Accidental Love

  "Alicia!" Marisa called happily. She was glad to see her, this old friend who was like a new friend. They had known each other since second grade, and wasn't it true that they had traded sandwiches? Wasn't that the sign of true friendship, the sharing of food and the ritual stomping of empty milk cartons?

  "I heard what happened at the car wash," Alicia said, and pouted. She rose stiffly, one hand on the porch rail.

  "Stop bothering me. It's over," Marisa said. "How did you get here?"

  "Mom brought me. I told her you and me had some studying to do." Alicia said that she and her mother had had a long talk about boys. Her mother told her she trusted her to use her head and said that the episode with Roberto was a learning experience.

  Marisa didn't relish talking about Roberto. She said, "Let me have one of those sodas."

  "Cream or root beer?" Alicia asked.

  "La crema, girl."

  They drank their sodas on the lawn. Alicia's blue cast attracted two boys riding their bikes down the street. They stopped and asked about the cast. Alicia, straight-faced, said she'd got into a skiing accident. The boys looked at each other.

  "What's snow like?" the taller of the two asked. Marisa and Alicia could see that he must have been eating a lot of candy, because his tongue was coated. He had sucked something sweet and blue, and the corners of his mouth were still stained. He was a kid living through the sense of taste.

  "Like real cold fire," Marisa answered for Alicia.

  Alicia nodded. "That's right. That's why if you stay in snow too long, it makes your skin all red."

  The boys rode away. Marisa knew that the boys—chavalos, as her father would call them—were built for play and didn't want to stand around discussing fiery snow. They were gone, weaving down the pitted road, where dogs lurked beyond rickety fences.

  The girls laughed and clinked their soda cans together. Neither had ever seen, snow, but they imagined that it was like a cold fire. They had imagined a lot of things when they were really young, but never a fight that could end their friendship.

  Alicia swept her leg toward Marisa.

  "You be the first."

  "First what?"

  Marisa understood when Alicia handed her a Sharpie pen. She wrote on the cast: "Alicia & Marisa—siempre."

  They were friends, they were girlfriends, they were hermanas with different last names. They sat on the grass talking about family and boys until dusk crept up the street and Marisa's father's truck pulled into the driveway, fenders rattling and horn tooting.

  "My dad will give you a ride home in a little bit," Marisa said, and pulled Alicia to her feet. "Come in for a while."

  "Go get my crutches," Alicia begged like a little girl.

  "Forget your crutches!" Marisa picked her up in her arms, and Alicia said, "Dang, you're strong."

  "You're light," Marisa said. "Hey, did you see that I lost weight?"

  "Oh, yeah? How did you do it?"

  "I stopped with the chicharrones," she huffed as she carried Alicia to the porch, where her father was unlacing his cement-dusted work boots. "I think I just kept my mouth shut and nothing went in—that's my diet!"

  Chapter 10

  Rene avoided Marisa as he maneuvered down the hallways, his attention drawn toward the ground and the vista of legs, shoes, stains of spilled soda, hardened gum, and pennies that weren't worth the effort of students too cool to pick them up. Marisa recognized his sadness and was waiting for the Thursday rehearsal of Romeo and Juliet to apologize. She hoped that the showdown in the school parking lot hadn't got him in even more trouble. At rehearsal they would have to stand side by side and could spy on each other out of the corners of their eyes. She would try to clutch his hand and not give it back.

  On Wednesday, Hamilton Magnet was scheduled to play Washington in basketball, a preseason tune-up between two teams that both played as if their shoelaces were undone—sloppy. The players for Hamilton were mostly anemic-looking poets and artists, a few math-heads strong at calculating their chances of victory (zero), and some musicians from the orchestra. The tuba player, Marcos Sanchez, was the shortest player on the team—five foot three, red-cheeked after three minutes on the court, and slow as syrup drooling from a bottle of Mrs. Butterworth. He ran up and down the court as if he were carrying his tuba and a folding chair.

  "Come with me," Priscilla begged as she captured one of Marisa's wrists and shook her arm like a garden hose. Marisa agreed.

  At the game, held in Hamilton's gymnasium, the two girls arrived just as a crew of students from Washington came in, all loud, all jabbing their hands into potato chip bags.

  "Hey, girl!" Latisha loudly greeted Marisa when they met at the folding table where tickets were sold. She had a comb stuck in her Afro. "What you doin' here?"

  Marisa and Latisha had been close friends in first and second grades, but by third grade they had drifted—Latisha to her black friends at one table in the lunchroom and Marisa to the Latinos hanging out on a grassy hill. It was a division of races. It was the way things were no matter how much the teachers tossed around the word multicultural.

  "Hey, Latisha." Marisa hugged her old friend. "This is my new school."

  "New school!" Latisha was not known to speak softly. She didn't do anything softly. "What you mean? You ain't gonna sit with us?" Her face rolled with dissatisfaction. "If that's the case, we gonna spank your team's booty. We be pumped!"

  Marisa waved and smiled, and looped her arm into Priscilla's as they paid their two dollars, entered the gymnasium, and climbed the bleachers.

  The coach, with a gut as round as a basketball, stood on the sidelines—he was Mr. Greene, Marisa's math teacher, who looked like he couldn't move but was surprisingly swift on his feet. The vice principal was on his cell phone. Three or four teachers, plus a security guard in a yellow jacket, were trying to pin a school banner to a wall. A few students were clotted together and a few sat in the top row of the bleachers.

  "I've never been to a basketball game," Marisa told Priscilla, who said, "No, sir, you been to a game before," and then screamed when the DJ started a song that she really liked.

  "It's true. I've been to football games, but never a basketball game." Marisa scanned the gym. "It's kinda sorry, huh? There ain't hardly anybody here."

  The school's flag, high in the rafters, was stirred by the air-conditioning. One of the lights flickered, and somewhere outside a door was banging shut again and again.

  "So which one is he?" Marisa asked, taking a chocolate-flavored Tootsie Roll Pop that Priscilla offered her.

  "That hottie there," Priscilla said. She pointed quickly, and had to point again when Marisa, with candy on her tongue, slurred, "Which one?"

  "The one with the ball. Aaron."

  Marisa studied Priscilla's would-be boyfriend as she sucked on the candy. He was average height, dark haired, and pale as milk. His biceps bulged with muscles. He had a star-shaped tattoo on the back of his right calf.

  "He's hella cute," Marisa remarked.

  "I know," Priscilla responded after a long span of silence. She chewed at a fingernail and then scowled at it. "I'm such a mess. Even my fingers are bleeding."

  "Stop it then!" Marisa slapped Priscilla's hand, and Priscilla let it drop onto her thigh.

  Marisa's own heart leaped when she noticed Rene at a long table. At first she thought he was working the soundboard, but saw that he kept glancing up at the scoreboard over by the far end of the double doors.

  "Rene's here, too," Marisa remarked flatly.

  "Where?" Priscilla asked.

  "There." She pointed, slightly embarrassed because Rene was wearing a pair of high-water pants, and from where she sat she could tell his socks didn't match. She sighed and said, "Man, his clothes are so wickity-wack."

  When the game started, the small group of Washington supporters began to rock as if they were riding a bus, then shriek when one of the players scored, and were louder than Hamilton's pep band. They blew up their potato chip bags
and clapped them when a Hamilton player was set to shoot.

  It was 10–0 before Hamilton scored, helped out by a Washington player who accidentally tipped the ball into the opponent's basket.

  Marisa watched Aaron play. He moved nicely on the court, and he seemed to care whether they won or lost. He hustled, and one of every three of his shots swished. When he was taken out of the game, he scrubbed his face with a towel and drank three cups of water. Marisa was fascinated by him—she had to admit that he was good-looking, even gorgeous, and then she felt hideous about such a thought. Was she coveting the boy Priscilla liked?

  "So what does he do?" Marisa asked. In her three weeks at Hamilton, she had discovered that everyone did something—computer graphics, robotics, poetry, drama, homemade graphic novels, and lots of music, both classical and alternative.

  "He plays basketball," she answered. "He lives and dies for it."

  "You got it bad, huh, girl?"

  "Yeah, real bad. When I'm in bed I send him these telepathic messages. I tell him to look for me—Priscilla."

  They both laughed, but Priscilla laughed harder.

  "He knows, but he doesn't care," Priscilla added. She told Marisa that his parents were both doctors. That much she knew about his family life.

  Marisa paid attention to some of the game, but mostly she spent time looking at the back of Rene's head as he worked the electronic scoreboard. She felt childish as she rummaged through her memories of their first—and only?—fight. All she had spewed from her lips was that she thought the actors were fake. And all he had said was, "How come you're so negative?" Her ego was fragile as a robin's egg, and it broke. She wished she could take back her bitterness. She liked him. After all, hadn't he been willing to punch Roberto for her?

  Marcos Sanchez only played two minutes of the first half, and during halftime he joined the pep band, his face growing sweatier from his tuba playing than from the time on the court. He did his best to keep in tune to the rally cry of "Louie, Louie."

  Hamilton lost 65–23.

  On Thursday morning clouds rolled in and darkened the autumn sky. Rain splashed like tears against the kitchen window, trying to get in and spread its moodiness. Marisa was considering what to wear—a jacket or just two sweatshirts—as she raked a thin layer of strawberry jam over an unbuffered piece of toast. Her cell phone rang. It was Priscilla, whose first words were, "I had a dream that he was talking to me." She didn't have to explain the cryptic message.

  "He's on you. He's trailing you like a shark."

  "I hope he bites," she said, and hung up.

  When Marisa got to school, Rene seemed to be waiting for her. He was kicking the scuffed toe of his shoe into the asphalt.

  "Hey," Marisa greeted. She could have played hard to get and hooked herself to the crowd heading toward the cafeteria, but she emptied her heart. She was full of words that needed to come out.

  "Hey," Rene greeted. "I want to say I'm sorry."

  "No, I'm sorry."

  They stood just inches away from each other. Marisa could smell soap on Rene. She could also smell coffee, a surprise because he was vegan—and didn't they oppose caffeine?

  "I should have been braver," Rene muttered.

  Marisa paused as she nearly blurted out, "Why is your mom like a hag?" The urge was so great that she had already inhaled a lungful of wind for such a purpose. Instead, she let it out by muttering, "I didn't know you drink coffee."

  "Just sometimes," Rene said before he began to explain what was in his heart. "Listen, Marisa, my mom is real strict. She wants me to, you know, do well in school." He flapped his arms at his sides as if he were a penguin. "She wants me to go to Harvard or Stanford."

  Here it comes, Marisa thought. He's going to cut me loose.

  "She thinks having a girlfriend will get me in trouble."

  "Do you think I'm trouble?" Marisa asked. She rested her head against his shoulder, eyes closed, and smelled his soap. Or was it shaving cream? Had he started to shave?

  "Yeah, I do," he answered.

  Marisa pulled her head away from his shoulder.

  "So I'm trouble?" Her system began to cook up a pot of anger.

  "Marisa! Let me finish!" He fumed for a moment, and finally said in a controlled voice, "I like you because you are trouble. It's dangerous. Don't forget that was the first time I got into a fight—ever!"

  Marisa had first raised her fists when she was in her stroller and her older cousin José had ripped a Popsicle from her sticky fingers. Or at least that is what she was told every time she saw her cousin, now an army sergeant and the push-up king of his battalion. This cousin—and Marisa had witnessed it—could do three hundred two-finger push-ups and hardly break a sweat.

  "I know it's sad, but that's me." Rene twitched his nose. "It doesn't hurt anymore."

  Marisa brought herself close again. The soap smell was there, and the coffee smell, plus something—she sniffed like a rabbit—like sadness. Poor baby, she mused. He wants to be a man.

  "Rene," Marisa asked.

  "What?"

  "You're standing on my shoe." She played it up by wincing from pain. She took a few stumbling steps as she pretended to make it better.

  He lifted his shoe and said, "Oh, I'm so sorry."

  "Listen, buddy boy," Marisa said as she stroked his hair. "You're not supposed to say that you're sorry all the time."

  "I'm not?" Rene appeared baffled.

  "No, you're not. You're the dude, the guy, el mero mero, ese vato, the homey, the heavyweight champion of this girl's heart." Marisa touched her heart. "You're El Macho, Mr. Suave, and if you keep lifting weights, contender for the title of Mr. America."

  Rene sucked in his gut so that his chest stood out.

  "Remember, you wear los pantalones," Marisa said, then grimaced at his high-waters. "But I'm gonna tell you what kind. And it ain't the ones you got on!"

  The two kissed and made up and lifted weights that day in the abandoned part of the gym. Marisa did a hundred sit-ups, and for the fun of it lifted Rene into her arms and staggered about. "This is just to let...," she huffed, "this is just to let you know that if you..." She adjusted him in her arms and groaned, "If you ever get sick or in an accident, I'll carry you to the hospital."

  After school they went to rehearsal. They didn't have much to do. The chorus stood on the side of the stage, and the director, with his hands in his hair, scolded, "Romeo, your timing is all wrong."

  Marisa elbowed Rene and winked at him.

  "Who wears the pants?" she murmured.

  "I do," he answered.

  "And you have to speak clearly," the director boomed. "Remember not to swallow your words. Take your time."

  "But who tells you what kind, my Romeo?" Marisa whispered in his ear.

  "You do." He laced his fingers into hers and smiled.

  After rehearsal they met with Priscilla and the three of them went to a mall close to Marisa's aunt's house. There the girls pulled Rene into a store filled with loud bass-thumping music. None of the words were decipherable.

  "But I'm the man," he protested over the music. "The man!"

  The girls giggled.

  "You wish!" Marisa laughed. "Right now Priscilla and me are the mommies, and we're going to buy bad baby a pair of pants."

  They had pooled their money and borrowed some from one of Priscilla's friends. They came up with twenty-nine dollars, just enough to splurge on a pair of jeans in the current style.

  When they found the right jeans, Rene headed for the dressing rooms. He emerged lamenting, "But they don't fit!" He gripped the loose front and remarked that he looked like the after photo of a formerly fat person. "Anyhow, they look like someone else wore them for a million years. They're faded."

  "That's how you're supposed to wear them," Priscilla retorted.

  "They're too long," he added as he modeled in front of a mirror. "They're going to drag."

  "What did I say to you?" Marisa asked.

  "I wear the pants."


  "¿ Y qué más?"

  "But you pick them out?"

  "Dang, he's trained." Priscilla laughed.

  The girls bought the jeans for him. One on each side, they escorted him like police from the store, Rene giggling and protesting that he hardly knew these two females and would someone please, please help him, because his pants were falling off.

  Chapter 11

  Marisa stopped just short of stalking Aaron into the boys' restroom during lunch on Friday. She would have but for the two boys lurking like vultures at the entrance, their hands stuffed in their front pockets. She waited by the drinking fountain and pressed her hand over her heart. Its engine was steady. She found herself feeling better about her plan.

  When Aaron came out, hitching up his pants, she said, "Hey, pretty boy, come here."

  Aaron looked at her as if she were a bug and slowly raised a hand to point at his chest.

  "That's right—you and your mighty muscles. Bring them over here." She guiltily noted that his chest was so much more endowed than poor Rene's. The boy had game.

  "Do I know you?" Aaron asked as he sauntered over, running his hands through his hair.

  Marisa ignored his question. "You know, when you shoot, you got to keep your elbows in. And bend those cute knees of yours." She raised her arms into a shooting position and bent her knees. She felt a little stupid, as she knew almost nothing about basketball. She remembered one more piece of advice from her father. "Plus, you can't hold your breath. Got to be natural."

  Aaron blinked at her and turned away, hitching up his pants again.

  Why does Priscilla like him? Marisa wondered. And why did Alicia like Roberto? Why do girls fall for such fools?

  She sidled up to Aaron. "Remember, you can't hold your breath. You did that a couple of times at the game on Wednesday," Marisa informed him. As they turned the corner toward the science rooms, she added, in a whisper, "I know a girl who likes you."

  That stopped Aaron. Advice on shooting didn't earn his attention, but the mention of a mysterious girl halted his swaggering walk. He turned, licked his thin, pretty lips, and sized up Marisa. His eyes narrowed, and a smile began to form on his face.