American Road Trip

by Patrick Flores-Scott

  Xochitl laughs and gives me a thumbs-up. She whispers in my ear, “Nice move, T. Very sneaky.”

  “There’s more where that came from, Xoch.”

  Wendy finishes up. The crowd gives her a polite round. She walks right at me.

  And she punches me hard in the shoulder.

  Then she hugs me and gives me a kiss on the cheek. “I am furious with you, Teodoro Avila … but that’s maybe the sweetest thing anyone’s ever done for me.”

  I tell her I been waiting a long time to hear her play.

  Manny takes the mic again. “Thank you, Wendy Martinez! That was a low blow, if I ever heard one. Right, folks?”

  He waits for a laugh.

  Doesn’t get one.

  “All right, everybody, put your hands together for … Cactus Wine!”

  Charlie and his guys walk on from the other side of the stage.

  Xochitl turns to me. “What the hell is going on?”

  Manny races off the stage, right at her. He closes the side door fast but quiet. “There have been some changes, Xochitl. I heard these guys rehearse and it turns out Cactus Wine is the absolute worst. You have till the end of this song to get yourself ready, because you are now the headliner.”

  “What the hell, Manny?”

  “Truth?” he says.

  “Now!” she says.

  Manny points at me. “Your agent promised SubPop we’d send them video of your road-trip songs. So there’s a camera rolling out there. They need to see you play those songs before they let you go on tour.”

  Xochitl busts out a stream of s- and f-bombs, and there is a good chance this night is going down in flames.

  Manny says, “You’re going on tour and T’s going to stay and be my wingman.”

  Xochitl’s face is fire red and there’s a vein pulsing hard on her forehead. “That wasn’t your decision to make, Manny.”

  “You’re wrong. I need someone sleeping in my room at night and it can’t be you because you snore like a freight train. So you are out and T is in.”

  Xochitl looks at me. “You’re dropping out?”

  “Nah. Turns out they have schools down here. So it’s all good.”

  Manny grips her by the shoulders and says, “I love you. I love every single thing you’ve done for me. Now I need you to do me one more. Get out there and sing your songs and blow some people away before they turn hostile and run me out of town because of that.…” He says it pointing out at the stage, at Cactus Wine.

  You’ll never know, dear, how much I love you,

  Please don’t take my sunshine away.

  There are a couple isolated claps. A squeal of feedback. And silence. It’s like folks are trying to figure out how a classical tuba solo and an out-of-tune rendition of “You Are My Sunshine”—completed after two restarts—fit into this special night of music.

  Manny rushes onto the stage and Xochitl charges at me, poking her finger into my chest. “You snuck into my e-mail!”

  “Yes, I did.” I hand over her journal. “This, too. You might need it for lyrics and stuff.”

  “That’s private, T!”

  “It shouldn’t be. It’s awesome, Xoch!”

  “You lied to me. You lied to a bunch of people. Why didn’t you just tell me what was going on? Why didn’t you just tell me the truth?”

  “Why didn’t I just tell you the truth?”

  “YES, T!”

  “Well, Xochitl Avila, I did not tell you the truth because, if I had”—I take a big breath and let it out—“you never would have come.”

  And, my God, those are some satisfying words.

  “Thank you, Cactus Wine!” Manny shouts, smiling huge and clapping hard. “Ladies and gentlemen, that heartbreaking performance is more proof of the dire need for ongoing PTSD research. And the need for improved care that our vets so truly deserve.”

  A slurping sound as some kid sucks up the last of his Sparky’s milkshake.

  “Moving on! Let’s welcome our headliner, an up-and-comer who will soon be singing her heart out on stages all over this great nation and around the world. Give it up for Xochitl Avila!”

  Manny walks off to unenthusiastic applause.

  Xochitl heads on.

  Manny stops her. “You got this, Xoch.”

  Xochitl approaches the mic. Looks out at the crowd. She lifts the guitar and pulls the strap over her head. She lays it down in the middle of the stage and bolts right at Manny and squeezes the hell out of him. Then she rockets offstage and she squeezes me and plants a big kiss on my cheek. She does the same thing to Wendy.

  Then she leaps back onstage. Slips her guitar back on. Sets her journal on a music stand off to her side. She strums a couple chords. Does some fine-tuning. Thanks the crowd.

  Then she looks right at the video camera and says, “I’ll be seeing you all real soon.”

  She smiles when she says it, but this is the first time I’ve seen my sister look like this onstage. Xochitl looks scared.

  I get close to Wendy. She takes my hand. We watch as Xochitl’s eyes drop down to her guitar strings. To her fingers. No strumming. She sings to her guitar real quiet.

  I dreamed I was acting on a stage

  The cast were all people I knew

  I was terrified, I didn’t know my lines

  In a play that was the story of you

  Xochitl looks offstage. Her eyes find Manny.

  I turned to run—Thank God you were there

  I said, What the hell do I do?

  You just froze, looking scared as me

  Said you’d forgotten the story of you

  Xochitl lets the echo of her voice die and the words sink in.

  Then she starts strumming hard and fast, her eyes locked on the strings.

  People scoot their butts to the edge of their seats, leaning in to get closer, like they want to get inside the song with Xochitl.

  And when she knows she’s got every one of them …

  She lifts her eyes.

  Inhales the crowd.

  And her voice is a bomb.

  So I took your hand and away we ran

  We ran, drove a car, hopped a bus

  Hoping maybe if we just retrace our steps

  We could rewrite the story of us

  The place erupts as Xochitl tells our story.

  And this …

  This is her night.

  But because she’s Xochitl Maria Avila, everyone in this place feels like it’s their night.

  They came to Sparky’s. They gave their money to a good cause. They tasted the best burgers in the world. They were treated to an odd tuba solo and had their ears assaulted by the worst band to ever walk across a small-town stage. And all that will be part of this memory they’ll keep forever. The memory of the night they saw Xochitl Avila, a future star with a voice that plunges into your guts and mixes ’em up like a blender, a voice that’s a hand wrapping its fingers around your pulsing heart. And tonight she’s doing it with songs she wrote.

  There’s the “Brother of Mine” song, one about Manny’s shaky toast the day he came home. She sings the Sally song. One about Manny and Elena holding each other. One about Manny telling his desert story—the one from the ditch in California.

  It’s all so damn personal. But Manny’s not hiding. His head is up. His chest is puffed. He’s looking proud as hell. Cuz he knows these songs aren’t just ours. Xochitl wrote songs that belong to every person in this room.

  I look at Xochitl and she’s still singing and strumming, but now she’s jumping and pointing over the audience all the way to the door.

  We crane our necks and we can tell someone’s dancing.

  It’s Mami and Papi, holding each other, moving to the sounds of their daughter’s voice.

  They notice Xochitl noticing them. They blow kisses. Xochitl blows them back.

  Wendy and I just stand and watch.

  Xochitl launches into “Con los años que me quedan,” Mami and Papi’s song they danced to when we we
re little.

  Con los años que me quedan

  Yo viviré por darte amor.

  With the years that I have left, I will live to give you love.

  Wendy rests her head on my shoulder as we watch Mami and Papi dance again.

  At one point, he nods to her.

  She nods back.

  They freeze on the same beat.

  And Papi freakin’ dips her.

  She looks up, into his eyes, smiling so big she can’t hold back a laugh.

  I squeeze Wendy’s fingers tighter. She pulls me close till we’re face-to-face. I wrap my free hand around her back. Wendy rests her hand on my shoulder … and we move to the slow beat.

  She looks into my eyes. I look into hers. She lifts her head so her cheek touches mine. I feel her breath on my ear as she says, “I am going to kiss you now.”

  She does.

  We do.

  And it’s different than it ever was. I don’t know how, exactly.

  Nope. That’s not true. I do know.

  Wendy takes her hand off my shoulder.

  And reaches into my pocket.

  How’d she know?

  She pulls out a battered little box. She gives it to me. And she holds out her hand.

  I’m a trembling mess as I pull the bracelet out and slip it over her wrist.

  As we kiss, my mind flashes to that first night in Florence.

  I really thought that’s what it was supposed to feel like. But that wasn’t it at all.

  This is it. This is what it feels like to love Wendy Martinez.

  So I say the words.

  And she says them back.

  Then she hands me another little box. I open it. It’s a string of flat, connected turquoise squares. Wendy puts it on my wrist. She rests her head on my shoulder and we dance all the way through the night till the final verse of Xochitl’s last sad, slow, quiet song.

  Everyone asks

  How’s he doin’?

  All I think is

  wish I knew

  I just say “He’s doing

  the best that he can”

  Then they ask “And

  how are you?”

  I say, “I’m fine”

  But I wish I knew

  I tell myself I’m doing

  the best that I can

  I watch his face

  Listen to his voice

  The way he says, “I’m fine”

  I know, I know

  the best that I can

  ain’t enough, no

  The best that I can

  ain’t enough

  TUESDAY, AUGUST 25, 2009

  Wendy and I put Mami and Papi to work selling chile in the stand.

  Papi loves how we fixed it up.

  I show them our designs, and Wendy and I tell them all about building the thing together.

  And I tell them about my big dream.

  Mami and Papi look so proud.

  Like they know I’ve changed since the last time they saw me.

  They’ve changed, too.

  Manny’s changed, and Mami says she can’t believe how much.

  Mami and Papi spend a ton of time with him. Manny teaches them everything he’s learned about farming chile. He shows Mami the NMSU catalogue. She loves that and she tells him the big news that she’s starting up at Highline CC in the fall. Papi gives Mami a huge smile when she says that, and the two of them seem as happy as I ever remember them. Happy for Manny. Thrilled for Xochitl. Happy about this choice I’m making. Happy about me and Wendy.

  But so sad about leaving.

  Believe me, I’m a wreck about being left.

  TUESDAY, SEPTEMBER 1, 2009

  After a week together as a whole family, it’s time.

  There is not one dry eye as we say good-bye to Mami, Papi, and Xochitl. Xochitl is going home for a couple weeks to rehearse with Ray Is a Girl before the tour, so she’s taking the same flight. Even though she’ll only be there a short time, Manny and I are relieved that we’re not sending Mami and Papi back to the empty rental alone.

  I hug them good-bye till Thanksgiving—Ed and Luci invited them down.

  I hug my sister and tell her, “Keep in touch. I’m going to need to hear from you every day. Like maybe a couple times.”

  She laughs at that.

  “Promise?” I say.

  “Promise,” she says.

  “Thanks for everything, Xoch.” But there’s no way I can make that sound as big as I mean it.

  She just squeezes me hard and looks at me right in the eyes and says everything she needs to say.

  Back at the farm, Wendy’s packed for her flight. She takes off early tomorrow for senior year in Vancouver.

  I ask her if she’ll join me on a date.

  Tío Ed and Luci work the stand.

  Wendy and I head into Hatch. This time it’s the Pepper Pot.

  It’s a converted house with a very lived-in vibe. And they serve some of the tastiest food around. The lady asks if we’re ready. We tell her we’d like Cokes, green chile stew, and enchiladas.

  “Red or green?” she says.

  I go with the green chile.

  “Red or green?” Wendy says. “I cannot decide. So make mine Christmas.” She says it like she’s a real New Mexican.

  The lady walks away and Wendy says, “Teodoro, I’ve been waiting so long for the chance to say that. And now I have to leave here and go home to a place where Christmas has nothing to do with chile. It’s just Santa and Baby Jesus and that just isn’t enough anymore.”

  We hold hands across that little table. And we smile at each other till our food comes. We devour the feast and Wendy says she’s so jealous that I get this food whenever I want.

  I scoot my chair right next to Wendy. I take out my phone. Boot up the camera. We make sure we both have mouths full. I reach my arm way out. One, two, three …

  “Damn!” we say. Then I click the shot.

  Wendy checks it. “Delete that now.”

  “You look radiant in this photo. I will never delete it.”

  We get quiet again.

  I tell Wendy I love her again.

  She tells me she loves me.

  We go over our long-distance plan. Texts. Phone calls. Old-fashioned pen-and-paper letters and postcards.

  I’ll go home for Christmas.

  Maybe she can make it down for spring break.

  Pretty soon the words stop.

  We pay for our food.

  And we walk.

  We hold hands up and down the main street, and Wendy says, “Good-bye, street where Wild West gunslingers once roamed.”

  We walk inside Sparky’s and check out the empty stage. “Good-bye, place of magical musical memories,” she says.

  We hop in the truck. We drive to the dump. Wendy says, “Good-bye, dump.”

  We meander down Valley Drive. Into Las Cruces and back. Wendy says good-bye to the Organ Mountains, good-bye to the Chihuahuan Desert, good-bye to pecan orchards, cotton fields, hundreds of acres of chile, and good-bye to the Rio Grande.

  We head back to the farm and work our last night together. We kiss as Wendy retrains me on money and inventory counts—her old jobs. Then we sit under the stars, under that ocean of sky, holding hands, kissing, and talking. Kissing and remembering. Kissing and making promises until night turns into morning and Wendy says, “Good-bye to the place where I fell in love.”

  WEDNESDAY, SEPTEMBER 2, 2009

  She’s gone. I’m working the stand alone. It is weird. It is sad. It is lonely.

  There are no customers and I have a couple calls I need to make. So I pull out my phone.

  First off is Bashir.

  It’s great to hear that dude’s voice. He seems happy to hear from me. They moved him up to a host position at 13 Coins. He’s in his last semester at Highline Community. He catches me up on stuff about his family.

  I tell Bashir about life in New Mexico. And that I won’t be seeing him in the fall.

  He loves it
that I’m helping out my brother.

  “Bashir, I called to tell you that you saved me. I was drowning and I needed a tutor—a good one. And you helped me get over a major hump and helped me believe I could do it. I just wanted to say thanks. And I miss you, man.”

  Bashir says he had a great time tutoring. And he wishes me all the luck.

  The next one is hard.

  It’s been a couple days—okay, a few days—since Caleb sent me the When are you coming home? texts and voice mails.

  First off, I tell him I love him. And I thank him for everything.

  “You sound like you’re not coming home.” That is not a happy sentence. “What the hell, T? You get married? You’re just a kid!”

  “I didn’t get married, Caleb. I have to stay down here this year.”

  I tell him about Xochitl. About how we sent her off to the tour. About how Manny needs me. I thank Caleb for being an amazing friend. And I thank him for believing we could succeed from the very beginning. “If I get into college, if I graduate, if I become an architect someday, I’ve got you to thank.”

  We make plans for Christmas. Plans to talk on a regular basis. Academic check-ins. Caleb says I’m still part of the AVID gang and he’s going to see if Ms. Hays will let me Skype in for Socratic Seminar and tutorial sometimes.

  I tell him that would be cool.

  And I tell him to thank his parents. For everything.

  Then Caleb says, “We were going nowhere fast. Together. Then we decided to be better. And life pulled us apart. Maybe for a long time.”

  “Just a year, Caleb.”

  “I don’t know where I’m going to college,” he says. “Might not be here.”

  “What?”

  “I don’t know, T. Maybe I need something new. We’ll see.”

  “Yeah, Caleb. We’ll see. Wherever it is, you’re still my brother.”

  “You’re still my brother.”

  “Talk tomorrow?”

  “Yeah. Let’s talk tomorrow.”

  I pocket my phone. And I feel a tap on my shoulder.

  “Hey, T.”

  It’s Manny. He’s sporting a brand-new baseball glove. He’s got one for me, too.

  “Where’d you get these?”

  “I went shopping.”

  We step outside and Manny throws me the ball.

  It SNAPS! as it hits my glove. I throw the ball back.