think: Blook bluck fep, which in Jupiter language means, “Those are crazy words!”
I flicked my eyes towards him, urging him to take back his crazy, but he wouldn’t look at me.
The landlord didn’t seem convinced at first, but just like everyone else who are willing to believe all kinds of baloney to make their lives easier, he latched onto Cruz’s promise and nodded. “Okay. Where’s the seven-hundred?”
I sprinted upstairs, dug my cookie tin from under my bed and emptied it. Cruz ran into in his room, and I heard a drawer open and close. We met at the top of the stairs, both holding fistfuls of cash.
“I’m sorry,” I said.
“I’m sorry,” he said.
We ran downstairs and handed the landlord his money. He counted it twice. “Next week,” he said, sticking his finger in Cruz’s face.
“Next week,” Cruz agreed.
We stood on the front porch and watched the landlord walk down the front path, open his car door, get in, close the door, start the engine, and drive away. When he turned the corner at the end of the street and we were sure that he would leave us alone for at least a week, we walked back into the house and collapsed onto the bottom stair, sitting side by side.
“Cruz—“I started.
“I’ll get it,” he said.
“But—“
“I’ll get it,” he repeated.
The landlord’s visit was a reminder of the barbarians at the gate. The ever-present danger. We had been fooling ourselves, thinking that we could make this work. We had slipped into an almost comfortable routine where I went to school and babysitting, and Cruz went to work and modeling auditions, and we would come home, make canned tomato soup, and then I would write in my notebooks, and he would go out with his beautiful friends.
Safe.
At least I had thought we were safe. It hadn’t seemed to matter that we were throwing away bills and we hadn’t heard a peep from our parents. But now, reality hit me like a ton of bricks. Like a landlord wearing Dockers and a short-sleeved buttoned down striped shirt.
“This will never work,” I said on the step. I hadn’t meant to say anything. I didn’t want to be Debbie Downer when Cruz was working so hard to help me.
“We have no choice. It has to work.”
“I was going to go to Paris and learn how to write,” I said. This time the tears really did come. I wiped my nose on the hem of my t-shirt and sniffed.
Cruz turned to face me and raised his eyebrow. “I know. I think that’s great.”
He had beautiful eyes. Big, brown, and soft, like I could snuggle up inside them.
“I can’t go to Paris,” I said. “I don’t have any money. How will I get there? How will I pay for the school?”
“Why do you want to go to Paris?” He asked the question as if he really wanted to know. He was interested in my thoughts and feelings, which still came as a surprise to me.
“Paris is everything I’m not,” I said. “Beautiful, exciting, sophisticated. All the greatest writers have lived there.”
“I can see you becoming a great writer.”
“You can?”
“Yes,” he said smiling ear to ear. “You’ll be very famous, and you won’t talk to me anymore. You’ll only hang around your famous writer friends. You won’t even take my calls.”
It was ludicrous. I would always talk to him, if he let me. He was the perfect one, the one destined to be rich and famous. Couldn’t he see that someday he would be the one to forget about me ?”
“Your calls? You’ll call me?” I asked.
“Or write letters. You being a writer and all, maybe you would prefer letters.” I would love letters. I had never written an actual letter to anyone.
“Letters would be great,” I said.
Cruz smiled. “Let’s find something to eat.”
He helped me up and put his arm around me as we walked to the kitchen. “You’re such an idiot.” He laughed.
“I am?”
“Yes. You were totally wrong.”
“About what?” I asked.
“You’re exactly like Paris.”
***
There was
I flicked my eyes towards him, urging him to take back his crazy, but he wouldn’t look at me.
The landlord didn’t seem convinced at first, but just like everyone else who are willing to believe all kinds of baloney to make their lives easier, he latched onto Cruz’s promise and nodded. “Okay. Where’s the seven-hundred?”
I sprinted upstairs, dug my cookie tin from under my bed and emptied it. Cruz ran into in his room, and I heard a drawer open and close. We met at the top of the stairs, both holding fistfuls of cash.
“I’m sorry,” I said.
“I’m sorry,” he said.
We ran downstairs and handed the landlord his money. He counted it twice. “Next week,” he said, sticking his finger in Cruz’s face.
“Next week,” Cruz agreed.
We stood on the front porch and watched the landlord walk down the front path, open his car door, get in, close the door, start the engine, and drive away. When he turned the corner at the end of the street and we were sure that he would leave us alone for at least a week, we walked back into the house and collapsed onto the bottom stair, sitting side by side.
“Cruz—“I started.
“I’ll get it,” he said.
“But—“
“I’ll get it,” he repeated.
The landlord’s visit was a reminder of the barbarians at the gate. The ever-present danger. We had been fooling ourselves, thinking that we could make this work. We had slipped into an almost comfortable routine where I went to school and babysitting, and Cruz went to work and modeling auditions, and we would come home, make canned tomato soup, and then I would write in my notebooks, and he would go out with his beautiful friends.
Safe.
At least I had thought we were safe. It hadn’t seemed to matter that we were throwing away bills and we hadn’t heard a peep from our parents. But now, reality hit me like a ton of bricks. Like a landlord wearing Dockers and a short-sleeved buttoned down striped shirt.
“This will never work,” I said on the step. I hadn’t meant to say anything. I didn’t want to be Debbie Downer when Cruz was working so hard to help me.
“We have no choice. It has to work.”
“I was going to go to Paris and learn how to write,” I said. This time the tears really did come. I wiped my nose on the hem of my t-shirt and sniffed.
Cruz turned to face me and raised his eyebrow. “I know. I think that’s great.”
He had beautiful eyes. Big, brown, and soft, like I could snuggle up inside them.
“I can’t go to Paris,” I said. “I don’t have any money. How will I get there? How will I pay for the school?”
“Why do you want to go to Paris?” He asked the question as if he really wanted to know. He was interested in my thoughts and feelings, which still came as a surprise to me.
“Paris is everything I’m not,” I said. “Beautiful, exciting, sophisticated. All the greatest writers have lived there.”
“I can see you becoming a great writer.”
“You can?”
“Yes,” he said smiling ear to ear. “You’ll be very famous, and you won’t talk to me anymore. You’ll only hang around your famous writer friends. You won’t even take my calls.”
It was ludicrous. I would always talk to him, if he let me. He was the perfect one, the one destined to be rich and famous. Couldn’t he see that someday he would be the one to forget about me ?”
“Your calls? You’ll call me?” I asked.
“Or write letters. You being a writer and all, maybe you would prefer letters.” I would love letters. I had never written an actual letter to anyone.
“Letters would be great,” I said.
Cruz smiled. “Let’s find something to eat.”
He helped me up and put his arm around me as we walked to the kitchen. “You’re such an idiot.” He laughed.
“I am?”
“Yes. You were totally wrong.”
“About what?” I asked.
“You’re exactly like Paris.”
***
There was
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