Answer To My Life

s i x

On Thursday, I'm nervous to say the least. I feel like I shouldn't be doing this but as I dress and pull on a white shirt, I try to calm down. I put on black jeans and an oversized denim jacket over my shirt, then pull on my trusted white slip-on Vans. I grab a brown shoulder bag from my closet and walk out of the room, taking deep breaths as I go on.

"Where are you going?" My dad asks.

"I'm going to a friend's house."

"For what? It's a school night."

"To work on something for school."

"Really?" He questions suspiciously. "Why aren't you taking any school supplies then?"

"She has everything at her house," I respond.

He doesn't say anything and leaves me alone, which I take as a signal that I can go. I walk to her house, which based on what my phone said, should only be about a 25 minute walk.

I've walked farther distances and like that stereotype about gays and their walking skills, I get to her house in 18 minutes rather than the estimated 25. I knock lightly on her door but after no one answers, I knock harder.

I look around at the large house with a pale yellow exterior and clean lines. The entire house is plain without any decorations and gives off a bit of an unwelcoming vibe. I look into one of the windows, spotting Zara walking to the door. I immediately stand up straight as she opens up, welcoming me inside.

With the exception of a few photos of her and who I assume are her family, the house is dull and too minimalistic. When Zara closes the door, she takes me by surprise and starts to kiss me. I kiss her back, but feel little to nothing in my head and heart.

  I pull away from her.

"Um. . . Listen, I just wanted to talk."

"Why?" she asks rudely, as if that somehow offends her.

  "I wanted to get to know you first."

She laughs suddenly, and says, "okay, whatever. Let's go upstairs."

  I follow her to her room and she opens the door, motioning for me to go inside. Her room is a dark shade of purple, with clutter on the shelves and a painting set in the corner. Her bed is neatly made and her nightstand catches my eye, as it has a small abstract painting on it.

"That's pretty," I tell her as I point to it.

"Thanks," she says. "It describes my feelings."

"Ah, is it good or bad then?" I ask.

"What do you think?"

I take another moment to analyze the artwork, and the streaks of light colors stand in contrast of the dark background. The paintbrush strokes are both even and unorganized, creating a mess of creativity that reflects an ultimately positive message.

"Good feelings," I finally respond.

  "Nice. Most people don't catch it and think it's just like a snapshot of my supposed insanity," she says, then adding, "like my mom."

"I'm sorry to hear that."

"I'm used to it. I don't think you want to hear about that though, what else do you want to talk about?"

"I liked talking about that. I want to know more about you, if you're comfortable with that," I tell her.

  "I didn't know you were such a romantic, Idalia," she says.

"It's not romantic to want to know more about a person."

"It's surprising."

I shrug and say, "I guess I'm full of surprises."

She looks into my eyes, cupping my cheek and tells me, "I am too because I want to get to know you too."

"What do you mean?"

"Let's get to know each other," she says brightly. "I know this great diner in town, want to come with?"

"Of course," I tell her.

So, that's how Zara and I end up walking to the diner she claims to be "best in the world." I admit, I feel nice around her. Protected as if I have a strong shield at my arms.