“Oh. Wow.”
“A lot of our community lives in this old quad area. Landlords who rent out homes in this area don’t have to deal with the mess or the noise. Many homeowners have the non-emergency line for the police on speed dial.”
Down the street, I see a couple of old Victorian homes with bright colored trims. They’re quaint and quirky, but then you see those beer pong tables on every front lawn and the awful mess.
“I don’t mean to imply all students here behave the same way. They don’t. But those who do make it brutally hard on the families who have to deal with it. Sorry, rant over.”
We turn down Lafayette Street and walk toward the hall. More people are on the sidewalks heading the same direction.
People crowd in front of the hall, a two-story stucco building with two gables and a hipped roof painted a bisque tone. It takes up about half the block. The façade has the letters S.E.S. arranged in a triangle over a crown. The words Fundada Em 1896 sit above a pediment. Below the pediment is an arched stained glass window featuring another crown. The varnished oak-paneled double doors to the chapel have stained glass with an elongated Maltese cross in each panel. Bracketing the doors are arched stained glass windows with white doves in flight.
“All the stained glass reminds me of a church.”
Tiago nods. “Well, these societies are like religious frats.”
He guides me around the building. A line of people fill the stairwell leading down to an above-ground basement. We join in at the end.
“Whatever happens, play along with me. Okay?”
“Sure.”
“Here we go,” he mutters.
An older, mom type, notices us standing behind her. She’s tiny in stature with a huggable, comforting kind of round figure. A huge gold crucifix bounces between her ample breasts. Her dyed-brown hair is cut just above her neck and styled into curls heavily hair-sprayed into place. Her dress is a navy color printed with gigantic white gardenias. Her feet are shoved into three-inch sling-back heels, with a toe box that’s too small, making the flesh swell over the leather. Her lips are painted a bold fuchsia pink.
“Tiago,” she purrs.
Looking me up and down and—judging by her face—she finds fault with what she sees. “What happened to your girlfriend, Aubrey?”
Tiago’s smile goes edgy. “Well, Sra. Costa, I thought you knew Aubrey left for college in Connecticut.”
“Hmph. Who is this?”
She can’t pronounce the th sound so she says dis instead. Adorable, even with her little claws out trying to make trouble. He did warn me.
I make a point to stand up straighter. “I’m Phoebe. I go to school with Tiago.”
She doesn’t address me, but she says to him, “This one.” She gestures at me. “Mas que garota forte. She’s big enough to pick figs, no?” she titters.
“She means your height,” he explains nervously.
“Good to know.” Her comment makes me want to curl into myself to appear shorter; instead I force steel into my spine and smile at her. “But avocados are my specialty.”
Tiago snorts out a laugh. I grin at him.
Sra. Costa states, “You not Portuguese.”
“No, I’m not. My grandma is half French and half Irish.”
“And your daddy, what is he?”
“Dead,” I say with a sad little frown.
Sra. Costa recoils from my answer.
I shrug, palms up.
Sra. Costa finds her voice. “God rest his soul,” she blesses herself. “You mama get married again?”
Hmm. How to answer? I don’t want to embarrass Tiago. So I nix saying, Nope, she used men for sex and money but they were smart enough to figure it out before they put a ring on it. I also don’t want to let my animosity toward Mom and her current situation show. I go with simple. “No, she never remarried.”
“I didn’t see you in church. But I saw your avó.”
I let Tiago field that answer. “Phoebe doesn’t speak Portuguese, so we didn’t go to Mass.”
“Mass is the same everywhere in the world. They say in Portuguese or Latin, you pray in English,” she asserts.
I decide to reset her assumptions. “I’m not Catholic.”
She places her hand over her heart. And draws a very exaggerated breath. “You communist?”
What the hell? “No,” I say firmly. Glancing at Tiago for help.
“In the old country they were the only two choices. But that was last century,” Tiago rushes to inform me. “It kind of stuck.”
He smiles, but his underlying expression remains pained. “Senhora, people born here have more choices when it comes to church. And even if they don’t go to church, it doesn’t make them communist,” he admonishes.
“Hmph. Kids today have crazy ideas.” She turns from us to have a conversation with the people in front of her.
What a relief. Sweat pops at my hairline. Tiago wasn’t lying.
The musicians from the marching bands approach. Tiago says, “They’ll seat the queens, attendants, and people who marched in the parade first. Then anyone lined up, space permitting. If we don’t get in on the first round, we’ll get seated on the next. One thing we do well is feed people.”
Sra. Costa keeps glancing at me, then making comments to the people she’s chatting to in Portuguese. I can’t help but feel self-conscious. Stop acting paranoid, I chant in my head. Nothing you can do about it anyway.
“Hey,” Tiago says. “Are you okay?”
Pasting a smile on my face, I nod. “Managing the curiosity.”
He blows out a breath. “Thanks for being a good sport.”
“Well, you’re feeding me. I can put up with a lot for free food.”
His smile goes wide. “Noted.”
Sra. Costa’s smile spreads like an animal baring its teeth. Look. She points to someone behind us. “There’s your avó and Sra. Silva now.”
Tiago’s expression turns resigned. His eyebrows draw down over his glorious eyes. His lips compress. I know he loves his gran, so his reluctance must deal with introducing me. He turns away from me to greet the two ladies who join us in line.
Tension bands across my shoulder blades. I clamp my jaw and open my eyes wide. Then unclench my jaw and release a breath. Nothing to see here folks. Neutral expression fixed. I’ve perfected it over the years. It became my default mask when all hell broke loose after Mom’s arrest. I used it with reporters who camped out on our lawn. And when my so-called friends pretended not to know me.
He kisses the taller woman with graying hair wearing a denim, button-front dress. First on her left cheek, then on her right. “Thanks for keeping Avó company, Sra. Silva.”
Tiago leans down to kiss the tiny woman wearing a black blouse and skirt. Her shoes are patent leather with a short heel. A cloisonné pendant with three children kneeling before the Virgin Mary hangs from a gold chain around her neck. Her dyed-brown hair might have been the color of Tiago’s once. Her smile is bright. Her eyes dance with pleasure as she’s hugged by her grandson.
“Avó, Sra. Silva, this is my good friend Phoebe. We go to school together. She’s smart, a good student, and has helped me study.”
“It’s nice to meet you both.”
Sra. Silva nods and smiles. But Tiago’s gran motions for me to get closer. I lean down and she places a kiss on both sides of my face. “Thank you for helping my grandson. He’s a good boy. He works hard.”
The kiss was unexpected, and my heart turns over in my chest. My neutral expression cracks when she hugs me. I hug her back, gently.
“He takes care of people. He’s a good friend to me.”
She pats my hand. “You have beautiful eyes. Like flowers. And kind. I’m glad Tiago brought you here today. You eat sopas. But one day I’ll make bacalhau for you.”
Tiago says, “That’s codfish. A Portuguese staple. Avó makes it with olive oil, onions, sliced potatoes, olives, and hard-boiled eggs. If you don’t like fish, you probably wou
ldn’t enjoy it.”
“I do like fish.” Turning to his grandmother I say, “I’d love to try it.”
Avó says, “It is delicious. People from the Azores, they make it different. But all recipes taste good.”
She can’t say th words either. It sounds like dey. I love the accents. I’m surrounded by people speaking Portuguese. Many words end with the sh sound.
“Phoebe. You call me Avó.”
Warmth spreads through my chest. The line starts to move. Slowly at first, and then we’re heading downstairs into an open room filled with long banquet tables set up end-to-end. We’re directed to an empty row of tables covered in butcher paper with disposable plates and plastic cutlery wrapped in napkins in front of each chair.
Avó takes a seat and pats the folding chair next to her for me to join. Sra. Silva takes the seat on the other side.
Tiago says, “I’ll be right back. I’m going to get us drinks.”
Avó turns to me. “Tell me about your family.”
I’m not going to lie to his gran. “There’s only my grandmother. My father died before I was born, and my mom, well, she’s not like her mother.” It’s the least emotional thing I can say about her.
Avó pats my hand. “Some women don’t understand how to be a mother. And some men make terrible fathers. My daddy was a violent man.” She blesses herself. “His wife and his children suffered.”
My breath stutters at her simple statement because the feeling behind the words was palpable. She’s so tiny. I can’t imagine anyone raising a hand to someone her size. The fact she didn’t pry, but shared something of her childhood with me, makes me see who Tiago gets his empathy from.
“My grandmother is the only family I have left. But she’s a special woman, and I love her very much.”
“I’m happy you have your avó in your life. I married a good man. A kind one. Gone for many years now, but I don’t forget him.” She gestures to her all-black clothing. “My family, especially Tiago, brings me joy every day.”
Her memories seem to be intact right now. Which would make it so much worse for everyone when they aren’t and my heart tears for her.
Tiago returns to the table and passes a can of soda to both me and Avó. I’ve never seen the brand before, and I study the label and wonder what maracujá means. The fruit pictured on the label isn’t one I recognize either.
“Sumol passion fruit soda. If you don’t like it, I’ll get you a Coke. But I figure you’d want the full experience.”
“You’re right. I do.”
Tasting the soda—light on carbonation, heavier on the fruit taste—it’s refreshing and tangy. “It’s great. Delicious. Thanks.”
A priest greets the crowd in Portuguese. Everyone bows their heads. I’m guessing he’s saying grace. I bow my head as well. When he’s finished, I glance up to see everyone around me making the sign of the cross.
Servers wearing white aprons start making their way through the rows of tables setting down tall silver pans of food. The scent of meat and mint rising from the steaming trays surrounds us. The smell makes my mouth water and my stomach rumble.
Avó takes my plate. After arranging a piece of French bread onto my plate, she adds some beef, layering broth over it all. She does the same for Tiago and then herself. She sits. I unravel my fork and knife from the napkin it’s rolled in. I take some of the meat and a bite of bread. The meat falls apart, no real need for the plastic knife.
Simple food. Meat, cabbage, and bread, but it’s delicious. I taste more spices, not just mint. Onion, garlic, too. It’s good. The bread isn’t soaked through with the broth. The combination of dry and wet complement each other.
“What do ya think?”
“It’s fantastic.”
Avó points to her plate. Her bread has absorbed all the broth. “I like mine this way.”
Servers continue to replace empty pans on the tables. People eat their fill. Avó has a conversation with Sra. Silva on her right.
Tiago makes eye contact with me. “You handled Sra. Costa. I’m sorry she was obnoxious.”
“She wasn’t a problem. I’m sure she missed Aubrey.”
He laughs. “She only met Aubrey once at my high school graduation party. She likes to stir it up. Thanks for not calling her on her shit.”
“That’s kind of weird though, isn’t it?”
He shifts in his chair. “Well. She’s always wanted me to fall for her granddaughter.”
“That makes more sense. Have you ever told her to knock it off?”
“No. Pretty much, you just put up with crap like this from your elders.”
“Interesting. Have you ever dated someone from the community?”
He shakes his head. “No. Then the community would be more involved with my life.”
He smiles when he says it. I guess it would be a pain in the ass if everything you did got filtered through a lens and judged by a group at large.
“You got room for more?”
I’ve cleaned my plate, and I’m feeling stuffed. “No, but thanks. I enjoyed this. Thanks for inviting me.”
“Any plans for this afternoon?”
“Not until later—my shift starts at six.”
“Cool. I’ll get you back before you need to be at work. And if you’d like, we can check out the dance floor when the DJ starts.”
“Sounds fun.”
“Avó,” Tiago says to get her attention. “Do you want to stay or do you want me to take you home?”
Her glance includes both. “Sra. Silva will take me home. Dance with Phoebe. Enjoy yourself.”
He bends over the table to kiss her forehead. “I’ll see you later. Eu te amo.”
“Use your head, not only your feet,” Avó says with a smile.
Good advice. She leans in and kisses each of my cheeks. “One day I would like to meet your avó. I’m glad you came today.”
“Grams would love to meet you. The food is delicious, and I enjoyed the parade.” I give her a gentle hug before standing.
Outside again, it’s loud with so many little groups of people all talking and gesturing.
“I hear music. Let’s go upstairs to the upper hall.”
We climb the steps. So many people call out to Tiago, who just waves like he’s on a mission. I keep up only because my legs are as long as his.
“Are we in a hurry?”
“Yes, the faster we go the fewer people will stop us.” He grabs my hand and weaves through the crowd to get to the main salon. It’s a large banquet room with folding chairs lined up three deep all the way around the edge of the large room. He leads me to a corner relatively empty of people.
A Portuguese song starts to play. Some of the people who were just dancing to “The Other Side” by SZA and Justin Timberlake come together to dance as couples. A queen grabs one of her side maids, moving into a progressive dance that looks like a mash-up between salsa and country dancing because bodies are pressed close. Smiles stretch across their faces as they spin together wicked-fast in three tight circles and resume their fast pace around the dance floor.
Tiago grins. “Wanna try?”
Watching different couples spinning on the dance floor intimidates me, but what the heck. “Let’s do this, but take it easy on me.”
He clasps my right hand, and places his free hand at my waist, drawing me close. My heart starts to trip along with the fast pace of the music.
“You’ll be moving backward,” he warns.
“Ready.”
I bite my lip as we take off. Tiago leads well. The dance classes I took focused on group choreography, and occasional solos. Nowhere near the dance steps involved dancing with someone. Tiago’s body lines up with mine. My breasts press against his hard chest. My stomach clenches. Each step he takes makes me take a step backward. He starts off slow, probably gauging my ability.
I stop staring at our feet because I’ve mastered the rhythm. I make eye contact with him. “Go faster.”
His smile bre
aks. And he takes off. He glides us through the crowd of dancers like they aren’t even with us on the hardwood floor.
“How do you feel about a quick spin?”
“Like I might fall on my ass.” Grinning at him, I nod. “Go for it.”
He takes me into one single spin. Our feet line up, alternating between his and mine. The closeness of the dance allows you to spin in unison. Wow, that’s fun. And I want to try that again. My index fingers brush his neck. His heartbeat taps the skin beneath his jaw. My own pulse ratchets to match his.
“Again.”
We’ve now circled the dance floor. He sets us into another spin. This time we rotate three times. And still manage to move forward out of the spin without toppling over. I press my forehead against his shoulder. “I didn’t trip or step on your feet,” I say breathlessly.
The song ends and we step apart.
“Nailed it,” he says as guides me into the bar area. “The avocado hid your talent.”
My laugh spurts. “That’s about all it hid.”
“No shit. I think Goose bought a child-sized costume by mistake.”
“Maybe. Regardless, I’ll never wear it again without leggings. By the way, thanks for the cooling towel.”
“You’re welcome.”
“You know it’s weird—Caity never posted the vid. Do you think she gave up harassing me?”
“Nah. To be honest, I think she’s regrouping.”
Huh. Good to know. But I’m not going to allow thoughts of Caity to mess with me today.
We step up to a long bar, and he orders two more cans of Sumol for us. When the bartender looks up, his grin spreads. “É pá, how you doin?”
“Can’t complain, Rui. How’s it going?”
“I haven’t won the lottery yet so I’m still working like a dog. How’s your dad?”
Twin creases appear between Tiago’s eyebrows. “The same.”
“I’m sorry about that. I’ll light a candle for him the next time I’m in church.”
Tiago scoffs. “Yeah? When was the last time you went?”
“É pá.” He shrugs. “Maybe now that I have a reason, I’ll go.”
Tiago snorts. “Thanks. It’s the thought that counts, and I appreciate it.” He passes over a couple of bills for the drinks. “Rui, this is my friend from college—Phoebe.”
Eyeful (Gladiators of the Gridiron Book 2) Page 18
