Ask the Passengers
Page 7

“Mmm. Hmm,” I manage while still kissing her neck, her ear. “Back off,” I say. I bite her earlobe.
So far in my life, Dee is the only person who wants to totally ravish me. I have to stop her all the time. I swear she’d do it right here in the walk-in freezer if she could. Right now. Before six AM. With morning breath. Next to a box of frozen taquitos.
“I dream of this all week,” she says.
“Me too.”
“We have to find more ways to see each other,” she says.
“I know,” I say, but the best I can do is go watch Ellis play hockey for the one game where Dee’s school is the visiting team. Or, well, the go-to-Atlantis-with-Kristina-and-Justin daydream, but I haven’t told her about that yet. Because it’s stupid.
At the moment, we talk twice a week outside of work. Between her hockey schedule and my paranoia, that’s about all we can manage. Plus, her mom is a bit of a stickler about phone minutes, and Dee only gets fifteen dollars’ worth a week.
Anyway, not being constantly connected makes the whole thing more intense. It’s better that way.
Dee and I are washing fruits and vegetables.
“You done with the mushrooms yet?” Juan asks.
“Almost,” I say. I finish them, put them in a container and take them over to him. I stop for a minute to watch him slice them. He is like ballet with a knife. “You’re a natural, you know that?” I ask.
He says, “Natural? What the f**k? Nobody is born this good, man. Takes years of practice. Now get back to work.”
Either way, it’s beautiful to watch, even if he is a dick sometimes. I send love to him. My brain says: Juan, you are a wonderful, awesome human being and a complete natural at cutting mushrooms, and I love you.
An hour later, Dee is washing and prepping the strawberries and cherries while Jorge melts dark chocolate in a double boiler. I will spend the next half hour sticking the pieces of fruit with toothpicks, dipping them and laying them on waxed paper. Then, when the tray is full, I will take it to the walk-in freezer. I find myself wishing I were a strawberry. Imagine that: washed by Dee’s soft hands, dipped in chocolate and left in the freezer, where no one bothers you for an hour and a half.
If I were to explain to you how she really makes me feel, I’m not sure I could. Do I love her? I don’t know. Maybe. I love kissing her. I love the way she smells, and I love her lips. But Dee scares the shit out of me, too. Because she knows. And I don’t know.
We punch out at noon and walk to the parking lot, which is now full of cars. It was empty at five o’clock this morning. We want to kiss each other good-bye, but instead we wave like awkward dorks and get into our cars and drive away in different directions. She goes left. I go right.
6
DO WHAT FEELS RIGHT.
THE CLOSER I GET TO MY HOUSE, the less I want to go home, so I stop at Kristina’s house. I park in back so Mom won’t see my car.
“Oh, God. You smell like fish,” she says as I arrive in her room. The sun is pouring through the windows, and as I bounce on her bed to annoy her, dust rises and sparkles in the sunrays.
“And that’s just my hands,” I say.
“Ew. No, seriously. You stink.”
I continue to bounce and watch the dust dance. “It’s probably the brassicas.”
“Brassicas? What the hell?” Now she’s cranky. My arrival—and my bouncing—means that she can’t stay in bed all day.
“You know, brassicas? Broccoli and cauliflower? The cabbage family?”
She’s squinting at me now.
“Come on. Get up and talk to me. I’m bored. I’m hyper. I don’t want to go home to Claire and her hellish Saturday mood swings.”
“How long have you been up?” she asks.
“Four forty-five.”
“Oh, my God.”
“How late were you out?” I ask.
“Like an hour before you got up,” she answers.
“Sweet.”
“Justin’s mom thinks he stayed over here. He’s probably still out before Chad has to drive all the way home.” Chad lives about an hour away. He and Justin met online at some photography forum. It’s not as creepy as it sounds. “Justin said he’d call me when he was going home so I could call his house and pretend he left something here.”
“And how’s Donna?”
She smiles. “Awesome.” She sits up and sighs. “We’re going back to Atlantis tonight. You should come. You could drink. You could dance. It’d be fun.”
Dancing and drinking. Two things very low on my list of priorities, along with sex, kickboxing and becoming a rodeo star.
“Sounds fun,” I say. “But I need my beauty sleep if one day Prince Charming is going to gallop down Main Street and sweep me off my feet.”
“Wow,” she says. “You’ve been listening to Claire again.” Kristina is allowed to call her Claire, so that’s what we call her when we talk about her. I have to call her Mom to her face. “She’s so jacked up on that these days.”
She reaches for her phone and brings up a text message. It’s so Claire. Kristina, WHEN r u going to find a good boy like Justin 4 Astrid?
“I wish she’d just mind her own business,” I say.
“Right?”
“Last time I dated anyone, she just nitpicked me about him anyway.”
“Yeah. That was Huber, wasn’t it?”
I look at the message again and wonder how many moms text their daughters’ best friends behind their backs like this. I wonder why she uses text-speak. It irks me so much that I almost want to reply. Hi Mom. Y r u being so creepy n txting my frnd?
“Yeah. Huber,” I answer. I don’t like to think about Tim Huber.
“She thinks you’re not over him yet.”
“That was a year ago,” I say. Sometimes it feels like yesterday, though.
“Yeah,” she answers. “Isn’t it hilarious that she asks for a boy just like Justin?”
This should be when I tell her about Dee, but I can’t. Even though she’d totally understand, she might tell just one person. And that would be just one person too many.
“Shit,” I say. “I’d better go. The world will explode if I don’t have my room clean by three.”
“Thanks for waking my ass up for nothing,” she says. “Tell my mom to bring me some coffee on your way out, will ya?”
It’s four o’clock. My room is clean, and I’m out on my table looking at the sky. I’m thinking about Dee. About how inadequate I feel. About how her hands know what to do but mine don’t. About how I always have to stop her when she wants to keep going.