And This Is Your Opinion Of Me? Chapter 13
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Si los delfines mueren de amores,
¡triste de mí!, ¿qué harán los hombres,
que tienen tiernos los corazones?
¡Triste de mí! ¿Qué harán los hombres?
‘If dolphins can die of love,
woe me!, what happens to men,
whose hearts are so tender?
Woe me! What happens to men?’
from the music book Libro de música para vihuela,
intitulado Orphenica lira, by M. Fuenllana.
I was hiding in my room and re-reading the letter for the umpteenth time that afternoon when Carla called me. When she can’t glare at you, she has this special way of sounding utterly annoyed and making you know, as you hear the first syllable, that it’s your fault, and that you are rather lucky she isn’t nearby (or else).
“Where the heck are you?”
“Um, home?” It came out as a squeak, of course.
“Aren’t you late for work?”
I actually sat up and checked my watch before realizing I was free that evening. But Carla didn’t wait for an answer. “I have been waiting for you! Fina too, but she left already. They were leaving for Madrid today.”
Ah. So she was hungry and had been abandoned in a bar in which she couldn’t order any tapas. That explained much.
“Want to meet up?” I was already up and checking my hair in the reflection on my window. Where were my shoes?
“I want to get drunk. Lola dumped me.”
That explained all, but no one had told me about it yet. I tripped over one sneaker while hopping about, trying to get the other one on without unlacing it. Very nearly killed myself. Anyhow, I fell on my bed and stared at the ceiling, taking a few seconds to shake off my stupefaction before saying something again. “Let’s go to the shawarma place first.”
“Hmm. Falafel.” She sighed. The week before, we had stopped by calle Elvira and she had had half a ball when Lola wasn’t looking. “You’re right, deep-fried beats vodka any day.”
“I’ll be there in ten minutes.” After shoving my feet into my sneakers (while sitting) and giving up on my hair, I ran out of my room and into Dad, who was playing the ostrich to Fede’s rooster and Antonio’s duckling.
“And I am the hen,” said Tere from the sofa. She was reading food blogs, only clucking half-heartedly when Antonio tried to peck her knee. I could tell she and my father had been fighting again and that the ostrich thing with the kids was his way to make up. “Are you going out?”
“With Carla. Don’t wait up, birdies.”
“Is Carla his girlfriend?” I heard Dad ask as I closed the front door after me. “Or is it the pretty one?”
Parents have the most wonderful sense of timing.
Anyway. By the time I got to calle Elvira and remembered which shawarma bar had been deemed best of the city by Fina, I found Carla was ordering all she could think of, letting the waiter flirt with her and enjoying herself too thoroughly to remember she was supposed to be mad at me. Then we sat in a table that seemed too small and wobbly to hold our dinner and we talked as we ate. Mainly, Carla did both things and I just sat there, dazed, nibbling at my fries.
“Let me see if I got it right,” I said, once she seemed to be done. “There was no dinner in the end, because Andrés told Lola off and Lola went all ‘this is my party and I’ll hide in the bathroom if I want to’, and after they left she told you she wants to be just friends because... she thinks she doesn’t like girls after all?”
“That’s so... bullshit,” Carla spat, then hid her face behind her hands. The white light of the fluorescent lamps made even the skin of her hands look pasty--I guessed she hadn’t slept much, if at all. She hadn’t eaten a lot, either, after the first impulse of gastronomical rebellion, and from the moment she started narrating the discussion with Lola, she had done nothing but play with her food. “I should never have gone out with her in the first place. I mean, she was on a double rebound from Julia and you, but, but I just... I really didn’t want to be alone any longer. And I know you won’t believe it, hell, I have trouble believing it myself, but I actually did like her. She’s not that bad when she relaxes and doesn’t worry about proving herself.”
I just stared at her until she peeked between her fingers and laughed--a bit shakily--, then threw her paper napkin at me.
“And because I’m stupid and will forever be stupid, I called Fina.”
“Why is that stupid, and why didn’t you call me?” I wouldn’t have been home when Isabel came over, maybe, and we would never have fought. Unless she had tried to ask me out some other day.
“Because she’s spent her holidays trying to get into my pants? I should have called you. I wasn’t thin--”
“Fina what?!”
It was her turn to pat my hand, her misery forgotten in light of my epic fail. “You are delightfully clueless.”
“Oh God. You don’t even know how much.”
The thing was, I felt AWFUL about the whole Isabel thing. Sure, I still wanted to strangle someone (namely, her) when I thought about that weird, weird, weird argument at my place. Then I wanted to kick my own balls, because since when did I go around pushing girls against walls? And the letter...
I hadn’t had much time to ponder on it, and I really wanted to dismiss it and forget all about the fight and Isabel, but I couldn’t. It was all too recent, and too shocking, and the letter had stirred it all up again that morning. I’d read it while Fede and Antonio were playing ball, wanting to scoff and toss it aside, but instead it had unsettled me more than I cared to admit.
It was so neat. So dainty. The paper was so white, the handwriting so precise, and there was the way it looked hurried in some parts and more thoughtful in others, and how there was hardly any word stricken out, and the way it ended, wishing me happiness after I had called her a bitch and everything. It made me feel sorry. And guilty. And confused, because I still didn’t know what to believe.
At first, I had been skeptical of everything in it--but then I couldn’t actually believe she would make up something like that about her own brother. So I thought, okay, maybe the kid had gone wild and Jaime had been there and had done nothing about it. It was surprisingly easy to believe of him.
Then I remembered Elena’s complaints about Jaime, and the fact that he was a regular don Juan sometimes (and bragged about it). So, maybe I could believe the cheating. The drug thing, though, was still ridiculous. Jaime didn’t even smoke, never mind sniff coke. I recalled (all smug and self-assured) how he had said he would never smoke, because he wanted to live as long as possible. But no, wait. That had been me, as we headed to Marina the first day we went out together, and he had just said I was totally right. He did have a tendency to me-too whatever people said. I had more than once suspected him of saying just the thing he thought someone wanted to hear, though it hadn’t seemed much of a character fault. And... yeah, I hadn’t heard much of him of late, except from Dídac, who looked up to him and probably took notes on what he said.
Let’s be honest. If Dídac and Cristian admired him, something was probably wrong.
The Julia thing, well. I was still mad about that. “She should tell him,” my ass. That was the amount of my thoughts on the subject.
“You spaced out, and you were supposed to comfort me,” Carla tutted.
“Yeah. Hm...” I stared at my lemonade. In Barcelona, lemonade doesn’t have mint in it. Turns out it does, in Granada. “So what are you going to do? Are you going to stay until September as you planned?”
“Oh. Right.” Carla wriggled in her seat and looked straight at me. I wasn’t going to like this. “Somehow, Lola talked that obnoxious Catalina woman into offering her a scholarship in her University in Navarra. It’s, like, the Ministry of Education offers the scholarship to the research groups and they get to choose among the applicants. Well, she’ll ask for it and she’ll get it, and she’s going to change her PhD tutor and her topic, too...” She trailed off and I nodded, not really following. She narrowed her eyes at the wall. “Do you think it’s her she likes, not Andrés? She’s so confused, really. She even denies ever having had a crush on Julia.”
“Do not go there. I don’t care if she’s lost and confused, she’s treated you like crap. Be angry now, pity her later, once you’re over it.”
“Yes. Right. I am angry with her.”
“So. She’s leaving don Carlos.” That got her back on track.
“Oh yes. He was livid. Took it personally, him being fantastically egocentric and all, and still hasn’t spoken a word to the daughter. To Lola he did talk, well, shout, this morning. It was only decided yesterday or so, I think, and he found out today. The man is a total drama queen, no wonder everyone is fleeing. The girls left this evening, Catalina and Andrés leave tomorrow and Lola won’t be working there next week, even though it will be months until she moves to Pamplona. And don Carlos made me have lunch with him in his office and offered me Lola’s job.”
I stared. “And what did you say?”
“I told him he should know I’m gay.”
“And what did he say?”
She rolled her eyes. “That he isn’t blind. Though I think he had no idea, really. So I told him Lola and I had had a fight and that I didn’t want to stay there anymore, and he said I could stay at Rosales until I found a flat to share, which should be easy because the city is full of students, so he was giving me two weeks. I think I will buy a car, too. Second-hand or something.”
“Wait. You are staying here? In Granada? In Rosales with the ogre?” She had been right; I didn’t like it one bit.
“Yup. I swore I would never work at a fast-food restaurant again in my life, if you recall, so really, I don’t have many more options. I like it here. It’s better than my hometown, in which there are only farmers and cows and no gay girls whatsoever.” There are hardly any girls, in fact, because they all flee from the sweet-but-Neanderthalish farmer guys. “And I won’t find a job in my field in Barcelona. And see, I kind of like the old man, and you do come here several times a year.” She pinched my cheek. “I’ll be fiiine. I’ll be more than fine. I can’t wait for Lola to leave, though.”
I grinned at her. “Yeah, I know. You will be great. Whereas I will do stupid things all the time because you won’t be there to stop me.”
She grinned back. “So right! But not today, I won’t stop you. Today we’ll be stupid. Where are we getting drunk?”
***
From: Isabel Díaz
To: Charlie Bentley, Amaya Iturriaga López, Karim MSR, Nur the Great, Rocío J.
Subject: Re: How are you?
People,
You are being both adorable and ridiculous, just like everyone else these days. I’M FINE. Sure, I’m moping a bit, but it’s not a tell-tale sign of the Apocalypse. Also, I don’t need any interventions, although I love you and all your plans sound super nice. Except for the jazz festival. Seriously, jazz?
So this is how I spend the sad, sad days of my life: being home in Madrid. It’s nicer than I remembered. I haven’t actually lived here for years, and that was when Dad expected me to tell him where I was going and when I would be back. He doesn’t, now, seeing as I am nearly 22 and I don’t go out much anyway. So, I am home, and spend lots of time fending off people, as you can see. Reynalda wants to feed me, Jorge has a full-fledged campaign against sad music (Marlango is not sad, only slightly melancholy, right?), Fina thinks I should get drunk, Dad wants to discuss my future career (because of being in the dark or considering his dislike of academia more important than my heartbreak, I don’t know), Caro keeps inviting me to go shopping with her, Charlie begs me to let him show me his new yatch so I can brood and tan at the same time, Karim and Nur suggested a trip to Paris, and Amaya and Roci totally forgot jazz makes me sleepy. Oh, and Grandpa calls me solely to share with me his new dislike of all things Catalan.
Also, in case you want to drop by and join me, I watch ancient romantic comedies and my Gilmore Girls DVDs, and I’m finally catching up on House. I also watch the GP and F1 races with Dad and Jorge, which is my plan for tomorrow. We’ll wake up at an ungodly hour to see it live and Jorge will fall asleep because he doesn’t give a damn about motor sports and just wants to cuddle with us in the sofa. Then I might venture out to buy churros, help Reynalda with lunch and spend the afternoon with either Julie Andrews or Katharine Hepburn.
I hope you are all reassured. You can come and spend an afternoon whenever (or a few days, if you aren’t in Madrid), but trying to get me out will be useless. Except maybe for brunch.
See you soon or, at most, at my surprise b-day party!
Isabel
***
“I was so happy,” Julia said quietly, looking down at the steering wheel of her car. She said no more. I twisted in my seat to look at Xavi J., but he looked as alarmed as I felt.
I was back in Barcelona, it was barely September, and I had no idea what to do with my life. Except getting my teaching degree. That was something. I had also promised myself I would go to the swimming pool at least three times a week (riiight) and that I would get an awesome girlfriend before the semester was out (again, riiiight). I needed a part-time job, too, or at least more kids to tutor.
Also, I needed to cheer Julia up once and for all, and possibly do something about the Charlie thing. I still had no idea whether Julia missed him still or not, because she was most emphatically not speaking about it.
So, on this particular day, we’d driven to our campus so that I could do some crappy paperwork and for Julia to check out her grade on the European Gothic exam and paper, which her graduation depended on. It turned out the exams hadn’t been graded yet, but her professor said her paper was all right. So we checked out the language courses, then met with some friends who were not really studying for September exams. Xavi J. called me to meet up, and since it turned out that he was in the Science building, we offered to drive him back to Barcelona. He said we should go have lunch at his place. His own exam had gone well, the sun shone, Julia was smiling a lot, we were all quite happy-go-lucky. X.J. was teasing Julia about her love life and these love letters she had received from a guy years ago, and she was saying how she was free as a bird and didn’t care about men at all. I decided to tempt my luck.
“So, in Granada,” I said, over the roof of Julia’s car as we were waiting for the inside to be a bit more ventilated, “Isabel said something weird. She says Charlie thinks you didn’t care about him because you told him to go to bed?”
Julia turned ghastly pale and slid into her seat. X.J. and I followed, half expecting her to be weeping. But no, Julia would never cry in public; she just looked deflated and remote, and wrung her hands together. Then she said she had been happy. Then she clammed up.
“Spill,” prodded Xavi J. “I have no idea what you are talking about, and you know you can’t do this and expect us to do nothing, so, unless you do want us to get on a plane right now to kick some Prince Charming ass...”
Julia raised her eyes to look at him warily. “He said he loved me,” she said in a small voice. “He said he would stay, and move here, and it was all crazy and too wonderful and I was so tired. And he looked awful, and... I told him to go home and grab some sleep, and that he had an exam to take and things to do in Milan. But I didn’t mean--” Her voice broke and she frowned at the steering wheel again, as if to prevent tears. “And then you took me home and I didn’t really care about the fainting or anything, because he had said that, and he looked very earnest, and I believed he meant it. And I started worrying because I hadn’t said anything back--it sort of took a while to kick in... so I thought, I’ll tell him when I see him. But he didn’t come back, did he? Didn’t even call.”
She stopped talking at that, and Jardiner and I exchanged a worried glance again, not knowing what to say.
“That is why you said that it was a studying-abroad fling after all, and that you wouldn’t hold it against him if he had got carried away and then changed his mind once he was home, right?” That was X.J., trying to put the pieces together.
Julia nodded.
Well, it made sense. But, after filling this gap in the story, I couldn’t actually dismiss Isabel’s version, because it made sense, too. Oh, God. I felt bad for both of them for the first time in months. I could suddenly picture Charlie’s face at being told to go home right after baring his soul, especially if he had been serious about it all. He had asked her to call (he didn’t dare to), and she never did, Isabel had said.
She reached forward as if to start the car and finish the conversation. I stopped her, placing my hand on her wrist.
“Julia, would you say Charlie is... confident? I mean, considering how nice he is, he does seem a bit insecure.”
She stared at me. She looked slightly affronted, as if she was about to say What, it’s my fault now? The thing is, right at that point, I was sure she had thought of all this herself, and was stuck at that awkward same point, not wanting to follow with Oh shit, it IS my fault!, or It’s HIS fault! He deserted me and then changed his mind!
“Okay, look,” I said, before she said either (and got stuck there, because let’s face it, she’s rather stubborn). “You did right, telling him to take care of himself. It was a spur-of-the-moment plan and he did have things to do, and you weren’t ill right then so it made no sense for him to stay. And you were exhausted and not very coherent. But then--”
“If he loved me,” she said fiercely, suddenly jumping over the step-by-step retelling I was planning to make, “why on Earth didn’t he call? I needed him to call, you know.”
“He didn’t dare either,” I said, as neutrally as I could. “For all you know, maybe Charlie thinks it was a fling for you. Maybe he thought you didn’t want him around.”
“We guys can be perfectly stupid, you know, Jules,” was Xavi J.’s soothing input.
“Well, he can go on thinking that,” she said, starting up the car. “Too late now.”
We said nothing. Xavi J. put a hand on her shoulder, and that was it.
As we left the parking lot, she switched the CD player on, and Coldplay’s Violet Hill filled the car for a few chilly seconds. Julia switched it off as fast as she could. She said nothing for the rest of the ride.
***
By mid-September, things had started to look up again. I still felt stupid, and thinking about David made me feel an awful combination of shame and fury, but I trudged on and concentrated on planning my post-graduate life. There was my pre-PhD Mastery, which I had been positive I wanted to do, but that alone left a lot of free time to deal with. Besides, I wasn’t so sure anymore, thanks to Dad’s exhaustive badgering.
He and I were speaking again, although the exchanges were always a bit wary and far from entirely satisfying. He was trying, although he was as much of a workaholic as he ever had been. I appreciated that, but it probably didn’t show enough to make things easier. Still, it helped that he had managed to bond with Jorge during that weird man-only trip, and it was very obvious that he was as worried as I about his return to school.
Jorge milked it as much as he could; he definitely had his own Happy Family agenda. First, it was the race-watching in the weekends. From there, he managed to make Dad stay home long enough to have breakfast, too. Then, somehow, we were having breakfast together every day.
Isabel (still in pajamas, stopping by the kitchen doorway): Morning!
Jorge (sitting at the table and looking grown-up and handsome in his uniform): Heya!
Dad (from behind his newspaper): Hm-mm.
Isabel: I thought reading material and phones were off-limits?
Jorge (lifting a brown bag): Yup, but when he went down to buy it, he bought croissants too.
Isabel: Oh, right. Because pastries are preferable to articulate parents. Is this coffee cup for me?
Dad (lowering his paper): Eh! That one’s mine... was mine.
Jorge: Too late, Dad. So, who called you this early, Izzy?
Isabel: That was Charlie. He’s on the brink of getting back with his ex.
Jorge (spluttering on his Frosties): NOT VALERIA.
Isabel: I would be in MOURNING if it was Valeria. Don’t, Dad, I’ll make you another one. Julia called him last night, and it turns out she does love him, and we were all wrong. He called from the airport just now. He wanted to know if rushing there constitutes grovelling or not. (Stops by the counter to exchange a look with Jorge.) He wasn’t mad or anything. He should be mad, right?
Jorge (grins): Not if you had something to do with that call? Dad, betcha she did.
Dad (having left the paper aside): Er... I’m in?
Isabel (handing him his mug and sitting down): Um, Dad. I told you not to bet against Jorge.
(Jorge cackles. Dad mock-glares at him and pours milk into his coffee.)
Jorge: Did you call Julia first, yes or no?
Isabel: What, no! I just told her brother that Charlie wasn’t over her. Back in Granada.
Jorge (clearly choosing not to pursue the topic): See, Dad? Totally her doing. You owe me. Now, remember Anaïs? My friend from the Conservatory?
Dad: Sure.
Jorge (speeding up): So her ballet friend, Gema, is throwing a house party tomorrow, and she invited me to hang out there. Tomorrow’s Friday, so please...
Dad: What kind of house party? Will there be alcohol?
Jorge (after a small hesitation): Beer, I think. But that’s all. No drugs. No smoking. I won’t even drink. Much.
Dad: What do you mean, not much? (He looks at Isabel. She is trying not to laugh. Jorge leans forward until his forehead rests on the table.)
Isabel: You have to give him points for honesty. And you just lost your bet.
Dad: Do we know this Gema?
Jorge (definitely grovelling but not raising his head): Ballet friends, Dad! Fifteen girls for five guys, two of whom have a crush on each other!
Isabel: Nope. But we know Anaïs, and she won’t let him do anything stupid.
Jorge: That’s five girls per guy! I need a girlfriend!
Isabel: And I can pick him up.
Jorge (pivoting his head to smile at her): Controlling, but useful. Can we get Anaïs home too?
Isabel: Sure.
Dad: Alright. Fine.
Jorge (heavenwards): Hallelujah! I’ll call her. (Skips back to his room, leaving them alone.)
Dad (after a longing look at the discarded newspaper): Um. So. Don’t you have plans for tomorrow?
Isabel: Me? Yes. Reynalda and I are trying to catch up on Lost. We’re seven episodes into the third season... (realizing he looks blank) ...and on Saturday I’m going shopping and to a day spa with Nur.
Dad: That’s nice.
Isabel: Right.
(They both stir their coffee.)
Dad: So...
Isabel: Listen, in the end I decided not to send out my application for the scholarship. I guess there are lots of people who actually need it.
Dad (looking up): Okay. Well done.
Isabel: I’m in already, but I have to sign up sometime this month. But, hm, I thought about what you said. If I could get a job in my field, which I doubt, you know... but supposing I did, then I could do half the classes now and finish next year. It would only be a one-year delay and... well, I would have tried it. Not teaching, though. The kids would hate me. What are you doing?
Dad (on his Blackberry): Miriam is short on personnel. She’s in charge of a Young Adult branch in... I never remember the publishing house. One of the big ones.
Isabel: Dad! You can’t do that!
Dad: I can’t?
Isabel: It’s nepotism!
Dad: She isn’t stupid, you know. And she doesn’t owe me any favours. I just think she’ll like you. (Pocketing the Blackberry and getting up.) I sent you her e-mail address. Just write to her and attach your résumé. If you have trouble accepting help, I think my therapist will like you, too.
Isabel: Oh Lord. Fina is so right. I’m just like my father.
Dad (kissing the crown of her head): Have fun, buttercup.
(Isabel doesn’t know what to say, because it’s the first time he says that since she was in grade school. She settles for looking grumpy and waving goodbye. Dad seems happy enough with that, and smiles at her before going. She hears him say goodbye to Jorge, then the door closing after him).
Jorge (returning to finish his cereal): I think you’re his favourite kid again. He has no cutesy name for me.
Isabel: Of course not. You’re taller than him now. It would sound ridiculous.
Jorge: Want to drive me to school?
Isabel: I’m not dressed. Also, don’t push your luck.
Jorge: Come on. You hadn’t changed yet when I got home yesterday. You need to do things. Like getting dressed and being my chauffeur. Please?
Isabel: Oh, shut up. I could drive you around in my pajamas, you know.
Jorge: Right. (After taking his glass and his bowl to the sink, looking troubled.) You won’t, right? I’d rather take the bus.
Isabel (stands up): Fine. We’re leaving in five. I’ll get dressed. Stop worrying.
Jorge: I think I’m getting the hang of this Benevolently Manipulative gene.
Isabel (smirks): Right. You had totally given up. And I had to help you with Dad. You still have a long way to go, Grasshopper.
Jorge: Gah. Can Grasshopper be my new cutesy name?
***
A/N: Thanks forever to Hele and Elizabeth, who were as awesome as ever, and also betaed for me. Also, thank you to my new Elizabeth for the music and support!
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Si los delfines mueren de amores,
¡triste de mí!, ¿qué harán los hombres,
que tienen tiernos los corazones?
¡Triste de mí! ¿Qué harán los hombres?
‘If dolphins can die of love,
woe me!, what happens to men,
whose hearts are so tender?
Woe me! What happens to men?’
from the music book Libro de música para vihuela,
intitulado Orphenica lira, by M. Fuenllana.
I was hiding in my room and re-reading the letter for the umpteenth time that afternoon when Carla called me. When she can’t glare at you, she has this special way of sounding utterly annoyed and making you know, as you hear the first syllable, that it’s your fault, and that you are rather lucky she isn’t nearby (or else).
“Where the heck are you?”
“Um, home?” It came out as a squeak, of course.
“Aren’t you late for work?”
I actually sat up and checked my watch before realizing I was free that evening. But Carla didn’t wait for an answer. “I have been waiting for you! Fina too, but she left already. They were leaving for Madrid today.”
Ah. So she was hungry and had been abandoned in a bar in which she couldn’t order any tapas. That explained much.
“Want to meet up?” I was already up and checking my hair in the reflection on my window. Where were my shoes?
“I want to get drunk. Lola dumped me.”
That explained all, but no one had told me about it yet. I tripped over one sneaker while hopping about, trying to get the other one on without unlacing it. Very nearly killed myself. Anyhow, I fell on my bed and stared at the ceiling, taking a few seconds to shake off my stupefaction before saying something again. “Let’s go to the shawarma place first.”
“Hmm. Falafel.” She sighed. The week before, we had stopped by calle Elvira and she had had half a ball when Lola wasn’t looking. “You’re right, deep-fried beats vodka any day.”
“I’ll be there in ten minutes.” After shoving my feet into my sneakers (while sitting) and giving up on my hair, I ran out of my room and into Dad, who was playing the ostrich to Fede’s rooster and Antonio’s duckling.
“And I am the hen,” said Tere from the sofa. She was reading food blogs, only clucking half-heartedly when Antonio tried to peck her knee. I could tell she and my father had been fighting again and that the ostrich thing with the kids was his way to make up. “Are you going out?”
“With Carla. Don’t wait up, birdies.”
“Is Carla his girlfriend?” I heard Dad ask as I closed the front door after me. “Or is it the pretty one?”
Parents have the most wonderful sense of timing.
Anyway. By the time I got to calle Elvira and remembered which shawarma bar had been deemed best of the city by Fina, I found Carla was ordering all she could think of, letting the waiter flirt with her and enjoying herself too thoroughly to remember she was supposed to be mad at me. Then we sat in a table that seemed too small and wobbly to hold our dinner and we talked as we ate. Mainly, Carla did both things and I just sat there, dazed, nibbling at my fries.
“Let me see if I got it right,” I said, once she seemed to be done. “There was no dinner in the end, because Andrés told Lola off and Lola went all ‘this is my party and I’ll hide in the bathroom if I want to’, and after they left she told you she wants to be just friends because... she thinks she doesn’t like girls after all?”
“That’s so... bullshit,” Carla spat, then hid her face behind her hands. The white light of the fluorescent lamps made even the skin of her hands look pasty--I guessed she hadn’t slept much, if at all. She hadn’t eaten a lot, either, after the first impulse of gastronomical rebellion, and from the moment she started narrating the discussion with Lola, she had done nothing but play with her food. “I should never have gone out with her in the first place. I mean, she was on a double rebound from Julia and you, but, but I just... I really didn’t want to be alone any longer. And I know you won’t believe it, hell, I have trouble believing it myself, but I actually did like her. She’s not that bad when she relaxes and doesn’t worry about proving herself.”
I just stared at her until she peeked between her fingers and laughed--a bit shakily--, then threw her paper napkin at me.
“And because I’m stupid and will forever be stupid, I called Fina.”
“Why is that stupid, and why didn’t you call me?” I wouldn’t have been home when Isabel came over, maybe, and we would never have fought. Unless she had tried to ask me out some other day.
“Because she’s spent her holidays trying to get into my pants? I should have called you. I wasn’t thin--”
“Fina what?!”
It was her turn to pat my hand, her misery forgotten in light of my epic fail. “You are delightfully clueless.”
“Oh God. You don’t even know how much.”
The thing was, I felt AWFUL about the whole Isabel thing. Sure, I still wanted to strangle someone (namely, her) when I thought about that weird, weird, weird argument at my place. Then I wanted to kick my own balls, because since when did I go around pushing girls against walls? And the letter...
I hadn’t had much time to ponder on it, and I really wanted to dismiss it and forget all about the fight and Isabel, but I couldn’t. It was all too recent, and too shocking, and the letter had stirred it all up again that morning. I’d read it while Fede and Antonio were playing ball, wanting to scoff and toss it aside, but instead it had unsettled me more than I cared to admit.
It was so neat. So dainty. The paper was so white, the handwriting so precise, and there was the way it looked hurried in some parts and more thoughtful in others, and how there was hardly any word stricken out, and the way it ended, wishing me happiness after I had called her a bitch and everything. It made me feel sorry. And guilty. And confused, because I still didn’t know what to believe.
At first, I had been skeptical of everything in it--but then I couldn’t actually believe she would make up something like that about her own brother. So I thought, okay, maybe the kid had gone wild and Jaime had been there and had done nothing about it. It was surprisingly easy to believe of him.
Then I remembered Elena’s complaints about Jaime, and the fact that he was a regular don Juan sometimes (and bragged about it). So, maybe I could believe the cheating. The drug thing, though, was still ridiculous. Jaime didn’t even smoke, never mind sniff coke. I recalled (all smug and self-assured) how he had said he would never smoke, because he wanted to live as long as possible. But no, wait. That had been me, as we headed to Marina the first day we went out together, and he had just said I was totally right. He did have a tendency to me-too whatever people said. I had more than once suspected him of saying just the thing he thought someone wanted to hear, though it hadn’t seemed much of a character fault. And... yeah, I hadn’t heard much of him of late, except from Dídac, who looked up to him and probably took notes on what he said.
Let’s be honest. If Dídac and Cristian admired him, something was probably wrong.
The Julia thing, well. I was still mad about that. “She should tell him,” my ass. That was the amount of my thoughts on the subject.
“You spaced out, and you were supposed to comfort me,” Carla tutted.
“Yeah. Hm...” I stared at my lemonade. In Barcelona, lemonade doesn’t have mint in it. Turns out it does, in Granada. “So what are you going to do? Are you going to stay until September as you planned?”
“Oh. Right.” Carla wriggled in her seat and looked straight at me. I wasn’t going to like this. “Somehow, Lola talked that obnoxious Catalina woman into offering her a scholarship in her University in Navarra. It’s, like, the Ministry of Education offers the scholarship to the research groups and they get to choose among the applicants. Well, she’ll ask for it and she’ll get it, and she’s going to change her PhD tutor and her topic, too...” She trailed off and I nodded, not really following. She narrowed her eyes at the wall. “Do you think it’s her she likes, not Andrés? She’s so confused, really. She even denies ever having had a crush on Julia.”
“Do not go there. I don’t care if she’s lost and confused, she’s treated you like crap. Be angry now, pity her later, once you’re over it.”
“Yes. Right. I am angry with her.”
“So. She’s leaving don Carlos.” That got her back on track.
“Oh yes. He was livid. Took it personally, him being fantastically egocentric and all, and still hasn’t spoken a word to the daughter. To Lola he did talk, well, shout, this morning. It was only decided yesterday or so, I think, and he found out today. The man is a total drama queen, no wonder everyone is fleeing. The girls left this evening, Catalina and Andrés leave tomorrow and Lola won’t be working there next week, even though it will be months until she moves to Pamplona. And don Carlos made me have lunch with him in his office and offered me Lola’s job.”
I stared. “And what did you say?”
“I told him he should know I’m gay.”
“And what did he say?”
She rolled her eyes. “That he isn’t blind. Though I think he had no idea, really. So I told him Lola and I had had a fight and that I didn’t want to stay there anymore, and he said I could stay at Rosales until I found a flat to share, which should be easy because the city is full of students, so he was giving me two weeks. I think I will buy a car, too. Second-hand or something.”
“Wait. You are staying here? In Granada? In Rosales with the ogre?” She had been right; I didn’t like it one bit.
“Yup. I swore I would never work at a fast-food restaurant again in my life, if you recall, so really, I don’t have many more options. I like it here. It’s better than my hometown, in which there are only farmers and cows and no gay girls whatsoever.” There are hardly any girls, in fact, because they all flee from the sweet-but-Neanderthalish farmer guys. “And I won’t find a job in my field in Barcelona. And see, I kind of like the old man, and you do come here several times a year.” She pinched my cheek. “I’ll be fiiine. I’ll be more than fine. I can’t wait for Lola to leave, though.”
I grinned at her. “Yeah, I know. You will be great. Whereas I will do stupid things all the time because you won’t be there to stop me.”
She grinned back. “So right! But not today, I won’t stop you. Today we’ll be stupid. Where are we getting drunk?”
***
From: Isabel Díaz
To: Charlie Bentley, Amaya Iturriaga López, Karim MSR, Nur the Great, Rocío J.
Subject: Re: How are you?
People,
You are being both adorable and ridiculous, just like everyone else these days. I’M FINE. Sure, I’m moping a bit, but it’s not a tell-tale sign of the Apocalypse. Also, I don’t need any interventions, although I love you and all your plans sound super nice. Except for the jazz festival. Seriously, jazz?
So this is how I spend the sad, sad days of my life: being home in Madrid. It’s nicer than I remembered. I haven’t actually lived here for years, and that was when Dad expected me to tell him where I was going and when I would be back. He doesn’t, now, seeing as I am nearly 22 and I don’t go out much anyway. So, I am home, and spend lots of time fending off people, as you can see. Reynalda wants to feed me, Jorge has a full-fledged campaign against sad music (Marlango is not sad, only slightly melancholy, right?), Fina thinks I should get drunk, Dad wants to discuss my future career (because of being in the dark or considering his dislike of academia more important than my heartbreak, I don’t know), Caro keeps inviting me to go shopping with her, Charlie begs me to let him show me his new yatch so I can brood and tan at the same time, Karim and Nur suggested a trip to Paris, and Amaya and Roci totally forgot jazz makes me sleepy. Oh, and Grandpa calls me solely to share with me his new dislike of all things Catalan.
Also, in case you want to drop by and join me, I watch ancient romantic comedies and my Gilmore Girls DVDs, and I’m finally catching up on House. I also watch the GP and F1 races with Dad and Jorge, which is my plan for tomorrow. We’ll wake up at an ungodly hour to see it live and Jorge will fall asleep because he doesn’t give a damn about motor sports and just wants to cuddle with us in the sofa. Then I might venture out to buy churros, help Reynalda with lunch and spend the afternoon with either Julie Andrews or Katharine Hepburn.
I hope you are all reassured. You can come and spend an afternoon whenever (or a few days, if you aren’t in Madrid), but trying to get me out will be useless. Except maybe for brunch.
See you soon or, at most, at my surprise b-day party!
Isabel
***
“I was so happy,” Julia said quietly, looking down at the steering wheel of her car. She said no more. I twisted in my seat to look at Xavi J., but he looked as alarmed as I felt.
I was back in Barcelona, it was barely September, and I had no idea what to do with my life. Except getting my teaching degree. That was something. I had also promised myself I would go to the swimming pool at least three times a week (riiight) and that I would get an awesome girlfriend before the semester was out (again, riiiight). I needed a part-time job, too, or at least more kids to tutor.
Also, I needed to cheer Julia up once and for all, and possibly do something about the Charlie thing. I still had no idea whether Julia missed him still or not, because she was most emphatically not speaking about it.
So, on this particular day, we’d driven to our campus so that I could do some crappy paperwork and for Julia to check out her grade on the European Gothic exam and paper, which her graduation depended on. It turned out the exams hadn’t been graded yet, but her professor said her paper was all right. So we checked out the language courses, then met with some friends who were not really studying for September exams. Xavi J. called me to meet up, and since it turned out that he was in the Science building, we offered to drive him back to Barcelona. He said we should go have lunch at his place. His own exam had gone well, the sun shone, Julia was smiling a lot, we were all quite happy-go-lucky. X.J. was teasing Julia about her love life and these love letters she had received from a guy years ago, and she was saying how she was free as a bird and didn’t care about men at all. I decided to tempt my luck.
“So, in Granada,” I said, over the roof of Julia’s car as we were waiting for the inside to be a bit more ventilated, “Isabel said something weird. She says Charlie thinks you didn’t care about him because you told him to go to bed?”
Julia turned ghastly pale and slid into her seat. X.J. and I followed, half expecting her to be weeping. But no, Julia would never cry in public; she just looked deflated and remote, and wrung her hands together. Then she said she had been happy. Then she clammed up.
“Spill,” prodded Xavi J. “I have no idea what you are talking about, and you know you can’t do this and expect us to do nothing, so, unless you do want us to get on a plane right now to kick some Prince Charming ass...”
Julia raised her eyes to look at him warily. “He said he loved me,” she said in a small voice. “He said he would stay, and move here, and it was all crazy and too wonderful and I was so tired. And he looked awful, and... I told him to go home and grab some sleep, and that he had an exam to take and things to do in Milan. But I didn’t mean--” Her voice broke and she frowned at the steering wheel again, as if to prevent tears. “And then you took me home and I didn’t really care about the fainting or anything, because he had said that, and he looked very earnest, and I believed he meant it. And I started worrying because I hadn’t said anything back--it sort of took a while to kick in... so I thought, I’ll tell him when I see him. But he didn’t come back, did he? Didn’t even call.”
She stopped talking at that, and Jardiner and I exchanged a worried glance again, not knowing what to say.
“That is why you said that it was a studying-abroad fling after all, and that you wouldn’t hold it against him if he had got carried away and then changed his mind once he was home, right?” That was X.J., trying to put the pieces together.
Julia nodded.
Well, it made sense. But, after filling this gap in the story, I couldn’t actually dismiss Isabel’s version, because it made sense, too. Oh, God. I felt bad for both of them for the first time in months. I could suddenly picture Charlie’s face at being told to go home right after baring his soul, especially if he had been serious about it all. He had asked her to call (he didn’t dare to), and she never did, Isabel had said.
She reached forward as if to start the car and finish the conversation. I stopped her, placing my hand on her wrist.
“Julia, would you say Charlie is... confident? I mean, considering how nice he is, he does seem a bit insecure.”
She stared at me. She looked slightly affronted, as if she was about to say What, it’s my fault now? The thing is, right at that point, I was sure she had thought of all this herself, and was stuck at that awkward same point, not wanting to follow with Oh shit, it IS my fault!, or It’s HIS fault! He deserted me and then changed his mind!
“Okay, look,” I said, before she said either (and got stuck there, because let’s face it, she’s rather stubborn). “You did right, telling him to take care of himself. It was a spur-of-the-moment plan and he did have things to do, and you weren’t ill right then so it made no sense for him to stay. And you were exhausted and not very coherent. But then--”
“If he loved me,” she said fiercely, suddenly jumping over the step-by-step retelling I was planning to make, “why on Earth didn’t he call? I needed him to call, you know.”
“He didn’t dare either,” I said, as neutrally as I could. “For all you know, maybe Charlie thinks it was a fling for you. Maybe he thought you didn’t want him around.”
“We guys can be perfectly stupid, you know, Jules,” was Xavi J.’s soothing input.
“Well, he can go on thinking that,” she said, starting up the car. “Too late now.”
We said nothing. Xavi J. put a hand on her shoulder, and that was it.
As we left the parking lot, she switched the CD player on, and Coldplay’s Violet Hill filled the car for a few chilly seconds. Julia switched it off as fast as she could. She said nothing for the rest of the ride.
***
By mid-September, things had started to look up again. I still felt stupid, and thinking about David made me feel an awful combination of shame and fury, but I trudged on and concentrated on planning my post-graduate life. There was my pre-PhD Mastery, which I had been positive I wanted to do, but that alone left a lot of free time to deal with. Besides, I wasn’t so sure anymore, thanks to Dad’s exhaustive badgering.
He and I were speaking again, although the exchanges were always a bit wary and far from entirely satisfying. He was trying, although he was as much of a workaholic as he ever had been. I appreciated that, but it probably didn’t show enough to make things easier. Still, it helped that he had managed to bond with Jorge during that weird man-only trip, and it was very obvious that he was as worried as I about his return to school.
Jorge milked it as much as he could; he definitely had his own Happy Family agenda. First, it was the race-watching in the weekends. From there, he managed to make Dad stay home long enough to have breakfast, too. Then, somehow, we were having breakfast together every day.
Isabel (still in pajamas, stopping by the kitchen doorway): Morning!
Jorge (sitting at the table and looking grown-up and handsome in his uniform): Heya!
Dad (from behind his newspaper): Hm-mm.
Isabel: I thought reading material and phones were off-limits?
Jorge (lifting a brown bag): Yup, but when he went down to buy it, he bought croissants too.
Isabel: Oh, right. Because pastries are preferable to articulate parents. Is this coffee cup for me?
Dad (lowering his paper): Eh! That one’s mine... was mine.
Jorge: Too late, Dad. So, who called you this early, Izzy?
Isabel: That was Charlie. He’s on the brink of getting back with his ex.
Jorge (spluttering on his Frosties): NOT VALERIA.
Isabel: I would be in MOURNING if it was Valeria. Don’t, Dad, I’ll make you another one. Julia called him last night, and it turns out she does love him, and we were all wrong. He called from the airport just now. He wanted to know if rushing there constitutes grovelling or not. (Stops by the counter to exchange a look with Jorge.) He wasn’t mad or anything. He should be mad, right?
Jorge (grins): Not if you had something to do with that call? Dad, betcha she did.
Dad (having left the paper aside): Er... I’m in?
Isabel (handing him his mug and sitting down): Um, Dad. I told you not to bet against Jorge.
(Jorge cackles. Dad mock-glares at him and pours milk into his coffee.)
Jorge: Did you call Julia first, yes or no?
Isabel: What, no! I just told her brother that Charlie wasn’t over her. Back in Granada.
Jorge (clearly choosing not to pursue the topic): See, Dad? Totally her doing. You owe me. Now, remember Anaïs? My friend from the Conservatory?
Dad: Sure.
Jorge (speeding up): So her ballet friend, Gema, is throwing a house party tomorrow, and she invited me to hang out there. Tomorrow’s Friday, so please...
Dad: What kind of house party? Will there be alcohol?
Jorge (after a small hesitation): Beer, I think. But that’s all. No drugs. No smoking. I won’t even drink. Much.
Dad: What do you mean, not much? (He looks at Isabel. She is trying not to laugh. Jorge leans forward until his forehead rests on the table.)
Isabel: You have to give him points for honesty. And you just lost your bet.
Dad: Do we know this Gema?
Jorge (definitely grovelling but not raising his head): Ballet friends, Dad! Fifteen girls for five guys, two of whom have a crush on each other!
Isabel: Nope. But we know Anaïs, and she won’t let him do anything stupid.
Jorge: That’s five girls per guy! I need a girlfriend!
Isabel: And I can pick him up.
Jorge (pivoting his head to smile at her): Controlling, but useful. Can we get Anaïs home too?
Isabel: Sure.
Dad: Alright. Fine.
Jorge (heavenwards): Hallelujah! I’ll call her. (Skips back to his room, leaving them alone.)
Dad (after a longing look at the discarded newspaper): Um. So. Don’t you have plans for tomorrow?
Isabel: Me? Yes. Reynalda and I are trying to catch up on Lost. We’re seven episodes into the third season... (realizing he looks blank) ...and on Saturday I’m going shopping and to a day spa with Nur.
Dad: That’s nice.
Isabel: Right.
(They both stir their coffee.)
Dad: So...
Isabel: Listen, in the end I decided not to send out my application for the scholarship. I guess there are lots of people who actually need it.
Dad (looking up): Okay. Well done.
Isabel: I’m in already, but I have to sign up sometime this month. But, hm, I thought about what you said. If I could get a job in my field, which I doubt, you know... but supposing I did, then I could do half the classes now and finish next year. It would only be a one-year delay and... well, I would have tried it. Not teaching, though. The kids would hate me. What are you doing?
Dad (on his Blackberry): Miriam is short on personnel. She’s in charge of a Young Adult branch in... I never remember the publishing house. One of the big ones.
Isabel: Dad! You can’t do that!
Dad: I can’t?
Isabel: It’s nepotism!
Dad: She isn’t stupid, you know. And she doesn’t owe me any favours. I just think she’ll like you. (Pocketing the Blackberry and getting up.) I sent you her e-mail address. Just write to her and attach your résumé. If you have trouble accepting help, I think my therapist will like you, too.
Isabel: Oh Lord. Fina is so right. I’m just like my father.
Dad (kissing the crown of her head): Have fun, buttercup.
(Isabel doesn’t know what to say, because it’s the first time he says that since she was in grade school. She settles for looking grumpy and waving goodbye. Dad seems happy enough with that, and smiles at her before going. She hears him say goodbye to Jorge, then the door closing after him).
Jorge (returning to finish his cereal): I think you’re his favourite kid again. He has no cutesy name for me.
Isabel: Of course not. You’re taller than him now. It would sound ridiculous.
Jorge: Want to drive me to school?
Isabel: I’m not dressed. Also, don’t push your luck.
Jorge: Come on. You hadn’t changed yet when I got home yesterday. You need to do things. Like getting dressed and being my chauffeur. Please?
Isabel: Oh, shut up. I could drive you around in my pajamas, you know.
Jorge: Right. (After taking his glass and his bowl to the sink, looking troubled.) You won’t, right? I’d rather take the bus.
Isabel (stands up): Fine. We’re leaving in five. I’ll get dressed. Stop worrying.
Jorge: I think I’m getting the hang of this Benevolently Manipulative gene.
Isabel (smirks): Right. You had totally given up. And I had to help you with Dad. You still have a long way to go, Grasshopper.
Jorge: Gah. Can Grasshopper be my new cutesy name?
***
A/N: Thanks forever to Hele and Elizabeth, who were as awesome as ever, and also betaed for me. Also, thank you to my new Elizabeth for the music and support!