Cubanita

by Gaby Triana

  “So, ladies…make sure Andrew’s up to speed with all the house rules, all right?” Jon spots the parade of yellow and black swamp buggies starting to invade the parking lot. “Buses are here. Gotta go.” He trudges off to exercise his control freakiness at the registration desk.

  Andrew, Susy, and I stroll toward the entrance of the main house. They’ll need us to take our groups in about fifteen minutes.

  “Yeah, this is awesome.” Andrew picks up on Susy’s unabashed enthusiasm. “Iggy’s been talking about this camp for a while now. Said I could probably hook up here for the summer.”

  “Excuse me?” Susy asks, lusty fog obviously clouding her judgment.

  “Work here. I meant hook up, as in ‘work here.’” He smiles.

  “Oh.” Susy meant hook up, as in “find a piece of ass,” but whatever. I guess she’s smitten, even if his face does fall within the intimidating-ugly-yet-somehow-attractive category.

  “You know Iggy?” she asks.

  “Ig? Yeah, we were roommates last year, but I got my own place now. He’s working at the bookstore this summer.”

  Ohhhh, Andrew knows Iggy from UM. The other UM. The one my mother would rather I go to, the one only a few miles away, not as far up the continental U.S. from her as possible.

  I try to catch Susy’s expression. She dated Iggy for a month, and obviously never learned about Andrew, judging from her clucking tongue. Let’s get this ball between them rolling already. “Andrew,” I say cheerfully, “this is my friend Susana. She teaches science.”

  He looks at her like she’s nothing more than a little old lady or an office buddy of his father’s. “Hey, Susana,” he says, offering his hand.

  “Susy,” she replies breathlessly, taking it in hers.

  “Susy.” He smiles at her again, but it’s a polite smile, not a how-you-doin’, wanna-shag-now-or-shag-later smile. His gaze keeps flitting over to me. “And you’re…?”

  “Sorry. Isabel…Isa. Nice to have you along for the ride.”

  Susy coughs into her fist and smiles, no doubt envisioning Coach Andrew as a wild ride.

  “Along for the summer,” I correct. “That’s cool. Good luck.” Whew.

  I leave them both and head for the buses. One by one, the little darlings jump off the bottom steps, toting their cute backpacks, eager to learn about Everglades ecology. One of them, a teeny girl with a long swishing ponytail decorated with a green ribbon, bounces to the ground and spots Andrew. “Andy! Andy!”

  Coach Andrew turns around, a silly grin materializing on his face, lighting up his whole being. “Hey, chicken-chickee!” He crouches low, and the flying child comes swooping in, landing beautifully in his open arms.

  She hugs him close, smiling into his shoulder. Then she plants a sweet kiss on his cheek and coos, “Where’s Iggy?”

  “Iggy’s not here anymore. But I am,” he says softly, tickling her ribs until she squeals in delight. “Ig’s niece,” he offers to Susy as an explanation, then takes off with Chicken-Chickee to the registration desk.

  I’m completely stunned. Not sure why. It’s just that I don’t know anything about this Andrew. I guess because of his hard stare, I thought he was the serious type, a jerk even, into his own ego. But if a little girl with a swishing ponytail and ribbon in her hair can run up to him the way this one did, and smother him the way this one did, and laugh all bubbly with him like this one did, then he can’t be all that bad. In fact, he’s gotta be pretty great, right?

  As they enter the building hand in hand, I catch myself smiling openly.

  I stroll around the art room, helping my seven-year-olds draw monarch butterflies. One of my students, a stocky little girl with shiny blond hair, tugs on my shirt. “Ms. Díaz?”

  “Yes?” I smile.

  She points her black crayon at a wide-eyed boy next to her. “He’s bothering me.”

  I can’t possibly see how this poor boy can be bothering her. He looks like Bambi, for Christ’s sake. But there—it took a whole twenty minutes for the kids to start telling on one another. That’s the only thing I don’t like about this job.

  “Bothering you? Why…” I look down at my clipboard. “Yessica, he’s just sharing the crayons with you. You have to share, sweetie.”

  Yessica looks about as thrilled at hearing this as, say, a cat going in for a flea bath. She sighs. “Fine. But only because you knew my name. And because you’re pretty.”

  “Oh.” I touch my hair for some reason.

  “You look like that lady with the brown hair and brown eyes from that commercial about the shampoo that they play when my mom is watching that program she watches.”

  No clue what she’s talking about, but if I look like anyone in any hair product commercial, that’s good, I guess. “Well. Thank you. Yessica. That’s very nice of you.”

  Now, why didn’t Robi ever tell me things like that?

  During lunch, Susy’s baffled. “Why didn’t Iggy ever mention Andrew? I mean, hello, they were roommates.”

  “Why are you surprised? Don’t you think Iggy knew what he was doing by not introducing you two? You would’ve traded him for Andrew in a heartbeat. He knew that.” I guess Iggy wasn’t as dense as I thought. “Besides, you guys only went out for a month.” Sex. That’s all Susy wanted from him anyway.

  No answer, as she bites into a bologna and cheese sandwich.

  At 4:30, the first day wraps up smoothly. No accidents, tantrums, or barfing. No children eaten by ferocious alligators. Mami will be disappointed. My afternoon kids worked with watercolors wonderfully, better than I expected. Minimum spillage and a surprising sense of impressionism for second graders. Best of all, it’s been a peaceful day away from home.

  But every time I turned a corner today, walking the kids to their next activity, I felt a presence. As much as I tried to avoid it, I knew that Andrew’s gaze was fixed on me from the PE field, dark eyes following me from underneath his baseball cap.

  Though it should feel a bit creepy, a part of me is satisfied that someone actually bypassed Susy’s “take me, I put out” antics and noticed me instead. For once. So I find myself smiling for the second time today.

  Home less than a minute, I already hear the kitchen radio blaring the daily specials at Sedano’s supermarket, and my mother begins invading my personal space. “¿Ey, casi las seis? ¿Cómo te fue? ¿Qué hicieron?” She heaves a basket of laundry onto the living room sofa. She’s trying hard not to be intrusive, asking only three questions rather than the usual twenty.

  “I’m late because there was traffic, it went fine, and the kids loved my lessons. How was your day, Mami?”

  She sighs heavily and drops next to the basket to begin folding. “You didn’t call, Isa.”

  “Sorry, Mom. It was a busy first day.” I plop down next to her and begin matching socks.

  She whips a T-shirt into shape, then transforms it into a perfectly folded rectangle. “Stefanito se fue a la playa con Oscarito. He hasn’t called all day either.”

  Stefanito. His friend Oscarito. My mother must make everything diminutive. It can’t just be Stefan…no, it’s gotta be Little Stefan. Not Oscar, Little Oscar.

  “Yeah, but if Stefan’s been at the beach all day, he should’ve called you. It’s not like he’s working. I mean, at least I’m working.”

  “Sí, mi vida, but he’s a man,” she says matter-of-factly.

  “Huh?” I blurt, as if I’m not used to this double standard by now. “What’s that supposed to mean? Because he’s a guy, he doesn’t have to call you? Besides, Stefan’s hardly a man, Mami. What does he do all day? Go to the beach? Shop? That’s being a man?”

  She flips up a palm. “Mi hija, no empieces.”

  Don’t start, she says. Here I am, using my precious time to make something of myself, working for a living, preparing for college, only to get Mami’s grief for everything I do. But Stefan! Stefan takes two classes a week at Miami-Dade and earns her respect anyway, just because he’s got testicles? Please! My br
other’s a bum. Mami should be giving him grief, but she doesn’t because he’s Prince Stefanito, the prized boy in the family, the spicy ham neatly sandwiched between two unappreciative slices of white bread.

  Speaking of which, my sister hasn’t written me in a few days. “I’m gonna go change,” I tell Mom, heading to my room to check e-mail.

  In the solace of my four walls, I look through messages and find one from my sis. Carmen’s twenty-five and managed to escape my mother’s talons by going to Valdosta State, marrying a non-Hispanic American, and working as a nurse waaaay far from home in Virginia. How she did it, I’m not sure. Probably because my dad vetoed Mom’s suggestion that Carmen stay home to sew underwear. Go, he said, dream and pursue happiness. Mom wasn’t as happy after that. Not that I enjoy my mother being unhappy, but Carmen is my hero. Go, Carmen!

  From: C. Díaz-Sanders

  To: Isabelita

  Subject: Congratulations!

  Hi, baby girl! It kills me that I couldn’t go to your graduation, but since I just started at St. Jude’s, I couldn’t take any days off. I’ll be sure to use my first vacation days visiting you at school. Did you get the graduation card I sent? There’s a check inside. Use it wisely. Like I even have to tell you that.

  Ready to leave? Don’t worry, August will be here before you know it, then you’ll be free! Yay! God, I can’t believe my little sis is going off to college! That’s awesome, mamita. Good for you. Bueno, hang in there. Love Mami and Papi, but be yourself. Don’t give in to ancient notions.

  Love you,

  Carmen

  P.S. Dan says hi.

  I reply, telling Carmen about Mom, camp, and Andrew. Carmen always has a way of making me feel empowered. I miss her. But I can understand why she left. Mami’s a great mom, don’t get me wrong. She’s smart and funny and fiercely protective of her family, but she’s…overwhelming sometimes. Makes you want to go somewhere, like Virginia, and just breathe.

  After dinner, “alone” would be a good word to describe the way I feel. No one here seems to understand the things I want out of life. College, a career in art, independence. Carmen comes closest, but she’s over nine hundred miles away. Robi understood too, but no need to call and confuse him. Here at home, however, the people to click with are running thin.

  Even Susy is now preoccupied with Hurricane Andrew—whose daunting gaze is the last thing I remember before dozing off to sleep.

  Three

  Look at those clouds. A storm brewing over the Everglades—how timeless. The same cycle, century after century, is such a phenomenon. Rain falls, lightning strikes, fires start, then we come in and ruin it all by trying to put them out. Amazing, all nature’s trying to do is burn the old to make room for the new, but we see that as bad. Maybe the human race is destined to self-destruct. Maybe I’m too cynical for my age, like Mami says. Maybe I need to quit staring out the window and add brighter colors to this painting.

  White, white, where’s my white? Ah, there it is.

  It’s been two weeks since the first day of camp. Coach Andrew has greeted me from afar every day this week, a mere wave from across the PE field, and that’s it. I guess he’s just a nice guy, although the fact that his face was the last thing I thought of that first night is unnerving. Why am I even thinking about him? It’s not like he swept me off my feet or anything, or like he’s that cute, either. Susy’s the one who should be dreaming about him, not me. I’m not looking at guys this summer, not even Robi.

  For real, I’m not.

  Mmm. Is it unnatural to love the smell of oils and turpentine this much?

  Roberto Puertas. We’ve known each other since elementary school and were a couple for the last two years. Everything was fine. He’s a nice guy from a great family, Cuban-American like me, so we understood each other pretty well. Not only is he a good person, he is gifted in the looks department too. So why dump him?

  Well, here’s the thing. He was starting to talk seriously about me as “Mrs. Puertas.” I mean, hi, hello, we’re seventeen. Granted, he didn’t mean for another few years, until after college graduation, but still. I’d like to get married one day, but it’s too far away to even think about. What am I supposed to do? Nurture a long-distance relationship come August? I don’t think so. He’s a great guy, but Robi can look for someone else to sew his underwear. Case closed.

  This painting’s coming out pretty good. It’s one of my better oils. A girl about my age, back facing the viewer. She’s looking out at…okay, I haven’t decided what yet, but I hope to create a sense of sadness, like she’s longing for something. I want the viewer to wonder about it and identify with her. The hard part is evoking that kind of emotion without being able to see her face. But that’s what I love about painting.

  As I’m detailing the creases of her linen shirt, I hear the door to the art room quietly creak open. It could easily be the wind from the impending rain, but you know how you can sense when someone walks into a room, even when they’re real quiet? It’s an air displacement thing. Well, I look over and see guess who? Coach.

  “Hey.” He admires the room from the doorway.

  “How’s it going so far? Come in. Everybody treating you okay?” My God, there’s that haunting look again. Someone should use him in a horror movie. But then, he’s got that solid form that could earn him a role in a baseball flick. About six foot two, but not too pumped up. Got a natural build. Which I like.

  Which I like? Isa! What was all that rationalizing for, not five minutes ago?

  Andrew chooses to remain in the doorway. “Everything’s going great. I was just packing up to go home, thought I’d check out the whole facility for once. Haven’t been in here yet.”

  “The art room? Oh, it’s nice. Nothing too exciting, but it’s home to me. Closets, colored paper, glue bottles, that kind of stuff. No volleyballs in here.” I laugh.

  He’s not laughing. “I wasn’t looking for volleyballs anyway.”

  Oh.

  “Have you seen Susy?” I ask cheerfully, hoping he’ll remember the highly available bimbette buddy of mine and leave me alone. Maybe he should be wandering into her lab, where kids get to look at bass eggs under microscopes.

  “Yeah, she was talking to a parent a little while ago. I didn’t know she’s the same Susy that dated Iggy. Weird.”

  “I know, right? She didn’t know you were his roommate. Such a small world.”

  He nods in agreement.

  I nod.

  We stand there nodding. I go back to my painting before adding, “Why’d you move out? You guys had a tiff?”

  “With Iggy?” He plays with the doorknob, turning and letting it bounce back to its original position. “Nah, nothing happened. He’s a cool guy. I love his family. They practically adopted me when I moved in with him. I just always wanted my own place, I guess, and I found an awesome apartment right across from campus.”

  Ah, he wanted his own shag pad. Can’t blame him. “Oh, well, hey. Gotta follow your dreams, right? You gonna come in?”

  He pulls his equipment bag behind him and leans it against the wall. Then he starts strolling around quietly, contemplating the kids’ watercolor landscapes hung up to dry. “What’s this one?” He points to one with darker shades than the others.

  “Those aren’t finished. They’re backgrounds only, but my guess is a thunderstorm over land.”

  “Really?” He leans in and squints. “How can you see that? I just see gray on the top and brown on the bottom.”

  “I don’t know. That’s just what I see.”

  He examines it again.

  “So where do you live?” I ask, then remember. “Forget it, right off campus.”

  “Yeah. Originally I’m from Daytona Beach. Grew up there. But now my family’s in Orlando, and I’m here. I’m a junior, starting business classes in the fall.”

  “Business? That’s cool. I don’t have a head for business, but I admire people who do. Like my dad. He runs a great company and everybody really looks up
to him.”

  “What company?”

  “You’ve probably never heard of it. ISC Communications.”

  “Hmmm, nope. You’re right.” He laughs. “Never heard of it. What’s the ISC stand for?”

  “Actually it’s just the initials of my name, my brother Stefan’s, and my sister Carmen’s.”

  He chuckles, inching his way to my easel. “Your dad sounds like a cool guy.”

  “He is,” I answer rather quickly. “He is. Maybe you can talk to him sometime.”

  “Yeah? That’d be cool if I ever decide to start my own company. He could give me some pointers.” Andrew finishes perusing the kids’ paintings. He approaches my corner of the room, sneakers scuffing softly across the concrete floor. He looks comfortable, even though he’s alone with someone he doesn’t know in the slightest. Me, I’m trying real hard not to show how intimidated I’m feeling right about now.

  But then the memory of Andrew that first day, arms open to Iggy’s flying niece, sneaks into my mind. The way he completely changed, how he was Mystery Man one second, then sweet Uncle Andy the next, and I’m suddenly fine. I’d judged him too quickly. I thought he was full of himself. But she hugged him so lovingly, she even kissed his cheek.

  Finally he arrives at my easel and quietly watches me work. “That’s incredible,” he says, and, if I’m not mistaken, he drew a breath before saying it.

  “Thanks. It’s not finished, but thanks.” That’s awfully nice of him, but I can hear my mom’s unwelcome voice in my head. Este huevo quiere sal. This guy’s on to something, so watch out.

  He stands there frozen, while I use a fine point to create the folds on the girl’s shirt catching the breeze. Ocean. She’s going to be looking out at the ocean, I’ve just decided. There’s a storm on the horizon just like the one outside. We breathe quietly for a minute.

  “God, that’s so amazing how you do that. I can’t even draw stick figures. You, you just paint life exactly the way it is. That’s so cool.”