Not Anything

“Sometimes, I just talk and stupid things happen. Like yesterday, I was telling Dalia about the library—”

“You told your sister about yesterday?” My heart pops like a firecracker.

“Well”—he takes off his baseball cap—“it was kind of hard to hide this at the dinner table.” He leans forward to show me the knot on his head.

“Wow. I did that.” Without thinking, I touch the knot and feel terribly guilty (and slightly satisfied) when Danny flinches.

“Yeah, did you have to choose the unabridged dictionary? Couldn’t you have just used your pocket Webster?” His dimples appear. I want to rub my finger in the indent.

“What did you tell your sister?” I am curious. I’ve never had my name pass between the lips of the socially elite.

“I don’t know. I just told her some stuff. So why did you throw the book at me?”

Good question. Too bad I didn’t have one good, rational answer. “I don’t know. You were there with this ‘I don’t care that I’m late’ attitude.”

“Sometimes the coach keeps us late.”

At this point, he could tell me that he likes green eggs and ham. I don’t care. I’m stuck somewhere between understanding that our knees are touching and that he, too, washes his face with Neutrogena. I can smell it on him….

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

ONE

the yearbook picture line

TWO

danny diaz

THREE

a quick f.y.i.

FOUR

helping danny

FIVE

my m.i.a. d.a.d.

SIX

two wednesdays later

SEVEN

tamara

EIGHT

just maybe…a connection

NINE

lots and lots of candy

TEN

a definite connection

ELEVEN

truth or dare

TWELVE

secrets

THIRTEEN

what about me?

FOURTEEN

la casa diaz

FIFTEEN

a part of the family

SIXTEEN

catfight

SEVENTEEN

first dates

EIGHTEEN

the mall

NINETEEN

interlude

TWENTY

loneliness

TWENTY-ONE

apologies

TWENTY-TWO

amends

TWENTY-THREE

la casa diaz, part ii

TWENTY-FOUR

falling

TWENTY-FIVE

relationships

TWENTY-SIX

moments

TWENTY-SEVEN

elation

TWENTY-EIGHT

thanksgiving

TWENTY-NINE

saturday

THIRTY

sunday, the memorial

THIRTY-ONE

fragmented sunday afternoon

THIRTY-TWO

big fat liar

THIRTY-THREE

dad starts to wake up

THIRTY-FOUR

the aftermath

THIRTY-FIVE

marc

THIRTY-SIX

the other holidays

THIRTY-SEVEN

the missing

THIRTY-EIGHT

the invisible line

THIRTY-NINE

sisters forever

FORTY

an intervention

EPILOGUE

junior year: a new beginning

I lost a close family friend in the months before I began writing
Not Anything
. What surprised me the most about my grief was that it was so vast. It didn’t hit all at once, instead it appeared at the most inopportune times—the red light two blocks from home, the bathroom at work. I found from talking to more-experienced mourners that my grief would last for years. And eventually—if I made the effort—I could learn to adjust to its quake.

It was then that I began to write
Not Anything
, a novel in which a teenage girl struggles to deal with the loss of her mother five years before, emotional isolation from her father, high school, and the intimidating task of falling in love at the tender age of fifteen.

This was an ambitious project for me, and from the novel’s conception to the point of publication, I received tremendous support. So without further ado, I’d like to thank:

Caren Lissner, for giving me my first writing gig, encouraging the writing of this novel, and offering me sound advice.

My teachers—specifically Mrs. Johnson and Mr. Strickland (Sun-set Senior High), and Dr. Berry and Mary Jane Ryals (FSU)—for helping me to become a better writer and human being.

All the kids I went to high school with for giving me stories to tell and romances to re-create.

YA authors Stephanie Hale and Bethany Griffin, for navigating this unpredictable journey with me. Your feedback and encouragement mean the world to me.

All the YA authors at [email protected], particularly Alesia Holliday (a.k.a. Jax Abbott), for starting this group.

Agent Rachel Vater, for being kind enough to pass along my manuscript.

My own determined (and insanely gorgeous) agent Zoe Fishman, for reading said manuscript, declaring it loveable, and taking on the tremendous task of finding it a good home! Infinite thanks!

The rest of my Lowenstein-Yost Associates family, particularly Barbara Lowenstein and Nancy Yost, for embracing my work and launching my career.

Kate Seaver, my editor at Berkley Books, for believing in this story, giving me my first big break, and not suggesting that I change the title or the ending. I applaud you!

Allison Brandau, Kate’s solid right hand, for answering all my “newbie” questions with a cheerful attitude.

Prescott Tolk, comedian extraordinaire, for pushing me “to reach for the moon.”

Michelle Civile and Brian McCann, for being the two best “civilian” friends a girl could ever have. I love you both so much.

And, most important, to my family: Mom, for taking me to the library and telling me that you loved me; Natalie, for the unique bedtime stories that fed my imagination; my real-life Suzi, for always pushing me forward. You are my “best-est” friend and my reader of choice; and Walter, for surviving a family of bossy girls and loving us, despite our shortcomings.

I’d also like to thank my extended family: John, Trevor, Isiah, Savannah, Jenna, Nathanial, Grandma Monse, and Grandpa Ramón. Your personal stories are mine to tell.

And to David Jason Ashworth, whose tragic death led me to write this story: you are missed. Always.

holding up a school line is dangerous business.

The worst part is that I’ve done all that I can to make this experience end. I’ve given Fred, the photographer, the slight curve-of-the-lip-closed-mouth sneer, the half-open/half-closed-mouth grimace, the mysterious-faced Mona Lisa, and anything else that might possibly pass as a smile, and…nothing. We’re on our fourth shot, and he keeps saying that he’ll take my yearbook picture over and over again until I smile—get this—happily.

The problem is that I haven’t smiled for a yearbook picture since the fourth grade, and I’m pretty sure that it’s not going to happen now. But that’s not going to stop me from having a panic attack. That’s my specialty. I’ve been having those since the sixth grade. And here it is—

“Just breathe, Susie,” Marisol whispers from the opposite side of the room.

“Yeah, dipshit, breathe,” Billy Wilson adds from behind her. “And stop looking so stupid!”

“God.” Marisol gives Billy a dirty look “What is your problem?” She turns back to me and says, “Just think of…” before she takes this God-awful long pause that hangs there for all eternity. This gives Billy several more opportunities to make funny faces at me, so I tell myself to tune him out and think. Think. What can I think of?

I can think of…stupid songs. Like?
Just what makes that little ole ant think he’ll move that rubber tree plant?

No. No. No. I haven’t sunk so low that I need to pep myself up with silly, encouraging songs.

What else?

I guess I can think of…Marisol? Like what’s up with the long pause? Okay, unsafe territory.

What else? What else?

I can think of…my father? But what do I know about my father? Of course
I know
him, but what do I know
about
him except for the fact that he’ll spend less than ten minutes a day talking to me because that’s enough time to catch up on my very unimportant life. Again, unsafe territory.

What else is there? Who else is there?

My grandma? I love her, but she keeps forgetting my name.

What else?

What’s the point of my high IQ if I can’t think under pressure?

Wait. Wait. Something’s coming.

Something is…
Yes! I can think about my next class. Mr. Murphy’s class, a.k.a. English class, a.k.a. my favorite class at Orange Grove Senior High. And right now we’re reading
Pride and Prejudice.
Ah, Jane Austen.

Yes! This is a safe one! I love Jane Austen. And I like Mr. Murphy. He’s always nice. Like last week when Jason Solocone made fun of the way I pronounced, or should I say mispronounced—

Ca-raaap!

Mr. Murphy was so nice to me last week that I agreed to begin tutoring for him.
Today?
TODAY!

And here comes the twitch—right back where I left it. And here come their voices—right back where I left them, only now they’re like wind-tunnel voices. I feel like I’m going to keel over from the weight of everything. Everything is slo-mo and excruciating.

Marisol says,
“Gaaaaawd, I duuuuunno. Just smiiiiile allllreaddddy.”

Billy says,
“Seeeeeee, Daaaaannyyyy, sheeeee’s tootaallyyy twiiiitchiiiing—”

And it’s after that exchange that I try to find something to hold on to so I don’t go and blow away with the wind. I think,
Danny? Isn’t that the name of the guy that I’m tutoring?
And it is, so I start to list facts about him in my head because sometimes listing things that are concrete makes me feel calm. And right now, I need to feel calm.

So here are the facts about Danny Diaz. He’s:

1. A junior
   
2. A varsity soccer player
   
3. Extremely popular
   
4. A twin—His twin sister is Dalia Diaz, the only junior to ever be named head of the school’s dance team, the Sun-Kissed Girls.
   

The list is super-short. I have to go over the facts several times before the wind tunnel disappears, and I can look past Billy Wilson—and his manic need to destroy any shred of self-confidence that I have—toward the guy standing directly behind him. The one watching me. And I wonder if it can be? (Because that would be too much of a ridiculous coincidence.) But can it be?

And that’s when our eyes lock and the guy-who-might-be-Danny says gently, “Just smile, Susie.” And then he does the strangest thing, the least expected thing. He smiles at me.

I mean, I think he smiles at me. I can’t be sure because everyone’s speaking all at once.

Billy says, “That’s what I’m talking about. Feisty dykes. That’s hot.” Then, he blows me a kiss.

Marisol says, “Just smile,” for, like, the twentieth time.

The photographer says, “Hold on, just got to change the battery.”

By the time I let my eyes drift back to the guy-who-might-be-Danny, his face is such a complete void that I’m not even sure he smiled at me at all.

“Okay.” The photographer pops the new battery into his fancy digital camera. “Let’s try that again.”

And so that’s what we do. We try it over and over and over again. And I never get it right, because I can’t smile.