Note to future self. Ask about the jewelry store’s policy on engagement ring returns.
Avó slaps my knee. “Did you see that?”
“Yeah, he just gave ten thousand dollars to the fish.”
That earns me another knee slap. “See. That was foolish. Too much passion and anger make you act without using your head.”
Remembering my stupid reaction at Goose’s last week. Hearing them joke about Caity’s orgy post made me act first without thinking it through. I made a complete ass of myself. My temper risked Phoebe’s wrath. But Alejandro’s actions were costlier.
“Avó, you don’t have to ever worry about me throwing money into the ocean.”
“Of course. We didn’t raise you to be stupid.”
I snort out a laugh.
“Learn from Alejandro’s mistakes. Don’t act when you’re angry. Calm yourself. Act only when you have found the best answer.”
Advice worth remembering. We finish watching the program in silence. She didn’t offer any more commentary during the show. Unusual for her.
Once the credits roll, she says, “Tiago, I’m tired today. Minha cabeça dói muito. I’m going to my room to rest.”
Since her head hurts, I help her off the couch and watch while she makes her way slowly down the hall to her bedroom. How much longer before she’s stuck in her room, too? A chill shivers its way down my spine.
The house settles into a heavy kind of silence. It presses down on my chest like a weightlifting bar stacked with three times my weight. I go into my bedroom. Lying on the bed I send a text to Phoebe: Tell me u r not wearing the costume again!
She doesn’t answer right away. When her reply finally pings it makes me grin.
Is this your weird way of asking what I’m wearing?
I send: Well…?
Three dots appear and then disappear while I stare at my phone. They turn up again just before her text hits: Jeans + a T-shirt. Perv!
I add the ha-ha reaction to her text. Staring at my phone I realize something important. I’m losing my heart to her.
*
A whole week has passed, and I haven’t seen Phoebes. Sure, we text. But that’s not the same. She didn’t come to the game or CW’s after the game last night. I miss her. It’s an odd feeling after not being in a relationship for some time.
Between her job and absence from the gym, our class loads, jobs, and my football practice, we haven’t been able to spend time together this week.
I should have thought this through, but my brain won’t engage while I’m in Phoebe’s sphere. Remembering the feel of her when she sat in my lap offering comfort, or in the car with her lips pressed against mine. I’m consumed by the need for contact. More and more contact.
I’ll have to downplay any gossip Mom hears about us. She’ll want to know about Phoebe, too. I can’t lie to Mom. I can tell her a version of the truth.
Shit. Crap. Damn.
Well, nothing to be done now. While I weave through the crowd, many different Portuguese dialects can be heard. Each island, former colony, or Portuguese-speaking country has its own accent. I head over to the entrance to the chapel where the members of the club marching band loiter. The chapel is located front and center at the top of the stairs. I thread my way through other societies’ queens and side maids who wait for the parade to start.
All of them wear wedding dresses with hoop skirts. Velvet capes drape their shoulders in bold colors studded with rhinestones and sequins depicting different scenes. Topped off with ten-inch rhinestone crowns. And in some cases, the queen wields a silver scepter. The girls all have their hair up in complicated styles. Many families have traveled from the Central Valley and all over the Bay Area to be here this morning for the parade.
I hear the first strains of a tune I’ve listened to during festa parades since I was a kid. The president of the marching band hosting the festa, Senhor Coelho, rushes down the steps megaphone in hand. “Bom dia a todos. Obrigado por virem hoje. Good morning, everyone. Thank you for coming today.” Speaking Portuguese first, and then English for those who don’t speak Portuguese, he greets the crowd.
The air smells like sopas, filhós, meat, and donuts.
The breeze wafts the smell of beef that’s been marinating for days. There’s a slight hint of the mint they use to season the broth in the air as well.
I hope Phoebe will like the food. Thinking about her makes the breath stall in my chest. She has no idea what she’s in for today. The Portuguese Inquisition might not be bloody, but it can be mental torture.
Maybe I should text her to cancel? Does she even need this crap? Do I?
I check my phone. She sent me a message about twenty minutes ago: On my way.
Releasing the breath trapped in my lungs, I scrub my hands down my face. This might be the start of a personal horror show for us both.
The gathered crowd shifts like a school of colorful fish swimming in the same formation, formed by DNA or muscle memory. Movement appears synchronized. Everyone preparing for the announcements that will signal the start of the parade. I wonder if Phoebes will view the spectacle the same way I do.
My phone pings again. Phoebe wrote: I got dropped off at the ballpark. How do I find you?
I’ll come to you, I type.
Weaving through the crowd I press the walk button to cross the street at the signal. When I catch sight of her profile, I misstep. Enough to scuff the leather of my shoe. She’s curled into herself. It looks like she’s trying to appear smaller. I wish she wouldn’t do that. She’s spectacular. Tall, beautiful, sexy as fuck. She’ll stand head and shoulders above most of this crowd.
Many of the female scions of the community will have to crane their necks to ask their questions. The thought makes me grin.
When she turns toward me, I see she’s wearing a halter dress in cherry red. She’s about to put on a little navy-blue sweater with pearly buttons running down the front. Damn. I wish she wouldn’t. Phoebe gives great shoulder.
She has one arm through the sleeve, but she’s snagged her other hand inside the material. She nods at me while contorting her torso to push her arm through. Her odd little dance makes me think about other moves we can make with our bodies, and my stomach tightens in response.
When I catch up to her, I grab the end of the offending sleeve. “Hang on a second.”
I move the cloth so her fingers clear the fabric. She’s able to wrestle her hand through the opening.
“Thanks.” She adjusts her sleeves. “I was stuck. My wiggle didn’t work that time.”
“Your wiggle worked for me.”
“Behave,” she says with a smile. “Is your car nearby? I’d like to get rid of this backpack.”
“Yeah, actually I left it in the ballpark lot.”
Once we stow her backpack, we walk back toward the hall.
“Where’s the best place to watch the parade?” she asks.
“We used to hang out at that little house across from the hall.” I point in the direction of a small brown house. “The one with the porch? We used to know the family who owned it. But the parents passed away and their kids sold it a few years back.”
I make sure we cross to the opposite side of the street from where the parade forms. I don’t want Phoebes to get grilled before the first queen hits the road. “If we walk up the street to the bank a couple of blocks down, we can sit on the bench and watch them pass on their way to Mass.”
“Oh. I didn’t realize. Am I dressed okay?”
“You’re a knockout. Forever. Amen.”
She looks away from me, but not before I notice the blush of color that filled her cheeks. It’s interesting Phoebes would be willing to go to Mass. I don’t think she’s a lapsed anything, but I wouldn’t want to bore her with a service that will last an hour and be conducted in Portuguese.
“Nah. I’ll take you to the café near the post office. It’s just a couple of blocks from the church.”
The urge to hold her hand wh
ile we walk pushes at me. But I don’t want to call attention to us. No need to get the Portuguese mama mouths making calls to mine to ask about the girl whose hand I’m holding. The gossip hotline in our community delivers faster than a wide receiver with a clear path to the end zone, and more dependable because there’s not a sequence in any playbook capable of tackling a Portuguese mama.
Phoebes nudges me with her shoulder. “You’re quiet. Do you regret inviting me?”
That question startles me out of my thoughts. “No. Not at all. Sorry for giving you that impression.”
“Okay, then what is it?”
“I probably should have warned you about my community.” I make eye contact with her. “Specifically, the mamas.”
Her steps falter. “What about them?”
They’re nosy, opinionated, but if you pass the test, they’ll love you like their own. “An introduction will probably involve questions.”
“About?”
“They might ask about your family, and how they make their living. What kind of career you’re going to choose after college, and how much money you’ll make per hour doing that. If it’s not much, they’ll try to convince you to make a different choice.”
Her face goes pale. “I don’t really have a family. Just Grams.”
It occurs to me getting answers about Phoebe’s mother was as simple as an invitation to the Portuguese Inquisition. Bring her to a festa, and let the matrons do what they do. Phoebe will reveal her secrets. It’s a given. As soon as that thought forms, I have to swallow back the stomach acid that shoots up my throat.
“Tiago. What’s wrong?”
“We should leave.” I wipe my hand across my mouth. “This was a bad idea.”
She reaches for my other hand. “Hey, it’s not a big deal, okay? I don’t have to play along.”
I shake my head. “No. You don’t understand the power of the Portuguese mama mind-meld. It’s a thing. Trust me.”
She does the most unexpected thing. Instead of bolting, she starts to giggle. She still has my hand in hers, she’s pulling me off-balance with her hilarity. Like my hand is a lifeline and yanking on it will help her stay on her feet.
“Phoebes…”
She takes a deep breath. “You’re totally serious!” she sputters. “Beware the Portuguese. Mama. Mind. Meld.” She taps my shoulder in between each word to give them a physical emphasis. Her laughter erupts. Phoebes chokes out, “I don’t know why, but I’m dead.”
“Fine.” This situation has gone sideways. “The choice is yours. Stay or go. I’ll do whatever.”
She looks into my eyes. Hers have a wet sheen making the violet blue sparkle in a way a camera could never capture. She glances away, breaking the connection building between us.
“I’ve been spending a lot of time around the senior set. I can handle your mind-melding mamas.”
“You might earn a bem feito from me.”
“Remind me what that means again?”
“In this case, it will mean you had your chance to avoid this.”
We reach the benches near the bank and we stake out our parade-watching spot. Glancing down the street I can see this year’s queen get set inside four long poles that fit together to form a box.
“See that. The queen along with her side maids will walk within the poles, often held by family members. After this festa, these queens won’t walk within the square. It’s only for coronation day to distinguish them from the other queens in attendance. They’ll walk last, in the place of honor.”
Phoebes leans over to stare down the street. A smile spreads across her face. “I thought you said there would be oxen.”
I had mentioned that in a text. “Not in reference to this festa. What happens in the valley, it’s called a Bodo de Leite or blessing of the cows parade. Also, bloodless bullfighting.”
“Wait, what?”
“Don’t worry. The bulls wear a blanket that is covered in Velcro. The arrows aren’t pointed, they’re blunt and have Velcro on the tips. The bulls aren’t hurt. Injuries to people can happen when an idiot my age jumps in the ring to try to get the bull’s attention.”
“Why on earth would you do that?”
“Not me. I prove my masculinity in ways that won’t get me gouged by horns.”
“You do have an elevated opinion of your manliness.” She shakes her head. “I can’t begin to imagine the kind of motivation that puts you in a ring to aggravate a bull.”
“It’s usually related to how much booze they’ve consumed and how many friends dared the fool to do it.”
She grins. “Boys are dumb.”
“Truth.”
We settle down to wait for the parade. As the different societies line up, the club marching band for the hosting S.E.S. hall starts the national anthem. We both stand as all the marching bands join in.
When the song ends, Phoebe says, “Huh. I’m surprised they played the anthem.”
“They’ll play both anthems. They always honor their adopted country first.” When the national anthem of Portugal begins, I say, “And then the one they left behind for a new way of life. The first marching band heads out and last year’s queens will follow immediately behind.”
“How do they get picked?”
“It’s different everywhere. Sometimes daughters of each society’s governing circle will be chosen. Sometimes, children of volunteers.” I point at the long line of queens. “It’s different by town, and society.”
“Wow. I had no idea this even existed. I can only imagine all the clamoring for the crown. Why are the queen’s attendants called side maids?”
“That’s an excellent question and I haven’t got a clue.”
I wave at Fernanda, last year’s queen, as she passes by. Her two side maids immediately lean into her from either side. She giggles, and waves back.
“Girls everywhere lose a little bit of their dignity each time they come in contact with you. She’s twenty yards away, and yet I can see the stars in her eyes.”
“You’re wrong about her. She’s the younger sister of a girl I made First Communion with when I was eight.”
Phoebes gives me side-eye.
“Stop,” I say. “She’s a baby.”
“She’s three years younger than us.”
“Three important years. They’re like dog years. So it’s more like two decades.”
She elbows me in the ribs.
“Was that very nice?” I rub the spot she hit. “You should kiss it and make it all better.”
She rolls her eyes. “Shut up and tell me about the parade.”
“How am I supposed to do that? You just told me to shut up.”
“Tell me,” she mock-demands.
“It’s a tradition used to commemorate Queen Isabel, who fed the poor during a famine in Portugal in the thirteenth century. Each year, a young girl is chosen to represent the queen and she will then choose two other girls to be in her court as side maids. Each society chooses its own junior and senior queens to represent them for the year.”
“There are so many of them here.”
“And it’s not the biggest parade. It’s a one- or two-year commitment for these girls. It’s not just crowns and gowns. They parade through various towns each Sunday after their coronation.”
“Nice. What do the banners represent?”
“Each queen walks behind the herald banners announcing the society they represent. Each society has a herald or flag. Some, like the band, have banners carried by two people on each end. I used to get paid twenty bucks to hold a flag for these parades. Good money for two hours’ work.”
“All this for a thirteenth-century queen?”
“Back in the day, Queen Isabel was kindhearted. She couldn’t stand the fact the palace had so much wealth when the people of Portugal were starving.”
“I like her already.”
“She fed them without the king’s knowledge by hiding bread in her apron underneath her cloak. She’d sneak out of the palace on
to the streets.”
Phoebe winks. “I like defiant women.”
“Me, too.” I nudge her with my shoulder. “But in Queen Isabel’s case, she gets caught with her apron full of rolls stolen from the palace kitchens by King Dinis himself.”
“How unfortunate.” Phoebe’s face scrunches. “I’m guessing it didn’t end well.”
She’s an active listener, which makes telling her a story so much more fun. “Well, not exactly how you think. When King Dinis asked what was in her apron, she told him flowers.”
“He asked her to prove it, right? Then the gig was up.”
I laugh. “Yes, and no.”
She nudges me. “Come on. How can that be?”
“When the queen dropped her apron, instead of bread rolling to the king’s feet, roses fell to the ground.”
“Right.” She drew out the word. Her sarcasm is evident in the longer syllables.
I raise my hands in mock surrender. “That’s what the legend says. Don’t refute our miracles, Phoebes.”
She makes a noise that sounds halfway between a laugh and a snort. “I wouldn’t dare. It’s a great fairy tale.”
“That fairy tale is why we’ll get free food. It’s a tradition. The hall will feed the public in honor of the queen.”
“That’s a nice tradition. Whatever happened to her?”
“She left the king, joined a convent, and became a nun. Yet, they remained close. King Dinis used the former queen as an advisor for many years after they separated.”
“So, the king wasn’t a total loss as a human.”
“He had his moments.” I point at the smaller kids now moving in front of us. “These are the junior queens from last year. Olivia just turned seven, I believe.”
“I like your traditions, Tiago. Those girls are adorable. Those crowns must weigh more than their heads.”
“Ha. That’s nothing. The women from Madeira Island can carry a full sixty-pound stem of bananas on one shoulder and a sheep on the other while climbing roads that make the streets of San Francisco look flat in comparison. A couple of rhinestones won’t stop our women.”
Eyeful (Gladiators of the Gridiron Book 2) Page 16
