matnew

Mariana Butte

The worst part of my bike ride home from school was the cul-de-sac that ran up a large grade to my house. The first ride around wasn't hard, but by the third lap my muscles ached as I pulled into my driveway. I rested my Mongoose against my father's worktable and pressed my nose against the bike seat for five seconds. From the corner of my eye I caught the neighbor's daughter, Sarah, spying on me with her head cocked. I released my nose from the bike and shifted my eyes around the garage, trying not to make eye contact with her.

“What were you doing?” she said, riding up my driveway on her scooter. Her straight, charcoal-black hair glimmered in the sun; her brown skin was smooth, her eyes were hazel and ubiquitous. She opened her lips to reveal her white teeth decorated with pink rubber bands and silver metal. Ever since I met Sarah a few months ago, she was an enigma to me. Everything from the obscure furniture in her house to how her mother picked her up for lunch everyday, as if school food was too insipid for her palate. When I told my mother that Sarah didn't eat lunch at the school, she sneered: “Those elitists are all the same breed.” She then combed through her thick blonde hair with her long nails, grabbed the keys to her Lexus, and drove to yoga class.

But Sarah, aside from her arcane lifestyle, was genuine in my eyes. When she witnessed me performing my daily routine for the first time that day I was glad it was she. If it were one of the boys on the block, endless torment would have assumed.

“Uh, I was just testing how soft the bike seat was,” I stammered and quickly walked inside. She called my name but I blocked her out, concentrating on my walking: left, right, left, right .

That's how I saw myself then: an awkward third-grader with a haircut that looked like someone put a bowl over my head and cut around the edge. I was scrawny, reserved; my mother dressed me in plaid and corduroy and surmised that I looked like Robert Redford. When I looked in the mirror though, I found that I looked less like the Sundance Kid and more like the geek in The Sandlot . The desire to touch my nose to an object was part of a daily routine that became more omnipresent each passing year, until the desire overfilled the brim and eventually poured over. Baseball games, standardized tests, conversations with girls all ended in uniform, speechless reactions whenever I touched my nose to an inanimate object. And so my parents drove me to every conceivable doctor and psychiatrist; made me swallow every different color pill. The last psychiatrist I visited employed the Freudian technique in which I laid on a skinny leather couch. As she talked about my relationship with my parents I tried to devise a plan where I could touch my nose to the white ceiling.

I took off my shoes in the den and walked upstairs to the kitchen. The fridge had little to offer in terms of snacks, just vegetables and soymilk. I sprawled out on the tile to cool off from the heat outside and noticed a note on the fridge. It read: KEVIN. I'LL BE HOME AFTER SIX WITH DINNER. EAT SOME RADISHES IF YOU'RE HUNGRY. LOVE, MOM. I tore off the note and threw it in the trash under the sink. After shutting and opening the cabinet door three times to confirm that the note was in the trash, I walked outside to find Sarah.

I locked the front door and tapped my elbow against the knob four times. Sarah was riding her scooter around my driveway.

“What are you doing?” I said.

“Riding my scooter,” she said, trying to do a trick.

“You want to go for a hike? I have to get out of the house.”

“Oh, because of your disorder.”

“It's a disease!” I felt my cheeks burn. “What do you know about it?”

“It's a disorder.” She crossed her arms and walked towards me. Sarah was a year older and knew that I was intimidated by her age. She was in the fourth grade, an uncharted territory. In my school, the fourth and fifth graders had class on the south side of school, a separate wing that my third-grade classmates and I could only fantasize about. Rumors of sweeping water fountains and soft drink machines circulated in my homeroom; it was the driving forcing behind us getting good grades: we wanted to revel in the euphoric fourth-grade experience. Once I ventured over to see Sarah during class. I tucked my bathroom pass between my arm and my torso and peered into the rooms, but couldn't find her. After a few minutes I got scared and ran back to my homeroom.

Sarah set her scooter down and grabbed my hand. We ran down the cul-de-sac, past a few blocks in our community, and over a fence labeled: PROPERTY OF MARIANA BUTTE GOLF COURSE. My left foot got stuck in the chain-linked fence and it took me a few seconds to pry it loose. Sarah laughed as she ran up the hill, her ponytail swaying in the dry wind. I eventually caught up, trying to dodge cacti and yucca plants as I ran up the face of the butte. When we got close the top, I scaled the eight-foot rock that capped the hill and found Sarah sitting crossed-legged, looking at the city below.

“Loveland has gotten bigger since I moved here,” she said, pointing to the interstate in the eastern distance.

“You've been here for three months,” I said.

“I know.” She smiled at me wide, assertive; her braces were reflecting sunlight. We sat on top of the butte for an hour, not saying another word. At first I felt awkward, but when she laid against a rock and closed her eyes I became more comfortable. As the sun started to set, we made our descent down the hill.

“My mom's going to kill me,” I said. I ran through the garage, pressed my nose against the bike seat, and placed my dirty shoes in the den. The lights in the kitchen were dim; the only light was the orange hue from the setting sun. My mother was leaning against the countertop, resting a wine glass in her right palm. A man with a navy-blue suit was standing next to her drinking coffee. When he saw me come up the stairs he walked over and held out his hand.

“You must be Kevin,” he said. He was corpulent and there were tiny, white lines running parallel down his suit. His face clean and shaven; his forced smile reminded me of my last psychiatrist when I told her of my daily routines.

“Is everything okay, mom?” I said, studying the pattern of the tile floor.

“I should probably go, Paula,” the man said. He patted the top of my head, grabbed his black briefcase and walked towards the front door. My mother walked out with him, and before he left she placed her arms around his broad shoulders and nestled her cheek against his. When she walked into the kitchen, she grabbed some vegetables and placed them on the cutting board. Her thin, white arms were rigid from her yoga exercises and early-morning jogs. She was wearing sweatband around her head and pivoted between the fridge and the sink on her two hundred dollar running shoes.

“You could've been nicer to Mr. Lombardy,” she sighed.

“Who's he?”

“He's the family lawyer.” She paused to run a couple of carrots under water. “Nothing's wrong, but…but I am sorry that I forgot about dinner. And now it's eight o'clock. Sorry, Kevin, I bet you're hungry.”

“A bit. I hiked with Sarah and I got hungry when I got to the top of the butte.”

My mother slammed a knife down on the carrot with each cut she made. “Is she the girl that moved here from the Middle East?”

“I think so. She said that she's Egyptian.” I opened the cupboard underneath the sink to see if the note that she left me was still in the trash. I sat on the cold tile and watched my mother cut vegetables, waiting for the right moment to place my nose on the salt-and-pepper granite in privacy.

“I don't know if you should be spending time with her. It's a different world over there.” “How did you know Sarah is in the fourth grade?”

My mother placed the knife on the cutting board and turned towards me with a crinkled nose, the lines on her forehead crunched together. She wiped her hands on her apron and removed a wok from a drawer. “I know you hate it when I say this, but there are things you'll understand when you grow up.”

She turned back to making dinner as I opened the cabinet door to confirm the note was in the trash.

The next day at school I had enough courage to walk to the south side. I had ten minutes between when my mother dropped me off and when class started, so I biked around the building to the opposite side. There was a line of fifth grade boys with backpacks and brown lunch bags staring at me as I walked my bike past them. They sneered, calling me a shrimp, but I paid no attention and looked for the next line. I spotted Sarah's pink, REI backpack a few lines down and saw her tie her black hair into a ponytail.

“Hey,” I said, tapping her shoulder. Sarah turned around, throwing her bunched hair around in a semicircle.

“Oh hey,” she said. “What are you doing here?” Before I could answer, one of her friends pulled her wrist and giggled as she whispered into Sarah's ear. Her blonde friend cuffed her hand over her mouth and Sarah's ear, but kept her eyes fixated on me.

Sweat reached the back of my neck. I pulled the back of my t-shirt to wipe it off and locked my eyes on my bike seat. It called to me: Do it now, while Sarah's not looking . The black and yellow seat enlarged as my nose drifted towards it. I placed my nose on the nylon and closed my eyes. When I lifted my head, I saw Sarah biting her lip and staring at the ground as her friends laughed behind her. The bell rung, and the lines of kids filtered into the doors. Sarah stayed in the same spot, as if her feet were stuck in concrete. Her arms were crossed, her eyes glossy and red. Before I could say a word, she ran into her classroom, her black ponytail bouncing with each step.

In art class that day, I thought about the way her hair twirled around as she ran off. When I finished my first drawing I saw my father's head peek through the door. He was wearing his dress shirt and black suit, wrinkled and the white pocket lining sticking out. Framed by the doorway, he appeared smaller and more enervated than when I last saw him a couple days ago. My art teacher, a frail, skinny woman old enough to be my great-grandmother got out of her seat to greet him. I saw their lips move, but I couldn't hear what they were saying. My father pointed to me and waved. I placed my pencil on the desk, picked up my backpack, and walked towards the door.

“Your old man is going to take you out for lunch,” he said and clapped his palms together. He thanked my art teacher and led me to his car.

“Where are we going?” I said.

“How about––” he paused and tapped his hands in a crescendo against the steering wheel as if it was a drum. “McDonald's!” He slapped my left leg and pumped his fist.

As we waited in line, my father bent down and smiled. “Your old man has a trick rolled up his sleeve,” he said. “Watch this.” He raised his body and started to talk to the cashier, a teenager with long, unkempt hair. The cashier's indolent face didn't change as my father placed his order; not even a hint at a smile.

“Is that all?” he sighed.

“No,” my father said, winking at me. “Two sides of your special sauce .”

“What special sauce ?” the cashier said.

“You know.” My father shrugged his shoulders and looked at me laughing. He tried to gesture special sauce with his hands, but his caricatures were lost on the cashier. The fluorescent lights glimmered on his bald head, the coffee stain on the side of his dress shirt led to his belt. “Your special sauce was a staple of your restaurant at one time. Are you telling me that you no longer carry it?”

“Pretty sure that's what I've been telling you.”

“How's this possible?”

The cashier's cheeks drooped like a hound dog. He walked to his manager who was by the drive-thru and returned with a handful of mayonnaise and ketchup packets. “Mix these together and it's our special sauce.”

“That's it? Not very special, is it?”

The cashier sighed as he pushed the tray of food closer to my father and summoned the next person in line. My father nodded and picked up the tray. When we sat at our table, he mixed the mayonnaise and ketchup with a soggy fry. He dipped my hamburger in the pink sauce and placed it on the yellow wrapper.

“It's good,” he said. He chewed on his hamburger and stared at the traffic outside. The rings around his eyes complimented the ring around his head, a two-inch thick strand of thin, brown hair. The past years he tried to confront his diminishing hairline, the bathroom littered with opened boxes of Rogaine and sprays. Last October he decided that the solution wasn't plugs or a wig, but a candy-apple red Mercedes convertible. When he brought it home from the dealer my mother laughed: “All you need is a twenty-year-old with a thirty-five inch bust in the city and you'll be set.”

“You missed out on mom's stir-fry last night,” I said.

“Sorry, buddy. I had to sleep at your Uncle Benny's last night.”

“Why?”

He chewed his hamburger for a second. “He's just working things out right now. I'll probably have to be there tonight as well.”

“It's okay. I saw our lawyer at home last night, but he didn't stay for dinner.”

My father set his hamburger down and wiped his hands with a napkin. “Russell Lombardy?”

“Yeah. He is fat.”

My father laughed and slapped the table. He took a bite of his hamburger but couldn't chew because he was still chuckling. “You know what this means?”

“No.”

“As our family's lawyer he's now in a contradiction of interests.” He balled his hand into a fist and touched it against my knuckles.

“What does that mean?”

He emptied his fries onto his wrapper. “Have you been taking your medicine?”

“Yeah.” I pictured the three medicine bottles lined perfectly in my closet, right above my shirts, categorized by the color spectrum: red, orange, yellow, green, and blue. I had no use for black or white t-shirts, for I never knew where to place them in my closet.

“I figured. You're a responsible young man.”

“Thanks.”

“Your mom tells me that you've been hanging out with the neighbor's daughter for awhile. Is she your girlfriend?”

I blushed and shook my head. “She ran away from me today.”

“Well, son, if God intended us to understand women He would've written a manual.” He looked up at me and placed some fries on my hamburger wrapper. “I'd like to tell you that it gets easier as your grow older, but––”

“That's what mom said.”

He stopped chewing and leaned back in his seat, defeated. “Well, if your mother says so.” His voice trailed and he placed his wrapper on the tray and into the trash.

When I arrived home that afternoon and made my three loops around the cul-de-sac, I saw Sarah walking out her front door and into my garage. In the driveway there was a sedan I never saw before, an ice-blue BMW. I placed my bike against my father's worktable and walked over to inspect the car. Sarah trotted along, taking multiple gulps of air as if she was going to say something.

“Whose car is this?” I said.

“I'm sorry about earlier,” Sarah said, pulling her long black hair behind her left ear. She held her hands together and held it at her curled lips. Before I could answer her, I felt the incessant desire to complete my afternoon routine: to touch my nose against my bike seat.

I walked towards my bike and said, “No problem. See you later.”

“Wait.” She kept pace with me and started talking about how bad she felt, how she couldn't stop thinking about what happened that morning. I nodded, trying to stifle her, but I couldn't contain myself any longer. I could feel my cheeks warm and the sweat accumulating on my forehead. My eyes raced between Sarah and the seat on my bike, calling me from across the garage.

I gave in. I could picture the image from a third person's perspective, as if they were standing in the garage doorway: my nose pressed against my bike seat, my butt towering in the air, and Sarah awkwardly shifting her body, waiting for me to return from my duty.

“Listen, I forgave you,” I said, my nose pressed against the seat. I had to keep it there for five seconds; it felt much longer. My nose slowly parted from its three o'clock date and when I raised my eyes I saw Sarah trying to conceal a laugh with a hand over her mouth. “It's not funny.”

“No, you're right. But you're so cute when you do that.”

“I don't think it's cute .” I stuck my tongue out.

“Does it embarrass you?”

“Well, look what happened this morning.” Her laughing ceased. At that moment I thought I did it again: I was going to make her cry. My eyes locked on hers, waiting for hers to swell with tears. As she raised her hand I closed my eyes, apprehensive that I was going to be slapped.

Instead, she rested her hand on my shoulder and whispered: “Stay here. Don't move.” She ran into her house and twenty seconds later returned with a thin blanket. The blanket was creamy and faded with a weird pattern that I can't conjure today. She rolled up her blanket, grabbed my hand, and led me towards Mariana Butte. After we passed the Goldsteins' house a few doors down she let go her grasp and started to run. I tried to catch up, but as I was small for my grade, her long legs were able to out run my stride of wheezes and coughs. By the time I made it to the chain-linked fence with the trespassing sign, she started to ascend the butte. I took a large breath and ran. I made my arms and hands into blades, cutting into the wind as fast as my short legs could push me. When I reached the face of the rock we were neck-and-neck. I placed my hand on the top of the rock and yelled: “I win.” Pulling my body on top of the butte I could see Sarah's hand gripping the top nook. I offered my hand and pulled her up by the wrist.

“It's not fair,” she said, wiping the red dirt off her white shorts. “I could only use one hand because of the blanket.” She sat against a rock and stared out east towards the interstate. The summer heat sank in to the air and the highway floated as if it had thousands of tiny bumps. “See the large white buildings by the interstate?”

“Yeah,” I said, squinting my eyes.

“That's the exact direction I need to point my blanket.” She laid out her blanket and smoothed the corners. She rested her body on her knees and pulled back her hail into a ponytail. “I figured since I witnessed you doing something embarrassing you can see me doing something weird.”

“You think this is weird?”

“No, but I don't do it outside of my house. That's why my mother picks me up for lunch. I have to pray five times a day.” She paused and cleared her breath. “But we're friends, right? You won't judge?”

I nodded and watched her pray. I thought about the last time I prayed. I was with my maternal grandparents at their Baptist church in eastern Texas. Lavished in a dress shirt and a tie that felt like a noose around my neck, they introduced me to the congregation.

“Please pray for our grandson, for his parents are leading him down the wrong path,” my grandfather said into the microphone. The faces in the pulpit were austere, their eyes focusing on mine. Sweat drenched my nylon dress shirt. I gripped my hands together and pressed it against my nose to calm myself. An elderly woman in the front row held her hand against her heart and awed. Soon, the whole congregation awed too, for all they saw was a pious six-year-old boy praying in the atrium.

At the time, I thought praying meant you clenched your hands as tight as you could before they became crimson red. And they were red, red as the cherries my grandmother picked out for me after church that day. When I saw Sarah moving her torso up and down on the blanket I figured that she clenched her fist differently, in which she used her whole body.

“I didn't know you were Muslim,” I said.

“Yeah,” she said, rolling up her blanket and propping it against her back. “My parents aren't very strict about it, though. They let me hangout with you.”

A dry wind rushed up the butte and passed through my hair. The air felt like my mother's hairdryer and dissolved the beads of sweat on my neck. Sarah blew her hair out of her face and stared at the landscape.

“I wonder if that was my parents' lawyer's BMW in the driveway.”

“I saw a big man get out of it a few minutes before you got home.”

A cloud blocked out the sun and shaded the top of the butte. The interstate in the distance straightened out, as if someone was pulling on two ends of a piece of string. And Sarah focused on the road, squinting her eyes until her vision focused.