Accidental Love (10 page)

"What did I say to you?" Marisa asked.

"I wear the pants."

"¿ Y qué más?"

"But you pick them out?"

"Dang, he's trained." Priscilla laughed.

The girls bought the jeans for him. One on each side, they escorted him like police from the store, Rene giggling and protesting that he hardly knew these two females and would someone please, please help him, because his pants were falling off.

Marisa stopped just short of stalking Aaron into the boys' restroom during lunch on Friday. She would have but for the two boys lurking like vultures at the entrance, their hands stuffed in their front pockets. She waited by the drinking fountain and pressed her hand over her heart. Its engine was steady. She found herself feeling better about her plan.

When Aaron came out, hitching up his pants, she said, "Hey, pretty boy, come here."

Aaron looked at her as if she were a bug and slowly raised a hand to point at his chest.

"That's right—you and your mighty muscles. Bring them over here." She guiltily noted that his
chest was so much more endowed than poor Rene's. The boy had game.

"Do I know you?" Aaron asked as he sauntered over, running his hands through his hair.

Marisa ignored his question. "You know, when you shoot, you got to keep your elbows in. And bend those cute knees of yours." She raised her arms into a shooting position and bent her knees. She felt a little stupid, as she knew almost nothing about basketball. She remembered one more piece of advice from her father. "Plus, you can't hold your breath. Got to be natural."

Aaron blinked at her and turned away, hitching up his pants again.

Why does Priscilla like him?
Marisa wondered.
And why did Alicia like Roberto? Why do girls fall for such fools?

She sidled up to Aaron. "Remember, you can't hold your breath. You did that a couple of times at the game on Wednesday," Marisa informed him. As they turned the corner toward the science rooms, she added, in a whisper, "I know a girl who likes you."

That stopped Aaron. Advice on shooting didn't earn his attention, but the mention of a mysterious girl halted his swaggering walk. He turned, licked his thin, pretty lips, and sized up Marisa. His eyes
narrowed, and a smile began to form on his face.

He stepped close to her and breathed in her ear, "A lot of girls like me." His bright ironic smile glowed like a lantern. "And thanks for the advice. I'll remember it on the court."

Conceited!
Marisa couldn't believe such a boy. Sure, he was drop-dead gorgeous, strong, and maybe had plenty of smart noodles coiled up in his brain. His parents were doctors, right? But he was stuffed like a sausage with himself.

In English Marisa clacked her pencil between her upper and lower teeth, and then bared her teeth to a small compact, her breath fogging the mirror's surface.

"What are you smiling about?" Mr. Warren asked. "You're supposed to be doing your assignment."

"Who, me?" Marisa asked, her compact clicking closed.

"Yes, you, Miss Rodriguez."

"I wasn't smiling. I was just checking to see if I had stuff between my teeth."

A couple of classmates laughed, and Marisa had to smile but with her mouth closed—maybe there
was
gunk stuck between her teeth.

When Marisa was leaving at the end of class, Mr. Warren called her back. "You're distracted," he said. "You need to focus."

"I know," Marisa agreed. "It's just that I'm in love, and I'm also working out my plan to help my friend who's in love."

Mr. Warren didn't want to hear any more.

"Let's not talk about girls and boys and what you're up to." He thumped his pencil against the pile of essays as if he were trying to punish them.

"You must have been in love when you were our age." Marisa had never spoken so boldly to a teacher. At Washington she had been a moody shadow ghosting down the hallway, and she would have never raised her hand in class, even if she had to go to the bathroom. That would have been uncool. But at Hamilton she had begun to see that she could bare her soul.

"Yeah, I was in love," Mr. Warren said, patting the globe of his belly. "With beef enchiladas." He warned her about primping in class and asked how rehearsals were going for
Romeo and Juliet.

"Like, real neat," she chimed, then paused, hand over her mouth as if it had issued a foul word. She would have to watch that.
Shoot, I might turn into a nerd like Rene,
she thought.

"You talked to him?" Priscilla said into her cell phone outside the library.

"Yeah," Marisa answered. She had just got out
of her last class, biology, where she had splayed open an unfortunate frog (already dead) with a dull knife. She and Rene were going to rendezvous at the auditorium for rehearsal. "Yeah, we were chopping it up. I corrected his outside shot." She had the tickling urge to describe him as she saw him—conceited—but she was certain that would destroy Priscilla or, even worse, make Priscilla defend the blockhead basketball player.

"Oh, god, I can't believe it!" Priscilla screamed. "You talked basketball with him? Oh, wow!"

As Marisa approached the library, she could see Priscilla stomping her feet in excitement and bellowing into her cell phone. "You talked to him? Really? Oh, wow!"

"She's really got it bad," Marisa told herself. "She's really in love." She closed her cell phone as Priscilla was asking if he knew who she was.

"Aaron! Aaron! Aaron!" Marisa teased loudly.

Priscilla's face twisted in terror. Shocked, she ran over from the library and pulled on Marisa's arm. She hauled her away as if she were a bad child. "I can't believe you said his name so loudly. What if he heard?"

"It would be good if he heard. In fact—" Marisa caught sight of a shuffling Aaron, pants hanging low, out of the corner of her eye. "Here he is." She shrugged out of Priscilla's grip and hollered, "Hey, Aaron, remember to keep breathing when you shoot!"

Aaron was with two boys, both players, and he cut loose from them and approached the girls, hitching up his pants. He first sized up Marisa and then Priscilla before asking Marisa, "What's your name?"

"Marisa," Marisa answered. "My boyfriend is Rene. And this is Priscilla. She doesn't have a boyfriend."

Priscilla turned away and nearly doubled over, embarrassed.

"Don't play shy," Marisa advised Priscilla. She wanted to impress upon Aaron that he was dealing with two girls who were not afraid to take chances.

Aaron's smile was more like a snicker.

"Isn't she embarrassing?" Priscilla's face was red, but Marisa thought her blushing gave her a healthy look.

Aaron shrugged.

"We checked you out Wednesday," Priscilla remarked.

Aaron chewed his gum and then asked, "Doing what?"

Priscilla's head tilted downward and then
swung up. "Playing basketball—you were so good!"

Aaron's gum chewing slowed to a stop. "You think I played good?"

Marisa had to have her say. "You are so full of yourself, mister."

Aaron shifted his attention to Marisa, who had clapped her hand over her mouth.

"Marisa!" Priscilla screamed.

Aaron smiled. "She's right. I take after my dad."

"Is your dad full of
pedos,
too?" Marisa nearly asked.

"My dad played in high school." Turning to Priscilla, he asked, "What's your name again?"

¡Ay, Chihuahua!
Marisa was disgusted that Mr. Basketball had already forgotten her name.

"Priscilla," she answered. "My dad used to play basketball, too."

Aaron's eyes widened.

"He used to play with my little brother Adam." Priscilla giggled.

Aaron nodded. "Cool."

"I play tennis," Priscilla continued. "I used to be really awful, but I got better. Now I'm just awful."

"You go, girl!" Marisa chirped. "Hey, did you hear the joke about the two cats that went to go see a tennis match?"

Neither had, and neither showed the vaguest interest in hearing it. Marisa staggered back a few steps to give them room as they kept talking.

"Well," Aaron finally said, "I gotta bounce. I'll give you a call."

"But you don't know her number." Marisa stepped between them like a referee.

He got Priscilla's number, then turned and swaggered away to join a clot of boys huddled around a trash can—they were peeling oranges and flicking the peels into it.

"Girl, I could murder you," Priscilla whined under her breath.

"But I got you two talking," Marisa insisted. "And he has your number. You did good. He's going to like you." She hooked her arm into Priscilla's and the two walked toward the auditorium, where she caught sight of Rene and a friend thumb wrestling.

"Can you believe we girls like boys? They're so dumb!" Marisa had to ponder her own instincts. She had met Rene via Roberto, whom she had met through her friend Alicia. But just how had she started liking Rene? It was a mystery—something like chemistry.

Priscilla was nearly skipping at Marisa's side. "I can't believe he talked to me. I'm
so
lucky. How long before you think he'll call?"

Marisa speculated the call would come in three
days. To call any sooner would show that he was hurting for attention. Aaron was too cool to want to give the impression that he was thirsty for excitement, though Marisa was certain that he was salivating over Priscilla. She was cute.

While doing her math in bed on Monday night, an activity that produced one wet yawn after another, Marisa got a call from Rene.

"My mom took my new pants away," he said promptly.

Marisa flung her brick-heavy math book across the bed.

"She what?"

"She says I look like a gangster."

Marisa resisted her typical angry response, which would start with one-word insults and then move to include long fiery sentences. Still, she had to ponder, what kind of mother was she? No wonder Rene was such a nerd.

"Listen, buddy boy, remember you wear
los pantalones.
You're the dude."

"Yeah, I remember," he moaned weakly. "I wear the pants, but you pick out the style and color."

Marisa chuckled. She was teaching her lover boy good.

"You told your mother that Priscilla and me bought them for you, huh?" Marisa asked.

"Yeah, it kinda came out."

Rene was her darling, nerdy boyfriend. She had challenged and beat him at thumb wrestling, and then let him win when she saw how his sweet face got screwed up with pain. She felt sorry for him again.

"Hey...," Marisa started.

"Hay is for horses," Rene quipped. He began his honking laughter.

"Rene, you gotta learn a new way of laughing." She told him he sounded like a goose.

"But I've always laughed like this." He offered another barrage of
honk-honk
laughter followed by a piggy snort.

"It's not time for your silliness," Marisa retorted as she stood up and began pacing her bedroom. "You tell your mom that she did bad."

Silence.

"Are you there?"

"Yeah, I'm here," he said. "My mom is so mean."

"You wear the pants—
recuerdas
? You're the man,
el mero mero.
"

Marisa could hear a lumpy swallow in his voice as he confirmed his role: "That's right, I'm the man."

Marisa then asked if he had done his fifty push-ups. A few days before, she had devised an exercise regimen for both of them. Since meeting Rene she had lost inches off her waist and hips, which had drawn suspicion from her mother, who with a mouth full of mashed potatoes had asked, "Are you bulimic?" Marisa had answered no and described her regimen to get skinny—or at least slim down enough so that she could one day put on a dress, something she rarely did.

"No, but I did do six push-ups," Rene admitted.

"Only six?"

"Yeah, that's when Mom came into the room and took my pants off the bed and hid them." There was sorrow in his voice, and even more sorrow when he said he wished that he were like Aaron. Priscilla had crowed and crowed about Aaron, the man about campus. Marisa remembered how Rene's shoulders had sagged, and during rehearsal he had declared that he was no good at any sport, even the nerd's sport—thumb wrestling.

On Friday night Marisa stayed over at her aunt's house and talked for hours on the phone: first with Alicia; then with her mother, who called to ask if she wanted to go play bingo at the church (she didn't); then with Roberto, who begged forgiveness for poking Rene in the nose (he didn't apologize for hitting
her
); and last with Priscilla, who squealed that Aaron had asked them to shoot baskets with him on Saturday morning.

Marisa had agreed.

The next morning Rene was on the bar of his bicycle, honking with laughter each time the bike dipped into a pothole.

"Careful, I'm precious cargo," he joked.

"Precious for what?" She was playing with him.
She laughed when he started a coughing fit after a gnat flew down his throat. "Consider that poor little bug your protein."

When the park came into view, Rene panicked. "I'm no good at sports."

Marisa huffed up a hill slick with dew. She caught her breath and said, "What do you mean you're no good at sports? I saw you beat Trung yesterday at thumb wrestling."

"That's because money was involved."

"How much?"

"A quarter per game." He honked with laughter and bragged that he won a dollar off Trung and was prepared to splurge it on a Big Gulp if Marisa could pay the tax.

"Man, you know how to treat a
chola
really nice." She planted a kiss on the back of his neck and asked why he smelled so good.

"I put on some of my mom's perfume." He honked again with laughter. "I don't know why I did that."

"You girl!" When she slapped his arm, she nearly lost control and steered the bike into a set of buckled garbage cans. She secretly thought she wouldn't have minded a crash because it would have brought him to the ground where she could kiss him until he was out of breath.

The park was nearly deserted—an elderly woman was feeding pigeons and far away a man was playing fetch with his dog. A rusty swing squeaked in the autumn breeze.