He is very sweet. Neruda climbs on my lap and I hold her tight.
I close my eyes and let the soothing music help me think . . .
Up until today, summer used to be my favorite time of year. I guess it could be worse. Neruda and I aren’t stuck being homeless in the winter. In a few months I’ll need to wear layers upon layers of clothes, heavy down jackets and wool socks. I’ll have to bundle Neruda up too. I don’t think we’ll survive living outdoors and sleeping in a cardboard box. I better find a place to stay right away. I can’t go to Abuela’s house. Mami will never want me to tell her what happened. She’s too old and sick and I can’t bring her problems. Normally, I love being human, but not today. I mean, what are we? A brain attached to a body and a bundle of nerves and feelings? We shouldn’t have been made with emotions. Feelings screw everything up. Our brain structure seems to have developed in a way that sometimes makes humans act out of hate and greed. Many scientists think we come from animals.
I doubt that.
Animals wouldn’t choose to do something to someone that’ll destroy their life. They don’t usually throw away their children. Most moms separate when kids have what it takes to venture out and survive on their own. Animals don’t have the need to buy things, demolish land, build tall buildings, use and save money, kill for money, read, ostracize, gossip, hate . . .
“Right, Neruda?” I whisper to her and pet her back.
If I’d been a female orangutan in love with another female, my mom would be happily picking fleas off my back right now.
“I’m glad you’re not one of us, Neruda.”
I open one eye and look at the little old man. He’s fallen asleep with his mouth open. I should be leaving this house soon. I’m imposing on him. I might need to take another bus, but where will I go?
I feel so lost without my cell.
I sink deeper into the sofa, thinking about how Soli’s the only person who knows that Marlena and I are, you know . . . in love. She caught us kissing one day in Marlena’s room. We thought Soli was in the bathroom, but she barged in on us unexpectedly and said, “Sweeet! I knew it all the time!” Marlena freaked, but we all got to talk, and Soli promised she’d never tell a single soul. And she hasn’t.
The viejito’s loud snore shakes my thoughts out of my head.
I look around and fix my eyes on picture frames of him and his wife gardening, looking happy.
My mind wanders. I think about what happened after my mom threw me out of the house:
“Get in! Fast!” Marlena grabs my arm and pulls me indoors. “My family’s in Key West. They won’t be back till later tonight.” She presses her lips against mine. “I love you so much. I wish I could say happy anniversary and, miraculously, everything goes back to normal so we could have the beautiful time we planned.” She hurriedly takes Neruda out into the fenced backyard with a bowl of water.
We rush into her strawberry-smelling office-turned-bedroom. For six months she’s been living in Miami Beach with her tío Marco, tía Hilda, and three cousins. Luckily, she talked her father into letting her stay with her uncle till she finished high school, while the rest of the family moved back to Puerto Rico.
She gently kisses my entire face. “She doesn’t know it was me, right? You didn’t tell her, did you?”
I fling onto her bouncy bed and softly pull her to me. “Of course not.” I lie on top of her and fill her neck with kisses. “I’d never do that that to you. I love you.”
She tosses her hair away from her face and lowers her deep-set eyes. “You’re my life.” She plants a moist kiss on my lips. “Tell me everything.”
“She kicked me out. I stashed my things behind the front yard bush and got here by bus.” I recount the entire story, in full detail. “I can’t go back home unless I give her the name of the ‘Evil Culprit.’”
“No way?!” Her eyes pierce mine. “You’ll never, ever say it’s me. Right? She’ll tell my uncle. He’ll call my parents in Puerto Rico. My entire extended family will find out.” She’s talking a mile a minute. “They’ll force me to move back. It’ll be hell for us. I won’t ever be allowed to see you again.”
“Chill, Mar. They’d have to slice my tongue off before I’d tell on you.”
She rolls me over and lightly sits on my thighs. I love that she’s meaty and curvaceous. Her ample hips feel good on me. “I wish you could stay here, but everyone will wonder what’s going on.”
“I know.” I can barely muster the energy to speak.
Marlena leans into me and kisses my earlobe. I love her warm familiar breath. “What will you do? Where will you go? You’ll still work part-time with Tío Marco, right? I have to see you every day.”
Before I can answer, she rushes to her desk, takes out a wad of bills from one of the cabinets, and hands it to me. “Three hundred and twelve dollars.”
I give them back. “No. I’ve got some money.” I won’t take what she’s been saving to buy a car. I’m not going to tell her I would have had my own Jeep today. I don’t want her to feel guilty.
She insists I take it all and stuffs it into my skirt pocket. “Return it if you don’t use it.”
“Maybe I’ll go to Little Havana Hotel.”
“You can’t afford that. Your money will run out right away.” She kisses my forehead. “I hate your mom for kicking you out. I’ve never seen you so sad. Go to Soli’s. She’ll take you in. Just remember you’re in my heart. No one will ever tear us apart.”
Marlena’s the second oldest of three kids and the one responsible for having taken care of her baby sister. Her maturity is part of why I admire her so much. She means what she says, says what she means, and she’d rather have her eyes poked with needles than lie. I know I can trust her, and I appreciate that.
I wrap my arms around her and we roll around in bed. She smells delicious, like watermelon candy.
I run my fingers through her hair. “I can’t stay at Soli’s. She lives in that tiny duplex. Her bedroom is the size of an ant.”
“You know Soli will give you a kidney if you need it.”
The thought of Soli and I being close since first grade lifts my spirits a little. But still, I can’t be a burden on her and her mom.
“Your beautiful green eyes look so sad, Scrunchy. Now that it’s summer, come over every day, and weekends after work, as if nothing’s happened. I’ll have my uncle drop me off at Soli’s the days you can’t visit.” I can tell she’s worried sick, but trying to make me feel better. She holds my hands in hers. “Just make sure Soli never mentions to anyone I wrote those texts.”
I brush my lips against her eyelids, kiss the freckle on her earlobe and whisper to her, “Is this my freckle?”
She half-closes her eyes. “Yours and only yours.” Her voice is soft and melodious.
I kiss her forehead, the tip of her nose, down to her mushy lips. I kiss every cell of her body, from her toes, up to her neck, until I find her mouth.
Time clicks by . . . We’re wrapped around each other under the covers, enveloped in a cocoon of warmth.
She slips off a silver ring and slides it on my ring finger. “Happy anniversary. I’ve had it on all day for you. It’ll help keep you safe.” The tiny green emerald set in the center looks like a loving eye watching over me.
“I got you a ring too but left it at home.”
“It’s okay. Don’t worry about it.”
A car noisily parks in the driveway. Her older brother, Arturo—the Inquisitor—is visiting from Puerto Rico for the summer.
“Shit!” We bolt out of bed and get dressed fast. I don’t feel like talking to him. He asks way too many personal questions.
I plop the wad of bills on her desk when she’s not looking, and rush to the backyard for Neruda. Marlena follows.
I open the back fence. Neruda leaps all over me as if she hasn’t seen me in a century. “I’ll call you from a pay phone.”
“Go to Soli’s, please. Call me from her place as soon as you get there. I love y
ou with all my heart,” she murmurs. “You’re everything to me. I don’t want anything to ever happen to you.”
I don’t tell her I’m not going to Soli’s. “I love you more.” I wrap my arms around her and breathe in her delicious scent. I need to take it with me for strength.
The soft Cuban music stops abruptly.
“Excuse me sir,” I say twice until he stirs. “I don’t mean to wake you up.” I’ve got to make a phone call but I won’t do it behind his back.
He straightens his spine up against the couch. “Oh, excuse me, muchachita, for being such a terrible host.”
“Can my puppy get some water, and may I please use your phone?”
He opens his eyes wide. “Why, of course. Goodness, I fell asleep. When you get old, these things happen.” He yawns and pats his shirt and pant pockets. “Come right into the kitchen and use our house phone. I’m not sure where I misplaced my cellular.”
I sip my soda as he gives Neruda water in a bowl. Then I call Soli and tell her I need a place to crash. Soli doesn’t wait for me to finish my explanation.
“Stay put. I’ll be there in three seconds!”
That’s one thing about Soli: she’s never let me down.
5—Tongue Tango
Soli honks. I kiss the viejito goodbye, thank him, and climb into her primitive, freshly painted, red VW bug.
“Woah!” I open the door and plop on the passenger seat with Neruda.
Soli has undergone a wild makeover. A silver ring is stuck to one nostril of her thick nose. Pitch-black tiny dreadlocks—which she dyed blond at the tips—stand on their ends, as if they just had an electric shock. Her cherry lipstick, orange minidress, and raspberry sandals are so bright, I think I might need to put on sunglasses.
She sticks out a pierced swollen tongue. “I’m celebrating our last day of school. I’m divine, aren’t I?”
I cover my eyes. “Celestial.” I get weak at the knees and beg her, “Never show me again and hide it from your mom.”
Soli’s always trying new things. Recently, she got a boy’s lip tattooed behind her ear. This bothers her mom who believes empty spaces on one’s skin should be sacred. Soli would rip off an arm and hand it to a kid in desperate need of one. She’s the first to help me get a group together on our birthdays to clean trash off the beaches. Last Thanksgiving, we gathered friends to cook at a homeless shelter that helped feed the needy. I love that she supports me in everything I do.
She slaps my cheek. “Sure. Like, I’m going to hide my tongue from Mima.” She blasts some trance music, puts her foot to the pedal and off we go!
In addition to her being smart, strong-willed and the horniest kid in this city, Soli’s ability to stay optimistic about the world at large is astounding. She’s earned a reputation among friends as the wildest, most fun-loving girl in our school. Yesterday, when we got our yearbooks, hers was instantly filled with memories of pranks Soli’s pulled, like the day she met with Mrs. Superior-Sicko and told her she needed to take the year off to sail around the world, alone. “It’s already been done by a teen, but I’d like to beat her world’s record.” For days, MSS tried hard to talk her out of it. When she was about to call Soli’s mother, Soli agreed it wasn’t a safe idea.
Soli’s a thrill seeker and adventurer. We both love water sports and got hooked on sailing and kayaking—we do it during school holidays (her feisty aunt charters catamarans off of Key Largo). She talks about saving enough money to go sky diving, getting her pilot’s license to fly a jet, and crazy things like that. Her love of acting in school plays has landed her many lead roles. Most of our mutual friends think she’s destined to become an actor.
I doubt she’ll ever do that, though. She’d like to one day buy a house for her mom and knows she needs steady, reliable work for it to happen. That’s why the wackiest kid around will be going to university for a master’s in psychology.
“What a screwed-up day, Shyly.” (She’s called me Shyly since first grade and has spelled it with a y ever since, and it’s the reason Pedri spells it that way too). “Fart Face didn’t want to let us leave till we told her who wrote the texts. She thinks it’s me.” She laughs. “I told her, ‘It’s not me, but if I knew who it was, no way would I ever tell you, or any teacher in this disgusting school.’ I picked up my book bag and flew out the door.” She momentarily glances my way. “What they did was wrong. Things like that ruin people’s reputations. As if any of us in the whole class were virginal. If she’d read my private texts to my exes, she’d have collapsed from a seizure. Fart Face could have taken you aside and spoken to you in private. She should have never, ever, read those texts to your mom.”
I lean over and smack her a kiss on the cheek. “You’re the greatest friend ever.” There’s nothing like support when you need someone you trust by your side.
“I don’t care what they say, Shyly. I’m not going back there next year anyways. I’m transferring to Miami High. You’re coming with me.”
“Nope. I’m quitting school.”
Without a mother to look over my shoulder, I can do whatever I want, read and study what inspires me, and live my life as I please. If my mom doesn’t want me, then she’ll be in for a surprise if she ever decides to speak to me again. For sure, I won’t be the same person she left behind.
“What about your dream of getting a scholarship and studying art and architecture in Paris and teaching at Miami Dade College or U of M?”
“I can study and learn on my own, here. Let’s change the subject.”
I’ve always dreamed big. Even though I knew I’d never end up in France for lack of funds, what artist wouldn’t want to live where art and culture were born? Paris, a city bursting with cafés where ancient, dead authors and artists like Camus, Picasso, Gertrude Stein, Alice B. Toklas and Sartre once roamed, inspires me. I’ve spent lots of time daydreaming about walking past the same table where Camus once sat.
I know I’m not destined to sit where past literary geniuses, existential thinkers and the intellectual elite once did, but it never hurt to wish.
In The Sun Also Rises, Hemingway wrote, “No matter what café in Montparnasse you ask a taxi driver to bring you to from the right bank of the river, they always take you to the Rotande.” I’ve always imagined walking hand in hand with Marlena through Paris, living together in a tiny attic somewhere, painting and making love at all hours of the day and night. I’d sell my paintings, and she could do whatever she wanted.
Now I know for sure I’ll never make it to Paris. I can easily immerse myself in studying at home. This is the United States. The place we came to run away from communism. Everything is at our fingertips, readily accessible if we search for it.
Soli and I talk about the Incident. I tell her every single detail that happened after Fart Face dragged me out of class.
She wags her head from side to side. “Those teachers are out of control. They need a good roll in the sizzling sack.” Abruptly, she surprises me. “I told Mima about you and Marlena being together.”
“What?” I spring up on my seat. “Are you insane? You know Marlena thinks people will believe she’s a sicko who goes around checking out girls’ boobs.”
Poor Marlena. The shadow of homophobia with its pointy fangs and massive claws follows her everywhere. I’m scared too, and always have been. But she feels terror. She’s actually told me if anyone finds out, she’ll kill herself. Marlena’s obsessed with wanting people to think she’s straight.
“That’s insane.”
“Not really. Look at the way CC and Olivia acted.”
I throw her a steely look. “You shouldn’t have told on us, especially on a day like today. Marlena can’t find out.”
Leave it to Soli to tell her mom about me after what I’ve just been through. And besides, just because I’m in love with Marlena doesn’t mean I’m ever going to label myself a lesbo. I prefer wandering across the world (or at least my corner of it) without a stamp on my forehead. At this point I won’t pu
t my personal life out there for everyone to keep gossiping about.
I tremble inside to think Soli will start telling other people and it’ll soon reach Marlena’s and my mom’s ears. “Chill.” She twirls a teeny dreadlock around her index finger. “I told Mima the day I caught you guys doing the Tongue Tango, almost a year ago.”
“Holy pube!” I cover my face with my hands. “Your mother’s known all this time?”
Soli’s mom is the sweetest, kindest lady you’ll ever meet. Honestly, she’s like a living saint. Just last year she had fifteen strangers who came from Cuba living in her teeny rental duplex. She fed them, found them jobs under the table cleaning houses, and cheap efficiencies for them to live in. I guess I shouldn’t be too worried about her knowing. I’m sure she won’t spread the word.
Unlike Viva, most older Miami Cubans are religious and conservative. Some embrace gay guys but find girls together disgusting. Some gay Latino boys are more open about their sexuality. They’re praised as “fabulous” and “funny.” Some right-wing Latinos are so whacked. They think lesbians are a perverted breed out to destroy common decency.
I know my culture has come a long way, but the homophobes need to read everyday stories about girls who like girls. That way, we’ll be seen as “normal.”
“Yup, Shylypop. You know Mima’s amazing because of her belief in metaphysics. She’s known forever and has never treated you or Marlena bad, and she’s never told anybody about it.” She lifts her pencil-thin right eyebrow. “She loves you like hell even if you are a homo.”
“I’m not homo, turkey. Labels are so constricting. I don’t want a target on my back. I’m just in love with Marlena.”
Soli’s talking about my being lezzie, and I keep telling her I’m not gay; I’m just me.
The thing is I don’t know anything about living a lesbian life. Soli thinks my loving Marlena stamps me as one. Like I said, I want to be free to be myself without being branded, especially at this crucial time in my life. I’m not a cow. I’m a human being.
“Sure. You’re not a lesbo, and I’m not an Afrrrrrro Cubanita.”
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