This Is What I Want to Tell You Page 7

  You’re with Parker? she finally said.

  I didn’t know what to say. It occurred to me that he might not say yes if someone asked him if he were with me. In fact, he probably wouldn’t say anything.

  Sort of.

  Dana looked down at her glass. She smiled. I was kind of surprised to see her smile. It made her seem more something. More human.

  One can only ever sort of be with Parker.

  I remembered her staring at me the first night. Suddenly my skin felt cold.

  What do you mean?

  She looked up. Her face had softened suddenly. I wanted her to tell me things. I wanted to tell her things. I felt, right then, like Dana was going to tell me something very true and important and maybe even become my friend.

  Oh, don’t worry. I don’t mean I’m sleeping with him or anything. Not anymore, she said.

  My throat closed.

  Parker has been my friend for a long time. I love Parker. But I’m not his girlfriend.

  Oh.

  Parker’s just complicated. You’re never going to get a whole lot of him.

  I took another sip of my whiskey. My hand was shaking.

  I mean, physically he’ll act like he wants to give you anything you want, but emotionally he won’t give you an inch. You know?

  Dana laughed. It occurred to me that I should feel threatened by her, but I felt thankful.

  Yeah, I know, I said. I thought it was me.

  Dana held out her pack of cigarettes. I took one.

  It’s not you. It seems like he likes you.

  How can you tell?

  She lit my cigarette.

  The way he looks at you.

  Yeah?

  Here’s the thing about Parker, Dana said. He’ll make you feel really beautiful one second …

  And like you’re not even there the next?

  She smiled again.

  Yeah. But listen, Noelle, I’m just telling you the truth. He’s my friend. There’s something about him. It’s like, he just has this something about him.

  I know, I said. I held out my glass. Can I have some more whiskey?

  Dana emptied the bottle into both of our glasses. Then she held hers up.

  To Parker, she said.

  Cheers.

  Come with me to the soup kitchen, I said at breakfast.

  Noelle looked up from her coffee mug. She pushed her hair back and stared at me.

  Keeley, who’d just come in the side door, turned from the tea kettle she was watching on the stove.

  Okay, they both said at the same time.

  I don’t know why I was surprised. I was the one who asked. But I wasn’t sure where it had come from. I hadn’t been there since Molly left, since before the summer. I’d definitely never brought anyone with me. But that Saturday morning it felt like what I wanted to do. I wanted to remember all of the things I’d spent my time on before.

  Cool, I said. We leave in twenty minutes.

  In less than an hour we were climbing the stairs at the St. Francis Community Center. It was still early and folding tables lined the back wall. A few volunteers were placing chairs at round tables around the room and Ben, who was the pastor who ran the soup kitchen, was lifting a steaming dish onto the back table. His gray beard swam behind the steam coming up from the dish. Keeley and Noelle stood next to me, hands pulled up inside their sleeves. I’d never noticed they both stood that way, kneading their fingers into the ends of their sleeves.

  Hey, I said. Carol.

  Carol looked up from the back of the room. Her glasses slid low on her nose. Carol was in her sixties and she and Ben had helped start the soup kitchen after the Vietnam war about a hundred years ago when, she’d told me once, there seemed to be a flood of men who couldn’t keep a home and needed a hot meal. She waved to me and walked slowly over.

  We’ve missed you, young man, she said.

  I’m sorry. This year has been …

  But we’re glad you’re here now.

  Carol was never one for excuses. She wanted volunteers however she could get them.

  You must be the twin sister. She held her hand out and Noelle took it.

  And the best friend, Carol said, each of her hands holding one of theirs. Come this way and we’ll get you two started on the biggest vat of fruit salad you’ve ever seen.

  As the three of them walked away I could see them laughing. I hadn’t seen that in such a long time—Noelle laughing and Keeley laughing and all of us in one place doing something that felt like normal and wasn’t about all of these things we were trying to keep from each other.

  Well, he’s back. Ben handed me an oversized dish of lettuce and pale tomatoes and pointed to the end of the table.

  I’m sorry I haven’t been around this year, I said. I hadn’t anticipated all the guilt I was suddenly feeling. We had never attended church once in our lives and Lace had raised us without a suggestion of religious faith, but two years ago I’d answered a call for volunteers on a sign posted outside the church and Ben had become my unofficial mentor, teacher, maybe even father figure (I’m sure he knew about Molly). But that last part I might be imagining.

  Just glad to see you now, he said.

  Your sister? He nodded his head toward Carol, handing me a paper bag of bread.

  Yeah, I said. And her—my—

  Ben raised his eyebrow.

  My girlfriend. Keeley.

  Ben nodded.

  Let’s get this sliced, he said. He handed me a serrated knife and we stood side by side, hacking at the mostly stale loaves.

  Actually, I said, she’s my sister’s best friend too.

  Ben sliced.

  But my sister doesn’t really know about us—it’s like, it happened sort of unexpectedly, me and Keeley. I guess when you know someone for a long time, it’s kind of shocking when you start to see her in a totally different light. You know?

  Ben smiled.

  This is an important time in your life, he said.

  You mean—?

  I simply mean it’s an important time.

  Yeah, I said. I hoped he wasn’t talking about sex. I had the feeling he wasn’t but I couldn’t be sure.

  Anyway. My sister doesn’t know.

  I imagine that feels very difficult for both of you.

  Well, yeah. We’re—I think we’re figuring out how to tell her.

  Even though Ben didn’t say anything, even though he just nodded and raised one eyebrow at a time, I felt somehow better.

  Carol lined me and Noelle and Keeley up behind the service table. Lasagna, salad, bread. Noelle, Keeley, me. We didn’t say much, but Noelle and Keeley giggled into each others shoulders as the old men flirted with them and it was kind of nice to watch.

  Hey, how about I cook for you? he asked.

  We were tangled together on the couch, his face against my neck. I was as usual struggling to decide how far I could let this go. Wanted to let this go.

  Really? All the muscles in my stomach, chest, arms, every muscle seemed to flood slowly out into the couch. Relaxed.

  Yeah, he said. He sat up.

  Yeah, I snagged some stuff from the restaurant. I wanna try something.

  Okay, I said. I’d love that.

  He stood up, pressing down on my leg as he did. Then he stopped, looking down at me.

  One catch, he said.

  What?

  You gotta stay like that. No putting your shirt back on.

  I looked down. My stretched-out black bra, dotted with tiny gray lint pills. My skin was white-blue already against the cool air of the room.

  It’s cold, I said. Not to mention I felt ridiculous. Which I didn’t say out loud.

  Too bad, he grinned,
walking away. You look hot, he said and walked into the kitchen.

  I sat up. The white skin of my stomach rolled just slightly over the waist of my jeans. I knew I wasn’t fat, but the waist of my jeans cut just exactly wrong into the skin of my stomach. I decided I wouldn’t sit down. In my socks and jeans and old bra, I padded into the kitchen.

  Parker had his head inside the fridge. He pulled out a few plastic bags filled with leaves and turned around.

  Okay, he said. He was smiling. I couldn’t remember ever seeing him smile that way. He opened the cabinet and pulled a giant book down.

  What are all of these plants? I asked, pointing at the tiny pile of plastic bags as he flipped through the pages.

  Herbs, he said, not looking up.

  And that? I touched the top of the book.

  My bible, he said. Suddenly he snapped the book shut, tucked it back in the cabinet and turned to fill a pot with water.

  You don’t need the recipe?

  Nah, I never use recipes. I was just checking something.

  I opened the cabinet door and looked at the spine of the book. Larousse Gastronomique was etched into the spine.

  I watched Parker pouring from a bag into the pot of water.

  What does that mean? I pointed at the spine of the book. I felt like a four-year-old.

  He looked up, like he was surprised someone else was in the room with him.

  Oh, it’s like a dictionary for cooks. It’s like—you can look up ingredients and stuff. It’s like this old French thing.

  As he reached for a knife, the inked band around his arm waved slightly, the serpent danced against his skin. I thought right then that I might be in love with him. I had no idea what that felt like. But right then I decided I could move into this gasoline apartment and do my homework while he read French cookbooks and I wouldn’t be missing anything in my life. At all.

  Hey, he said. Come stir this for me.

  We were mostly quiet while Parker cooked. There was the jump of his knife against the cutting board and the hiss of boiling water and the snap of the containers he opened. I started to forget that I wasn’t wearing a shirt. I was stirring risotto, which is little oval-shaped Italian rice that takes forever to cook and needs to be carefully stirred, constantly. The steam from the pot warmed my chest and I didn’t care when my arm started to ache. Every once in a while Parker would reach over me to drop a handful of herbs or powder into the pot and each time he did, I felt my skin stand up. It was like he just, instinctually, knew things—the perfect pinch of ingredients or turn of the flame. Watching him cook I could feel he just knew.

  On the burner next to me, he poured cream into a pot, a pat of butter, red flakes of something, onions, and handfuls of soft, white meat tinged in red.

  What is it? I asked.

  Lobster.

  People didn’t eat lobster on any normal day. This I knew. It was the most expensive thing on a menu. It was special-occasion food.

  When Parker proclaimed the risotto done, it was almost too tired to stir, white and gloppy and flecked with dark green and pepper. He heated butter in a pan and formed the risotto into full-moon patties and cooked them until they were gold on each side.

  He smiled while he stirred and flipped and sliced and his eyes, all at once, seemed to be watching every pot and dish he had with this quiet, still intensity.

  He pulled out two chipped china plates. I thought it was funny, just then. Parker had dishes. Where did he get them? I watched his hands move quickly—stirring, flipping. He put two of the gold-brown risotto patties on each plate, carefully side by side and then, slowly and gently, poured the red cream over the top, so gently that tiny heaps of lobster meat formed a near-perfect pyramid between the two cakes.

  He put the plates on the table and stared at them.

  Oh, he said. He reached into a drawer and pulled out two forks. Handing one to me, he sat down.

  Okay, he said.

  I sat down across from him. This is what we would do if we lived together. We would eat dinner like this.

  Except I’d probably be fully dressed.

  Or maybe not.

  I took a bite. Parker watched me.

  Wow, I said. I had no idea what to say. It tasted amazing. It tasted warm and creamy and rich and peppered and just a little bit crispy all at once.

  It’s so good, I said. It’s really rich.

  Parker stared at me.

  Huh, he said.

  He took a bite.

  Yeah, it’s pretty good, he said. I overdid it on the heavy cream.

  No, no you didn’t.

  I had no idea what it would taste like if he underdid it on the heavy cream, but I had the distinct impression I couldn’t say anything right. I liked food. But I didn’t know food. I wanted to know everything. I wanted to stun him by tasting exactly the spices and the measurement of heavy cream.

  I wanted to know what gastronomique meant.

  There was this scholarship. It was for a summer-long Model U.N. program in New Haven, Connecticut. You had to submit your best resolution, and then a committee reviewed millions of them and chose a couple of students to send to New Haven and paid for everything and gave you money for college. It was the kind of thing I should want to do. It was the kind of thing I would have been all over last year. Mr. Taylor, my guidance counselor, pulled me aside right around Thanksgiving and told me I had to get it done.

  Just do it, Nadio, he said. It’s a waste not to do it. Just get it done.

  He was right. It was a Friday, but after school I went straight to the library. I sat down at a computer near the back windows and I just went to it. I knew I was supposed to write about the development of programs to recognize kids orphaned by AIDS. I surfed around and did a little bit of research. It was pretty easy once I got started. I had the format down. It was all about phrasing.

  Noting: that children on the continent of Africa have been ravaged by the plague of AIDS, left homeless and orphaned and have resorted to crime and addiction.

  Deeply concerned: that the international community has done little to remedy this plight.

  Taking into account: that children and countries will be best served by programs that can allow these orphans to grow up with safe, healthy environments on their home soil.

  Requests: that delegates develop U.N.-sponsored homes and programs for said orphans.

  I stopped. Deeply concerned. Taking into account. It was everything we were thinking about my sister. It was all of my energy and all of my distraction.

  Noting: that Noelle is in a weird place. She seems angry and messed up and is keeping her distance from her brother and her best friend.

  Deeply concerned: that Noelle could be really hurt if she finds out her brother and her best friend are dating. Kind of dating.

  Taking into account: that her brother and best friend really like spending time together and are tired of keeping secrets.

  Requests: that all three have a conversation so all of this can stop driving everyone slightly crazy.

  I dug my cell phone out of my pocket and called Keeley.

  Hello?

  I wanna take you out to dinner, I said.

  She was quiet.

  Really?

  Yeah.

  Nadio. That would be—okay. That’s awesome.

  If we’re gonna go into the city we have to take the bus. You know Lace hasn’t taken me for my road test yet.

  She laughed.

  I have a license, remember?

  This is humiliating, I said. But can you pick me up at the library?

  Which part? That you’re at the library or that I have to drive you around?

  Ha ha, I said.

  Keeley and I drove to Mirabel’s. It’s just a little restaurant in the ci
ty that looks kind of fancy from the outside with dark purple tablecloths and wine glasses, but it’s not that expensive. I know because once Lace took us there for her birthday.

  Anyway, Keeley and I went to Mirabel’s and they gave us a table in the back corner which was actually near the fireplace. We both ordered steak and ice water and Keeley made me promise we would split the check. I didn’t argue. To be honest, I couldn’t argue. I just wanted to be somewhere brand new with her.

  She held my hand over the table.

  You want to talk about something, don’t you? she said.

  In fact, I said.

  Do you want to break up with me?

  No, I said. Even though I think she knew that wasn’t what I wanted.

  This is weird, I said. I moved my hand so it was over hers.

  It’s just … okay. First, I think keeping this from Noelle is ridiculous. I mean, she is my sister and she’s your best friend and this is just the truth. She needs to know.

  What’s the truth?

  What do you mean?

  Well, you said “this” is the truth. What’s “this”?

  You and me, Keeley. You’re my girlfriend. That’s the truth.

  She smiled, but there was something off about her smile.

  I like to hear you say that, she whispered.

  What’s wrong?

  She lowered her eyes. She wriggled her fingers and then laced them through mine.

  I’m not sure when I’m gonna be ready to have sex with you.

  My stomach jumped. For some reason it felt weird to hear her say this out loud. It’s like we weren’t supposed to talk about this out loud.

  Okay, I said. But—

  Why? she asked.

  Yes, I wanted to say. Why? Why not? What are we waiting for? What am I supposed to do here? But I didn’t say anything.

  There’s just all this stuff. And Nadio, I just can’t tell you about it all yet but I want to. And sometimes it’s like I want to so bad. Do it. Tell you. Everything. But then I don’t. But then being with you is like the best thing. I just have to ask you to be patient with me. But I understand if you can’t.

  Of course I can, I said.

  Because I could. Even if I didn’t always feel like it. I had no idea what she was talking about. And I couldn’t tell if it was serious or just a girl thing—just a girl not being ready. Being ready, I know, is just different for a girl. I knew I could wait. At least right now I felt like I could.