The Little Things
Bzzzzt!
The front-door buzzer caught me off guard. Who could possibly be at the door at eight p.m.? Certainly not my parents-they’d called earlier to tell me they’d be working late. I’d been making dinner for myself-spaghetti with Italian sausage, tomato sauce, and basil-when the buzzer made me drop the fork I’d been using to stir the pasta.
I left the kitchen, considering the possibilities of whom I might see when I opened the door. My parents, I quickly reasoned, would probably be at a company dinner at this time; there was little chance they’d get home till ten or eleven. My few friends from school were often at parties or basketball games. Even Ms. Hargood, who lived next door, seemed unlikely to stop by so late at night.
The view from the peephole in the front door was of no use, as the darkness outside prevented me from discerning even the shape of the visitor. Still, I swallowed my apprehension and unlocked the door, opening it just a little.
Standing on the doormat was a slender, six-foot-three girl with copper-colored hair that cascaded down her shoulders. Her denim jacket, white T-shirt, and worn-out jeans appeared to be speckled with red stains. But her chocolate-brown eyes and her sheepish smile told me it was her-Tara Riviera, the most popular girl at Ledger Hill High School.
“Hey, Vincent!” Her voice had a lilt that tugged at my ribcage, pulling me into the rhythms of her speech. “How’s life?”
I struggled to catch my breath for a moment. My heart started racing and my whole body got sweaty. It was hard to believe, even after seeing her face, that it was really her. I tried to conceal my labored breathing, but my throat wouldn’t let out a simple “hello” or “hey.”
I must have looked pretty flustered, because at that moment Tara began to giggle. It was a light, airy giggle, much different from the mean-spirited guffaws I’d observed in the majority of Ledger Hill High’s most prominent students.
“Aren’t you going to let me inside?” she asked once the giggles had subsided and she’d composed herself.
It wasn’t that she never came to my house. We’d worked together on psychology and biology projects in the past. But she was royalty to the town of Denville-her parents ran the renowned Riviera Investment Company in nearby Highland City, and their reputation had rubbed off on her. Knowing that her image would be tarnished if she was seen with an “average” guy like myself, I’d made it a point not to invite her over for anything besides our projects. The chances of Tara appearing at my door just to see me were, as far as I could tell, nonexistent. Yet there she was.
“Vincent?”
She gently placed her hand on the doorway, about an inch from where I had placed mine. That was when I realized I’d been staring into space again. It was a habit she’d pointed out during our first conversation three years ago. We were both freshmen at Ledger Hill High, running as fast as we could to reach the school before the bell rang. It was then that I’d tripped over a tree root stuck between two sidewalk tiles. Rather than leave me behind in her rush to get to school, she’d stopped to help me up. After ensuring that I wasn’t hurt, she’d told me how she’d seen me staring at the sky just before I’d tripped. That was my first memory of her, the one tempting me to tell her how I felt.
“Vincent? You in there?”
“Hmm? Oh, right. Sorry about that.” I was fully awake now. With no other options coming to mind, I opened the door and moved out of the way so she could enter.
Tara stepped inside, her nose twitching as the fragrances of sausage, tomato sauce and basil wafted through the hallway. Her eyes widened as she looked at me, then at the kitchen doorway, then back at me. I swallowed the saliva that had congealed in my throat; it was clear she was about to say something about the smell, and I had no idea how to respond.
“Um… I’d better check on that,” I told her. “Just, uh… give me a minute.”
I headed for the kitchen, my skin glazed with sweat. The spaghetti was nearly ready, but it looked as if I’d have to cook up another bowl for my guest. This wasn’t exactly a problem-I’d made dinner for both of us whenever she and I worked on our projects. Her parents had their friends from work over for dinner on most nights, and she usually stayed at a friend’s house to escape the commotion. On nights when she came over for projects, Tara and I would stay up till around eleven watching Goldstone-we’d both been fans of the show and its titular adventurer since childhood.
I cautiously lifted the pot of sauce off the stove and set about preparing the first bowl of pasta. Once that was done, I located the spaghetti box on the counter and started the process over for Tara’s dinner.
A few minutes later, I went to the living room to see how Tara was doing. She was standing in front of the framed drawing on one wall. I’d drawn the badly proportioned, excessively colored portrait of myself in second grade, and I’d been trying desperately to distance myself from it. Tara, on the other hand, liked to stand in front of the drawing and admire its “passion,” as she’d explained to me the first time she’d seen it.
The sound of my footsteps on the hardwood floor now captured her attention. She turned toward me with a smile on her face.
“I could stare at this drawing for hours,” she said. “Your parents must really appreciate your ideas.”
“Well…” I paused. “I mean, it’s not that great, but… well, I guess it’s, um… interesting.” I had to change the subject. “So, um… how’s your family?”
“Oh, they’re the same as ever. They’re having everyone over for Mom’s birthday. A really big deal.”
Looking into her eyes, I glimpsed a flash of something I couldn’t identify. Was it anger? Was it disappointment? I racked my brain for an explanation, but to no avail.
A part of me was just waiting for her to change her mind. To decide she didn’t really want to stay. I knew I was just making her uncomfortable. It wouldn’t have been half as bad if I’d known how to sustain the conversation. But I’d never been good at casual conversation; I could never figure out how to respond.
“Vincent? Is something wrong?”
I shook my head. “No… nothing.”
We sat across from each other at the dining table. Neither of us spoke-we were too busy enjoying the spaghetti. I could tell from Tara’s expression as she ate that she loved every bite of it.
Yet my thoughts drifted back to that flash I’d seen in her eyes. What could it have meant? Was it-whatever I’d seen-directed at me? But more importantly, why did she choose to come to my house? She had so many friends. What did she need me for?
After dinner, she went back to the living room. I figured she was just excited as usual to watch Goldstone, even though the show wouldn’t start until ten. With about an hour to kill, I got to work washing the dishes. It was a grueling task, and my fingers ached by the time I was done.
I returned to the living room to find Tara in front of my drawing again. This time, however, she was holding up a sheet of paper next to the drawing. I couldn’t see what was on the sheet from where I was standing, but I could see her face. It was a face I could never bear to see. It was the face of heartache.
A memory surfaced in my mind of the time I’d seen my big sister cry. She’d been dumped by her boyfriend, who had been cheating on her with her best friend. That night, she’d locked herself in her room for two hours. I’d gone to her room to ask if she wanted dinner when she’d opened the door. The tear-streaked face of my sister had been burned into my memory, even after she’d left town for Los Angeles.
Now, looking at Tara’s face, there was no denying it-she was in pain.
I approached her quietly. My body felt sweaty again and my heart felt like a giant drum that was being struck by boulders. I had, of course, no clue what to say or do. Still, there was something within me, small but loud, screaming in my skull. Not her, it said. Not her!
As I stepped closer to her, her sobs became more audible. I could see her scrunched-up face convulse as she fought to hold back her tears. The strange red stains on her outfit captured my attention again. One word ran through my head: blood.
Five steps from Tara, I was seized by apprehension. I stood there for what felt like an eternity, unable to move. My brain had been hijacked by fear-not of Tara herself, but of the pain she held within her. How could I possibly live with that burden? It would, I knew, bring me down as well.
And even if I could, what good would it do? She had no reason to let me in. She didn’t even have a reason to come to me-the guy who couldn’t sustain a conversation if he tried. There was no way she’d give me that chance.
That was when I remembered, once again, the way she’d looked at me after I’d tripped on the tree root three years ago. The smile that had formed not only on her lips, but in her eyes too. It was a smile I could never forget. Whenever I felt hopeless, frustrated, or lonely, I recalled that smile. It was, more than anything else, the reason I still believed in a way out.
Once again, that smile filled me with courage. I was strong. And I would not let Tara fall.
Slowly, softly, I took a step toward her. Suddenly, she turned her head toward me. I could easily have run back to the kitchen, or any other room. Yet I stayed. One thought filled my mind: to make sure she was all right.
Tara stared at me for a moment, her eyes wide. It was clear she hadn’t considered that I might want to check on her. For the first time, I saw her struggling with her words. Seeing her like this constricted my throat even more than before.
We stood there, not knowing what to say, for what felt like forever. Then, with a whimper, she reached for me with both hands. Without a second thought, she fell into my arms.
I held her tight, not knowing what else to do. She buried her face in my chest and wailed into my T-shirt. Tears spilled down my own cheeks and onto her hair. Still I willed myself to stay. To keep her safe.
Tara and I sat together on the couch, her head in the crook of my left arm. I’d made a strawberry-banana smoothie for her-she’d told me once that it was her favorite-and she was currently taking a big gulp of it. Her left hand held the mug; the fingers of her right hand, meanwhile, were interlaced with mine. For a long time, the only sound I heard was that of Tara’s throat as the smoothie was pushed to her stomach.
I was still concerned-although she’d calmed down a bit, this tranquil state could not be expected to last. Whatever had set her off earlier, she would most certainly break down again if it returned. Frightened by this possibility, I used my left arm to hold her closer to me.
Tara sensed my uneasiness; she had an incredible ability to feel when I was hurting, no matter how hard I attempted to conceal it. She put down the mug in her hand and reached for the side of my face. Her expression, I noted with surprise, was contrite, as if she felt she’d done something wrong.
“Hey,” I whispered, “what’s the matter?”
She pursed her lips and shook her head. In her eyes, however, I could see she was about to cry again. I knew that she wanted to talk to me, that she longed to talk to me. It was fear that kept her suffering bottled up.
“Tara,” I said cautiously, “I know I probably won’t be able to help. But…” I gulped. “I… I promise I’ll listen.”
She stared at me for a moment, studying my face. It was clear she wanted to trust me, wanted to believe I was really there. Nevertheless, she stayed silent.
I wanted to scream. I wanted to wail, even if the whole town heard me. What had happened to her? Who’d done this to her? The girl who’d had the courage to stand by me when no one else would-what had happened to her? I burst into tears.
At this, Tara sat up and unlaced her fingers from mine. I turned my face away from her, unable to imagine the disappointment in her expression. Then, all of a sudden, I felt her right hand on my back. She slipped her arm all the way around me, squeezing me tight. With her left hand, she turned my face back towards her.
“I’m sorry,” she whispered. “I wasn’t sure you’d…” She trailed off.
A lump grew in my throat.
She pulled a folded-up sheet of paper out of her pocket. Placing it on the table, she unfolded it for me to see. I realized almost instantly that it was the same sheet of paper I’d seen her holding earlier. It was an official-looking letter, with “Davis & Associates” in bold print at the top.
“The law firm?” I was taken aback. “Why do you have a letter from-”
“Read it,” she said, her voice choked by its own lump. “You’ll understand.”
The letter, addressed to Tara’s mother, was a jumble of legal terms. It took me nearly ten minutes to get through the first paragraph. But then my gaze landed on the words “unwanted pregnancy.”
After recovering from the initial shock of those words, I examined the whole sentence. My jaw dropped. There, at the start of the second paragraph, the lawyer had written that “Regrettably, I must inform you that any lawsuit filed against David Bentham for your unwanted pregnancy will be unsuccessful.”
I knew David Bentham’s name-he ran the Bentham-North Company, an investment firm that was in constant competition with that of Tara’s parents. Apparently they’d all been friends once, when they were just getting started in business. Then-according to Tara’s parents-Bentham had picked a fight with them at a party before Tara was born. Their friendship was severed and later referred to by Mr. Riviera as a “dumb mistake.”
Now, reading the lawyer’s words over and over, I felt chills race up my spine.
I looked at the date on the letter-March 17th, 2000. I did a quick calculation: five weeks. Five weeks before Tara’s date of birth.
It hit me. The account given by her family-it was just a cover-up. They knew if anyone else were to find out what had happened, it would be the end for them. And yet they didn’t have the decency to tell her.
I looked back at Tara. She looked like she was about to cry again. I realized in that moment what she was thinking.
“They knew I wasn’t like them,” Her voice was ragged, hoarse. “They knew I wasn’t anything like them, and they…” Tears spilled down her cheeks. “How many times have I been punished for that? I have to leave home just to keep myself from… from…” She threw her left arm around my abdomen. “I spent the first fourteen years of my life with no friends just because my family didn’t trust anyone after I was born! Not even my grandparents or…” Her jaw clenched. “People always tell me I’m lucky to have those two as my parents… Well, how would they react if they learned that every night until freshman year, t-those two would…” She took a deep breath. “Why couldn’t they let me be happy?”
She pressed her face against my shoulder and let out a noise that, although muffled by my cotton T-shirt, pierced through my heart. The one person who always had a smile on her face… the one who’d stood by me when no one else would dare to be seen with me… she was now unrecognizable.
That was when the feeling of Tara Riviera’s face on my shoulder brought back a memory of lying on a hospital bed, with an IV port in my chest pumping chemo into my body. My parents were stuck at a mandatory conference, so Tara had volunteered to stay with me. That day, we’d heard from the doctor that my chances of survival were close to nothing. Tara had been sitting quietly at my bedside while the doctor had explained the prognosis to us, but as soon as he’d left the room she’d turned to me and placed her hand on my forehead. I recalled how her eyes, staring right into mine, had been brimming with tears. She’d sat there for a moment, completely silent, before she’d lifted my head off the bed and brought it to her chest. Safe in her embrace, I let myself collapse. Then I’d heard her voice, whispering in my ear:
“Not now… I can’t lose you now…” Her lilting voice had barely registered in my brain, but the expression on her face had. “Please…”
She bore that same expression now; I could see it even though her face was partially concealed by the folds of my T-shirt. Looking at her, feeling her warmth, hearing her howls of agony, I finally understood what it had meant. Up until her appearance on my doorstep, I had believed that it was merely her friendly nature, her unwillingness to let go of anyone in her life. After all, I’d reasoned, why would Tara ever want to put her reputation-her future-aside for a guy like me?
But now, with her face buried in my shoulder, I realized I’d been lying to myself. All this time, ever since the tree root incident, she’d wanted to be there for me. To keep me safe.
I recalled the times she’d had Thanksgiving dinner with my family, during which she’d played with my younger cousins and conversed at length with my relatives. I recalled the times she’d joined my family on trips to Italy, to France, to India, to Mexico, to New York City, to Los Angeles.
And then, before I could realize it, I recalled the advice of my mom one morning after Tara and I had finished a biology project: “I know how girls get when they’re in love, Vincent, and I know that if Tara Riviera’s willing to give you her attention when everyone else at school is fighting for it, you must be doing something right.”
Gently, I placed my right hand under her chin. Apprehensive I may have been, but I was also resolved. I stared into her eyes. Deep within those oceans of chocolate-brown, I could see light-a warm, pulsing light that I’d never seen in her eyes whenever she was with her friends.
That was when I felt my own tears welling up again. Tara lifted a hand to my cheek. Her lip quivered.
“Tara…” I barely got the words out. “Why… did you come here tonight?”
She brushed a lock of messy black hair behind my ear. For a while she continued to stare at me. Then, her lips curled into a smile.
“Because you’re a good listener,” she whispered. “You listen to the little things.”
That night, Tara Riviera and I fell asleep on the living-room couch, our arms locked around each other.
And to this day, I still see the blissful smile on her face every time I close my eyes.
