Out of Nowhere (17 page)

“Retreat,”
I added. I picked up my backpack and headed toward Abdi.

She tossed out one parting comment: “I’m not, by the way.” Then she got up and went into the little glassed-in cubicle, shutting the door.

So … not seeing anyone, not lesbian, or not rejecting me?

She called that night. She launched right in, didn’t even say hi. Like nothing had happened between us a few hours earlier.

“I have a brilliant idea, Cap.”

“I’m sure you do.”

“A project. A self-esteem-building, totally cool project for Abdi. And you are going to help him.”

I was lying on my bed surrounded by paper. I had an essay due the next day on
The Scarlet Letter
, and I’d been spending the last
hour going round and round in my head with Hester, Chillingworth, and Dimmesdale.
Okay, brain, reorient, because it’s time to do a few more rounds with Myla.…

“Lay it on me.”

“A dictionary. A Somali-English dictionary, every letter from
A
to
Z
, with pictures he’s drawn, plus words in both Somali and English.”

“Wow. Our little guy is having trouble with the letter
R
and you want him to write an entire dictionary. I love that idea. Really.”

I heard her sigh impatiently.

“Don’t be obtuse. I’m thinking picture book. Two words per page, twenty-six pages.”

Were there twenty-six letters in the alphabet? I started counting on my fingers:
A, B, C, D …

“Tom, are you listening?”

“Yeah, yeah … sorry. I’m … Hester Prynne. Do you know her?”

Long pause from Myla.

“Name’s familiar. Didn’t she date some guy named Dimmesdale? Seriously, Tom, what do you think?”

“I think everything you say is brilliant and I’ll do anything you want. I’m your community service slave. But right now, I’m thinking about this essay that’s due tomorrow on
The Scarlet Letter
, and—”

“I know a guy who will take the finished pages and laminate them and bind them. It’ll look like a pretty real book by the time he’s all done, and then Abdi can give it to his teacher. For the class, you know? It’ll be like this thing that celebrates
both
languages, and shows that he knows
both
.”

I thought about that for a minute. It was a cool idea. Something Abdi could definitely do and be proud of. He was a good little artist. His pictures would look neat, all bound up in a picture book.

“I think it’s great, Myla. I think you’ve come up with a really, really good idea.”

“Thanks,” she said. “So you’ll help him?”

“Absitively posilutely, College.”

“There’s just one hitch.”

“Uh-oh.”

“I want Samira to work with you guys.”

I couldn’t help it. I laughed.

“Yeah, right, she’s gonna do that. Not. Have you forgotten she’s not my biggest fan?”

“She’s already on board.”

I didn’t expect that. And I’ll admit, it was not a welcome surprise. I had less than zero interest in spending time with Samira the Fun Suck.

“I can handle Abdi alone,” I said.

“It’s not about handling him. It’s about doing the Somali part of the book. You wouldn’t have a clue, Cap, and Samira would have a good feel for the right words to choose. Plus she’d get the spelling right. Plus I’d like Abdi to have a positive experience being directed by an older girl. And watching how you respect and work well with a girl. You’d be a good role model for him.”

Something about this felt like a setup.

“Let me guess: you’re getting extra-credit points in your I’m-gonna-make-the-world-a-better-place class if you get me and Samira to work together. Am I right?”

“What if I agree to go out to dinner with you? Will you do it then?”

That
came out of left field. This woman was full of surprises.

“Seriously?” It was the first word out of my mouth.

She laughed. Giggled, actually. At me. She couldn’t have been laughing
with
me, after such a stupid-ass response.

“I want to try that new Somali place on Market Street. You can take me there.”

“Oh, can I? Will I pay?”

“Of course. But I hear it’s not too expensive, so you’re good.”

“And when are we doing this?”

“We can talk about it tomorrow. You are coming tomorrow, right?”

“How ’bout Friday? I’ve got late practice and … another commitment tomorrow.”

“Great. Friday it is. Thanks, Cap.” She hung up before I could say another word.

And there I was, with a date that was actually a bribe. With a girl who was not my girlfriend and was possibly a lesbian. At a restaurant I’d never heard of, for an undisclosed amount of money, time and day unknown. I’d have to keep it a secret from Cherisse (who would freak if she found out), bypass my parents (because I was still grounded), and deal with a sullen Somali girl (who hated me).

So why did it feel like Christmas in October?

The other commitment I’d mentioned to Myla was
Survivor
with Cherisse. Eight o’clock on Wednesday nights. She never misses an episode and informed me that after blowing her off for pizza the other night I could make her happy by watching it with her.

Life is easier when you’re on the right side of Cherisse. So even though I had a big physics test the next day, I agreed.

I told Mom that she was coming over to study with me.

Mom was
so
not fooled. Cherisse didn’t take physics, and even though I’m pretty sure my parents didn’t have a printout of the girl’s schedule, they knew Cherisse Ouellette wasn’t the physics type. We carried our books into the den off the dining room and closed the French doors, which have these very nice privacy curtains, but Mom kept popping in: first with lemonade, then with a basket of corn chips.

“Ooh, thanks, Mrs. B.!” Cherisse said when the chips made an appearance. She’s the only person in the universe who calls my mother “Mrs. B.” Mom smiles with her mouth closed, sort of
this straight line running from ear to ear, whenever she hears “Mrs. B.”

“You’re very welcome, Cherisse,” she said. “You kids have everything you need?”

“D’you guys have salsa?” Cherisse asked. “I love salsa with chips.”

Mom raised one eyebrow in this high arc. Along with the straight-line smile, it was a pretty intimidating look. Dad calls it the Scary Franco Momma look. It’s the look
her
grandmother used to control eight screaming children. Genetically coded right there on my mother’s face. I recognized it from old photographs of
Mémère
Louise.

“There’s a jar in the fridge, dear. Go help yourself,” Mom said. Cherisse bounded from the den. Mom folded her arms across her chest.

“Seriously, Tom?” she said.

“What?” I replied. “She likes salsa.”

The other eyebrow shot up. That was the “I’m Not Stupid, Son” Scary Franco Momma expression.

After Cherisse turned up as my junior prom date last spring and we started going out (Facebook official), Dad took me aside for a “talk.” Actually, it was more of a non-talk. He didn’t demand to know if we were sexually active, but … practically. Instead, he spoke in code, dancing around the questions you couldn’t help but ask yourself when you met Cherisse.

“How did you two meet?” he asked, aka
She sure as hell isn’t in any honors classes with you, is she?
“I don’t think we know her parents,” he said, aka
They don’t live on our side of town and aren’t among the 25 percent of Enniston residents who graduated from
college
. “I hope you’re being responsible, Tommy,” he said, aka
I sure hope you’re abstinent, but if you’re not, I hope you’re using protection, even though I’d be the last Catholic in Maine to suggest it
.

I didn’t hold it against my parents for getting squeamish about the S-E-X question; most parents don’t handle it well. But I did hold it against them for being intellectual snobs. A girl like Cherisse Ouellette wasn’t part of the master plan they’d mapped for their college-bound son, and from the second she walked in the door Mom was tight-lipped and unfriendly.

“I’d like the doors left open a crack,” Mom said. “And it’s a school night, so company has to leave by nine.” She made this pronouncement just as Cherisse returned holding the Newman’s Own mango salsa.

“This was all I could find. We usually get Pace,” she said, plopping alongside me on the couch. She hadn’t brought a bowl, so she unscrewed the lid and dumped some salsa over the chips in the basket. I made a point of not looking at my mother’s expression over that move. Mom walked out, leaving the doors about three inches ajar.

“She seems uptight. Everything okay?” Cherisse asked between chips.

“Yeah, it’s all good. She just knows I’ve got a test tomorrow.” I pulled the heavy physics textbook across the coffee table toward me. I glanced at the clock. I had forty-five minutes to review an entire chapter before
Survivor
started.

“They still mad about the rock?” she asked.

“I think the question is ‘Will they ever
stop
being mad about the rock?’ ” I replied. “Rock madness is now part of the daily drill. I think she just wants to make sure we’re actually studying.”

Cherisse squinched a little closer to me on the couch. She whispered in my ear, “I don’t think she likes your girlfriend.” She gently took my earlobe between her teeth. Her lips were cold. Like the mango salsa that just came out of the fridge. I turned to kiss her, and her mouth was half open. She tasted like chips.

“She likes my girlfriend just fine,” I said, but instead of kissing her again I turned back to the book. I needed to at least
look
at the stuff, if not learn it.

Cherisse made this pouty face and threw herself back into the cushions.

“I don’t think
you
like your girlfriend,” she said.

I smiled but kept my eyes on the open pages.

“I like my girlfriend just fine,” I told her. “What I don’t like is failing physics.”

She bounced back up. The lips were near my ear again.

“I’m a bad influence,” she said quietly.

“Yup,” I agreed.

She kissed me behind the ear. Planted a trail of kisses down my neck.

“I’m a distraction,” she continued. She placed one hand on my knee and slowly began sliding it up my thigh.

“Definitely,” I said.

The French doors swung open. Cherisse’s hand shot to her side.

“Almost forgot napkins.” Mom in the entry, holding a thick white wad. Her eyes flickered briefly over the scene. Cherisse had gone rigid. Mom dropped the napkins on top of my physics book and as she exited spread the doors open wide.

“Whatever,” Cherisse grumbled, pulling a notebook from her backpack.

A few minutes before eight Cherisse was searching through the couch cushions for the remote and I’d only made it through one of the sections we were getting tested on the next day. It was clearly gonna be another sleepless night for Tommy: I’d stayed up way past midnight the night before finishing my
Scarlet Letter
essay. Plus I kept having all these weird dreams. About a certain Mumford student. I’d dreamt she came to The Center on Friday wearing a
hijab
and a long skirt, and it was embroidered all over with ornate letter
L
’s.

“I’m going to wear this to the Somali restaurant tonight,” Myla said in the dream, “so they’ll know I’m a lesbian.”

Clearly, my brain was on overload, trying to process all the junk going on in my life. Not the least of which was my overwhelming sense of Catholic guilt that I needed to come clean with Cherisse and tell her about Myla. Although I wasn’t sure what I’d tell. Was I “seeing” her? No. Were we friends? Hardly. Did I even find her attractive? Well, yes. She was adorable. Different. Surprising. In a good way.

Yeah. I would have to say something. I just didn’t know what. Or when.

As I marked my place in the textbook and began clearing papers off the coffee table, I heard the kitchen door open and shut, followed by slightly raised voices.

“I’m sorry, Maddie, but the kids are working in there right now,” Mom said.

“Oh, pish! They can take it up to Tommy’s bedroom,” I heard Aunt Maddie say.

“Uh, no.” That from Mom. Then footsteps headed toward the den, and the sisters appeared.

“Busted!” Maddie crowed when she saw the television on.
“Your mother thought physics homework was going on in here.” She flashed Mom this smug smile, then settled herself beside Cherisse on the couch. “My TV’s broken,” she explained. “And you know I can’t miss
Survivor
.”

It’s hard for me to get my head around how someone like Maddie, with such high-minded ideals about practically everything, can be such a reality-TV junkie. But she’s obsessed with
Survivor
—a little trait, my dad likes to point out, that makes her human. “Otherwise,” he says, “she’d be insufferable.”

As Maddie snuggled in, Cherisse unearthed the remote, and the part where they show what happened on the last episode started rolling. Mom had the pissed-off-and-defeated expression going. She always hates the way Maddie barges in unannounced. Bosses her around, like they’re still kids.

“I am
so
glad they voted off Bobby T. last week,” Maddie said to Cherisse.

“Totally,” my girl murmured in agreement.

Mom turned on her heel and walked out.

“Now she’s mad at me,” Maddie commented without removing her eyes from the screen.

“Yeah, welcome to the club,” I sighed.

She didn’t reply until the commercial break.

“So, how’s it going?” she said when the Geico gecko appeared. There was that certain something in her tone.
Open up to me, Tommy
, it said.

“Fine,” I auto-replied.

“Honestly,” she said. I shrugged.

“It could suck more, I suppose. At least, that’s what everyone keeps reminding me.”

“Can you believe he has to do a hundred hours of community
service?” Cherisse said. “For, like, a joke? Just pouring some paint on a stupid rock?”

Maddie frowned.

“Sweetheart, am I really hearing this? Do you not get what Tommy and the amazing Donnie Plourde did?”