Read Online Not Anything by Carmen Rodrigues - Free Book Online Page B

my lunch spot. “Marisol and I kind of like to eat here,” I mutter underneath my breath. I look over at Carlos. He’s starting to feed the ducks. “I think”—I say, pointing at the old man—“all he does is feed ducks all day.”
    “Huh?” Danny gives me an odd look. He sticks two fingers in his mouth and whistles. The old man smiles and looks up. “Hola.” Danny waves. “Qué pasó?”
    “Nada.” The old man says, crinkly eyed, before disappearing behind the wrinkled folds of an El Nuevo Herald.
    “What did you say?” I ask. Why didn’t I ever think about saying hello?
    “I asked him what he’s up to. And he said, ‘ Nada, ’ which means ‘nothing.’”
    “I know what nada means. I’m a third-year Spanish student. I mean, why did you say anything to him at all?” We approach a mesh fence that leads into a well-kept backyard that seems familiar. I look back toward the old man, only feet away. “Is he your grandfather?” I ask incredulously, because if that’s not a sign from God then I don’t know what is.
    Danny smiles mysteriously. “You’ll see.”
    We cut through the backyard and enter the house through an unlocked sliding glass door. “Mami?” Danny calls out, but no one answers. “This is the family-room-slash-kitchen. Notice the tile is authentic Italian,” Danny says in a nasal voice. “It’s a postmodern impressionistic Italian Renaissance style.” He gives me a cockeyed grin. “Don’t you think I’d be a great real estate agent?”
    “No.” I roll my eyes. “But I do think you’d make a great farmer because you’re so darn corny,” I say, which actually makes Danny laugh.
    I check out the room. It’s not as large as my family room, but it’s pretty. The walls are painted mango; the floor tile is a light brown. The largest wall is covered with family portraits. In the center is a large oil painting—of Danny and Dalia kneeling at an altar. Dalia is wearing a plain white dress. Danny is wearing a suit. They both look about twelve in the photo.
    “Is that your confirmation picture?” I ask.
    “Yeah,” he smiles. “Are you Catholic, too?”
    “Yeah, but I never actually got to the confirmation part,” I tell him.
    I turn back to the wall and study some of the other photos. The wall is practically a visual history of Danny’s entire life: Danny sitting in a tub filled with bubbles; Danny and Dalia at their kindergarten graduation; his parents’ wedding photo; his mom laughing into a camera, holding a big belly.
    “Is that your mom when she was pregnant with you two?”
    Danny steps closer to look. “Yeah, she was huge.”
    “What’s it like to be a twin?” I am curious.
    “It’s cool,” he says. “People think it makes you different, but it’s just like having any other sibling. I guess it’s nice to be in the same classes and copy each other’s homework—not that Dalia would ever let me copy anything of hers—but sometimes having a sister can be annoying. Are you an only child?”
    “Yeah.”
    “Do you wish you had a brother or a sister?”
    I consider the question. For a long time after my mother died, I wondered what it would have been like to have an older sister. I thought maybe she would understand how I was feeling, or maybe she could explain to me why things like this happened—why they happened to us. Even if we didn’t talk about other things, maybe we could just play together. Maybe then, I wouldn’t be so lonely.
    “I used to,” I tell him, “but not anymore.”
    I look from the photos to Danny, then outside to his grandfather reading the paper. I think about his tiny house overlooking the man-made canal with the quacking ducks that crap everywhere. I’m filled with envy.
    Danny grabs an apple from a nearby fruit bowl and takes a large bite. “You want a bite?” The apple is so close I can smell it. I nearly die from the thought of our lips touching the same spot.
    “It’s good,” he says, pushing it closer.
    “You