by Gaby Triana
“Unexpected? Gee, thanks. Am I that much of a Frankenstein?”
I imagine Andrew with a big green head, bolts sticking out of his neck, saying things like “Fire…bad.” What’s scarier is the thought that he could play a monster on film, with those eyes, those eyes, those eyes…Ay!
“No, I didn’t mean the fun was unexpected, I meant this.” I hold up our hands clenched together. “I haven’t told you yet, but I’m leaving for Michigan in August, I just broke up with someone, and I promised myself I wouldn’t get—”
“Isa?” He smiles, pulling our hands up and moving in closer.
“Hmmm?”
“One day at a time. We just had one date, that’s it. It was fun, wasn’t it?”
“Yes, it was. I’m sorry I’m obsessing.” With my free hand, I tug on my earlobe furiously, but he grabs my fingers and pulls them away with a grin.
Great, he’s figured out the effect his eyes have on me, and he’s milking it for all it’s worth. “It’s okay,” he says, lowering his eyes for a moment before looking at me again. “I’ve been obsessing all night over something too.”
“You’ve been obsessing?” Funny, he’s seemed nothing but confident this entire night. “Over what, pray tell?”
He looks at the peephole. Then his hand reaches up to cover it. He leans in and brings his lips close to mine. “Over this.”
I melt into a major-league kiss, soft and warm, but commanding. Robi wishes he could’ve kissed like this. And then a thought hits me—I won’t be keeping my own promise to stay away from guys this summer.
Nope. I’m a goner.
Five
I hardly saw Andrew the day after our date, except when walking by his field, when he’d tip his baseball cap in my direction, but I haven’t stopped thinking about the kiss at my front door. It was different, controlled, like he’s used to it. Unlike weakling me.
Mom hasn’t mentioned my date anymore since that night, maybe by the grace of God or because my dad’s last déjala did it. Now it’s Saturday, and rather than stir up another windstorm with her, I’m home, helping prepare for tomorrow’s big feast—our annual Fourth of July barbecue, which the entire family (all forty of us) feels the need to celebrate at our house. We’re the only ones with a pool, so hey! Everybody head over to the Díazes’! They’ll cook for us! They’ll clean after us! They’ll serve us beer!
But a Fourth of July barbecue, Cuban-style, is not what you might think. Burgers and hot dogs? Hell no! What you want is a massive pig, roasted in a hole in the ground. Coleslaw? Corn on the cob? Nope. Bocaditos, croquetas, and chicharrones. Vanilla Coke? Wrong again. Why drink that crap when you can have an ice-cold Malta Hatuey?
And the two best parts of all this? One, that my parents don’t know I invited Andrew, and two, that he’s bringing a Key lime pie to rival my mom’s.
“Isa, córtame los limones, por favor.” Mami hands me the local, small limes for her reigning winner of all pies. I grab a knife and start slicing them in half. Any moment now I’m going to hear the other side of the Key lime story—the Cuban side.
“Did you know…” she begins, gently pressing the graham cracker mixture into the pie mold. “That these limones were not called Kee line in Cuba?”
I don’t answer her. I don’t answer because she’s not really talking to me. She’s talking to an invisible interviewer who has approached her for critical information about Cuba’s produce.
Under the faucet she washes her hands free of cracker crumbs. It’s interesting that she can wave her hands wildly when she talks and still be able to wash them. “You see, in Cuba, these limones were not special Kee line limones, they were just plain limones. We use them for cooking, for marinating…”
Sigh. For making limonada…
“For making limonada,” she adds. “They grew everywhere, in everybody’s backyards. But here, everybody makes sush a big deal about them, like they’re so special.”
“They are special, Mami. The regular limes here are the big green ones. These are super bitter.”
“And that’s the other thing. In Cuba, this Kee line was not considered a line. It was a limón.”
As fascinating as I really do find this, I keep quiet, or she’ll go on about the way things used to be back you-know-where. And if I hear my mom say Kee line one more time, I’m going to leave the juicing to her and go watch my brother work on his hair.
At the other end of the house, I hear a blow dryer. Odd, considering the only two women in the house are in the kitchen. And my dad doesn’t have hair. So that only leaves Wonder Boy.
Mami reaches past me to open the pantry, stopping momentarily to caress my shoulder. “¿Eh, Isa?”
“¿Sí, Mami?”
“I saw the papelito you put on the refrigerator.”
“The Cuba Expo? Yeah, I put it there for you the other night.”
“¿Sí? I hadn’t noticed it. Gracias por traérmelo. Maybe you can come with us this time.”
“Yeah, maybe. That’d be fun.” Don’t hold your breath.
A silence falls between us. “¿Mi vida?”
“Yes, Mom?”
“Eh…se me olvido decirte que Robi llamó esta mañana.”
“What?” I blurt, nearly slicing off my finger in the process. “Robi called me this morning? Why didn’t you tell me?”
“Because you were sleeping.”
“What did he say?” We agreed not to speak for a while, or at least until I called him. First the e-mail, and now this. I said I needed time off, stubborn fool.
“Nada.” She shrugs.
“¿Nada? Robi called to say nada? So he just stayed quiet on the line?”
She runs two cans of sweetened condensed milk under the can opener, then pulls the eggs out of a bowl of warm water. “Mi vida, he didn’t call you. He called me. We talked about esto, lo otro. He just wanted to say hi.”
This and that. Somehow I find it hard to believe Robi called to discuss this and that without an ulterior motive. He just wanted to see if I was home, picking my nose and thinking of him. And calling my mom, not me? I don’t know what he’s trying to do, but if he thinks for one minute that’ll make a difference in getting back together—
“I told him to come tomorrow,” she announces with the crack of an egg.
In my mind I hear a loud metal pang! and a scene flashes before me. Of Robi and Andrew, each outfitted with boxing trunks and gloves, dancing around each other, jabbing. Andrew with a split eyebrow. Robi, a bloody nose. Hanging on to the lower rope of the ring from the floor, I’m shouting, “Boys! Boys! Stop it! Please!”
I put my gaping mouth to good use. “Tell me you’re kidding.”
“¿Por qué?” She uses her hand to speak but forgets that she’s holding a spatula. Drops of sweetened condensed milk go spattering against the cabinets.
“What do you mean why? Why? Because you have no business inviting Robi here tomorrow!”
“Ay, Isa, please. Robi’s been coming to our house para el cuatro de julio hace dos años.”
“Hello? Earth to Mom? Robi and I broke up! He’s come to our barbecue the last two years because we were to-ge-ther. Robi and I are now broken up. Watch…” I mercifully put down the knife, then make an open and closed motion with my hands. “Broken up…together…broken up…together. Broken up! Got it?”
My mother gives me that look. The one that suggests You’re being silly, you’re overreacting. You’re not really broken up with Robi, you’re only imagining it. “Isa, he may not even come. He said he’d try. I only did it to be nice, hija. He was nice to you. You can’t just dees-card someone like that.”
You know…I’ve always considered myself a sane person, one who’s managed to handle my Cuban nutjob mother with grace, but enough is enough. This last month has completely done her in. Why is she so out-of-whack? What am I going to do? I already invited Andrew!
“Mami,” I say calmly, amazing myself, “I know exactly what you’re doing. You invited Robi so that I wouldn’t
even think of inviting Andrew.”
“Who?”
“My fellow teasher?”
“Oh.”
“But you’re too late. I already did. I invited both him and Susy, so if there’s a showdown here tomorrow, you’re the one who’s going to deal with it, not me, okay? I gotta pee.” Total lie; I just have to get out of here. It’s that suffocation thing again.
“Mi vida…”
Mi vida, my ass.
Outside, my father shovels, then wipes his brow. He’s taking a moment’s rest from digging the pit for tomorrow’s lechón. His tank undershirt is soaked with sweat, and his hands are covered with dirt. Despite all this, he’s digging in nice pants and dress socks. A sight to behold.
“Papi, you have got to do something about that woman.”
He circles the pit, looking for a new spot to unearth. “What’s there to do? That woman is fine the way she is.”
“And I thought you were the reasonable one.”
He laughs in a way I’ve loved since as long as I can remember—airily, but with a hint of wheezing. “What happened, Isa?”
“She invited Robi to come tomorrow.”
“So?”
“So I invited Andrew to come tomorrow too.”
He thinks about this for a moment. “So? She didn’t know that.”
“Dad? She has no business inviting Robi at all! What is she trying to do?” A mosquito bites my ankle, so I slap it to a premature death.
“I’m sure she’s not trying to do anything, Isa. What do you want? For her to drop that boy like a hot potato just because you did?”
I cross my arms. Another mosquito whirs a high-pitched battle cry near my ear.
“Didn’t you bring Robi around here and ask everybody to accept him as your boyfriend?” He jabs the shovel into the ground and brings up a good chunk of soil. “Now you want us to forget him just like that? She’s not doing it to upset you, Isa. It’s just that it’ll take her a little longer than it took you.”
“I don’t believe this.” I turn and head back to the house. Both the mosquitoes and my dad are killing me.
“¿Hija?”
“¿Padre?”
“I know it’s frustrating, but try to be more patient with your mother. Please?”
There’s something in his face. I don’t know what it is. Then, a soft look, the one he saves for his girls. Only his girls. I can’t possibly say no to him. “I’ll try, Papi. For you.”
He blows his kiss, then goes back to digging the pit o’ death.
What the heck, I’ll give it a shot. I’ll ask my brother for his two cents on the situation. To locate Stefan, I follow the bass sound of old school Power 96 music.
Din…din…din-di-ri-din-din…
See? He’s in his room. Even though he keeps his door unlocked, I knock. I really don’t want to risk seeing him naked, or worse, blow-drying his hair like a girl.
Freestyle’s kickin’ in the house tonight…move your body from left to right…
Stefan actually thinks this music is classic. In reality, that electronic voice stopped sounding futuristic in, like, the year I was born. “Stefan?”
A fully clothed, ready-to-hit-the-town Stefan pulls the door open, smiles, and walks back to his mirror. As if this couldn’t get worse, he starts singing.
“Excuse me, loser?” His bed is immaculately made, rows of shoes in the closet, bottles of cologne samples lined up on his dresser, all exposing Stefan’s organization mania. “Señor Martha Stewart?”
He sways to the beat, which is actually pretty funky if you can get past the silly words.
“Baboon? Uh…I know I’m interrupting your important pre-party grooming ritual, but I need some advice. Hel-lo?”
But Stefan’s in a semitrance. He hears me, judging from his nod, but his response is more physical than intellectual. If my brother knows anything, it’s physical. I must get him one of those disco balls for Christmas.
He turns around to demonstrate exactly what I should do about my situation, even though I haven’t even told him what it is yet. Party! Dance! He waves his arms in the air, sinks low to the floor, and bites his lower lip. No words necessary. Just go with the flow, his hips tell me.
“Both Robi and this guy I went out with are coming tomorrow!” I shout above the boom. “Plus, Mom’s all in my business! Do you have any words of wisdom for me, DJ Díaz?”
DJ Díaz doesn’t know wisdom. He knows body movement. He boogies over to me, pulls me by the waist, and invites me to dance. The music is unrelenting. Hey, it’s actually a pretty good beat.
“To all you freaks, don’t stop the rock…” I hear the words somehow flow from my mouth, as well as from Stefan’s. How the hell did that happen? We’re singing! Oh, God, we’re both singing! “That’s Freestyle speakin’ and you know I’m right!”
We bounce. We sway. We sing. This is fun! How did I know those lyrics? Years of old school filtering into my subconscious, that’s how. Osmosis through bedroom walls. We bounce and sway some more. My hair’s swinging, tickling the back of my arms. We’re laughing. Stefan and I, laughing, dancing, like little kids again, practicing for the show we’re going to put on for Mami and Papi in the living room.
What did I come in here for? I forgot already. Oh, yeah. My problem. Stefan’s not helping, is he? Well, hold up, maybe he is. I mean, my brother may not be the brightest crayon in the box, but he is saying something with this. So you got two boyfriends coming tomorrow? And the problem is?
Yeah, really. Two guys both coming here for me. A face-off. One will get on Mom’s good side. One dares to bring a Key lime pie made by another.
Are these lyrics actually starting to make sense?
There’s a party in the house and we’ll be rockin’ tonight…
Six
They arrive in clusters, ruining the Sunday afternoon silence. Tía Marta, Tío Pepe, Michi, Nereida, Abuela Mimi, Abuelo Jaime, Bisabuela Anita, and all their children, my primos—first cousins, second cousins, enough cousins to remind me that the Pill is one of the greatest inventions of all time.
From my room I hear them laughing. And shouting. And cackling, filling the house with jokes, as well as food. Even from across the house, their voices are loud and clear, telling my parents all they’ve brought. Flans, cookies, ensaladas de papa y de macarrones, cerveza, bags of ice, and toys from the dollar store for the little ones.
Someone flips on the stereo. Now Celia Cruz drowns out the other voices. Bubbly, flutey salsa music competes with the chatter. I guess there’s no point relishing my quiet room anymore. Either I go and greet the crowd, or I wait for my mother to find me and drag me out by the ear.
I go and greet the crowd.
There’s my mom’s friend Sandra. She sees me and paints a huge circle in the air with her plastic cup of Costco wine. “Sweetie! Congratulations! How does it feel to be a graduate?”
I kiss her cheek and accept a wimpy hug. “Like I’m in limbo. Not in high school, not in college. Yet, anyway. Just working for the summer.”
“Oh, that’s right. So you’re still counseling the little kids out there in the Everglades? That’s so sweet.”
“It’s not counseling, really, it’s teaching. Actually I’m just putting my artistic skills to use. You know, good practice while making a few bucks.”
“Oh, okay,” she says, nodding with a blank smile, probably because she can’t think of anything else to ask, even though she’s known me my whole life. “That’s great, good for you.”
Stefan materializes out of nowhere, sticking his face between us, an arm around my shoulders. “And she’s dating the camp’s PE coach too.” He smiles a mischievous grin, then proceeds to splash some beer on my shirt and our plastic-covered sofa. Yes, that’s right, a plastic-covered sofa. As I examine the foul play and wipe the couch with a napkin, Stefan escapes unscathed.
“Shut up! I’m not dating anyone, idiot!” I shout. Dork. I use the napkin to blot my shoulder.
Sandra’s got her
head cocked, eyebrows frozen in the up position, apparently disappointed that my mother failed to give her the latest scoop. “You’re dating someone?” She looks around for Mami and spots her behind me saying hello to the Hewitts from across the street. “Elena, tú no me dijiste que Isa estaba—”
“No, Sandra, Isa no está dating anybody.”
Should it surprise me that Mami managed to overhear our conversation, exercise the Jedi mind trick, and greet the neighbors all at the same time? Now this is skill, people.
Let me just leave Sandra some food for thought. It’ll drive her crazy and will arrive at my mother’s ears in two minutes flat. “She’s right. I wouldn’t call it ‘dating.’”
While Sandra’s still thinking this over, Coach Andrew and Susy enter the living room, with Dad behind them. They’re all looking for me, so I lift a hand and excuse myself from Sandra’s trap. “See you later. You look great, by the way!”
“Ay, gracias, mi hija.” She runs a hand through her hair.
I bounce over to Andrew and Susy. “Hey there.”
“Hey.” Susy and I exchange air smooches. I notice her surveying me out of the corner of her eye as I brush cheeks with Andrew. “So, what’s up?” she asks, scanning the party crowd. “Is Patty here yet?”
“She might be outside.”
“I’ll go check.” She struts off to find the gossip queen of our family.
“Dad,” I say, pulling him back before he has the chance to walk away. “You met Andrew?”
“Yes.” Dad pats Andrew on the back, like he’s found a new protégé. “A business major. Good, good.” Then he goes outside to check the death pit and see how the lechón is doing. We follow him onto the patio.
“Nice house,” Andrew says. There’s a very subtle hush, and I can feel forty pairs of eyes on us. I can just imagine everyone’s questions now. Who’s that guy? Where’s Robi? Is that Isa’s new beau? ¿Quién coño es ese tipo?
Before I can even say thanks, hello, how you doin’, want a croqueta?, Stefan presses a cold bottle of Corona to my neck, and I squeal, “You jerk!” This is to attract the attention of anyone who may not already be noticing Andrew and me, such as the babies, dragonflies, and people across the canal.
