Riding the Universe (8 page)

I
wake up voracious after a wicked nap. So much for short-term goals. At the kitchen counter, I eat lasagna straight out of a storage container—mine and Rock's servings. My parents are asleep in front of the TV with the babies curled against their thighs. I contemplate taking my brothers to their cribs to give these guys a break, but I don't want to fix what's not broken, so I pluck Lolita's key off the kitchen hook instead.

Inside the garage, the smell of gasoline and motor oil rouses my senses.
There's no better smell in all the world, Chlo
, I hear Sethie say. If Lolita had eyes, she would open them right now, stretch and ready herself for her nightly ride. I flick on the light and see it. A little puddle of dirty oil
underneath her. Augh! I am definitely taking care of that this weekend. One more ride is not going to hurt her.

I open the garage and ease Lolita out to the corner stop sign in neutral. The farther away I start her up, the less likely Papi will hear me leaving. I ride away from the low lights of Florida City and deeper into the Everglades, where no one can find me. The sky is even more beautiful out here. As much as I would love to watch the heavens from a strawberry field, there's a state prison right over there, and all I need is for some escaped convict to murder me, then hijack Lolita so he can make his run to freedom. Sometimes I feel like I'm testing fate riding to these remote places by myself, but there's an awesome sense of freedom it gives me that I can't get any other way.

As I drive past Krome Avenue, I look up and see a sliver of moon high in the sky—a thin, turned-up crescent. When I was little, I always told Papi it seemed like the sky was smiling at us. “Yes.” He'd smile too, holding in all his pent-up scientific explanations as to the real reason the moon looks that way. “It does,
mi hija
.”

My phone vibrates in my pocket. Can't get it now. I take Lolita to seventy miles an hour. For a second, she protests with a cough.
I know!
Lolita rumbles underneath, numbing my legs, my butt, even my arms. Field after field of strawberries and Vidalia onions fly past me, the sweet smells intoxicating me.

There's a path off the road up ahead, near the entrance to the state park where Seth took me one time to see a dead alligator half-swallowed by a giant dead python. I find the path with the moon's help and turn onto it, going down
about a quarter mile. When I cut off the engine and coast through the saw grass, all I hear is the rustling of tires over earth. A soft wind makes the blades of saw grass dance on either side of me, as Lolita ticks and cools underneath me. I swerve softly, left then right, swaying like one of them, until finally, I come to a complete stop.

What is Gordon doing right at this very second? Is he thinking about me the way I've been thinking about him? I wish I knew. It would take the guesswork out of everything. My phone vibrates again, reminding me that cell phones and raw nature have nothing to do with each other. In the middle of the field, I dial into my voice mail.

Beep, beep, beep
, I press my code, and Rock's voice comes charging into the night. “All right, I guess you're doing something really important. I won't ask what, just use protection. Plus, Amber's having a party on Saturday. Should I go? Chloeee, I need you. Give me a call back, baby doll.”
Press nine to save, seven to erase…

He knows about the party.

I consider calling him back, but I'm enjoying the silence too much. Besides, I'm not sure what to say to him. I want to tell him about Gordon and what happened between us this afternoon, yet I know that as soon as I say I like him, Rock's going to make fun and say he's a geek, and that geeks don't care about anybody but themselves. I've heard him talk that way before. Then he'll laugh in a self-conscious way because he knows, somewhere in the depths of his stupid brain, that he only says it because he's jealous.

My phone rings again. I don't recognize the number. “Hello?”

“Hi, Chloé.” A guy's voice. Familiar. “Are you busy?”

“Gordon?”

“Yeah.”

I stop and catch my breath. “Hey!” I say, totally unable to contain my sudden happiness.

“Listen, I was thinking about some of the things you said today. And well, I kept the paper where you had written your number, so…”

I wait for him to finish, but he hesitates so badly. He probably has no clue why he's thinking about me any more than I understand why I'm thinking about him. I empathize. Completely. “I'm glad you called,” I say, letting him off the hook. “Where do you live?”

“Live?”

“It's a simple question, Brain Boy.”

He laughs nervously. “Why?”

“I'm out anyway. Tell me where you are.”

He gives me his address. “But I don't think it's a good idea for you to come. It's late.”

“I'll only stay a second, Gordon. I just want to see you. We left on weird terms.”

“You sure you want to come over now?”

“Yes,” I say before I lose my nerve. “Be there in fifteen minutes.” I hang up and look out at the dim landscape. A barred owl flies overhead into some nearby cypress trees.
Am I crazy?
I'm about to head to Gordon's house. At night. After attraction bombs went off between us today. It's becoming less and less surprising that we're acting this way.

But it still makes my stomach flutter just thinking about it.

 

Palmetto Heights is a new home development of affordable mansions with little baby trees still supported by wooden sticks, brick-paved driveways, and sprawling lawns, still unfenced. Half of them are for sale.

I ride by this place every morning on my way to school without really looking at it or realizing Gordon lives there. An omen maybe? Have I been blowing past good things I didn't even know existed? Is Gordon a good thing, or am I being delusional, like Papi selling Mom's garage junk?

I turn into Gordon's street and cut the engine, coasting the rest of the way. I'm sure his mother would completely understand why a leather-clad, five-foot-ten girl would visit her son in the quiet of the night with her obnoxious Harley-Davidson motorcycle. Not!

Gordon's BMW is parked half on the sidewalk behind a Mercedes and a minivan in the driveway. I slide in next to it, blocking myself from the view of the front door, and sit between Lolita and the car. There's a light on in one of the upstairs bedrooms. The blinds are slit open, flickers of bluish TV light reflecting on a wall.

I'm just going to wait here, though hiding in the shadows makes me feel like some creature of the night, stalking its prey. A few minutes go by, and I start to feel really stupid. I should go before I make a fool of myself. But I already chickened out on Gordon once today, and I'm not going to do it again. Whatever happens this time happens.

I close my eyes and listen. A dog barks a few houses away. Someone opens a sliding door and the barking stops.
I also hear some eighteen-wheelers from the Turnpike on the other side of the main road. Otherwise, it's a quiet night.

Suddenly, Gordon's front door opens. Feet shuffle through the grass. My heart pounds in my ears. I better start preparing excuses as to who I am and why I'm sitting here, in case it's Gordon's dad, bringing out a bag of trash or something. Through the darkness comes a rove figure, and for a second, I freak out. It's so dark it really could be Gordon's dad.

But then I hear, “Chloé?” in a deep voice. Finally, I see him clearly. He's wearing drawstring plaid pajama bottoms and a Harvard T-shirt. No socks, no shoes. He looks incredibly comfortable, though something in his face tells me he's just as nervous as I am. Only, he's the one with territorial advantage this time.

“Hi,” I say. “Nice house.”

He holds out a hand to help me up. “I'll show you around sometime. Just not tonight. My parents are already in bed.”

I note the respect in his voice, not only for his parents, but for me as well. I take Gordon's hand and feel his strength as he pulls me toward him with little effort. Our bodies touch slightly. My breath starts to waver. He looks down at me, then his hands cup my face. I let my chin and face go wherever he moves them.

“What are you doing to me?” he whispers.

I want to say the same, that I don't know what he's doing to me either, that I have no idea why I'm at his house right now, that we're clearly very opposite people, and he'd be better off going back with Sabine or finding
another SAT-type girl with scores to warrant an entrance exam to MIT like him…but I can't speak.

He turns my chin and lowers his lips, softly kissing the corner of my mouth. Then the other corner. I can feel his every light breath. I am powerless to move, and I have to give him points for making my insides melt like this. But this is bad. So very bad. I can't fall for the very person who's supposed to be helping me stay in line. And I am
so
not in line right now.

“Gordon,” I say under my breath.
This is not going to work, this is not a good idea…

But he lowers his face again and kisses me for real. So hot and so mind-reeling, I feel like my legs are going to give out, like I've had too much Parrot Bay, except I'm clear as a bell. The only word I can think of is…WOW.

Gordon, my peer tutor. I can't get over it. Who knew we could feel this way about each other?

After a minute, he pulls away. His dimples disarm me even in the dark. I lean in and put my arms around him. I smile into his shoulder.
Wonderful fireworks always result with these two…a sure ten
. I breathe in the lightly humid scent of his neck and shirt. When I open my eyes, I catch Arcturus and Sirius twinkling brightly in the night. To my left, the crescent moon is still there too, smiling her luminous, silly grin.

And I do the same. Because if the sky is happy, then I'm happy too.

“I
have to tell you something, but you have to promise you won't get mad.”

Lolita stares at me, wondering why I'm saying this to her when she already knows about Gordon. I sigh and straddle her, laying my head against the handlebars as I wait for Rock this morning. No, I can't say it like that, or he'll think he has reason to be upset, as if I'm in love with him. Which I am
NOT
.

Ten minutes go by, and no Rock. I take off alone, practicing other ways to tell him that I kissed Gordon, that I really like him, that we should all get together real soon so he can meet him. I decide to ride by Rock's house and see if his car is in the driveway. I come to his corner, afraid of what
I'll find when I turn, and sure enough, another car is there. Even from thirty feet away, I can see this one has an FIU parking sticker on the windshield. A college woman? Where does he find them? How do they find
him
?

I drive off, my stomach feeling like a sack of lead.

 

If I had a dollar for every quiz Rooney has ever popped, I'd have enough money to buy myself an A. I rip a sheet of paper from my notebook and number from 1 to 4.

“Fold the sheet lengthwise, boys and girls.”

I fold my sheet lengthwise. If I'm going to fail, I may as well follow proper format. Mr. Rooney begins writing problems on the board.

Lipid solubility? Please, I'm still on elemental compositions. How is one supposed to take a pop quiz on a current topic when one is in tutoring still trying to catch up? They should give students in tutoring a waiver on the basis that they're at least trying. Would it be morally reprehensible to wish that Mr. Rooney would get sick right now? I don't want anything terrible to happen to the poor man, but maybe he could have forgotten to drink his Ensure this morning, so that we might all be excused from this veritable torture. Hello, God?

No such luck. By the time Mr. Rooney has finished writing the four questions on the board, half the class has already found the answers using the book. I am so far
behind, I can't even find the answers that way. That's just how “obtuse” the book is, and that's why I want to stick my head inside a paper bag when the guy I switch papers with hands me back a zero out of four.

Merde
.

 

Gordon and I decided to see each other today just after third period, right outside his physics classroom. Won't that be fun? All the geeks, maybe even Sabine, will be staring at me and Gordon smiling at each other like boneheads. Assuming he acts the same and doesn't treat me like he barely knows me, that is.

As I come around the corner, I see Gordon outside the classroom talking to Mr. Phizer. He raises a hand when he sees me. I watch him nod, speak in turn, then shake hands with the teacher. The whole thing is so adult, you'd think he was thirty-five, not seventeen. For a moment, I feel like I'm entirely out of my league. But then I remind myself of what I bring to the table—fun, spontaneity, a sense of humor—and I relax.

Gordon turns with a smile, basking in the glow of his conversation with Mr. Phizer, and heads my way. This is it, the moment Chloé Rodriguez has been waiting for. Will he kiss me again?

I watch his eyes as he approaches. He sees me. He stops. To my surprise, he gently takes my hand. His touch is electric, sending shivers through my body. I lean against the wall, not to look cool but to totally steady myself. The Eyes of Judgment are all around us, especially when he lowers his face and kisses me slowly on the cheek. I try and concentrate
on him and only him. He seems really happy today, but nervous.

“How's it going?” I ask.

He sighs big. “Good. I just secured a recommendation for my entrance application, so I'm happy about that. But I still have that big calc test on Monday, which I have to ace.”

“Isn't your GPA the highest in our class?” I ask, ignoring some of the stares we're getting.

“Philip's at the top, then Romina, then Sabine, then me. But it's not just this test, Chloé, it's the next test on top of the next test, plus this entrance exam adding to the pressure. It's everything.”

“Well, I have something to ask you. And it might help with all the pressure.” I bite the inside of my lip nervously.

His eyes hold my gaze. “And what's that?”

“I'd really like it if you came with me Saturday night,” I say before I have the chance to remember that Rock wanted me to go with him.

“Where to?”

“A party.”

His face loses its energy. “I'm not the party type.”

“And what's the party type, pray tell?”

“You know what I mean.” He waves his hand around. “There's a whole sect of people who are involved in festivities over the weekends. I know some of you make a career out of it.”

“Some of us? What is that supposed to mean, Gordon?” He sounds so clueless sometimes, I have to wonder if he's really all that smart.

We walk down the hall toward his next class. I don't worry about being late to French with Marraine. “I'm just not the party type, Chloé. That's it.”

“How do you know if you've never been to one?”

“How do you know I've never been to one? How would
I
know I'm not the type unless I've seen it for myself?” I'm confused. All I wanted was for him to go out with me, but I get this argument.

“Gordon? Yes or no. Will you go to a party with me so I don't have to go by myself and look like a dork, especially since I hate the girl, and she's my best friend's ex, so the whole thing is going to be a little awkward?”

“Was that a complete question?”

I smack his arm. “Yes or no.”

He stops just outside his next class. “If I say yes, will you stop hitting my arm?”

I lean into him. Honestly, I don't know where this relationship is headed. Which is probably the real reason I need him to go to this party. If more of what happened last night happens again on Saturday, I'll have a better idea. “Fine, I'll stop hitting you.”

He reaches out to brush my hair out of my face—a really bold move, considering the next person who happens to walk by us is Sabine. She's with a friend and slows down to take a sturdy look at us. I fix my own hair so Gordon will take his hand back, and she tears her eyes away, entering the classroom. She looks like she's going to cry. Her friend continues her verbal barrage, unaware of what has just happened.

“Then yes,” he says, focusing back on me after seeing
Sabine's reaction. Not that I enjoy seeing Sabine on the verge of tears, but good for him. If it doesn't bother him, then it shouldn't bother me either. “I'll accompany you to your party.”

I beam, linking my fingers through his. “Awesome, Gordon. We'll have a grand ol' time. I promise.”

“You have to promise more than that. You have a test on solubility on Monday. If you don't promise me you'll study for it, I won't go. I can't have you failing and messing up my transcript.” He smiles.

“Okay, I promise.”

“You have to study
considerably
, enough to pass it, even if it's only a C.”

“I'll try. That's the best I can do,” I say. “How about you help me study on Sunday? Then will you go?”

“I've lost track of all the promises,” he says. “Let's just go to the party on Saturday, and we'll take it from there.”

Yes, good idea. One step at a time. No need to get ahead of ourselves.

“I can't have you failing that class, Chloé.”

“Believe me, I know,” I say, not mentioning the part about losing Lolita this time. I'd rather he think my actions are purely academically motivated.

The next few milliseconds slow down as he lowers his face and presses his lips against my cheek. “Call me tomorrow,” he says, pulling back way too soon, to smile at me.

“Okay.” I wish he'd kiss me like he did last night—long and hot, his mouth exploring mine. But we're at school, and this is still very new. He enters his next class, and I'm left touching my hair, smoothing out my shirt.

What is wrong with you, Chloé? You didn't even make out with him this time.

Yet I'm standing here, shaken like a Polaroid by one said Gordon
Spustankoo
. What will people think? I have significant lesbian rumors to uphold!
Par bleu, Motor Girl, get yourself together.
I head for Marraine's class, regaining my composure with every step. By the time I reach her room four minutes later, I'm an indifferent, French-speaking, stargazing biker chick once again.