Teófila’s Guide to Saving the Sun Page 4

  “You feeling okay?” He squats down and takes my face in his hands.

  Euphoria is dangerous when we’re as close as we are.

  “I’m fine.” I move to stand and he holds my hands to help.

  “We’ll slow down on the drinks,” he tells me before we’re back out in the loud music.

  There are more people here now and Elijah holds me close as we cross back to the section we were sitting in.

  “She okay?” one of Elijah’s friends ask.

  The girl next to him looks at me for a moment before offering a small smile and turning away.

  I sit as he talks to his friend and watch the people dancing in front of us. How free they must feel. I bet if Miley were here, she would’ve dragged me to the dance floor.

  But she knows today is an Elijah and T day. It’s a day-one day.

  Elijah sits next to me and I finish my drink as he talks to the guy next to him.

  The room does a slow spin as I start the third glass pushed into my hand. I remember laughter, Elijah’s hand in mine, and hearing him singing.

  And then, I’m being tucked into my bed and he kisses my forehead.

  The last time we kissed, we were ten and had no idea what it meant.

  This time he kissed me, and I still have no idea what it means.

  I wonder if there will be a next time.

  And I wonder if I’ll ever know what it means.

  9

  ANXIETY IS MY BOYFRIEND

  “How are you feeling today, Tee-oh-fill-uh?”

  Not all help is good help.

  This therapist mispronounces my name every time she tries to say it. And I’ve corrected her, but there’s nothing to adjust the gringa in her that just can’t do it. I’ve even offered my nickname, but she insists on keeping this exchange professional.

  She makes me feel anger and frustration.

  It’s a step up from sadness.

  Say it with me: Thee-oh-feee-lah.

  Soft T, please.

  “Fine,” I say out loud, instead of correcting her for what feels like the hundredth time.

  “You’re being short with me. Use your words,” she chastises as she writes, not bothering to look up.

  “I’m a sixteen-year-old girl with anxiety who’s never even had a boyfriend. I think fine is as good as it’s going to get.”

  “Do you want a boyfriend?”

  Don’t say yes. You don’t want her to add it to her stupid list of goals she’d like you to execute.

  “Anxiety is my boyfriend,” I tell her with a straight face. “It’s a long-term relationship and he isn’t going anywhere.”

  She doesn’t even smile, and this is how I know the relationship between me and her is doomed.

  “Let’s talk about Elijah.”

  His name on her tongue is just…wrong.

  “What about him?” My defenses rise high like the walls of Troy.

  She pauses, her eyes assessing, before she proceeds. But her eyes are still assessing. She can’t read my mind, but I still try to think of nothing, just in case.

  “You two seem very protective of each other. At least, from what you tell me.”

  I nod, one slow and thorough up and down motion, my eyes watching her all the way.

  “Don’t you think you’d be a little more independent without him?”

  I don’t respond immediately because, if I’m being honest, I’ve wondered about this myself. I’ve thought about my friendship with Miley and my relationship with my parents.

  All these social interactions have shaped me. Even the smaller ones. Mere moments.

  And I think back, as I sometimes do, to that day when I felt bad for Vivian, only for her to want to hurt me.

  In my silence, the woman in front of me speaks again.

  “I think this friendship may be hindering you more than it is helping you.”

  “How so?”

  She sets down her leather-bound notebook and her lips do this thing where they stretch and press into each other, like she’s holding back the worst news in the world. And then she opens her mouth. “He’s your fallback. You are entirely dependent on him, Teeo…”

  I can’t take another moment of her shitting all over my perfectly good name. “A few things. That isn’t how you say my name. And, I’m leaving.”

  Only a quiet huff comes from her as I gather my things and leave.

  Because not all help is good help.

  And I don’t belong here, in this office, trying to jam my imperfect circles into her perfectly straight squares.

  “That was quick.” Elijah straightens from his slouched position in the chair as I speed-walk through the waiting room, toward the elevators. He catches up just as I press the button with the arrow pointing down.

  I fight the urge to say something foul about the woman.

  “This just isn’t for me,” I answer.

  We get in the elevator and he’s silent, but I can feel the questions humming inside him.

  “Any idea what might be?” he asks as the doors open.

  I walk out and he trails after me. “No. But I’ll Goldilocks this shit until I find the right fit.”

  Elijah snorts and I glare at him.

  “What?” I demand.

  He shrugs at my question.

  “Your mind is in the gutter, isn’t it?” My glare turns into an eyeroll. Only he could find something gross in what I said.

  “I can’t help it. I’m a seventeen-year-old healthy young man.”

  “You’re a seventeen-year-old pervert is more like it,” I announce, more than happy to feel the sun on my bare arms. My black tank top with Tupac’s face on it blows a little in the breeze.

  “Pervert, sex god. Same shit.”

  It’s my turn to snort.

  “Don’t believe me, T?” The sun’s in his eyes and he has to squint to look at me as we walk through the parking lot, toward the car his mom lets him borrow sometimes.

  Even with just his squinty little gaze, I feel a little off kilter.

  What do I even say to that?

  If I say I do believe him, I’m the weirdo little pervert who thinks about sex and her best friend. If I say I don’t, and he tries to offer a chance to see for myself…I. Will. Die.

  “Not my business,” I settle with.

  I swear I hear him whisper the word “chicken” under his breath as he opens the driver’s side door and slides into the seat.

  Don’t go there, T. Don’t do it.

  “At least you didn’t ask to practice sex with me,” I say, humor in my voice, reminiscing over our first kiss.

  You fucking went there.

  And I brace myself for the comeback.

  You should be so lucky.

  In your dreams.

  I can hear these words, in his voice, and I wait for any of them, so we can laugh the awkwardness off and let the whole conversation go.

  But no words come. Elijah is silent as he turns the car on. He’s quiet as music fills the space between us. Occasionally, he sings along, his deep voice providing a beautiful emphasis to the sad words the singer belts out.

  “What are you doing this weekend?” I ask. School let out two days ago and Miley’s with her family in Italy for the next few weeks.

  “Ah, I’m not sure yet,” he says, rubbing his hand over the back of his neck as we wait for a red light to turn green.

  My eyes are on my bare thighs and my lips are pressed together at the sound of his uncertainty.

  My birthday’s this weekend. His was a few weeks ago.

  I can’t help but smile at the memory of one of the best days we’d ever had.

  “Okay,” I settle on quietly.

  We pull up in front of my house and I glance over at Elijah. He’s staring at the steering wheel, like it holds all the answers to whatever’s floating around in that head of his.

  “Thanks for the ride,” I say, and I open the door.

  “I’ll call you later,” he tells me. The last word is clipped
by the sound of the passenger door closing.

  I hear him pull off as I open my front door.

  “You’re home early,” my mom says from the kitchen, peeking at me from the opening before heading back in to continue doing whatever she was doing. But the house smells good, so I know it has something to do with food.

  Sure enough, as I enter, I see the cilantro, the vegetables, and the blender out. My mom always makes her own sofrito and I’ve come to understand that cooking with your own seasoning made from ingredients you picked out yourself makes your food that much better.

  She wasn’t as thorough as my Tita, who would not only make her own sofrito, but grow the ingredients in her garden in Puerto Rico.

  “Yeah, I don’t want to see that therapist anymore.”

  My mom stops chopping and presses the tip of the knife into the cutting board. “And what happens when you get sad again?”

  We don’t give depression a name in my house.

  We don’t give it power here.

  Even if it’s the most powerful thing I’ve known. Something that intense shouldn’t be invisible.

  “I need to find something else. But therapy with her isn’t working.”

  “So, we’ll find you someone else.” She goes back to chopping, like the problem is solved.

  “No, Mom. I don’t want to sit in an office and talk about my feelings anymore.” I didn’t want to do it from the start. I don’t even want to do it with Elijah.

  “Then what, Teófila? What?” Her agitation is apparent in her tone and the use of my full name.

  “Can you just trust me to find something myself and let you know when I do?” I grab a bottle of water from the fridge. “I know this isn’t something I can just ignore. But I also know therapy isn’t what I need.”

  I wasn’t born with the same fear my mother was. But she wasn’t born with the same sadness that I was.

  She nods and continues cutting peppers. “How’s Elijah?” Her hands are quick, sliding everything in the blender with an ease I could never master.

  “Kinda weird. I don’t know.” I take a sip of water and sit at the kitchen table.

  “What do you mean?”

  I know she needs to turn on the blender next, but I love that she gives me her full attention, facing me with concern in her eyes.

  “I don’t know. He was just really quiet on the way home.” I refuse to tell her the circumstances.

  “Maybe he’s just worried about you?”

  I shake my head and take another sip of water.

  “Maybe your friendship is shifting into something else?”

  “Yeah, right.”

  Elijah could have any girl in our grade. They love that he sings and that he’s never quite been caught. Not for too long anyway.

  There’s no way.

  “Would it be all right if it were, mija?”

  Would it be all right if Elijah had feelings for me?

  I catalog every moment of ours, like some sort of flip book. Every touch, every glance, every secret, every laugh.

  There’s no way.

  But it would be okay if it were.

  10

  BREATHE

  A door slamming wakes me. It’s dark and the room offers no light. My curtains are drawn, my door closed. For once, I didn’t fall asleep with the television on.

  I can hear muffled voices and what sounds like someone crying.

  In between the stints of silence, I creep toward the door. When my dad’s voice booms through the house, I jump a little.

  “Fuck! Why do I work so hard?”

  Something crashes and I open my bedroom door. Across the hall, my parents’ bedroom door is open but no one’s inside. I hear shuffling downstairs and I tiptoe toward the stairs.

  “Why, Milagros?”

  My mom’s name sounds so sad coming from my dad’s lips. My footsteps are quiet as I take each stair as carefully as possible. And then, as I squat down to get a better view, I see my dad, sitting on the floor in the hallway.

  He wears defeat like it’s a second skin.

  “It’ll be okay, Pedro. Come to bed, mi amor. Before Teófila hears.”

  He laughs and it’s the hollowest sound I’ve ever heard. “Better she learns this lesson now.”

  She crouches down in front of him. “You don’t mean that.”

  “How do I tell my beautiful daughter that she has no room to dream?”

  I close my eyes and try hard not to breathe too loudly. But his sadness makes me want to rush to him and tell him I’ll dream so hard, it’ll take us all away.

  He’s quiet for so long, my legs start to shake as I hold the squat I’m in to see them.

  His next words are barely audible, and I have to play the small sound of them over in my head to make sure I heard them.

  “What now?”

  My mom sighs and sits, taking his face in her hands. “Now we start over.”

  He’s sniffling as she runs her hands over his cheeks and kisses them, one-by-one. “I’m so proud of you for defending yourself,” she says into his face as she kisses his cheeks again.

  “I was defending us, amor. Nothing is more important.”

  My dad stands and I have to slap my hands over my mouth to keep from gasping. His shirt is torn and his tattoos that he tries so hard to hide, the ones that remind him of another life, are on display. And all over his ruined white T-shirt, there’s blood.

  “I just want to provide for my family,” he says, the final word ending on a sob.

  My mother, with her tiny frame, doesn’t stumble as she holds all of him.

  THE NEXT MORNING, my dad is gone before I wake up. My house smells like food and my mom is hard at work in the kitchen.

  “Good morning,” I say, my voice still full of sleep as I wipe my eyes. My body aches from uncomfortable sleep.

  She looks up from her task—prepping to make alcapurria and relleno de papa—and smiles at me. “Good morning, baby.”

  “Where’s Dad?” I think back to last night, wondering when it’ll show on her face. But it doesn’t. Not even when I bring him up.

  “He’s working with your uncles.”

  “Which ones?”

  “Tio Rafi and Tio Gervacio.”

  Her brothers. Landscapers. My dad will come back smelling like freshly cut grass and sweat, a proud and tired smile on his face.

  Do I say anything?

  “And what are these for?”

  “Oh, just a little extra money. Someone’s got a birthday coming up,” she answers, her eyes on her task.

  “Everything okay?” I walk to the kitchen table and sit.

  She pauses for a moment and glances up at me. When I just stare at her, she goes back to rolling the relleno de papa. “Of course. Want me to fry a few of these up for you?”

  She never offers to make me any when she’s making them for profit. And all of this feels too stifling to sit through anymore, pretending I don’t know what I know.

  “I heard Dad last night.”

  And there it is.

  Her sigh doesn’t stop her swift fingers. Nothing stops this one-woman machine. She’s already got a batch of them, waiting for the rest of the world to rise and buy.

  They’ll come. Once word is out, they always come.

  She finally stops and gives me her attention. “He’ll be upset when he hears.”

  “He doesn’t have to know I know,” I assure her. It doesn’t matter to me. He’s still my hero.

  “A few of the guys at his job made some racist jokes. It got physical.”

  “Mami!” The chair screeches as I scoot back.

  “The bosses agreed not to press charges as long as he left quietly.”

  “But he didn’t do anything wrong.”

  “Tell that to the pendejos with broken bones.”

  This is what a broken heart feels like.

  I heard my dad crying last night as my mom helped him up the steps, moments after I’d managed to sneak back into my room.


  For the rest of the night, I stayed so still, listening for any sign of distress coming from their room. And that’s how I fell asleep—muscles tight, ready for the worst.

  “Poor Dad,” I whisper.

  “No,” she says with a shake of her head, her voice stern. “There’s nothing poor about him. What he lacks in a job right now, he makes up for in pride, in love for his family. Poor them for losing him.” Her actions are jerky, and her eyes don’t meet mine.

  I wonder why not until I see a tear slide down her face and onto her lap.

  I want to tell her to be strong, that she doesn’t have to carry us. That Dad isn’t here and that I don’t care if she’s weak right now.

  Instead, I get up, rub her shoulder, and head back upstairs, all the time, reminding myself to breathe.

  Breathe.

  Because sometimes that’s all we can do.

  Breathe.

  Because sometimes we’re lucky enough to just be doing that.

  11

  FEAR DOESN’T LIVE HERE

  I t’s still dark outside when I hear my bedroom window slide open.

  But the sound of the crickets chirping and the way the warm breeze slides over me stops me from sitting up. Because tomorrow’s my birthday and there’s only one person who bothers to use my bedroom window as a front door.

  He doesn’t say anything as he steps toward my bed. Still nothing as he looks down at me. Finally, after he bends his body to line his eyes with mine and takes my hand in his, he says, “It’s your turn, birthday girl.”

  “What are you talking about?” I whisper as he reaches for the lamp on my nightstand. “What are you up to, Elijah?”

  The backpack slung over his shoulder makes a soft thud when it hits the floor.

  My eyes go to my bedroom door and then back to the crazy boy in front of me, who’s rummaging through the bag.

  He pulls out a wrinkled paper and holds it up with a smile that shows most of his teeth. “I made a list, too,” he announces.

  “If it’s all the things I like to do, it’s gonna be a short one,” I joke.

  “A list of all the things you’re afraid to do.”

  Oh, this one will be long.

  I blink. And blink again.

  When I try to grab it, he jerks away.