the pho—”
“It’s not Marisol.”
The sight of Danny Diaz standing in my foyer, coupled with the overwhelming smell of his cologne, stops me from talking, walking, or doing anything else.
“Danny?” I step back into a bookcase. “What are you doing here? I rub my eyes roughly, believing that if I rub hard enough he’ll disappear. “How do you know where I live?”
“Tamara,” he says simply.
“Tamara?”
“Tamara, um, Cruz. We have sixth period SAT prep together…”
I give him a blank look so he continues.
“You used to ride the same private bus in junior high…. Her dad teaches at UM with your dad…. You have the same—”
“Driver’s ed class together. Yeah…I know.” But how did he know? Was he talking to Tamara about me?
“I asked her where you live because I wanted to come here. I wanted to talk to you.”
I move slowly toward the living room sofa, keeping my eyes on him at all times. The ceiling fan whirls above us, spreading the aroma of Danny everywhere and filling my ears with a buzzing noise. I shiver. My pajamas—a pair of boxers and a white wifebeater, sans bra—suddenly seem transparent. It’s like I’m standing naked in front of Danny. I burrow my body into the corner of the sofa, hiding my chest behind an oversized throw pillow.
“You asked Tamara where I live?” I clarify. Danny nods his head, a hesitant smile threatening the corners of his lips. “But why?” I ask, which is a good question. Why?
“Um…” Danny sits opposite me on the love seat. “I wanted to…um…you…” He stops abruptly and rubs the side of his mouth. “You’ve got some…”
“What?” I stare at him blankly.
He rubs the side of his mouth again, shakes his head, and licks his thumb. He leans forward, cups my chin, and rubs his thumb lightly over my skin.
“Drool,” he says, chuckling.
Ten thousand butterflies. When Danny’s finger connects with my chin, ten thousand butterflies explode in my belly. I mean, here he is: Danny, with his face six inches from mine, and all I can wonder is: is my breath mint working?
“You came here to wipe drool from my cheek?” I try hard to speak without opening my mouth.
“No.” He leans back and looks at me with those penny eyes.
“I came to say that I’m sorry for the other day. For the library.”
“Oh…oh…” My eyes pop open and I can practically feel the eye crud falling out. “That’s why you’re here? Now. In my house? Here.” I’d keep rambling till the end of time, but something, somewhere deep inside me tells me to shut up.
“Yeah,” he says, shaking his head.
So this is it? I feel relieved, and I feel something else. Let down? Disappointed?
“It’s just that sometimes I say what I’m thinking but I don’t think. I just open my mouth and, you know, speak.”
“Sure.” I shrug my shoulders.
“I’m not trying to be…” His voice trails off.
How could I have ever thought he could hit me?
“Sometimes, I just talk and stupid things happen. Like yesterday, I was telling Dalia about the library—”
“You told your sister about yesterday?” My heart pops like a firecracker. The catch. This was the catch. Danny Diaz would never hit a girl. He has his sister for that.
“Well”—he takes off his baseball cap—“it was kind of hard to hide this at the dinner table.” He leans forward to show me the quarter-sized knot on the top of his head.
“Dinner?” I say. “Like with the entire family?”
“Yeah…” Danny gives me a strange look.
Question: is it more shocking to find out that you’ve maimed one of the hottest boys in your school? Or that the hot boy sits down to have dinner with his family?
Answer: I wasn’t sure.
“Wow. I did that.” Without thinking, I touch the knot and feel terribly guilty (and slightly satisfied) when Danny flinches.
“Yeah, did you have to choose the unabridged dictionary? Couldn’t you just have used your pocket Webster?”
“Ah, you’re a funny
“It’s not Marisol.”
The sight of Danny Diaz standing in my foyer, coupled with the overwhelming smell of his cologne, stops me from talking, walking, or doing anything else.
“Danny?” I step back into a bookcase. “What are you doing here? I rub my eyes roughly, believing that if I rub hard enough he’ll disappear. “How do you know where I live?”
“Tamara,” he says simply.
“Tamara?”
“Tamara, um, Cruz. We have sixth period SAT prep together…”
I give him a blank look so he continues.
“You used to ride the same private bus in junior high…. Her dad teaches at UM with your dad…. You have the same—”
“Driver’s ed class together. Yeah…I know.” But how did he know? Was he talking to Tamara about me?
“I asked her where you live because I wanted to come here. I wanted to talk to you.”
I move slowly toward the living room sofa, keeping my eyes on him at all times. The ceiling fan whirls above us, spreading the aroma of Danny everywhere and filling my ears with a buzzing noise. I shiver. My pajamas—a pair of boxers and a white wifebeater, sans bra—suddenly seem transparent. It’s like I’m standing naked in front of Danny. I burrow my body into the corner of the sofa, hiding my chest behind an oversized throw pillow.
“You asked Tamara where I live?” I clarify. Danny nods his head, a hesitant smile threatening the corners of his lips. “But why?” I ask, which is a good question. Why?
“Um…” Danny sits opposite me on the love seat. “I wanted to…um…you…” He stops abruptly and rubs the side of his mouth. “You’ve got some…”
“What?” I stare at him blankly.
He rubs the side of his mouth again, shakes his head, and licks his thumb. He leans forward, cups my chin, and rubs his thumb lightly over my skin.
“Drool,” he says, chuckling.
Ten thousand butterflies. When Danny’s finger connects with my chin, ten thousand butterflies explode in my belly. I mean, here he is: Danny, with his face six inches from mine, and all I can wonder is: is my breath mint working?
“You came here to wipe drool from my cheek?” I try hard to speak without opening my mouth.
“No.” He leans back and looks at me with those penny eyes.
“I came to say that I’m sorry for the other day. For the library.”
“Oh…oh…” My eyes pop open and I can practically feel the eye crud falling out. “That’s why you’re here? Now. In my house? Here.” I’d keep rambling till the end of time, but something, somewhere deep inside me tells me to shut up.
“Yeah,” he says, shaking his head.
So this is it? I feel relieved, and I feel something else. Let down? Disappointed?
“It’s just that sometimes I say what I’m thinking but I don’t think. I just open my mouth and, you know, speak.”
“Sure.” I shrug my shoulders.
“I’m not trying to be…” His voice trails off.
How could I have ever thought he could hit me?
“Sometimes, I just talk and stupid things happen. Like yesterday, I was telling Dalia about the library—”
“You told your sister about yesterday?” My heart pops like a firecracker. The catch. This was the catch. Danny Diaz would never hit a girl. He has his sister for that.
“Well”—he takes off his baseball cap—“it was kind of hard to hide this at the dinner table.” He leans forward to show me the quarter-sized knot on the top of his head.
“Dinner?” I say. “Like with the entire family?”
“Yeah…” Danny gives me a strange look.
Question: is it more shocking to find out that you’ve maimed one of the hottest boys in your school? Or that the hot boy sits down to have dinner with his family?
Answer: I wasn’t sure.
“Wow. I did that.” Without thinking, I touch the knot and feel terribly guilty (and slightly satisfied) when Danny flinches.
“Yeah, did you have to choose the unabridged dictionary? Couldn’t you just have used your pocket Webster?”
“Ah, you’re a funny
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