting consenting to this adolescent ritual anyway; I certainly wasn’t going to ask her to “chip in” to ride in a limo. She probably thought she was chipping in quite enough just by showing up.

“Can’t you touch your old man for some money? He’s loaded,” Brian pointed out.

“I don’t ask him for money. He gives me some once in a while, but I never ask him. Can’t be done.” Especially after last weekend. He barely spoke to me in the car on the way home. Mad, I guess, that he looked foolish in front of Marisol. Which wasn’t
my
fault. I don’t think it’s a
given that wet jeans in the bathroom means your son has finally rounded the bases.

“Come on, John. Emily really has her heart set on a limo.”

And we certainly can’t disappoint Emily. “I suppose I could call down to the Harborside and see if Jake has any weddings this weekend. If he’ll take me on both days, I can probably make a few hundred bucks.”

I’d waited tables for Jake last summer; it was grueling work—rich people make you take everything back twice—but the tips were great. And it would be the perfect excuse to skip going to Dad’s this weekend. Marisol was spending Saturday with Birdie anyway.

“That’s the spirit,” Brian said, clubbing me on the shoulder again. “I’ll make the reservations.”

Emily couldn’t stand still. “I wonder what color dress Marisol will wear.”

“Black,” I said.

“You mean she bought it already?”

“I mean she never wears anything that’s not black.”

Emily’s face closed in on itself. “
Never?
”

“Nope.”

“Well, you’re gonna have a hell of a time finding a black corsage!” Brian said, laughing. Emily joined in, but she looked a little worried. You should worry, I thought. Marisol just might straighten out your sausage curls, and, if you’re not careful, she’ll take a bite out of them, too.

Dear John (Giovanni),

I really liked getting your letter and the copy of your zine, Bananafish. My favorite piece was the dialogue between Boy and Stepfather; it was touching and funny at the same time. Is it based on reality? (Not that I think it has to be, but you said something about your dad leaving, so I figured it might be.)

I’m a big J.D. Salinger fan too. Don’t you wish he hadn’t stopped publishing books? Just think of all the wonderful characters we’d have to read about after all these years! I imagine him living in a cabin in New Hampshire surrounded by Seymour and Boo Boo and Zooey and all his other characters—maybe that’s all the humanity he needs.

Yes, I’ve seen Escape Velocity, and I really admire Marisol’s writing too. I’d like to meet you both sometime. Which is the main reason I’m writing now. Did you know there’s a conference of zine writers being held down here on the Cape in Provincetown the weekend of May 23 through 25? Some of the older zine people are putting it together, but I don’t know if the word has spread much beyond Cape Cod. I showed your zine to Bill Murdock, who’s one of the organizers, and he said to be sure to invite you and Marisol to the conference.

We’re staying in Bill’s parents’ summer resort, the Bluefish Wharf, which won’t be open for business until the following weekend, so bring a sleeping bag if you come. (We promised not to use their linens, but we can put the bags down on beds in the cabins, or if it’s warm enough, right on the beach.) Bill has invited some people who’ll talk about their writing and how they started their zines. But basically it’s just a chance to get to meet people whose work you’ve read. So far, about forty people are planning to attend. Do you think you can come? Bring more copies of Bananafish.

I really enjoyed reading your letter and doubt very much that you’re a genetic jerk. I liked your idea of looking for magic words, even when you don’t think there are any. You asked me why I don’t let things get me down. I think it’s because I’ve always tried to find my own magic words ever since I was young. That’s really what writing is, isn’t it? Searching for the magic words. So I guess I’d have to say, this is what keeps me going, figuring out what I have to say and putting it down on paper, word by word.

Hope to see you on the 23rd.

Your friend,
Diana Tree

I was psyched when I got the letter from Diana. Even she thought my writing was “touching.” If it was a conspiracy, I was beginning to appreciate it.

The conference sounded like it would be great, and if Marisol would go with me, maybe it would blot out the triviality of the prom the week before. Every time I tried to imagine walking into the Yacht Club with the pathetically eager Brian and Emily on one side and Marisol in drag on the other, the absurdity of the situation made me feel queasy. But then I’d remember the feeling of Marisol’s fingers tracing across my forehead, and I’d lose track of everything else, including my ability to inhale and exhale like a normal person. It was weird.

Getting the invitation from Diana gave me a good excuse to call Marisol, who I’d been nervous about contacting since we parted at Dad’s front door three days ago. It was like I was afraid I’d made the whole thing up and when I called she’d say, “Go to the prom? Are you nuts? You’ve obviously got me mixed up with somebody who
likes
you, Gio.” Something like that.