I walked over to her, took her backpack off her shoulders, and pulled out a chair at the table. She sat down and didn’t say a word while her dad filled her in on how long I’d been in the kitchen, that I’d wanted to surprise her…etc., etc. He was excited as he told the story, but she just nodded like a zombie while her brothers took turns making a mess on the tablecloth. Some of the food got into their mouths, I think.
It was my go-to meal. The one I make because it’s simple and impressive. Classic lasagna, garlic knots with oil and vinegar, tomato and mozzarella salad, and fried zucchini. Then brownies with ice cream for dessert because I didn’t have time for tiramisu. Which is a shame because my tiramisu is a religious experience. Seriously.
Her dad had a giant grin on his face during the whole meal, but Maya, I couldn’t read. I made a plate for Maya’s mom and covered it in tinfoil before saying good night to everyone. Maya’s dad shook my hand, gave me a bear hug, and told me to come back anytime. Her brothers both hugged me around the knees before shouting something incomprehensible and racing down the hall to avoid a bath that, by the smell of them, they clearly needed.
Maya still hadn’t said anything. I figured my plan had been a complete disaster. I told her I’d see her at school and started walking home. Just as I was about to turn the corner, she came running up behind me.
“Why did you do that?” she asked.
“Do what? Make dinner?”
“Yes. Why did you make dinner?”
I shrugged. “Because all I can do is listen and feed you. And you weren’t talking. So I made dinner.”
“But…why?” Her voice sort of cracked.
“Because you said it was mostly scrambled eggs or whatever you felt like making when you got home. I thought it would be nice.”
“You thought it would be nice or you felt sorry for me?” I flinched at the forced toughness in her voice.
“What? No! I don’t feel sorry for you!” What the hell was wrong with her?
“Really? Is that why you came to our house in our ghetto neighborhood to bring food to poor people?” I’d never seen Maya like this before. Her hair had completely fallen out of its ponytail, and her eyes were searching my face for an explanation I couldn’t give. I had no idea what to say.
“That isn’t why I came,” I whispered.
“Then why would you come to our house and make dinner?” she asked again.
“Because I thought it would make you happy, and I like making you happy!” I shouted. I think we were both a little surprised by how loud my voice was. I don’t shout if I can help it, and I actually can’t remember the last time I raised my voice to make a point. I’m tall and I’ve always understood that the height coupled with yelling is fairly intimidating to regular-sized people. She stared at me for a few seconds.
That was when she kissed me full on the mouth, which turned out to be quite a feat because of the height difference. She pulled my face to hers and kissed me like she was trying to breathe and I was hogging all the air. I wrapped my arms around her and lifted her up onto her toes. A full minute might have passed like this before she pulled away and said, “It did make me happy.”
She didn’t look serious. In fact, in that moment she looked more un-Maya-ish than I’d ever seen her.
Then she turned and ran back toward her house so I wouldn’t notice that she was crying.
When I walked home, I heard a train whistle, and even though I knew no trains were running and it wasn’t real, I smiled. I like trains.
Remember when I said that in stories trains mean either adventure or death? Maybe it’s more than that. They might also mean choice. Every time the train’s whistle blows, it’s like a call to do something. I just don’t know what.
My mom was worried and angry when I got home, because I’d forgotten to tell her where I was going or that I was going to be late. Well, she’s probably always secretly hoped for regular kid problems.
Came in after curfew. Check.
I texted Maya while I was getting ready for bed.
Me: Are you ever going to tell me what you were upset about today?
A few minutes passed before she responded.
Maya: Ian
Me: What about him?
Maya: His family pays for my scholarship at St. Agatha’s
Me: Ok…
Maya: They do a yearly audit of my school records to make sure my grades are good. But today Ian was there at the meeting for the first time ever. It’s usually just the family’s financial planner who checks all the requirements off a list, but Ian pulled my records out himself. And went through everything out loud. Personal stuff. Mom’s salary. Dad’s salary. Financial hardship eligibility. I was so mad I was crying.
Me: Is there anything I can do?
I wanted to hurt him.
Maya: I’ll just trust karma. Besides, I’m not so angry about it right now.
See? Food fixes everything.
Well, good food, anyway.
DOSAGE: 2 mg. Same dosage.
NOVEMBER 14, 2012
I’ve told my mom that I don’t need therapy, but she doesn’t believe me. All my doctors still recommend it. They insist that this is the only outlet I have for the side effects of the drug.
The other doctors like to test my memory. But as I’ve told you, my memory is excellent. I can recite most major speeches if I like the way they sound.
It’s the other shit that’s messy.
Luckily, we seem to have hit the sweet spot for this drug because I can almost will my delusions to leave.
Yesterday, while I was talking to Maya, I watched the mobsters step out of the shadows on the blacktop and raise their guns. Just as they were about to open fire, I felt something strange snap into place in my head. It was the greatest sense of control I’ve ever had.
I was able to stare down the mob boss until he didn’t seem real anymore. He blinked. The mobsters and their weapons sank into the asphalt and disappeared.
I did that. I made them leave for the first time in my life.
Anyway, you asked about my Academic Team meets. They usually take place on the stage in the auditorium. Dwight says Ian’s family shelled out a ton of money about ten years ago to rebuild it. Now other Catholic high schools travel to us because our facilities are better. In fact, it’s so fancy that politicians want to use it for debates.
It’s weird to describe an event where you know that everyone else is smarter than you. There are really only three options: get intimidated, get competitive, or watch.
For most of the match, I watched from the second-string bench while Maya dominated the science questions and Dwight answered everything else. I don’t notice this much during school anymore—maybe it was the lighting on the stage or something—but he’s really pale. So pale you can almost see his brain through his forehead.
In the audience, I saw his mom, who looked a little older than the other parents. I’d heard her talk to Dwight before our practices. She’s definitely the overprotective type. You can just tell by the way she watches him compete onstage. I looked back to the stage when she started to wave at the team, and Dwight waved awkwardly back, clearly embarrassed. Maya was sitting next to him, and she smiled at me.