Love War Stories Page 8

  The smell of the pizza floats up my nose, eclipsing all the noise and stench of New York City. When I get home, I lovingly place my food on the coffee table and admire it. Whenever I have gathered so much food around me, sometimes, for a few minutes, I think I don’t really need to eat it. Just having it is enough.

  On Belinda’s world tour of grief, Victor Manuelle stays in rotation on my CD player. Victor Manuelle is the king of lament. I love how he comes off a bit obsessive in his lyrics. A man with a broken heart. A man who can’t forget.

  Even though I taught for a year in Bernardston, Massachusetts, what dominates in my imagination is this beating heart of pain. Radiating red as I eat and listen to salsa music. The color red after being smacked, after feeling hot with shame. Red is the color I imagine myself. Only after. And for a year and a half. Eating Cheez Doodles and listening to salsa is how I spent over a year of life. People give birth in a year, graduate from college, start new jobs, have anniversaries, while I have just done terrible things to my body.

  Vanessa is the friend who has held on the longest and would stay in touch with me after I left New York, after I left my mother’s house, and while I was teaching in Bernardston. My mother too. She persists. Still sends me obesity pamphlets, diabetes info, heart disease warnings. Nurse and all, she still hasn’t figured out what my real problem is.

  And now, the urgency eating begins, the world falls away, and it’s only this food. The cold, sweet taste of the Sunkist. The softness of Hostess donuts. The mix of Snickers and Doritos in my mouth. The snapping of a Kit Kat.

  All this food: powerful. I take it all in.

  I look up from my number theory textbook and there is David Gonzalez.

  He sits down and has the widest smile. “You’re Belinda, right?”

  “Yes,” I say, surprised he knows my name. I look toward the entrance of the room, hoping Vanessa will come back. “What’s up?” I say.

  He sits down and immediately slides his chair toward me. I try not to look at him, but I smell his cologne and become aware that I’m wearing sweatpants and didn’t shower this morning.

  “I hear you’re a math genius,” he says, still grinning at me. Up close, he is as cute as Vanessa had cooed.

  I shake my head. “I’m good at it, but no genius.”

  He tilts his head and leans in. I notice how pretty his eyelashes are. “What’s the lowest grade you’ve ever gotten in a math class?”

  My heart picks up the pace the closer he gets and the more he talks. “A minus,” I half say, half laugh.

  “I think that makes you a genius.”

  I smile and am convinced he can see the rise and fall of my chest. “Why do you want to know?” I surprise myself by leaning in closer to him.

  “I’m no mathematical genius,” he says as he puts his hand on my knee. “I think you have something to show me. I’m taking calculus. I can take you to dinner and you could show me something. You like Ollie’s?”

  “Sure,” I say, smiling, nodding my head too much.

  I hear the screeching of a chair. I look up and Vanessa has a stupid grin on her face while she makes pretend she’s looking at something to the right of us.

  He looks at her for two beats and says, “I’d better go.” He smacks the side of my thigh and smiles at me.

  I try not to stare or be overwhelmed by him as he unfurls in front of me.

  A week later, David calls me from downstairs, and when I meet him, the first thing I say is, “Where’s your book?”

  “Later. I should get to know my tutor first, and you should let me thank you.” He smiles at me.

  “Okay, I’m cool with that.”

  We go to Ollie’s and have dinner.

  “How come we’ve never hung out before?” he asks me. We’re both juniors.

  “You’ve never asked for math help before.”

  “No, I’m serious.”

  “I don’t really hang out. I usually stay home and study.” I shrug.

  “You’re shy? Is that it?”

  “Yeah, kind of.”

  “I get it.”

  “Come on, you get it? You’re always hanging out. You have a million friends.”

  “You been watching me?”

  “No, but you know, if you’re out there, everybody knows your business.”

  “So you know my business? What do you know about me?”

  I shake my head. “Nah, I’m just saying.”

  “Sure, sure. You probably have my picture all on your wall.”

  “Shut up.”

  “Come on, you can tell me the truth.”

  “Please. I only have time for my math.”

  “You love me already.”

  I roll my eyes at him. “Do you say that to all the girls?”

  “Just the ones I like.”

  “Right . . .”

  “I noticed you. I just never had the chance.”

  “Yeah, you were too busy with the other girls on my floor.”

  “Ah, see, you have been watching me.”

  “No, your business was all out there.”

  “Who did I date on your floor?”

  “I don’t know if I would call it dating, but . . . Jennifer . . . Castro.”

  “Ah, her. Well whatever you heard, JC was a bit of a clinger. Most girls . . . it’s easy to get a girl. But you never even looked my way. You don’t think I’m cute?” he says, joking.

  I say something I would never normally say, but I don’t want him to feel bad. “Yes, I think you’re cute.” I squirm in my seat.

  “So, what did you hear about me?” he says all serious now.

  My face heats up. I’m not sure if he heard what I said. I take a sip of my soda before I answer. “Didn’t hear much. She was smitten and then you were gone. So, I thought you were a dog.”

  He shrugs his shoulder. “There are always two sides to a story. I would never treat a girl I like the way I treated her. I’ll tell you about it in a couple of months,” he says, and flashes me the widest smile.

  In that instant, I forget all about JC. I’m no relationship genius, most of my relationships fizzle out before they begin. There are girls who don’t breathe between boyfriends. I could swim an ocean.

  We end up on the steps of Low Library, and we chat until about 2:00 a.m. All that talk solidifies our fate. People pass by and try to engage him but his total attention is focused on me. And it feels like it’s just me and him in this world. He sits close and even gives me his jacket.

  David starts off some of his stories with, “I’ve never told anyone this before . . .” My ears perk up, and I smile expectantly. He tells me about how his brother Tony died in a car accident when they were visiting family in Puerto Rico. His brother was three and he was six. He had always felt protective of his little brother and was resentful when his mother got pregnant with his little sister Sussana. “We have an okay relationship, but I just always felt like she was there to replace him. Is that fucked up?”

  I shake my head.

  “I like that about you. It’s easy to talk to you. You know how to listen. It’s nice.”

  I notice that he inches closer to me. I feel flushed when he compliments me and like a little kid, I want to do more of the behavior that pleases him. He is so much bigger than I am.

  He grabs my chin, and in front of all the people strolling by the steps, he kisses me. I look at him when he pulls away. I’ll never forget the look on his face. He looks at me like I imagine I look at him.

  “Do you mind that I kissed you?”

  “Not at all,” I say, smiling, breathless, proud.

  “Why don’t you have a boyfriend?” he asks as he grabs my hair and pulls me toward him, so all I see is him.

  I don’t want to tell him; I don’t want him to think I’m not worth all his attention.

  “They just weren’t serious,” I finally say so it makes it seem like it was me that found them wanting.

  “Yeah and JC was someone I couldn’t take seriously. Not l
ike you,” he almost mumbles. I smile and turn away. There’s so much inside of me that I want to say.

  “Let’s go home,” he says.

  I nod my head. He grabs my hand. Dean, the head of the Black Student Organization, gives him a pound as they pass each other. Daniella, queen bee of the Latina sorority, sees me with him. Vanessa’s friends walk by us, and with each there is a nod, a pound, or a “What’s up?” And there I am. He is with me.

  We go to his room, but his roommate is sleeping.

  “I’ll get him out if it makes you uncomfortable. I don’t want my girl to feel weird.”

  My ears burn. My girl. “I feel bad . . . he’s asleep . . .” I stall, hoping he’ll say the right words. Though there is nothing that would push me out of this room, I feel like I am so close. Maybe he could be the one to stay.

  Instead he says, “We can be quiet. He sleeps like a rock.”

  “You sure?” I feel the tumbling.

  He pulls me to the bed, but my body says the things I cannot. I want so much. All that women are supposed to get. That insular love that makes you think you could spend your life with a man in a solitary room, everyone coveting at your door.

  David yanks harder, but I bear down on all my weight and whimper.

  David stops. “Hey, I’ll wake him up. Okay? It’s no big deal. I don’t want my pretty girl to feel uncomfortable. Silly, why didn’t you say something? Get in bed. I’ll kick him out.”

  I crawl in bed and am thankful for those few seconds by myself. I feel so stupid. Almost crying in front of this guy.

  “Sebastian, get up. Hey, man.”

  Sebastian mumbles. His head lolls to one side. “D, you can’t be serious. What? Leave me alone, man.”

  “I have a girl here. She doesn’t want you in the room. Come on, man.”

  “Don’t take forever,” Sebastian grumbles as he grabs his blanket and pillow and heads to the couch in their suite.

  “Thanks. I’m sorry. I know I’m being stupid,” I say, grateful that he came through for me.

  He takes off his sneakers and crawls into bed. “Baby, I didn’t want you to be uncomfortable. You hear me?”

  I nod my head.

  “I hope that didn’t ruin the night,” he says.

  I hug him. It was a stain you could overlook. I had been told all my life that this is what I needed. So I tied myself to him, no matter how many times I almost drowned.

  “Carmen, you seem so shy. Come on, tell me which one you think is cute.” Lala loves to play “Which Law Student Is Cute.” She insists on prattling on while I would rather sit here and think about how to finesse my stalking technique. I spend my downtime at work imagining sticky situations and seeing how I can get out of them. I was just fantasizing about what would happen if I followed David and his girlfriend into an elevator. Maybe I would nudge my body into hers, spray my fat-girl funk on her.

  “You tell me first.” I give Lala my fakest smile. At first, I had ignored her. Why would she even ask me who I thought was cute? Even though we are not friends per se, I have involuntarily turned into Lala’s fat office friend because she’s one of the few people who doesn’t think my weight makes me invisible.

  “Brian, Brian. That’s the one I think is cute. Pull his file. Come on,” she continues.

  “Okay, Carmen, I overheard him telling you he’s in a frat. If I can guess which one, you have to tell me who you think is cute.”

  I’m game after she names Brian. “Okay, will do.” I figure there’s no way that Lala can guess. I mean, she didn’t even go to college. I get the file, search his resume, find his frat, snap the folder shut, and smile at Lala. “I’m ready. Go.”

  When I stalk David, there is a crackling that I had forgotten existed in the world. Before, I just dwelled. It took me about two weeks to have a solid grasp of his schedule, and by default, I learned some of the new girlfriend’s schedule. Even though he is type A (so I know he has a schedule that he follows regularly neatly typed up somewhere), I am inwardly proud that I have been able to find him on this campus; after all this time, if I wanted, he could be within my grasp.

  Lala starts to pace around the room. She looks especially pretty today, wearing a red silk blouse and a black pencil skirt. If anyone walked in here, they would guess she was the Ivy Leaguer, not me. She is typical Latina—always pretty, always dressed up.

  I stalk the streets, and, while my body is massive, it has a speed to it. I would say almost a grace. In each of its manifestations, I didn’t know how to navigate these unfamiliar bodies, but in following David, I have had to take control of it no matter what.

  Lala looks like a psychic trying to discern the contents of his file. “He’s pretty, he could be a Kappa, but he doesn’t seem like a sucio. Q? No, I can’t imagine him in a purple G-string. We know he’s smart, and he looks it. He looks upstanding. Alpha? Alpha. He’s an Alpha. Yeah, I’m sure of it. Okay, check, Carmen. Alpha.”

  My mouth would hang open if there were anything left in the world to surprise me.

  “Alpha. You’re right. How’d you guess that?”

  “Carmen, I got powers you ain’t never seen. I can read people like a motherfucker.” Lala hardly swears or uses bad grammar, but she clearly means to assert the veracity of her powers.

  “Your turn. Tell me who you think is cute,” she continues.

  I decide to test her. “There is one, but, you know, I mean, he’s cute, really cute.”

  “Spit it out.”

  “David . . . David Gonzalez.”

  “Really? Him?” Lala tilts her head and goes quiet and then shakes her head. “I didn’t figure you to like his type. I mean he is fine, but he’s dangerously hot. That’s too much. A guy like that . . . has you feeling all electric and self-conscious when he walks in the room, that kind of dude . . . I mean it’s too easy . . . his kind can get you to do anything. And this one in particular doesn’t seem like he would use his powers for good. Like he came back here last week to ask me about Professor Ramos’s clinic and he wanted me to put him in all early. He was saying please, then he was batting those eyelashes at me. I said no and his attitude changed right quick. And then I knew exactly who he was.”

  What else can you tell me about him? I want to ask. Seeing us, people would expect me to envy Lala every day, but this is the first time I feel what I was expected to. But looking at her, such a pretty girl, such a surefooted girl, I don’t think she could ever understand how he flooded me with love. Filled me up. That love became so real, it muscled its way in, eclipsed everything else, even blocking the truth. The truth truth.

  “What’s up with you?” Vanessa practically snarls at me. “You’re taking longer than me to get dressed.” She laughs to soothe out her words.

  I stop mid–eyelash curl. “I want to look pretty. That’s all.” I look at myself in the mirror. It holds my image captive.

  “You were always pretty, Belinda. What are you talking about?” She turns to me, and I can tell her words are meant to take me by the shoulders and shake the shit out of me.

  “You and my mom always told me I needed to look better. I’m doing that, so what’s the problem?”

  Vanessa stops pulling dresses from her closet and stares at me. I feel the heat of her glare and a nervousness runs through me.

  “You don’t even sound like yourself.”

  “What? I’m doing what you’ve been harassing me to do for the past three years, so what’s the problem?” I stop myself from throwing my eyelash curler on the floor.

  Vanessa takes an exaggerated breath in like she is trying to calm herself. She pulls her lips in under her teeth, raises her hand in the air and flicks it. In my neighborhood, a sure-fire sign a girl is about to pull her earrings off and put Vaseline on her face.

  I know that’s not what she is going to do to me. I’ve known her for so long, I turn away from her. “I’m sorry. I’ve just been stressed. I want to look good. That’s it.”

  When my mother calls from downstairs, Vanessa
rushes down to sign her in. “I’ll get Margie. Just relax,” she tosses over her shoulder.

  “Thanks,” I shout after her. I have to finish getting dressed anyway. I pull out a white dress that has big pink, purple, and red roses etched into it. It has a bold black belt that shows off my small waist.

  “Wow, look at you,” my mom says when she gets to my room. “You finally learned that to get a man you need to look good.”

  My mother thinks that a woman’s beauty is everything, that it can dazzle, that it can wrestle, that it can make a man bow down. I am her only child and was always a plain pretty.

  In high school, I didn’t wear makeup, I didn’t dress up, I didn’t look like her. She is glamorous—even in her nurse’s uniform. She has a Kewpie mouth that is always shaded red, fake eyelashes that look like they are meant to be there. She doesn’t think there is any occasion where a woman shouldn’t look beautiful. I would roll out of the house in T-shirts and sweatpants. And when I got to college, it was more of the same.

  “Yup, you were right,” I say half-heartedly.

  Vanessa jabs her elbow into my mother’s side. Standing next to each other, I always thought they seemed more like mother and daughter. They always got along better, could both admire each other equally, and like my mother, Vanessa had to shepherd me along to be better than I am.

  “Where’s this David of yours? Is he meeting us here?”

  “No, at the West End. Shoot, in a couple of minutes. Let’s go. He doesn’t like it when I am late.”

  “A man should always wait for you,” my mom says.

  “Men wait for you,” I say. All pretty is not equal. Men turn their heads when they—she and Vanessa—walk in a room; they get drinks bought for them at the West End or wherever. I get the secondary glances, the courtesy smiles meant to ingratiate them with the pretty girl’s friend.

  “What do you think of him, Vanessa?” my mom asks.

  “He’s cute. Quite the man around campus. And Belinda really likes him.”

  “You will love him,” I assure my mom. “Let’s go. He hates waiting.”