“I can’t.”
She nods her head. Sucks in a deep breath.
She stands up.
And walks out fast.
THURSDAY, APRIL 9, 2009
I help clear the table after another great dinner. There’s silly talk about people at the Ta’amus’ church and ridiculous coworker stories. Big laughs when Kennedy gives Caleb and his sisters a hard time. They flip it right back and Kennedy puts on a show like he’s scary angry—and the scarier-angrier he gets, the louder Caleb and his sisters laugh and Rita apologizes for her family’s behavior, like she’s afraid I think they’re all too crazy.
The Ta’amus are crazy in the best way possible.
When Caleb and I finish for the night, he heads up to bed. I read some chapters in my book, then put my stuff away. I grab blankets and make my bed on the sofa and crawl in and turn out the lights.
And in the dark and quiet, I miss home. I can’t even say why. But I do.
I pull covers up tight. Close my eyes. And just as a Manny dream kicks in …
BUZZZZZZZZ!
I throw off blankets, spring from the couch, and dive for that phone.
FRI APR 10 12:07 A.M.
Wendy: Sorry it’s been a while.
Wendy: I was mad at you.
T: I’m sorry. I was insensitive.
I know it’s hard with your mom.
Wendy: It’s just us. So everything gets
amplified. But, Teodoro, I’m
sorry I shut you out. That was
stupid. And mean.
Wendy: It wasn’t you. I was oversensitive.
T: It’s all right, Wendy.
Wendy: Teodoro, this is new territory.
Unexpected. Not part of the
master plan.
T: What isn’t?
Wendy: Feeling very much like for a
person. That domino isn’t
supposed to fall yet.
Wendy: Maybe a ton of patience is in
order.
T: I have two tons of patience.
Wendy: Is there a chance you have 3?
T: I think so. Hold on. Recounting …
T: Whoa, I was way off. Looks like I
have 1,476 tons of patience.
Wendy: I really missed you, Teodoro.
T: I missed you too, Wendy.
SAT APR 11 12:57 A.M.
Wendy: May concert coming up …
T: I’m going to see ya tuba?
Wendy: Yabba Dabba Dooba!
Wendy: Whoa, that was corny.
T: I wasn’t going to say anything.
THURSDAY, MAY 7, 2009
Caleb pulls out of the Puget parking lot after school.
“I’m gonna be honest,” I say. “I’m a little bit nervous.”
“T, you’re shaking and you look like you’re gonna puke. I’d hate to see what very nervous looks like.”
We get to Caleb’s. I prep for Wendy. He double-checks my wardrobe and hair. Talks me through that first moment of seeing her. What to say. How to read her body language. Kiss or no kiss … how many seconds to hold the kiss if kissing happens … all that stuff.
I tell Caleb I’m not sure if I should go.
“That’s a normal feeling,” he says. “Normal for you, T. Because you’re an idiot.”
Then he pushes me out the door.
As I pull away in the Civic, I watch Caleb waving, getting smaller and smaller.
It’s not that I don’t wanna go see Wendy blow her tuba.
The problem is I wanna go too much. And I’m afraid I’ll mess everything up again. I’ll try to be funny and say something stupid or insensitive. And Wendy will catch onto me. She’ll realize I’m a fraud and she’ll figure out I been lying about my family.
I get halfway down to Vancouver on I-5 and I’m so messed up I take my foot off the gas. I take the Centralia exit. Pull the car to the side of the road. Take out my phone.
THU MAY 07 6:13 P.M.
T: Dang, Wendy! Car broke down. Still
an hour away. Not gonna make it.
Wendy: Oh no. A little bit crushed here. You
okay, Teodoro? You got help?
T: Triple A says it’ll be an hour and
a half, so … Sucks. I wanna see you
do tuba so bad.
Wendy: I know. I’ve been waiting for that
face cheek kiss, Teodoro.
T: Me too, Wendy.
Wendy: Now Tom’s the only one getting
kissed.
T: Um … Tom?
Wendy: Tom Tuba.
T: This is awkward.
Wendy: ?
T: I’m jealous of a tuba. That’s
messed up.
Wendy: Don’t tell him I said this, but Tom’s
a little jealous of you. I have to go,
Teodoro. Text me when you get
home. Don’t forget.
I think about stalling and showing up at Caleb’s way late. Telling him how great the concert was. How awesome Wendy was. How much we clicked.
But I’m in too deep. Any more lies and I’ll drown.
So I drive straight back and tell Caleb I wussed out.
And before he can bust me up, I tell him I still got stuff I need to make right. “And until I do that, I can’t—”
“It’s okay, T,” he says. “I get it. Now come here.” Caleb spreads his arms wide and pulls me into a hug. He squeezes hard. Pounds my back with his palm. Lifts me off the ground.
I fully admit it, I need this hug.
We sit in the cave and have the same conversation about my life—and his—that we’ve had a bunch of times this year. Only this time, it’s bigger, stronger, deeper. We’ve only got a few weeks left. But we can still listen better. Take notes better. Ask more questions. Study harder. We’ve got finals coming up. Tests and papers. We’re gonna see this thing all the way to the finish line.
And if we do, dreams can come true. That sounds corny as hell. But it’s the way we’re talking now.
THU MAY 07 10:27 P.M.
T: Made it home safe.
Wendy: Thanks for letting me know. I’m
a worrier, Teodoro.
T: Thanks for worrying about me.
How’d it go?
Wendy: We were good tonight.
T: You and Tom?
Wendy: The whole band. It all came
together.
T: That’s really cool, Wendy.
Wendy: I think so, too.
FRIDAY, JUNE 12, 2009
I cannot leave school.
The bell has rung. Students have fled. The halls are quiet. Summer has arrived.
But I’m still here, strutting the halls like I own the place, soaking it all in.
I’m living in multiple-A territory. One in English and one in History. Boom and boom! I’m up to a solid B in Algebra Two and a freaking B-minus in chem, which is the biggest victory of all.
I visit my core teachers from the year … check in with next year’s crew. I thank Ms. Bradley and Ms. Hays. Chat them up about summer plans. It’s awesome.
Then I bus it to SeaTac. To the rental.
Kennedy Ta’amu called my dad and learned I missed some dinners. All the dinners. So he sits me down and says stuff about taking me in. Feeding me. Treating me like family. Because you are a member of my family, son. And he tells me when he heard I hadn’t been home, he was gonna kick me out.
Then Kennedy tells me that Jesus Christ taught him to forgive.
I say, I’m so sorry, I’m so sorry. All I want to do is win back that man’s trust.
The bus makes its way up Nineteenth toward Pac Highway, and I send a text to break the ice with Xochitl. I tell her I’m gonna hang out a couple hours before dinner. I leave out the part that if there’s drama, I’m grabbing my burger to go.
The whole bus ride I’m going over summer plans in my head. Yeah, junior year was great. But it’s over. First semester senior year is going to make or break me now. And my summer prep is going to make or br
eak that first semester. In order for my transcripts to fully reflect my complete transformation by application deadline time, I gotta turn myself into a math and science whiz ASAP. So this summer, when I’m not working at Vince’s or studying with Bashir, I’ll be cramming with Caleb or by myself if he’s on shift.
Vince’s promised me thirty hours a week. That means I can see Bashir four, maybe five times a week and still save up money for senior year crap … pictures, AP tests, my UW application, and prom.
Prom. I got my fingers and toes crossed.
Outside of all that, I’ll go to a couple movies with Caleb, sit through Friday dinners at the rental, and make some day trips to Vancouver if I can get myself brave enough.
I hop off the bus, drop the long-term thinking, and go over my immediate strategy. After I moved in with Caleb, and after Xochitl’s visit, she started texting me updates about how Manny and Mami and Papi were doing. All bad news. Those guilt trips worked for a while. Then I stopped returning her texts. And she gave up. So … tonight, there will be no apologies. I’m not starting that conversation. I’m gonna strike first and come right at my family with my two As, my U-Dub goals, and my plans for senior year.
And wherever the conversation goes after that, I’m gonna stay positive. I will not let myself get emotionally sucked in. I will smile. Nod my head yes. I will not let my parents and Manny get me down. I will not let Xochitl make me feel guilty. I will breathe and I will get my green chile fix and get outta there in one piece so I can concentrate on prepping for physics with Bashir in the morning.
Get in.
Remain positive.
Get out.
Easy.
That’s what I’m thinking when I see Xochitl bounce out of the rental.
I put on my hardest smile, ready for anything she’s got.
Xochitl sees me. She smiles back and waves big. She pulls a cigarette from her mouth and shouts, “Hey, stranger!” as she skips to the curb and onto the hood of a beat-up, ancient blue station wagon. She flips some purple hair out of her eyes. “T, meet Sally.” Then she leans into the car and goes, “Sally, this is Teodoro. We try hard to love him.”
Before I can get past her and that beast car, she skips around to the passenger side and opens the door. “Hop in, T. You and Manny get the first ride in the dream-mobile.”
“I’ll pass, Xoch. I’m gonna head in and say hi to Mami.”
“Mami’s still at work and Papi’s at the hardware store. Manny wants to take a ride, so…” She runs her cigarette hand through her hair, caresses the car, and says, “Get inside Sally, T. You know you want her.”
“Sick, Xoch. Why’d you get this thing?”
“Tired of the bus. Tired of bumming rides. You like her?”
“It’s really old. How many miles does it—”
“She’s vintage, T. A 1961 Rambler Cross Country Classic. Full engine makeover. Just outta the shop.”
The rental door opens and Manny stumbles out.
“Hey, Man,” Xochitl says, “Sally’s ready for her close-up. Hop in.”
Manny’s looking beat. Squinting his bloodshot eyes against the sunlight. But he’s standing upright and he’s outside the house. He’s in some nice jeans and that same white shirt he wore for my conference.
He arches his back, stretches tall, and flashes a Manny grin. “Hey, T. Good to see you, bud. Let’s do this.”
That smile about knocks me over. I haven’t seen it since his first days home.
Manny hops in the back seat. Closes the door.
Xochitl nods his way. “Things are looking up, T. Get in, baby brother.”
I tell myself, It’s a little joy ride. She just wants to show off the car. No big deal.
But my gut is telling me to step away from the car. And run fast.
Manny rolls down a window. “Let’s make her happy, T. Come on.”
Xochitl looks at me with big, bright eyes. “Manny’s better. Everything is okay. Let’s…” She mimes holding a huge book and turning a huge page. “Get it?” she says.
“I get it, Xoch.”
“We good now?” she says.
We’re weird now, is what I wanna say.
She holds a hand out for me to shake and says, “I missed you, T.”
I look at my sister thinking how great things used to be between us.
Then I shake her hand and it’s a massive relief. “I missed you, too, Xochitl.”
“Ride time!” she says.
I jump in. The seat is surprisingly springy. And there is more metal on the dash than I’ve ever seen in a car. I reach over my shoulder for the belt but there’s just a frayed end where someone had cut it off. There’s still a lap belt, so I snap that thing on and pull the strap as tight as I can. I close my eyes, take in Sally’s funky spilled-milk-and-smoke smell, and prepare for what’s coming. But Xochitl leans in the window and says, “Sit tight a sec.”
And I’m alone in the car with Manny.
It’s the closest we’ve been since we slept on opposite sides of the wall.
He leans into the front seat and I flinch and immediately feel like a jerk for flinching.
“It’s okay,” Manny says. “I’m sorry. I know I haven’t been easy to live with.”
I tell him it’s all good and no worries and I’m sorry I haven’t been around.
And Manny tells me he’s doing better.
“Yeah, Man?” I say. “What happened?”
“Xoch wore me down,” he says. “I figured the only way to shut her up was to do whatever she says.” He pats me on the shoulder. “It’s good to see you, T.”
That smile … I tell him it’s great to see him, too.
The sound of the tailgate popping open. Something heavy drops in. The tailgate slams. Xochitl gets in the driver’s seat. “Here we are. Together. When was the last time—”
“Ándale, Xochitl.”
“This is a moment, T. Respect it.”
She pulls her cigarette to her lips. Breathes in a lungful. Closes her eyes and holds the smoke in her puffed cheeks for an impossibly long time. Then she blows a slow, steady stream out the window. She stares at the cigarette. Lets out a sigh. And grinds it into the ashtray. She holds the butt up in the air for all to see. “This, my beloved brothers, is my last smoke. Ever.”
“I’m proud of you, Xoch,” I say. “Now let’s—”
“Good-bye, old friend!” She tosses the butt out the window and turns the key. Sally rumbles to life. Xochitl pulls down the stick to shift—clunk-clunk—and punches the gas pedal so hard the tires squeal and we blast off like a spring-loaded roller coaster.
* * *
Xochitl pulls the beast car from one lane to the next, weaving in and out of traffic on this airport stretch of Pacific Highway. I grip the dash and think about the day Xochitl wrecked Manny’s Mustang. Manny was in Iraq when Xochitl got her license. Mami and Papi let her drive it to Eastern Washington to visit our grandma Abita. Somehow, she ended up rolling Manny’s beloved car in the median on Snoqualmie Pass. She was lucky she didn’t get killed.
“The car is awesome, Xoch. Now let’s get back for Mami’s dinner.”
“No worries, T. We have all kinds of time,” she says. And she lets go of the wheel, reaches back over the seat, and swats Manny in the leg. “Can you believe this car, Man?”
“Yeah, Xoch. Just like old times.”
We had a station wagon like this when I was little. Papi drove it on a family trip down the coast to California, then over to our Tío Ed’s farm in New Mexico. We stopped and saw friends and family along the way. I was too little to remember, but I’ve heard the stories a million times.
Before I know it, Xochitl says she wants to show off Sally’s freeway skills and she’s on the ramp for I-5 heading north.
I tell her to please make it quick.
Xochitl hits the gas hard as she darts into the fast lane.
There’s an exit off I-5 coming up. She doesn’t take it.
Pretty soon she taps he
r turn signal. And we’re driving north on I-405. Another freeway taking us in the wrong direction.
“Xochitl,” I say. “I love this car. Now turn around.”
She pretends she doesn’t hear me.
I say it louder and she says, “I can’t turn around, Teodoro. There’s a dear, sweet old lady in Yakima making dinner special for us.”
“Aw, hell no,” I say. “There’s no way. Turn us around, Xoch.”
“You haven’t seen Abita in a whole year,” Xochitl says.
“And I can’t see her now. So turn us around.”
It’s worse than just my studying getting messed up. My abuela is a sour old lady. Everyone says she was fun when we were little. But to me, Abita’s always been a little pissy and a little mean. Her parents named her Dolores, Spanish for sorrow or pains. Well, she’s a pain and she acts like everything pains her. And the last couple times I saw her she was starting to get sick and slow from old age. So she was crankier than ever.
“I went with Mami a few weeks ago,” Xochitl says. “Abita’s doing a lot better.”
I tell Xochitl to exit and drop me off before she gets on I-90, the freeway to eastern Washington. She says okay. Then she skips the exit and merges onto I-freaking-90.
“Damnit, Xoch. I don’t have time for this.”
Manny pipes up from the back. “I haven’t seen Abita since I got back, T. We should see her together.”
“Yeah, Man?” I say.
“She’s making caldo de queso,” he says.
“Serious?” I say. If there’s one way to get me to go, that might be it. Mami’s side of the family was from Sonora, Mexico, and Arizona until Abita’s dad moved the family to the northwest. Abita’s mom taught her to cook Sonoran style and it is the tastiest.
“Tortillas de harina,” Manny says. “Homemade. And beans. It’s been a long time.”
Aw, hell.
He got himself cleaned up. He got out of the house. And he’s being so nice.
I’m gonna do this for Manny.
And for some of Abita’s caldo and tortillas.
“Sorry, T,” Xochitl says. “I just knew if I told you sooner, you wouldn’t have come.”
“That’s why you should have told me,” I say. “Do Mami and Papi know?”
“Yeah. I told them the three of us were going a couple days ago. Plus, they had to work late tonight.
“Don’t worry,” she says, “You still had clothes in your room, so I packed for you. Toothbrush. Chonis. A T-shirt. You’re set. And we’ll be home before lunch tomorrow.”
American Road Trip Page 7
