Not Anything by Carmen Rodrigues Page B

and this time I actually mean no. I’m also pretty sure that now is not the time for intros. I just want to go home. I just want to go home and wallow. Danny’s not going to ask me to homecoming, that’s obvious. “Can you—can you get my stuff?”
    “Yeah.” Danny looks slightly put out, and I wonder if maybe I misjudged him AGAIN. But then he says, rather roughly, “Yeah, I guess we’re…done.” And then I know that I didn’t.
    When Danny leaves, Mrs. Diaz FINALLY brings me a huge glass of water that I suck down in one sip. I try to calm myself by watching her bustle around the kitchen. It doesn’t work.
    “Here you go.” Danny comes back a few minutes later and hands me my things. “Oh, and”—he produces two CDs from behind his back—“I burned these for you.”
    “Huh?” I shake my head.
    “It’s the Beatles,” he says, like I’m slow, and he’s grumpy.
    He burned ME a CD? If I believed for a second that signs existed, I might say this was a sign—THE SIGN. But that seemed impossible.
    “Remember two weeks ago you told me you liked them?”
    I think back to two weeks ago, but I only vaguely recall a conversation where maybe—in passing—I mentioned that Marisol and I kind of liked old-school stuff like the Beatles.
    “I made one for you and one for Marisol.” He shrugs. “My parents have a huge Beatles collection, so…” He stops. Then he mutters the rest, like it’s all one big word: “Ijustwantedtothankyouforhelpingmeonthattestandforotherthings.” He shoves his hands into his pockets.
    “Yeah, well it’s…” I take a deep breath and go for it. “Sweet.” And when he looks up at me and smiles, sort of, I think, maybe I can do this? Maybe I can turn this around?
    I’m about to set my book bag back on the floor when he says, “I guess I’ll see you next week?” And then he turns and opens the sliding glass door.
    “Oh,” I hesitate, because now I’m unsure. I walk toward the sliding glass door, not really ready to leave, but not really sure what to say so that I can stay. I’d like to tell him how much his CD means to me; how special he has made me feel; and that I’m absolutely sure that if he were to ask me to homecoming, I’d say yes. And that’s when I find myself saying his name.
    “Danny?”
    “Yeah?” He smiles, and his eyes seem so gentle and open again.
    “I…” I struggle to speak. I struggle to get past the doubting voice in the back of my head that says, how can Danny ever like someone like me? How can Danny like someone who’s not anything?
    “Yeah?” Danny says again.
    “I just wanted to say—”
    In the background, I hear Dalia talking to Mrs. Diaz. Their voices are coming closer and closer. My heart beats faster and faster. Danny hears them, too. He looks over his shoulder and takes the slightest step away from me.
    “Yeah?” he asks for the third time, and maybe it’s me, but I think he sounds a little impatient.
    I try to read him, but I can’t. I can’t, and that’s when I stop trying because the answer is so obviously clear. I say, “Oh, nothing. Just thanks. Thanks for everything.”
    And then I leave, wishing that—despite the most embarrassing consequences—I might have had the courage to say more.

SIXTEEN
catfight
    the next day in driver’s ed, i sit in my squad line and think about everything Marisol had to say the day before. I think about wanting to fit in. What makes that so important to Marisol or even to me?
    I’ve always considered myself logical enough to know that after high school none of these people will matter. But because I’ve spent pretty much the last eleven years with them, I can’t help but wonder if maybe that’s a lie. What if they always matter? What if later on in life—just like now—I don’t fit in? Does Marisol feel that way, too?
    “Let’s go!” Jessica nudges me with her shoe. José is absent, so for today, she’s squad leader. We’re parallel parking, which according to Coach Brown,