Cubanita

by Gaby Triana

  “Wow, thanks,” I say again, too embarrassed to look at him. I pretend to be absorbed by my work, talking to him only to be polite, but the truth is I don’t want to see his face. I don’t want to see those lashes batting over those eyes. What if I see something in them I don’t want to? What if they’re telling me something I don’t want to know?

  “Isabel,” he says softly, moving in to see the painting close-up, “this girl, she sorta looks like a puppy waiting for someone to come home. Someone she’s been waiting for, right?”

  Silence.

  I was hoping for a more open interpretation with this piece, but this nonartisan business major just hit the bull’s-eye. “Um…yeah. That’s what I was aiming for. Very good, Coach.” I say it casually, but I’m almost too stunned to move. Coach Andrew surprises me yet again. I thought he was about to ask me out, but I obviously know little about him. And here’s the scary part—I want to know more.

  “I’m sorry,” he says, floating closer to me, sensing my amazement. “Was I not supposed to guess that yet?”

  I pull the brush away from the canvas, dipping the point into the little vat of turpentine, swishing to clean off the paint. I wipe the bristles on a paper towel and place the brush upright into a cup. “No, that’s great. That’s exactly what I was hoping people would think.” I wipe my hands on my apron. Why are they sweating? Then, without thinking, I do it. I look at him.

  A split second later, butterflies flutter inside me. Andrew is closing the space between us. He creeps in to look at the painting, but my mind imagines something else, something I don’t even want to think about. I swore to myself I wouldn’t. Beneath heavy brows, his dark eyes search my face. I can feel myself swooning. Butterflies are one thing, but swooning? I’ve never swooned with anybody. Not even Robi.

  Andrew smiles. A big, beautiful smile. A sexy smile, damn him. Damn him! What is wrong with me?

  He glances down at his shoe and kicks the floor with his heel. “Hey, would it be okay if we got together outside this place? Maybe hang out somewhere? I’d love to talk more, but we don’t have much time here.”

  My response gets stuck on delay. Um…um. In the distance, a rumble of thunder fills in the silence, and a whooping crane cries out.

  Andrew, sensing a refusal on the brink, adds, “If not, it’s okay. I can take a no.”

  No to Underwear Ad Guy? I don’t think so. So we’ll go out, no big deal. I can go out with someone as long as I don’t get too involved, right? “Yeah, sure. That’d be great,” I hear myself say, right as the image of Susy’s gaping mouth flits through my mind.

  “Awesome.” He smiles again, and I swear that now, he’s extremely hot. That scowl isn’t so bad, actually. His attitude and everything else make up for it. He looks again at my painting. “What does she want? The girl.”

  “The girl?” Oh, right, the girl. “I’m not sure, really.”

  I haven’t the foggiest idea, but I guess she’s gotta want something.

  “Maybe we’ll figure it out over coffee.” He punches my arm playfully, a magical smile gracing his face. Goofy Uncle Andy.

  “Maybe,” I say, having a hard time ignoring the vision of myself as Chicken-Chickee, with the swishing ponytail, running into his arms.

  Four

  From: Roberto Puertas

  To: Isa Díaz

  Subject: Hey, Isa

  How’ve you been? What have you been up to? Remember that I’m always here for you if you need me. Call me anytime. I haven’t seen your face ringing on my camera phone in a while. Remember how it used to crack me up after school during band practice?

  Robi

  I don’t reply. Instead, I close all windows and log off. He just wants to see if I’m home. I check myself in the mirror one last time and head out to the living room.

  “¿A dónde vas?” my mom asks as soon as she sees me.

  “Déjala.” From behind the TV Guide, my dad tells Mami to give me a break.

  I clear my throat and prepare for the onslaught. “I don’t know where we’re going yet, Mami. Probably somewhere to get coffee. That’s what he mentioned.”

  “¿Mi vida, por qué te estás enredando en algo nuevo?”

  “What? I’m not getting wrapped up in anything new. I’m just going to have coffee with a fellow teacher.”

  “On a Thursday night, hija?”

  “So?”

  “I thought it was too hot for coffee.”

  Oh, now she thinks she’s funny, just because I haven’t been drinking hers in the morning. Mom could’ve been an accountant with that scorekeeping of hers. She offers her best disapproving smirk. “¿Y vestida así?”

  “Déjala,” my dad referees again, without a glance our way.

  I look down at the outfit I threw on. Fine, the one I chose carefully. My superlow jeans with a really cute blue peasant top, which Stefan picked out for me. I guess it’s not so bad having a mall rat for a brother. “What’s wrong with what I’m wearing?”

  “Is that how everyone dresses when meeting a fellow teasher?”

  I make a huge effort to avoid rolling my eyes. “It’s teacher, Mami, not teasher. Honestly, I don’t know why you can’t say teacher. It’s the same ch-sound as in chocolate. You can say chocolate just fine, can’t you? So say teacher.”

  “¡Teacher…teasher…déjame tranquila ya!” She flails the remote control high above her head. And God also forbid she could speak without using the full range of her arms.

  “Teasher is something you wear with jeans,” I add. If grief is what she wants to give me tonight, two can play that game.

  “Isa, enough.” My dad’s crooked eyebrow warns from above the magazine.

  You know, she came here when she was nineteen. It’s been, like, twenty-six years. You’d think in twenty-six years, she could learn how to speak correctly. “Look, this is what I’m wearing, okay? There’s nothing wrong with it.”

  She quickly scans my ensemble before focusing back on Univision. “He’s going to get the wrong impression.”

  “Mom, stop it! I’m not wearing a see-through teddy, am I?”

  “Para de gritar,” she calmly orders.

  “I’m not screaming.”

  “Para de gritar,” she coos, and any moment now, I probably will scream, just from hearing her ask me not to.

  “Déjala,” my father says yet again.

  See what I mean? I can’t take this! I just love the way she picks fights, pushing all the right buttons, then asks me to stay calm. Bullshit! My friends never have to put up with this. Their mothers always let them wear whatever they want, as long as it isn’t slutty. Me, I’m wearing the most normal outfit ever, but she puts on a show.

  I tell you, if not going out with Andrew is what she wants from me tonight, she’s doing more harm than good. If there’s anything I want, it’s to see him. Someone with a fresh face. Someone who’ll listen without criticizing. Someone who can pronounce “teacher”!

  “Good night, Mom.” I think I’ll wait for Andrew outside. I grab my keys from my purse and aim for the door. “Good night, Dad.”

  As I’m walking out, I hear my father blowing his usual good-bye kisses. My mother’s voice, icy and stubborn, calls from the living room. “Isa, no llegues tarde.”

  Humpf. I’ll get home whatever time I damn well please. Of course, I’d never say that. My father would shove that TV Guide right up my ass.

  Starbucks on Miracle Mile is crazy. We wait, like, twenty minutes just to order and another five to get our drinks. Still, it’s a great night, moon out and everything, as Andrew and I sit outside. Table for two. Lots of people on the sidewalk, probably on their way to the art studios around here. Maybe after I stop boring Andrew with tales of Mother Díaz, we can head to one.

  Out of thin air a girl appears at our side. A little older than me, blond and pretty. “Andrew, hi!”

  He looks up, his eyes go wide. “Hey, Jenny! What’re you up to?”

  The navel-ring-baring chick points at a group of gi
ggling girls waiting to cross the street. “Nah, I’m just here with my friends. Came over to say hi.” She swivels at the waist like a toddler.

  “Cool, this is Isa,” he says.

  She looks at me for, like, a fraction of a second. “Hi.”

  “Hi.” Remove thyself from the premises, Blondie.

  Before she can say anything else, Andrew adds, “Great, well, I’ll see you around.” Kind of a sudden way to end things, but good for him. Fifty points.

  “Okay.” Jenny smiles in my direction, like she gets the hint, but leans in to give Andrew a quick peck on the cheek anyway. “See you, bye.”

  Yes, bye-bye, run along and play. “Who’s that?” I ask with a smile.

  “Girl from school. She lives in my building. Always saying hi, even though I hardly know her.”

  “Gotcha.” I was correct about the girls-gone-gaga thing. This happens to him a lot.

  He shrugs and takes a swig of his Grande Caramel Macchiato with skim milk, hold the whipped cream. What’s the fun of a macchiato without the whipped cream? Or whippee creen, as Mami would say. He twirls a wooden stirring stick in his cup. “Why does she act that way? Your mom.”

  “My mom? Oh, my mom.” I almost forgot what we were talking about before Blondie broke the flow. “Why? Who knows? It defies explanation. I believe researchers are still working on it. They’ve listed her under Freaks of Nature.”

  Andrew stares, not sure whether to nod in sympathy or laugh out loud. So I go on, “If you’d like to help the cause, send a donation to the Deciphering Cuban Mothers Fund of Little Havana.”

  Then he loses it. He cracks up, drawing attention from people at neighboring tables. “You don’t even live in Little Havana!” He covers his face and goes on laughing.

  Me, I’m trying hard not to laugh, so he won’t think I amuse myself on a regular basis. “You think I’m kidding? I bet you never had to put up with this kind of stuff. I bet your mom’s normal, and she gave you free reign over your life while you were home.”

  Suddenly his laugh dies down. He clears his throat, and an uncomfortable stillness fills the air between us. Uh-oh, what did I say? “Andrew? I’m sorry. Did I just stick my foot in my mouth?”

  Looking down, he shakes his head and softly pounds the table with his fist.

  I lean in and try to peer into his face. “Andrew? Please don’t tell me—”

  He looks up, deep brown eyes locking with mine. “My mother died. When I was nine.”

  “Oh, Andrew.” My hand flies to my mouth. “I’m so sorry! I should’ve thought about that before I said anything. I’ve only known you a few weeks, and here I am making such a stupid comment! I’m really sorry. Please don’t hate me.”

  He shakes his head some more, biting his lip, but it doesn’t look like he’s upset, it looks like he’s…And then he can’t hold it anymore. He loses it. He’s laughing and snorting, and I’m just an idiot who fell for the oldest trick in the book.

  “You jerk!” I chuck a few napkins at him, while he continues to crack himself up. “I can’t believe you did that! I felt really bad! I really thought your mother had died.”

  His face does that thing again, where it goes from intimidating to sunny. He’s got the coolest smile ever, wide and sexy. “She lives in Orlando with my dad and little sister. Spends half her time on the Internet and makes Key lime pies the rest of the day.”

  “You freak!” I pull my earlobe. I always do when I’m nervous. Why am I nervous? There’s nothing to be nervous about. Andrew’s funny, he’s cool, he’s…

  Mi vida, por qué te estás enredando en algo nuevo?

  What? Who said that? Great, now I’m hearing Mami’s voice again. Shoo, go away!

  “Spends half her day on the Internet, then bakes?” I ask, trying to focus on Andrew’s explanation. I won’t go any farther than that. What if he’s kidding again?

  “Yeah, she runs a home business. She takes Internet orders, then bakes the meanest Key lime pies you’ve ever tasted.”

  “Really? We’ll just have to see about that. My mom makes a killer Key lime pie too.”

  “Your mom? But you make her out to be this flag-waving Cuban lady who’d, if anything, be making flans, not Key lime pies.”

  “Oh, but she does. Don’t get me wrong. She makes a killer flan, too, but I bet you my mother’s Key lime pie is better than your mother’s Key lime pie.”

  He fakes injury, looking around to see if other coffee-sippers are listening in on the challenge. “Yeah? Well, I’ll have her overnight one tomorrow, then we’ll find out who’s the real Queen of Key lime.”

  “Fine.” I cross my arms with a grin.

  “Fine.”

  “Your mother doesn’t stand a chance.” I offer my most childish competitive spirit.

  “And yours doesn’t stand a shance.” His lips press together and his eyes open wide, as he awaits any flying objects that may suddenly come his way.

  Oh, so now he’s mocking my mom? “That’s so not funny,” I tell him, dead serious.

  His expression changes to one of deep concern. “What’s not?”

  “What you said.”

  “What? The shance thing?”

  “Yes.”

  His eyebrows draw together. “But you made fun of your mom’s accent yourself! So now I can’t make fun of her?”

  “No. I can make fun of her. You can’t.”

  “You can’t be serious.”

  No answer.

  He watches my face carefully. “Isa, I’m sorry. Really. I was only messing with you.”

  No answer.

  He tilts his head and looks me dead in the eye. I stare back at him, meeting his scowl with my own. Then, I can’t help it, and the corners of my lips turn up. He grins big, pointing a long finger straight at my nose, and almost immediately I fall apart. “You almost had me!” he cries.

  “Dammit! I can never hold a serious face!” I throw the napkins at him again, and again, and again. “Jerk! Jerk! Jerk!”

  “You almost had me!” he repeats, and in a surprise move, leans in and gathers my hands in his, humming to himself, pleased.

  Okay, this is weird. Nice, but weird. So this is what another guy’s hands feel like after two years of holding Robi’s. Actually, it’s more than nice, it’s butterfly-inducing. I can handle this. We’re just holding hands, no big deal. I lean forward, feeling my arms squeeze my chest, creating a great display of boobage.

  He’s going to get the wrong impression, my mother’s voice echoes in my brain. What the hell? Someone get her out of here! “Shut up,” I murmur softly.

  “Excuse me?” Andrew’s eyebrows sneak up.

  “Nothing.” I smile.

  He glances around, looking for anyone to whom I might be directing my order, then decides it’s no one. “You’re freaking me out, you know that?” But he smiles again, and I know he’s really kidding. Grabbing his paper cup, he downs the rest of the macchiato. “Let’s go somewhere.”

  It’s not really a suggestion. It’s a declaration. I shrug an okay, toting my half-drunk mocha frap in one hand, hanging on to Andrew with the other.

  “Here, take these back to your mom.” He pushes the Starbucks napkins toward me on the table. “They’re not from Wendy’s, but they still work the same.”

  I laugh again. I’m laughing a lot, aren’t I? Who knew such a mean-looking dude could be so goofy? But somewhere in the back of my mind, almost too far to even notice, I realize this laugh was forced. My own thoughts, not Mom’s, whisper, That wasn’t funny.

  At Ponce de Leon Boulevard, we stop in front of an art studio packed with loud, appreciative admirers. Andrew and I are still holding hands, so I haven’t been able to concentrate on much else. The canvases gracing the walls here are colorful interpretations of Cuban landscapes. A woman holding a tray of tiny cups of Cuban coffee offers us some.

  “No, gracias,” I decline. That stuff is pure liquid nitro.

  We stop in front of a small painting of a guajiro, an old countr
yman, dressed in the traditional white pants and guayabera shirt. Red bandanna laced around his shoulders. Wide-brimmed straw hat tilting over a rugged, smiling face. We stand there for a while admiring it.

  “That one’s awesome,” he says. “It looks just like Iggy’s father.”

  I then decide to forgive his little joke earlier. After all, he’s a good guy, he likes the guajiro painting. A young boy, no older than ten, weaves in and out of the visitors’ legs, handing out sheets of neon blue paper. I take one graciously.

  CUBA EXPO

  Coconut Grove Convention Center

  Come and enjoy the sights and sounds of old Cuba!

  Reminisce!

  August 8–9

  On the back, the same thing in Spanish.

  Cuba Expo. Mom first went to this fair with Stefan and Dad, like, eight years ago, and has been trying to get me to come along ever since. Says I would love it. Lots of Cuban artwork, food, music, and dancing. But hanging out with die-hard cubiches (say it like this: coo-bee-chess) just isn’t what I do with my free time, so I always make some excuse not to go.

  I place the flyer in my pocket anyway, to take to Mami. It’ll make her day.

  At 11:00, Andrew pulls his 4Runner into our semicircular driveway. I wonder who paid for the car, him or Daddy. I’m about to thank him and step out, when he jumps out of the car and comes around to open my door. I hope Papi’s watching.

  “Thank you, sir!”

  “Gracias a usted, señorita,” he says in a light southern drawl.

  “Hey! That was pretty good! Gracias for what, though?”

  He shuts the door and leads me to our front porch. “For coming out with me. For throwing napkins…”

  For showing me your cleavage…

  “For a fun-filled evening,” I add.

  When we get to the door, I’m all too aware of a presence on the other side of it. Someone of the maternal nature is watching through the peephole. I try to ignore it and focus on Andrew instead. “We did have fun, didn’t we? This was kind of unexpected—”