“What about Caleb?”
“You’re my best. Caleb’s my next best.”
We talk about New Mexico. About him maybe starting school here. And we talk about Mami and Papi. About him being so far from them again.
And because I been curious, I ask him about the ridiculous fish tattoo I saw on his chest at the hospital.
Manny tells me that a couple nights before he left for the army, Papi took him out on the town.
“Like out, out? With drinking? You and Papi?”
“Yeah.” He laughs at the thought. Then he says, “T, you know my enlisting upset Mami.”
“And Papi giving you his blessing upset her even more.”
“The truth is, Papi didn’t want me to go, either. I think he hated the idea.”
“Did he say that?”
“No. He never said anything close to it. But he did tell me a story about when he left home.”
Turns out, when Papi decided to leave Santa Ana and come to the US, our Abuelo Julio pleaded with him not to go. He put up a huge dramatic fight. Even told Papi he’d never speak to him again. He made it as hard on Papi as he could. And it changed their relationship forever.
“After that,” Manny says, “Papi left anyway. And he made a promise to himself. If he ever had kids, he’d never stand in the way of their dreams. No matter what.”
“Are you trying to tell me that you and Papi got tattoos?”
Manny laughs again. “I told you there was drinking.”
“Yeah,” I say, “No other explanation for a fish tattoo.”
“We brainstormed animals that are known for coming home. Our tattoos would be a reminder—or good luck—that I was gonna make it back. We nixed monarch butterflies and all kinds of birds. And we ended up going full-on northwest with the Chinook salmon.”
“Salmon come back to make babies and then they die. That’s twisted, Manny.”
“Like I said, our judgment was impaired.”
“It’s cool Papi did that.”
Yeah,” he says. “Look, I don’t blame Mami for being upset. Not one bit. In the end, she was probably right. But Papi supporting me—it meant everything.”
We walk along in the dark. And in the sounds of our footsteps, crickets, and coyotes, I think about Papi sending Manny off in style.
And I think about Manny and Xochitl and me.
And I make a plan for my future.
THURSDAY, AUGUST 13, 2009
The stand is closed for the night. We’re sitting under the shack awning sipping limeades, talking about the workday. Actually, Wendy’s doing the talking. I’m doing the shaking because I’m about to tell her what I’ve done and what I’m gonna do. And I’m shaking because telling her is a big step toward making this thing real.
“Teodoro, you look like you’re gonna be sick.”
“Okay, Wendy, here it is. I e-mailed my school counselor. And she did some research for me.”
I tell Wendy that Ms. Bradley came up with a plan for fall. I can take a couple classes online. Some at Hatch Valley High School. And I can take some at Doña Ana Community College in Las Cruces. And she can be my advisor for my senior service project and I can still graduate from Puget High on time. I can fly home and walk across that stage next June.
“Wendy,” I say, “I’m gonna stay down here with Manny. And Xochitl’s going on that tour.”
She stares at me for a long time. Then she says, “Wow.”
And I say, “Right?”
And she says, “Is this something you think you have to do, or something you want to do?”
Oh my God, I want everything. I want to be as close as possible to Wendy this year. I want us to have a chance to get back together. I want those kids and teachers at Puget to see me being great. I want to triumph with Caleb. And the truth is, I’m not sure I can do it without him or Bashir. I want to give myself the best chance to get into U-Dub. And I want to move back in with Mami and Papi.
But I want Xochitl to have her shot. I need her to have her shot.
And I can’t leave Manny. I need to be with him. I want to be with him.
So I tell Wendy, “I need to do this. And I want to do this.”
“I see,” she says.
Then she hands me her glass, stands up, and walks.
I think she’s going back to the house, but she just takes a lap around the shack.
And by the time she makes it back to me, she’s got a huge smile on her face.
She grabs the limeade out of my hand. Chugs it. Gives me the glass back. Then she socks me in the arm.
“Jesus, Wendy.”
She shrugs her shoulders, her eyes bright—she’s smiling that smile.
“What, Wendy?”
“Teodoro,” she says. “You surprise me.”
I ask her if that’s a good thing.
“Yup,” she says. “It is a very good thing.”
Then she asks me if I think Ms. Bradley really has it all figured out.
We scoot our chairs close. I tell Wendy Ms. Bradley wouldn’t let me do this if she thought it might not work.
“We still on for U-Dub?”
“Definitely! I just have to get accepted.”
“You’ll get accepted,” she says.
“What if I don’t?”
“You will have given it a heckuva shot, Teodoro. And there are plenty of great schools out there. You’ll get into one and you’ll work hard and show those U-Dub admissions jerks just how wrong they were. Then you’ll get into grad school somewhere and you’ll work hard there and become a great architect.”
“All right, then. I’m gonna do this, Wendy. But please don’t say anything till I figure out how to tell Xochitl. If she gets wind of this, she’ll shut it right down.”
“Why?”
“Because my sister is stubborn and she has to be in charge. I gotta be sneaky about this. Would you like to get sneaky with me, Wendy? I might just need your skills.”
“I got mad sneaky skills, Teodoro.”
We stop talking and look out at that view. Sitting so close without words.
I start thinking about where we’ve been and how far we’ve come.
And I’m thinking this feels like a moment.
But I’m not sure if it is. So I keep looking up at the sky. And I inch my hand slowly into the space between our chairs.
My hand dangles there for a while, all by itself.
Then she sees it. But she doesn’t want me to see that she sees it. So, real quick, she looks away from my hand and back up at the sky.
I keep looking up there, too. I don’t want her to know that I know she rejected my hand.
I start to retract it, real slow.
But just as I do, I feel it—her fingers touching mine. Palms. Wrists. Hands exploring hands like for the first time. And we keep on exploring till Wendy’s fingers slide between my fingers and we squeeze tight.
I turn to her. She turns to me. Our eyes meet and—oh man—there’s another same-time breath, then we both look away. I don’t know why but we do.
Then I turn back to her.
And she turns back to me.
“Hi, Wendy Martinez.”
“Hi, Teodoro Avila.”
That’s it. We sit like that till it’s real late. Just two warm hands squeezing. Just us under that ocean of starry sky.
And that’s enough.
FRIDAY, AUGUST 14, 2009
When everyone is out for the morning, we sneak into Tío Ed’s office and back into Xochitl’s e-mail account.
We copy the necessary addresses. Then we take off for the shack. Wendy helps me create a new e-mail account for Xochitl. We message SubPop Laura and Kristi from Ray Is a Girl—as Xochitl—from the new account. We tell them, My old e-mail account was compromised, so … and we tell them, My plans have changed and I can go on tour! And we attach six song files to the mail.
We cross our fingers and hope they don’t already have another singer lined up.
Then we do our tutoring a
nd we sell our chile.
And we wait.
* * *
Kristi responds first. Then a couple more Ray’s bandmates. They say SubPop’s been pitching them one opening act after another. And they keep on fouling them off waiting for Xochitl to change her mind. Somehow they knew she’d make it. And as far as they’re concerned, she’s on the tour.
It’s gonna happen!
But before we can break the news, we get mail back from SubPop. Laura McConnell loves the songs. But people at the label want video of Xochitl doing her solo stuff in front of an audience.
“We can make it happen,” Wendy says.
“We need an audience,” I say, “a good video camera, and a high-quality mic. We need a stage.”
It’s obvious to both of us. Sparky’s is the only game in town. They have shows going all the time. The have all the sound equipment. And everyone in Southern New Mexico knows exactly where it is.
So we shut down the stand, grab Manny, and hop in the Dodge.
And we explain everything.
Manny is down for the whole deal.
* * *
Later that night, I call home. Papi picks up and puts me on speaker.
“I have cool news to tell you guys,” I say. “But first, um, I’m sorry it took so long for me to tell you this thing, and if you never forgive me, I totally understand. Mami, Papi … Manny tried to take his own life. And it was weeks ago.”
There’s silence on the other end.
I ask them if they’re okay.
Mami says she’s okay.
“Papi?”
He says he’s all right.
I tell them that Tío Ed has got Manny stable. I tell them how we do Manny’s meds and tell them about the group and about how hard Manny’s been working. How much better he’s doing. How he’s gonna stay down here for a while—maybe a long time.
That’s when Papi says, “Mijo, your brother told us a few days after. He told us everything. We talk every day. We talk to Ed, too. We know.”
I ask them to please forgive Xochitl and me for not telling them right away.
“Oh, mijo,” Papi says. “Forgive us for not being there. Forgive us.”
They say they know what I did that night. Mami starts crying. “We wanted to talk to you about it. We did. But we were waiting for you to bring it up, because … The weeks went by and you never said anything. We should have asked. I’m sorry, mijo. Are you doing okay?”
“I’m better, Mami. I’m seeing a counselor.”
“We know, mijo,” she says.
“It’s good, mijo,” Papi says.
Then I tell them the rest of the news. I tell them about Xochitl’s songs. And about her SubPop opportunity of a lifetime. About how Wendy and I went behind Xochitl’s back. I tell them how, on the way to talk to Sparky’s booking agent, Manny came up with the idea of selling the night as a fund-raiser for the Wounded Warrior Project. I tell them how amazing Manny was talking the Sparky’s lady into the whole thing.
I tell them me and Manny were so afraid Xochitl would say no because she wants to be here for Manny. So Manny decided not to tell Xochitl she’s the main act. She’ll know when I announce her. That’s what Manny said. No way she can say no.
Mami says, “That’s a good plan, Teodoro. Cuz if she knew what you did…”
Finally, I tell them Manny and I saved up from working down here and we just bought two plane tickets—Sea-Tac to El Paso. “And we’re not telling Xochitl you’re gonna be at Sparky’s.”
There’s a celebration on the other end of the line.
But things get quiet again when I tell them I want so bad to be back home with them, but Manny still needs someone to stay with him after the summer. And I’m going to be that guy. “I can’t wait to see you two!” I say, trying to break the silence. “Mami?”
“Oh, I cannot wait to see you,” she says.
“Me, too, mijo,” Papi says.
MONDAY, AUGUST 24, 2009
I’m standing with Wendy and my sister in a tiny room, looking out at the Sparky’s stage.
We watch the men of Cactus Wine set out instruments and get tuned up.
When Manny told the group guys about the show, they mentioned Charlie’s bluegrass band. So Manny asked if they’d open for Xochitl.
But when Manny told Xochitl about the event, he lied and said Cactus Wine was the headliner and he asked her to open for them. Xochitl agreed to play, like, Janis Joplin and Johnny Cash—a couple songs to get the crowd warmed up.
She’s got her guitar strapped on. Cracking jokes. Hopping around. Trying to keep everyone loose.
I am the opposite of loose. Because who knows how Xochitl’s gonna react to what’s about to happen? And I got huge stuff I need to tell Wendy before she goes. And Mami and Papi’s flight got delayed. And Lou’s grandson—Lou promises he’s a video “expert.” But is he really? If he doesn’t get Xochitl on camera with good sound, we’re screwed.
One positive is we’re not going to owe Sparky’s any money. The place is packed. The group guys were our marketing team. They loved the idea of a fund-raiser for vets, so they got the word out to the community. The VFW. The VA. The newspapers. Wherever they could find vets. So the crowd is full of men and women in military baseball caps and jackets telling everyone what branch, unit, and war they fought in. There are a couple of vets in wheelchairs. And one dude with a missing arm. Wounded Warriors. And they brought their families. Kids. Grandmas and grandpas. They all came out to show their support.
The Sparky’s stage manager gives us the sign.
Wendy nods to me.
This is it.
I look over to Manny standing at the stage doorway. He volunteered to emcee this thing. It’s his moment. Time to get onstage. Time to walk through that door.
But he’s frozen. Desperate breathing. Trembling. Looking gone.
“You’re on, Man,” I say.
No response.
Xochitl throws me a look. She’s thinking the same thing I am. It’s Florence Frank’s front door all over again. We’re outside the church door in Delano all over again. Outside Elena’s front door. He can’t walk through.
Xochitl scoots up to Manny’s side. Takes his arm in her hands.
I grab his other arm. Feel his shakes. Those frantic breaths.
“Manny?” Xochitl says.
He doesn’t look up. “Yeah, Xoch?”
“We’re walking through this door together. We’re going up there with you.”
He looks at her blank.
“We’re not going to leave you alone,” she says.
“I need you to leave me alone,” he says.
Xochitl tells him he doesn’t have to emcee. She’ll do it.
Manny starts laughing. I can’t tell if it’s funny laughing or crazy laughing. “I’m nervous,” he says.
“I know you are,” she says.
And he says, “Nervous as hell. So I’m going to take five more breaths. Then I’m gonna shake myself onto that stage. And I’m gonna talk to the people. But I need you to step back and give me space.”
We step back.
We count Manny’s deep breaths.
After the fifth, he turns to us and shoots a wink.
And he walks through that door.
Alone.
There are some hoots. Some claps.
Manny wrestles the mic from the stand. He holds it out to the crowd and lets them see it shaking. Then he says, “That’s not so much because I’m nervous about talking to you. It’s because I’m always nervous. And sometimes I’m so nervous I can’t function.”
He has to stop and take another deep breath.
Someone shouts, “You got this!” Claps and hoots of support.
Manny nods his head in thanks. “There’s a lot of action over there. You have a job to do. Buddies to protect. People counting on you. You have to be relentlessly alert. Your mind gets locked into survival mode. Because it has to.”
Manny pulls the mic away. Clears his thr
oat.
“Then you come home. And that kind of vigilance is no longer required. Life is about doing the mundane, everyday things normal people do to get by. But men and women who come back like me—with a brain that’s been knocked around too much, a brain that can’t stop being at war … we have a hard time.”
Manny talks to families now. He tells them there are men and women in this room who are alive because of them. Manny looks offstage at me and Xochitl, then points at us. We point back at him. And he asks the vets in the house to give it up for their families. They do. They clap for a long time and it’s real emotional.
Manny says families can’t do it alone. He talks about the good people at the VA struggling to give care under tough circumstances. He talks about the support groups and he thanks Tío Ed and the guys. And he talks about the Wounded Warrior Project and organizations like it. “We need a big village to make it. And that’s what this night is about.”
Manny freaking nails it. Xochitl flashes me a huge smile of relief.
“Now,” he says, “I think we all came here to eat some famous green chile cheeseburgers and barbecue and listen to some amazing music.”
Huge applause this time.
Xochitl leans toward the stage, about to walk on.
I block her way and say, “Change of plans.”
Then I get in Wendy’s ear and whisper, “You’re up, Martinez.”
Manny sets up a chair and grabs a tuba I hid behind the stage.
I grab the music stand and the sheet music for “Andante and Allegro”—Megan told me the name of Wendy’s solo piece and I rented the tuba from a music shop in Las Cruces.
“Now,” Manny says, “it’s my pleasure to introduce tonight’s opening act—all the way from Washington State—Vancouver’s premier high school tuba soloist, Wendy Martinez!”
The audience politely applauds Wendy.
She gets in my face and says, “You are dead.” Then she walks onstage.
After a too-long period of mouthpiece licking, silent air blowing, music stand fiddling, and tuba adjusting … the bloomp-bloomps start.
And I think it’s good?
Good or not, with red balloon cheeks and eyebrows scrunched—the way she’s hugging that tuba and bouncing those buttons with her fingers, cheek-puffing her heart out—Wendy is one hundred percent foxy.
American Road Trip Page 20
