“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 touchi
ng 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.
But when I finally called, it was her mother who answered.
“Oh, hello, Gio! This is Helen. How have you been?”
“Fine, thank you.”
“We were so pleased to hear that Marisol will be going to your prom with you. I’m sure it will be lots of fun!” She sounded like she ought to be Emily’s mother instead of Marisol’s.
“I hope so.” If Marisol had told them about it, it meant she wasn’t going to back out on me. I was sure she’d also tried to tell them it wasn’t an actual date, but it sounded like old Helen might not be so interested in the fine points of the arrangement.
“I’ll go find Marisol for you. I know she’ll be so happy you called.” It made me sad actually, the way Marisol’s mother was grabbing onto me like a life raft. Here she was marching in the Gay Pride parade, flying the PFLAG flag, but still hoping to find out there’d been a little mistake about what Marisol meant by “coming out”; she was really supposed to be getting ready for a debutante ball.
“Hi,” Marisol said. “I can’t talk long. I’ve got lots of homework.” Her voice was so flattened out I hardly recognized it.
“If this is about that prom thing, don’t worry, I got a dress.” She chuckled a little. “It makes me look like Spider Woman.”
“Sounds perfect,” I said, imagining filmy webs hanging from her elbows.
“So, anyway, you can work out the rest of the details.”
“Okay.” No way was I mentioning the limo. “But I actually called about something else that’s going on the next weekend.”
“What? The Junior Class Wienie Roast?”
This conversation was almost as bad as my nightmare version.
“I got a letter from Diana Tree today. You know, she writes that zine No Regrets.”
“Oh, yeah, she’s the one who’s always so happy-sappy. Nature girl. Why’s she writing to you?”
“I wrote to her. I like her zine.”
“You do? It’s so virtuous! She’s a granola-head.”
“I don’t think … well, whatever. Anyway, listen a minute. She says there’s a zine conference on Cape Cod the weekend of the twenty-third. In Provincetown. That’s not so far,” said he who has seldom left the Boston-Darlington Trail in six years of weekly travel, and has no sense of direction. “Maybe we could go. They’re all staying at some guy’s resort on the beach. Wouldn’t that be fun?”
There was no immediate reaction.
“Hello?”
“I heard you. I don’t know, Gio. I’m not much of a group person, you know? I mean, zines are great, but that doesn’t mean all the people who write them will be so great. What if it’s some big love fest? What if we get down there and find out we’re stuck with a bunch of dorks or slimeballs or something?”
“Why would they be dorks? Besides, we can just leave if it’s not fun.”
She sighed too deeply. “Gio, the thing is, we’ve been having a lot of togetherness lately. Last weekend, and then this prom thing. … You know?”
Of course I knew. It was the reason I was no longer comatose after an entire life of sleepwalking. It seemed that, all of a sudden, Marisol was necessary to my existence, but, of course, I didn’t mention that to her. “We’d just ride down together. You wouldn’t have to hang around with me if it’s that odious.”
“That’s not the point.”
“Just think about it, will you? You don’t have to decide this minute.”
“Fine. Consider me thinking. I’ve really got to go now, Gio. My G and T brain needs to launch an attack against physics. You understand.”
I was afraid I did.
* * *
“I told you earlier in the week Al’s mother had invited me to dinner this evening,” Mom said. The annoyance in her voice was probably not caused only by my asking what was for supper.
“I forgot. It’s okay. I’ll get a pizza or something.” She followed me into the den, where I flopped on the couch, attempting to render myself invisible by passing for a normal teenage boy.
“Al said his mother wanted to invite you too, but I told him you wouldn’t want to come anyway. We should just leave you alone.”
“Leave me alone—that’s the way to handle it.”
“I’m not handling you.” That much I knew.
She steamed a little bit, then went in search of her car keys. I turned on MTV so I could pretend to be doing something I didn’t want interrupted.
“You could ask Brian to come over if you want. He hasn’t been here in weeks.”
“He’s got a girlfriend. I told you.”
“So he doesn’t have time for his old friends?”
“Mother! We’re going to the stupid prom together next weekend. Isn’t that enough? Besides, I’m going to bed early. I’m working at the Harborside all weekend so I can afford this momentous rite of passage.”
Sh
e twirled the keys around her finger. There was something else on her mind. “I can’t help but wonder who this Marisol girl is. She just appeared out of the woodwork. You say you met her in Boston, but met her how? On the street? You couldn’t know very much about her.”
Why was I doing this to myself? To Marisol? One minute I couldn’t wait to see her in her Spider Woman dress; the next minute I thought I must be the biggest fool on the planet. It was crazy. In all my classes kids were obsessing about the prom; the girls seemed to think they were going on their honeymoons, and the guys had fantasized some kind of Club Med experience. How on earth was Marisol going to fit into this picture, which, obviously, even included scrutiny from my mother?
“She didn’t come out of the woodwork, Mom. She’s not a cockroach.”
Finally she threw her purse over her shoulder and headed for the door. “I can’t talk to you anymore. I’m going to Al’s. Don’t wait up.”
Why? I wanted to ask. Are you sleeping over? But I didn’t. One facial blow a week is enough for me. She slammed the door and locked it, just in case this was the moment I was planning my escape.
Dear Mom,
On the advice of my friend Marisol, the woodwork pest, I’m writing you a letter you will never see. When Marisol writes to her mother, she both blames and forgives her, because, even though the woman abandoned her at birth, Marisol is a fair and balanced person.
But I’m not. I’ve become warped and crooked in these years since you and Dad divorced, and even though I know you’d put most of the blame on Dad, who does indeed deserve his share, it’s you who screwed me up on a daily basis for the last six years. If I did let you read this, you’d put it down right about now. You’d say I’m so unfair. What terrible thing did you ever do to me? You barely escaped with your sanity as it was!
But the problem isn’t what you Did do, it’s what you Didn’t. At first, when Dad left, I was scared, but at least I still had you——(I thought)——you hadn’t run away from me. It didn’t take long to realize how wrong I was. You were gone too. Sealed up inside yourself where I couldn’t get in, never mind that we still lived in the same house.