Bad Idea- The Complete Collection

by Nicole French

  Nico sighs and runs a hand over his head. “She is from Puerto Rico. But she was born in Cuba. Her parents fled when Castro came into power and she ended up in San Juan. I—honestly, Layla, I don’t know the whole story. I don’t even know how she got here, only that she followed Alba, K.C.’s mom. My mother’s had a hard life, running from place to place, trying to find some place that’s better. She doesn’t really like to talk about the details.”

  It doesn’t take much for me to piece the rest together. A woman who’s lived her life on the run, taking shelter where she was able. How much she must have been taken advantage of because of her status. Four kids from three different fathers. A part of me wonders what the story is there. How many of those men promised to help her with citizenship only to leave her when it got hard.

  “She could get amnesty,” I pipe up. “There’s got to be some kind of asylum she can claim because of the Castro regime. You and your siblings could sponsor her. There’s no way they’d make her leave her entire family.” I sit up, suddenly full of energy.

  But Nico just chews on his lip. “I—Layla, you think I haven’t looked into that before?” He shakes his head. “Lawyers cost money, baby. Money we don’t have. And Ma...she’s too scared. You don’t know, baby. What do you think happens every time one of the buildings in our neighborhood gets torn down so fat cats can build a new high-rise? ICE, baby. Immigrations fuckers are everywhere, and a lot of times, they look just like me.”

  He pulls me back down on his chest before I can say something else. I open my mouth, full of arguments, but then realize I don’t know nearly enough about this issue to make any of them. This isn’t a fear my family has ever had. My father has been a naturalized citizen since I was a little kid. He’s only ever been in this country legally.

  “Anyway,” Nico pivots away from his mother. “Ms. Alvarez came to see me before I left for Tryon. She was my English teacher, but she always used to catch me doodling on the scrap paper she gave the class—for notes, since a lot of us couldn’t afford notebooks and school supplies. So, she brought me a sketchbook to take with me. She said people get lost in places like Tryon, and I would need to keep track of myself in there to find my true north. Especially so that when I came back to my ma, I’d still be her Nico.” He chuckles slightly and squeezes my fingers. “Corny, huh?”

  I don’t laugh at all.

  “No,” I say as I study the compass on his chest more closely. Up close, I can see that the edges are done with a design that looks something like a barbed wire. “I don’t think that’s corny at all.”

  Nico shrugs, the action causing the tattoos to ripple.

  “Well, corny or not, she was right,” he says. “I went in there one way and came out another. But when the other kids were fighting or goading the guards, getting doped up by aides or locked up in solitary, I just drew. I wasn’t good at it or anything, but it kept me focused. I drew my family and my friends. Things that reminded me of home and where I came from. I drew the places I wanted to go in my life, the things I wanted to see or do. And I drew this and had it put over my heart after I finally got out.”

  “True north,” I murmur, sliding my fingers over the big compass as wide as my hand that’s inked over his chest. “Did you find it?”

  Nico gives me a small, sweet smile as he pushes some hair out of my face.

  “Not yet, Layla,” he says in a voice so low I can barely hear its vibration. “But I have faith.”

  We stare at each other, caught for a minute in a trance. Then Nico sighs and pulls me close again.

  “Come on, baby, let’s go back to sleep. It’s too damn early to be up on our day off.”

  “What if I’m not tired?” I ask playfully, jabbing him in the side with my fingers.

  That gets me flopped on my back again, with Nico peering at me from above. Gone is the melancholy man, and back is that mischievous boy who has stolen my heart. Nico’s still a thief, just of a different sort.

  “Oh, I could probably find ways to tire you out again, NYU,” he says with a sly grin, and proceeds to show me just how.

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Nico

  “So where is your sister?” Layla asks sometime around one in the afternoon.

  It’s been hours of sleeping, fucking, sleeping, fucking. No, that’s wrong. I feel like a pussy saying “making love,” but this hasn’t been just sex. If I’m being honest, it’s never just sex with Layla. I’m going to have to get used to that.

  So, we’re only a little bit closer to making it out of the bedroom for the day than we were at seven this morning. I ran into the kitchen a couple of times to grab us whatever food I had left in the house. Leftover rice and beans probably isn’t the most nutritious thing I could have given Layla, but it tastes damn good after the workout we’ve had. Now, though, we’ve both had our fills of salty leftovers, so we’ve decided to grab some sandwiches at the diner on the corner before I have to put Layla on a train back to Chinatown. She needs to study, and I am not going to get in the way of my baby’s future. No fuckin’ way.

  I shrug on a black hoodie over a t-shirt and jeans while Layla pulls on her dress from last night. Fucking hell. Her coat only goes to her hips, and with those boots, she’s going to earn a whistle from every motherfucker on the block. Suddenly, the idea of making her ride the train alone sounds absolutely terrible.

  I whistle at her anyway.

  She blushes, then scowls. “Shut up.”

  She throws a pillow at me. I parry it away and pull her flush against me. All of a sudden, I’m starving all over again, and not for food.

  “That dress should be burned,” I say as I nibble on her ear. “You have no idea how your ass looks in that thing. It makes me want to do very, very dirty things to you, Ms. Barros.”

  “You have a thing for asses, don’t you?” she asks as I nuzzle deeper into her neck.

  In response, my hands drift down to grab that exact part of her body, and she squeaks loudly.

  “Maybe a little,” I say with a chuckle. “But yours takes the motherfuckin’ cake, baby.”

  I squeeze her again before letting go, shaking my head. I’m a little scared to walk outside with her, you wanna know the truth. She has no idea as she ties up her hair into a knot on top of her head and checks herself in the mirror next to my door. She could stop traffic without batting an eyelash. In this neighborhood, a girl like Layla is every guy’s wet dream.

  “Seriously, though,” she says. “Did we wake anyone up last night? Or today, for that matter?”

  I shake my head again before putting on my Yankees cap backward. “No, sweetie, there’s no one here but us. My sister’s back with her boyfriend, so her room is empty right now.”

  “How often does she come?”

  I pick up my clothes off the floor and toss them into the basket next to the armchair. Sitting down on the bed, I start putting on my black Adidas sneakers. “Maggie and Jimmy—that’s Allie’s dad—are kind of...well, they have a hard time with self-control, let’s just put it that way. They try to make it work for Allie’s sake, but sometimes she needs a break. So I keep the room empty for them.”

  I don’t tell her that it’s because I’m pretty sure one day Jimmy is going to get locked up himself again. I don’t have proof of it, but I’ve seen my sister applying thick makeup to her cheek or eyebrows one too many times. I’ve talked to her enough times to be told to fuck off, but we grew up with too many of our mom’s shitty boyfriends not to know the signs of an abusive relationship. One day I hope she and Allie will just come to stay. I wouldn’t mind. Jimmy wants to question that, he can talk to me. Or my fist.

  Layla watches me like she’s trying to figure something out, then just goes back to putting on her coat.

  “How old is your niece?” she asks.

  I look up. “Allie’s three.”

  “What’s Allie short for?”

  “Alejandra, actually,” I clarify with the correct Spanish pronunciation. “But that’s way to
o serious a name for a baby, you know? So we call her Allie.”

  Layla smiles. “That’s cute. I hope I can meet her one day.”

  I smile back, and then I shake my head. Whoa. The idea of Layla holding a little black-haired baby sounds way too good to me. You are twenty-six, Nico. She is nineteen. You are both way too young to be thinking about kids.

  “How can you afford this apartment by yourself?” Layla interrupts me. “It’s huge.”

  I look around, trying to see what she sees. My place isn’t that nice, but it is pretty big as far as New York apartments go, which is why I’ve never moved. I forget that until I go into the rat traps that pass as studios these days. Even though I’m not in one of the ritzier areas of the island, this is still Manhattan, which is crazy expensive. So when K.C.’s cousin left the city and offered his lease to me, I jumped. Getting a rent-controlled apartment in Manhattan is like winning the lottery.

  I finish tying my shoes, stand up, and grab my leather jacket off the back of my desk chair. Then I grin. “Rent control, baby.” I grab Layla’s hand. “Come on, let’s get you something to eat.”

  Layla

  We walk a few blocks over to Broadway, and it’s then I realize just how far uptown we are. The street sign on the corner reads “W 138th Street: Dominican City.” Looking around, I see immediately that this is a completely different world than the streets of lower Manhattan. The buildings, most of them brick apartments and brownstones like the rest of the island, are clearly not as well maintained as in the more affluent and predominantly white neighborhoods below 95th Street. Sprawling stains and graffiti mark up several buildings and their ragged awnings; laundry hangs out to dry from more than one window, even in this cold.

  A few blocks from City College, this section of Broadway bustles with a completely different energy, particularly since ninety percent of the voices I hear speak Spanish. About half of the signs on the local businesses, which at first glance include a couple of bodegas, tchotchke shops, a laundromat, and a bunch of restaurants, are written in Spanish as well, and most of the people passing us on the street look like they are either completely or part Hispanic.

  We pass a group of girls chatting loudly in a mix of Spanish and English. They are loud and jovial, expansive with slicked bangs, long acrylic nails, gold monogram necklaces. One catches my eyes for a split second before she yells “Coño!” and launches into a tirade in Spanish that I can’t understand. So very different from the contained mannerisms of my father’s wealthy family in Brazil and my mom’s in Washington.

  We pass another small group of men lounging on the steps of a building next to a Dominican restaurant. One wears a bandana tied around his forehead, and another fiddles with the ends of a set of cornrows. They can’t be older than me—as evidenced by their hairless faces that make them look more innocent than they probably want. Bandana catches me looking at him and nods with a smile.

  “Hey ma,” he jeers, flashing a set of bright white teeth.

  It’s hardly the first catcall I’ve received in New York. But for some reason I’m more put off than normal by it. Maybe it’s because I already feel like I stick out in this neighborhood, but I don’t like the way the man’s eyes peruse me like a piece of meat he’s thinking about buying.

  Nico shoots Bandana a dirty look and grabs my hand, which effectively shuts the guy up. It’s like an unspoken code: don’t check out another dude’s woman when he’s standing right there—not unless you want trouble.

  At that thought, a small thrill runs up my spine. Apparently, now I’m Nico’s woman. I like the idea. A lot.

  Nico tows me to a diner near the subway entrance on the corner of 137th and holds the door open as we enter. It’s a long, thin space, with a counter on one side where singles eat, and several small tables against the opposite wall all the way to the back. The white, linoleum-tiled floors are as grimy as the large man flipping burgers behind the counter, and the smell of frying potatoes and sizzling meat is dense in the air.

  I follow Nico to a small table in the back, and we are followed by a waitress clearly from the neighborhood, if the length of her fingernails and curly black hair are any indication.

  She rattles off a few questions in Spanish to Nico, either because she recognizes him or just assumes he speaks Spanish. Nico doesn’t even look at the menu, just grins at the waitress and rattles off a ridiculously fast answer in response, causing the girl to giggle. Mid-order, he interrupts himself in English, looking at me.

  “Oh, baby, you like steak, right?”

  I raise an eyebrow. “Dude. I’m Brazilian. We practically live on barbecue.”

  That earns me another heart-stopping grin before he turns back to the waitress and finishes our orders. She picks up our menus and struts away in her high tops, but not before she gives me a sharp, suspicious glare.

  “What, I don’t even get to pick out my own food now?” I joke.

  Nico reaches across the table and picks up my hand, swirling his thumb across the lines of my palm. It’s amazing how such a simple touch makes me want to drag him out of the restaurant and back to his bedroom. If my lady parts didn’t need a serious rest, I probably would.

  “Sorry,” he admits with another sly smile. “But there’s really only one thing to order here. They make the best cheese steak outside of Philly.”

  I’m really going to have to hit the gym hard tonight. First gobs of heavy beans and rice for breakfast, and now a greasy sandwich for lunch. I haven’t worked out all week, and I’m already hitting my calorie limit before my day is halfway over.

  “So...I didn’t realize you speak Spanish so well,” I venture. I don’t want to say it directly, but it’s kind of intimidating. He mentioned it before, and I’ve definitely heard him curse in it, but he speaks it like it’s his native language.

  “What? Sí, sí, lo hablo,” he confirms with another cheeky smile. “Of course I do. My mom doesn’t speak much English, baby. Spanish is my first language.”

  That surprises me. Of course she speaks Spanish—I should have already realized that. But she must have lived in the states for, well, close to thirty years if she had Nico here. How could you live in a place for that long and not learn the language?

  “Wait,” I say. “I have a question. If you’re mom is from Cuba, doesn’t that make you Cuban, not Puerto Rican?”

  Nico glances around and then gives me a funny look. “Ah, I don’t know, you want to know the truth. I mean...she grew up in Puerto Rico, lived there since she was two. Ethnically, there’s not that much of a difference. Culturally, that’s all she knows. It’s how she talks, in the food she likes, in everything about her. She calls herself boricua, even though there are plenty who would say she’s not.” He shrugs. “My dad’s part Puerto Rican too. I think that qualifies me.” He taps his fingers on the table. “Are you any less American because your dad’s from Brazil?”

  I frown. It’s not quite the same thing, but I see what he’s saying. I don’t really feel as American as a lot of the white kids whose families have been here for centuries. But Nico’s words remind me more of Brazil, which, much like the United States, is a country full of immigrants, stemming back hundreds of years, all mixed with indigenous groups too (some more than others). Most of my dad’s family only came to Brazil following World War II, over from Italy like a lot of other wealthy families. But they wouldn’t call themselves Italian. Not anymore.

  “What about you?” Nico interrupts my train of thought. “Don’t you understand any Spanish? It’s pretty close to Portuguese, right?”

  I shake my head. “My parents didn’t speak Portuguese at home, remember? I picked up a few words when we visited Brazil, but I don’t speak it that well. And my dad wanted me to take French instead of Spanish in school. He thought it was more civiliz—”

  The word’s halfway out before I can censor myself completely. I clap my hands across my mouth, but Nico looks at me knowingly.

  “More civilized than Spanish?” he asks, sudde
nly preoccupied with stirring the straw around in his water. When he looks up, his eyes are dark and searching.

  My face flushes. “I don’t think that,” I say. “My dad...shit. I’m sorry. My dad can be kind of an asshole.”

  But Nico just shakes his head. “Don’t worry about it, baby. I get it. He’s just looking out for you.”

  I frown. “What do you mean?”

  Nico raises one brow, like he’s surprised I don’t understand. “Layla, a lot of immigrants don’t want their kids to learn English like a second language. And if their kids can pass as white, even better. They think it makes their lives are just easier.” He shrugs, like it makes perfect sense.

  I think about my dad, about how he’s always cursing his accent, which he can never quite get rid of. How he would always refuse to teach me Portuguese when I was little, no matter how many times I asked. The way he won’t let anyone call him or me Latino, unless it’s on a college application.

  You’re not like them, he’ll so often say when we pass people with darker skin, who look like they might be Mexican or South American. Why would you even want to be?

  I look at Nico. He’s so beautiful, it makes my chest hurt. Like me, like so many people in this city, he comes from a mix of ethnicities—Cuban, Puerto Rican, Italian, maybe more. But his skin is too dark for anyone to confuse him with a white man. I can’t deny that it’s probably put him at a disadvantage that I’ve never felt because of the way I look.

  But at the same time...I envy him. Even with the complex cultural background he claims, he knows who and what he is. That’s a knowledge that feels like it’s been kept from me my whole life.

  “Would you do it?” I ask. “Keep your kids from learning Spanish?”

  He looks up in surprise. “Of course not. I love my culture. I wouldn’t want them to lose out on knowing that side of themselves.”

  He watches me for a moment, but I look away first, out the window.

  “I wouldn’t want that either,” I murmur softly.