The Ring

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The Ring

         I have to get him that ring! It’s perfect. I can just picture his face when he opens up the box and sees it. Then he’ll take it out and put it on his finger, and the smile will creep across his face, and he’ll look at me like he does sometimes in class – like he’s almost going to kiss me, but of course he can't --and I’ll get that feeling again, as if the ground is opening and I’m swimming in liquid warmth. Oh, yes. I have to buy that ring!

         But his birthday's in four days. How can I possibly save up the bucks? I’m broke. I couldn’t even buy a pizza with what’s in my piggybank, and I've already searched my pockets. Savings account? Right! It hasn’t seen a deposit in a year. Emergencies like that new blouse last week keep erasing me back to zero.

         But I've got to get that ring!

         I’ll search the garage. I bet Mom’s got some bottles and cans to recycle. But that’s not going to give me more than $5. I know she won’t do advances on my allowance, and Dad is down in Mexico. He’s always off somewhere on a business trip!

         Think! Babysitting – nah. No time. The ring would take me the next two years of Saturday nights, and then it would be too late for Carlos' birthday even if he asked me out and ...

         Yard work –- couldn’t possible earn enough. Get a job –- who’d hire me? I’m almost fifteen, but they don't hire fifteen-year-olds! Darn, this is tough.

         All right. I know I can do this. First, I’ll recycle. Then I’ll cut the lawn for Mom. While I’m doing that, I’ll think.

         Carlos says I have a good brain. That’s one of the reasons I like him so much. He encourages me. OK, and he’s also got eyes so golden brown they send shivers to my toes. He has eyes like amber, except without the scorpion or insect inside it. And he’s so incredible, so ...

         The ring. Think about the ring, not Carlos.

         Okay. The lawn is done, and I've earned $5. I recycled cans. $5 more. That's a total of $10. But, the ring costs $85 with tax, which means I have to earn $75 more! Oh, well, I’m on the road, walking down the pavement, whistling . . . But how am I going to get $75?

         Mom!

          “You have no business buying a ring for a boy," Mom starts in right away. "That Carlos is too old for you, anyway. He’s almost 17. Besides you’re too young to think about buying presents for boys. You should be concentrating on schoolwork and ..."


         Well, that was no help. Now what?

         My grandparents! Of course! I’ll take some flowers from the backyard and just pop in and give them a kiss. I need to visit anyway. It’s not like I’m doing it just to get money . . .

         Wow! A twenty-dollar bill, just ‘cause they love me. Life rocks!

         Let’s see. $75 minus $20 is $55. Oh, no. Where am I going to get $55?

         Darn, I wonder if there’s a cheaper ring? I think I’ll go look, but I so wanted to get him that one. It has real silver -- and an eagle. He loves eagles. I didn’t see any others with eagles . . .

         What does that sign say? Flea market? Saturday. Of course. Don’t you see? That’s perfect. I can sell stuff. I’ll go through my room and take everything I don’t want. I'll put it all together. I bet Mom has stuff she doesn’t want. Maybe Gramps and Grandma do, too.

         OK, I’ve lugged this stuff out here to the flea market, and it’s 6 am. I’ve never gotten up at 6 am on a Saturday morning before. Carlos really better appreciate this!

         $5 to get in? I never knew they charged! But, it doesn’t matter. I’ll get it back after I sell this stuff.

         It's already 10:00, and no one seems interested in used toys or toasters. What am I going to do?

         Ah, my first sell. I just made 50 cents! Soon I’ll be rolling in dough!

         "You want to buy the Barbie? Sure. How much? Name your price. . . $100? One hundred dollars? For a Barbie? It’s a collector’s version? Wow, I never knew that. Sure, it’s yours. You can have everything for a hundred!"

         Done. Success. I’m rich! I can even afford a bit of extravagance. I think I’ll look around.

          I kick at the dust and mosey about. "Cool shades! Maybe, I should buy a pair, or two . . ."

         “Carlos! I didn’t know you were going to be here today!”

         Who is that with you? Why is SHE draped around your body like Grandma's mink stole? Who is she?

         "This is your girl friend?" I say, my voice giving out, making me sound like I'm eleven.

          I thought that’s what I was, I think. I thought all those smiles of yours meant . . .

         “Nice meeting you, Francine. You’re a junior, like Carlos?" I manage to say.

          "What? No, I’m just a freshman.” I respond to her question, noticing how their hands are clasped together like . . . I tear my eyes away and stare past them.

         "You and Francine have been going steady for a year?" I hear myself repeating everything they say. It doesn't matter. I'm talking, acting like this is all a usual day, but it's as if I'm no longer there. The real me is shriveling up inside.

How come you smiled at me so much in typing class? I want to ask Carlos. How come you were so nice to me?

         I do not ask those questions. “Bye,” I say instead, pretending that everything's all right.

         I must be brave, I repeat to myself over and over as I walk away. Just because he was my partner, and we talked every day, and laughed and he smiled and . . .

A woman is looking at me, wondering why I'm mumbling to myself. I close my mouth and walk faster. Get me home, my mind cries out. Just get me home.

         I’ll never forget Carlos' amber eyes or his smile, I tell myself. "Oh, Carlos!" I sob, and I trip over a stone on the sidewalk.

         Be quiet heart. I mutter. I know, you’re shattered into pieces. I can fill the sharp edges poking into me.

          I pick myself up and walk on. Carlos still might drive by. Carlos and Francine. They might see me falling apart. They might see my tears.

          I stumble again. There is no rock this time, not even a pebble, only my feet refuse to function. I walk on anyway.

         Carlos must never see my tears. He must never know I loved him.

         Holding onto my pocket full of money, I bolt the rest of the way home.

          I enter the house, call out to Mom that I'm home. Then I spend the afternoon writing in my diary. I pour out all my feelings. The pages fill quickly. I flip them back and forth when I stop, amazed how much I've written.

         At one point, I pause the pencil and stop and think about the $130 I have in my pocket.

         "I'm rich," I say to myself. "I can buy anything." A hint of a smile bends my lips, but then the way Carlos looked at Francine flashes through my mind.

         "Carlos!" I cry out, and then my tears fall.

         The pages of my diary splotch with my grief. I don't notice at first. It's only later that I realize that on the many pages I'd written, the words are all smeared and run together.

          Monday I go to school. I smile and talk with Carlos. He's as friendly as always. But he's friendly with everyone. How could I have misunderstood?

         Weeks pass. One day I get out my diary. I'm ready to write again, but first I thumb through the pages where the tears have blurred my writing beyond understanding.

         As I nibble at my pencil, I think about writing it all down again, explaining, analyzing, examining it, but it doesn't matter anymore, I've already moved on.

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