Evan watched, feeling both annoyed and, he had to admit, entertained by the jerky motions of her coffee-avoidance dance.
Her cheeks flushed a deep red as her dark eyes met his.
“Sorry,” she said. “I don’t drive.”
“Yeah,” he replied, “I figured that out.”
She had to be at least sixteen. Trying not to let himself look at the parts of her body that gave it away, Evan stepped closer and held her gaze.
“You’re not too young to drive, are you?”
“No,” she said. “I’m almost seventeen. I just never learned.”
Evan grinned. “You prefer to be chauffeured?”
“Yeah,” she replied, nodding toward the beat-up landscaping truck. “It’s all part of my glamorous lifestyle.”
This girl had no shortage of sarcasm, but he could keep up.
“So,” he asked, bowing slightly, “might I offer my services and maneuver this fine vehicle back into the driveway?”
“I guess,” she said, grabbing an old towel from the bed of the truck. “Just let me clean the seat for you.”
He watched her wipe the towel across the seat to sop up spilled coffee. Her silky hair was pulled into a ponytail that fell to the middle of her back and he felt the urge to touch it, to let his hands trail all the way down her body.
She turned around and caught him staring at her legs.
“It’s all yours,” she told him, arching her eyebrows into a murderous glance.
Busted.
Evan climbed in sheepishly, mashed on the clutch, and turned the key in the ignition. The truck was a stick-shift, and very old. This had the potential to be bad.
The girl hopped into the passenger seat.
“Well, Jeeves?” she asked. “What are you waiting for?”
Evan forced the car into first and slowly released the clutch. The truck eased forward, up the driveway.
“This a good spot?” he asked.
“Yeah, thanks,” she replied. “I’m Julia, by the way.”
Julia was a weird name for her. Or maybe it was the way she said it—sort of tossing it out like it didn’t matter.
“Sorry I interrupted your run,” she said.
“I was done,” Evan replied. “I’m just trying to get back in shape after a long, lazy summer.”
Evan saw a wry smile curl onto her lips.
“Right,” she said. “A long, lazy summer. Sounds nice.”
He wasn’t sure how to reply, so he just shrugged. She probably was here to work, which was strange. She didn’t look like a landscaper. Plus, it was the last week of summer. It would suck to be working, Evan thought, especially in this insane heat.
“So, do you play a sport or something?”
“Yeah, soccer,” he said, “at Gilberton High. It’s kind of my obsession.”
“You play soccer at Gilberton? I bet you know my brother. Raúl García?”
“Hell, yeah, I know Raúl!”
Raúl García was a scoring machine. He’d never met anyone in his thirteen years of playing soccer who drilled balls into a goal the way Raúl did.
“You’re Raúl’s sister?” he asked, not trying to mask his surprise. “You don’t go to Gilberton, do you?”
He would have remembered seeing this girl.
“No—well, yeah. I’ll be starting this year, as a junior. I was at school in Atlanta, but I’m back.”
“So what happened with Raúl?” Evan asked. “I heard he was still around.”
“His scholarship offers fell through,” she said. Thin creases formed across her forehead as she spoke, and she lifted her hand to rub them. “He’s here, going to the community college and working for my dad,” she said. “He plays soccer over at Grant Park.”
It made no sense that Raúl was playing on the torn-up city fields. He was a Division I soccer recruit. He wanted to ask her more, but something about the expression on her face let him know that she didn’t want to talk about it. What he really wanted to do was reach out and touch her forehead, to make it smooth again. But he didn’t. He just shrugged and said, “That sucks.”
“It’s not a big deal,” she said, forcing a fake smile. “It doesn’t stop him from acting like he’s the next Ronaldo—God’s special gift to the fútbol universe.”
“Yeah, that sounds about like Raúl,” Evan said, smiling. Raúl was sort of a cocky bastard when he played for GHS, but he deserved to be.
“He’s leading my dad’s team to overwhelming victory in the Liga Latina,” she said, sarcasm creeping into her voice again. “You know, where all the Mexicans and Central Americans play to bring their hometowns to glory?”
Evan didn’t know. He’d never heard of the Liga Latina.
“Alma,” a man’s stern voice interrupted them.
Evan jumped and stood awkwardly by the truck as Mr. García, the landscaper, came around the corner with a machete in his hand.
The girl threw a nervous glance at Evan and then stepped out of the truck. He felt like a kid caught playing spin the bottle. Not good, considering the man who’d caught them was wielding a very sharp weapon.
“My dad,” she said, nodding toward Mr. García.
She and her dad spoke in rapid-fire Spanish. Evan found himself concentrating intently, wishing that he studied Spanish in school instead of French. His friend Conway had convinced him to take French. Before they started at Gilberton High, Conway’s older cousin Bo told him the teacher was hot. Madame Jones was hot, at first. But then she got pregnant and her ankles went all spongy. When she had the baby, she disappeared. Now he had to suffer through Madame Gillespie.
Yeah, he should have taken Spanish.
He watched as Mr. García turned to walk away and she started to rummage in the bed of the truck.
“So what’s that word mean?” he asked, moving close to her again. “The one your dad kept saying? Something that started with ‘all’?”
“‘Alma.’ It means ‘soul,’” she replied matter-of-factly.
“You and your dad were having some pretty deep conversation,” he said.
The girl laughed. “Alma is my name.”
“Didn’t you say your name was Julia?”
“Uh-huh,” she replied slowly.
Then she started talking fast.
“OK, so here’s the deal. My name is Alma Julia García-Menendez.”
This time, the Julia sounded different. It sounded like “hoo-lia.”
“Most everyone calls me Alma, but in school or whenever I meet, well, a güero like you”—she smiled—“I just use the name Julia, pronounced the English way.”
“A what?” Evan asked.
“A güero—you know, a white boy.”
“White boy? Is that, like, an insult?”
“No. It’s a statement of fact,” Alma answered.
Evan smiled in spite of himself.
“I still don’t get it,” he said. “Why do you use Julia, if it’s not your name?”
“It is my name, sort of. It started in elementary school, when my teachers would look at the class roster, try to say Alma, and butcher it. Well, maybe not butcher it, but I couldn’t stand the way they made it sound—like a character from The Flintstones.”
“Wilma!” Evan broke in, proud to have made the connection. “Weeelmaaa,” he enunciated.
“Exactly! It drove me crazy. So on the first day of third grade, I took charge of the situation. When my teacher called on me, I told her my name was Julia. Not ‘hoo-lia’ but Julia, you know, as in Julia Roberts—pretty woman.”
She paused and then continued, deadpan, “More information than you needed.”
“No, it’s cool,” said Evan, “but I’m not into nineties hooker films. So, can I call you Alma?”
“You can call me anything you want,” she replied, shrugging. “But if you want to call me Alma, you have to learn to pronounce it.”
Her face broke into a wide, mocking grin.
“OK, I’m at your mercy,” he said. “Teach m
e.”
Alma tried to have him repeat her name, and he thought it sounded pretty damn good, but she was not impressed.
Her father called out in a stern voice from the side yard.
“Listen, I have to start pruning roses or my dad will kill me.”
“I get it,” he said. “But I’m gonna go inside and get you another cup of coffee—you know, since I spilled yours.”
Evan watched as Alma’s eyes darted toward the house. The soft edges of her smile fell, leaving her face completely expressionless.
“This is your house?” she asked, looking past him.
“Yeah,” he said. “I mean, last I checked.”
She bit her lip and glanced down at her shoes. When she looked up, a stony expression had replaced her smile. Evan didn’t get what was happening. All he knew was that he missed her smile.
“My dad doesn’t let us accept drinks from clients,” she said, her tone now lacking any of its earlier playfulness. “Thanks for the offer, though.”
Evan could almost see the energy being sucked out of the air between them. He felt lonely, suddenly—which was strange, since she was still standing right beside him. He watched in silence as Alma pulled a pair of dirt-stained gardening gloves from the bed of the truck.
“Thank you again for stopping the truck,” she said formally as she turned to walk toward the rose garden.
Without thinking, Evan stepped forward and reached out to touch her shoulder. He stood close to her—too close, probably. Close enough to notice her scent, bright and buttery warm. She smelled like rays of sunshine would, he thought, if they ever carried a scent.
“Hey,” he said. “If I come help with the roses, will you teach me how to say your name?” It was a desperate move, but he had to try something. He couldn’t let her walk away. Not yet.
She turned back, examining his face carefully. She was all seriousness, so he didn’t even try to smile. He just held her gaze for a few seconds and left his hand resting lightly on her shoulder until he saw an almost imperceptible nod of her head.
He’d take that as a yes.
TWO
Drive
Evan tossed a pillow off the bed, glancing at the red marks on his wrists.
Pruning roses was harder than it looked.
He sighed and stood up. His feet shuffled along the carpeted floor, where at least six more pillows were heaped. They were covered in shimmering fabrics that his mom insisted were “complementary on the color wheel.” As if he cared. He brushed his teeth, pulled on a pair of soccer shorts, and headed toward the kitchen, taking the stairs two at a time.
His mom leaned against the breakfast bar in her workout clothes.
“Hey, Mom. What’s up?” he asked.
“Well, my goodness, you are!” she chirped with exaggerated shock pulling through her Southern drawl.
“Yeah, couldn’t sleep. What is that?” he asked, nodding toward a half-filled glass.
“A Hoodia Cactus Smoothie—great for burning fat. Want to try some?”
“I’ll pass,” he said. The last thing Evan needed was to lose weight.
Evan glanced at his mother’s toned arm—skin sagging slightly, age spots beginning to appear. She was already impossibly thin.
“Evan, pumpkin, while I’ve got you here—”
“Mom, please stop calling me pumpkin,” Evan said. By some miracle, his hair wasn’t orange anymore, and he’d prefer to forget that it ever was.
“Well, all right, sugar. I’ll do my best,” she said. “Now, I need to ask you about the menu for the party. Should I order Caesar salads from the club?”
“It doesn’t matter, Mom,” Evan said absently. “Anything’s fine.”
“Oh, Evan,” his mom said, letting out a long sigh, “sometimes you can be just like your father.”
Evan sank onto a stool. Not this again. She shot him the look that, without a single word, convinced him to do stupid things like stop at a flower shop and pick up centerpieces for a luncheon—things that seventeen-year-olds didn’t do for their mothers. Except for Evan, apparently.
If he had to blame this ridiculous behavior on something, it would be a dinner conversation at the end of his sophomore year. His parents were about to host a charity ball, and Evan’s mom was stressing about who should sit where.
His dad looked up from an empty plate. “BeBe,” he announced, “I couldn’t care less where people sit. When is this party, anyway?”
“Honey, it’s next Saturday. You know this.”
Evan’s dad pulled out his phone and punched some buttons.
“Looks like you’ll have an extra seat,” he said. “I’ll be at a conference.”
Evan still remembered the way his mom’s entire body had stiffened. Her face took on a strange, forced smile.
“Oh, sweetheart,” she had said, all sweetness, “you’ll just have to miss the conference.”
Evan’s dad stood up from the table.
“For fifteen years, I have endured your charity events,” he said.
He actually used the word “endured.”
“But someone in this family needs to work,” he announced. “How else will you write those thousand-dollar-a-seat checks?”
They all knew that Evan’s mom had inherited plenty of money. No one needed his dad’s paycheck.
Evan had wanted to pummel his dad. Instead, he took a tip from his mom’s playbook.
He turned calmly to his mother and put a big happy grin on his face. “Hey, Mom. If you need a date, I’m free. What’s it for?”
“The local Boys and Girls Club,” she replied, a few tears running down her face, forming subtle streaks through pressed powder. “They’re raising money for a youth scholarship program for underprivileged students.”
“Count me in,” he said.
“I’ll have the most charming and handsome date at the party,” she replied, standing to clear plates from the table.
That was sort of the beginning of the end.
After that night, Evan’s dad quietly boycotted the charity network, and Evan started his new routine: dressing up in his tuxedo, enduring hours of soft jazz music, and helping his mom bid in live auctions for ugly art and random trips they always forgot to take.
At least he got to flirt with the cute waitresses. Sometimes they even snuck him drinks to numb the pain.
Evan was nothing like his father. And he would do just about anything to prove it, no matter how boring or painful.
“Definitely order a Caesar salad from the club,” Evan said. “Those salads are good.”
“That sounds just perfect, pumpkin, and don’t forget brunch with your uncle Sexton next Sunday. He wants to talk to you about college.”
Evan filled a glass with cold water and chugged it, pretending not to notice she’d called him pumpkin, pretending not to care that his uncle always stood in for his absent dad.
* * *
Alma should have said “No.” A simple “No, thanks,” and she would have avoided the agony of the past several days.
“¡Hija!” her tía Pera whispered sharply in her ear.
Alma bowed her head, trying to look reverent, as she joined her aunts in praying the rosary.
“Dios te salve María, llena eres de gracia…”
Why had she done it? Why had she let Evan come back to help her in the garden?
Tía Pera grabbed Alma’s hand and held it firmly.
Alma squeezed her eyes shut. “El Señor es contigo.”
Every time she closed her eyes, she saw Evan, with his deep-green eyes intensely focused and his smooth chin thrust slightly forward, struggling to pronounce her name.
“Bendita tú eres entre todas las mujeres…”
She saw him take a long chug of cold water and then throw his head back. That was how she had taught him. She had him say “ahhh,” after quenching his thirst with water, and then told him to follow it with the simple sounds of “ll-ma.” It worked beautifully.
“Y bendito es el fruto e
n tu vientre, Jésus.”
She was supposed to be praying for the repose of her mother’s soul, but she couldn’t even hear the words tumbling from her mouth. All she heard was Evan repeating her name while his hands gripped the rosebushes, their thorns tearing red lines into the soft flesh of his wrists. She told him to wear gloves, but he said he didn’t have any. He refused the extra pair she offered from her dad’s toolbox.
“Santa María, Madre de Dios…”
She smiled, remembering how clueless he had been, trying to chop the roses off just below the bud. He leaned into her as she explained how to follow the stem to new growth and cut carefully at an angle, just above it. And then she watched, warmth spreading through her, as he ran his fingers gently down the stem.
“Ruega por nosotros pecadores…”
Ay, Dios, she thought. Alma didn’t think her mother really needed help getting out of purgatory, and even if she did, Alma’s stiff prayers couldn’t possibly offer much.
“Ahora y en la hora de nuestra muerte.”
Tía Dolores opened her eyes and shot a withering glance toward Alma.
“Amen.”
Tía Pera and Tía Dolores continued mumbling unintelligible prayers. Alma squeezed her eyes shut, trying not to see so clearly the way that droplets of water had clung to Evan’s slightly parted lips, and trying not to imagine tasting them. Was this a venial sin? God, she hoped not. Alma hated going to confession.
The three of them were kneeling on the hard wood floor of their living room. They all faced the little home altar that was set up in the corner. It had dozens of prayer cards and statues, but the centerpiece was Our Lady of La Leche—a statue of the Virgin Mary breastfeeding the baby Jesus. Every family had a favorite, but for most Mexicans it was Guadalupe (the queen of Mexico and empress of the Americas), or La Virgen de San Juan de los Lagos if they were from the north. Not Alma’s tías. They had a special thing for La Leche, this obscure Virgencita from St. Augustine, Florida, that no one else had ever heard of.
Alma prayed to her sometimes, too—just kind of spontaneously, when things got bad. After all, the Virgin’s name was Spanglish, and she was sort of a Spanish immigrant to Florida. According to legend, she came over with the first Spanish settlers. She hung out in her little chapel while the city around her went from being Spanish to British to Spanish to American. Alma figured, with a history like that, Our Lady of La Leche probably knew what it felt like to not really have a country. She should be given some special title like the Patroness of the Immigrant’s Daughter, or the Queen of the Kids Stuck in Between.
Dream Things True Page 2
