—Sweetie pie, Viva says, kissing the air next to my cheek and hobbling over on denim platforms. Her hippie scent of patchouli mixing with the smell of fried food, overpowering the entire cafeteria. Her skirt rolled up so many times, she has to shimmy into the seat across from me. Viva mouths a loud hi to a huddle of seniors across the room, leans forward and drapes herself halfway across the lunch table to tell me whatever it is she has to tell me.
Then she delivers her bomb. —Lala, you’ve got to promise me you won’t tell a soul what I’m going to tell you. A soul. Promise, okay? You’re gonna flip.
Viva swallows a big gulp of air, and then adds, —Guess!
And then when I shrug and surrender, —No, I really can’t guess. Honest. I can’t. Cripes. Come on, are you going to tell me or what?
—You’ll never guess what Zorro said to me. Never in a million years. Oh, it’s too good, it’s killer. Promise you won’t say nothing.
—Okay already, I promise.
She scrunches her shoulders up and announces, with her little eyebrows rising like hats tossed in the air, —We’re engaged!
Honest to God, it’s like she hits me upside my head with a sock filled with rocks. —But what about San Francisco? I thought you said we were going to San Francisco.
—We can still go to San Francisco. You, me, and Zorro. Are you going to finish those french fries?
—What about freedom’s just another word for nothing left to lose? I mean, what happened to our plans?
—Shit, don’t freak on me. I said I’m engaged, I didn’t say I was dying. We’re still going. We can still become a famous songwriting team. Writers have lives, you know.
I can’t believe it’s Viva talking. The thought of Mister Darko coming with us anywhere, even to the Woolworth’s, just about makes me want to cry.
—I don’t feel too good, I say.
—Hey! Don’t be mad. Come on, I thought you’d be happy for me.
—Will you just grow up? Don’t you realize Darko’s an old man? He’s a creep. He’s ancient. He’s thirty years old, he’s got crease marks on his face like origami. And, by the way, in case you’re forgetting, you’re old enough to get him in jail.
—Now you sound like an old person yourself. I’m mature for my age. Zorro says so. I’m what they call precocious. I’ve always been mature for my age. And anyway why are we even talking like this? It’s not like we’re getting married soon, we’re engaged, get it? Engaged. Like we can wait till I graduate, till I’m eighteen, and then I don’t have to get anybody’s permission.
—But you said we were going to San Francisco as soon as we both finished school, and I won’t finish for three more years even.
—La, don’t you get whiny on me. Sad is one thing, whiny I can’t stand.
The future Mrs. Zoran Darko dumps the contents of her purse on the table and starts to reapply her makeup. She dips a pinky into a lip gloss jar and comes out with a nasty heap of sparkling grease the color of mashed raspberries and glitter, which she dabs carefully on her lips, all the while watching herself in a compact mirror, until her mouth looks like a jelly donut. Then she wipes her pinky on the bottom of the cafeteria table, chattering and chirping like the little parakeets we see in the basement of the Woolworth’s.
—You break my heart, Viva says, working on her purple eye shadow. —You should see yourself. You look like those big teddy bears they give away at the carnivals. Listen, sweets, it’s simple. You’re the author of the telenovela of your life. You want a comedy or a tragedy? If the episode’s a tearjerker, you can hang yourself or hang in there. Choose. I believe in destiny as much as you do, but sometimes you’ve gotta help your destiny along. Hey, mamas, it’s not the end of the world. You’re still my best friend, right? Right? Come on, Lala, you gotta say yes. I need you as my maid of honor. I’m already designing the coolest dresses we’re going to wear.
Viva’s mouth opening and closing, her plucked eyebrows rising and falling. On and on like this forever. Same as always. She talking, me saying nothing. On and on and on.