But apparently they missed a trick last month, and now I can’t get rid of her. What a waste of my last condom.
“You’re so good,” she whispers. “I’ve never had anyone do that thing you did before. And I want it again and again.” She darts her eyes over my shoulder, but no one’s heard. “Can I come by some time?”
Why is she making such a big deal about doggy style? She doesn’t know what I’m really into. She’d run screaming.
The last thing I want to do is lead her on, but I can’t just tell her to go fuck herself at the dinner table. She’d probably handcuff me to her to watch.
I shudder. I mean, I’m not opposed to handcuffs, and I actively like watching a girl get herself off. But not her. It’s just too much. I don’t know any way to handle this other than to tell her the truth. “I don’t think so, Sonia.”
She gives me a big smile and a look of understanding. “Oh, I know you’re so busy with the orchard and with classes. Just know if you ever need a break …”
If only she could take a hint. Again, I don’t want to lead her on, and I don’t want to be an asshole. I don’t know what else to say. “I’ll probably be busy.”
She pouts and picks at her plate.
My eyes roll up to the heavens, and I pray I can leave this table soon. No chance, though. Our traditional dinners take hours, with several courses and animated discussion. The warm, lovely night means we linger outside. Normally I bask in this atmosphere. Not tonight, though. I’m trapped. I focus on everyone except the woman at my side.
Guillermo, my seventeen-year-old youngest brother, discusses proper pruning techniques with my grandfather, who tears a piece of bread off and pops it in his mouth. In between begging to help me on the farm and annoying the fuck out of me, Guillermo’s been belligerent lately, and I don’t know why. At least he’s leaving me alone right now, although he keeps checking Sonia out in her tiny dress. Antonio, my middle brother, twenty, lists all the things he needs for college in a diatribe to our madre, who’s appearing particularly tired—especially when he mentions a new wardrobe, iPhone, and computer. He’s our resident geek. At the other end of the table, my aunt Valeria, uncle Juan, grandmother, sister, and future brother-in-law debate the latest political scandal.
All pleasant and normal. I’m still trapped.
From the other end of the table, Guillermo swivels to squint at us. Sonia turns away from him, and her polished finger traces my jaw.
I rub the back of my neck and take a sip of wine.
How do I let her down easy?
I can’t. I fucked this up. I shouldn’t have said yes.
Joder.
“¿Más vino?” I ask, scooting a centimeter at a time away from her.
She bats her eyes and holds out her glass for more wine.
I pour, then eat in silence.
When we’re done with the primer plato, I help my mother clear away the dishes, desperate to get away from Sonia. Once in the kitchen, my mother leans against the counter and wipes her brow. Her hands tremble, making the dishes clank.
She’s been “off” all day, and it’s concerning me.
“Madre. What’s wrong?” After depositing my dishes, I take the plates from her and set them in the sink.
She slides her hands down the front of her black slacks. My elegant mother always dresses nicely, even for a simple dinner at home. She’d dress this way for the apocalypse. Schooling her features into false brightness, she crosses and uncrosses her arms. Her voice rises an octave. “Nothing. It’s all fine. Don’t worry.”
Now I’m really worried.
Ever since my padre died, I’ve been handling the orchard, but I know she still frets. “Is it about the crop? I think the harvest yields will be up.”
“Ojalá.” It is her fondest hope. But her flat tone tells me she’s not convinced.
“We may even need to hire help.”
Shaking her head sadly, she wrings her hands. “We cannot afford it.”
“What? Why not? We make enough from the sales of olives to last all year. Plus we’re renting out my old room …”
She sighs and shakes her head again. “No. It’s not enough.”
“Why not? It seems fine to me.”
“Gustavo.” She cricks her head to the side to see if anyone is coming in. Seeing none, she squares off to me, her voice lowered. “Before your padre died, he borrowed money from Señor Molinero.”
News to me. My hand scrapes my jaw. “Why?”
She turns her back to me and begins ladling out the second course into a serving dish. Lamb chops stuffed with raisins served with fried fava beans and rice. Her next words are spoken to the pan, not to me. “Expenses had gotten too high. You know farmers. We’re the biggest risk-takers there are. So when the crop prices were too low, your padre borrowed money so we could make it that year. Thankfully Señor Molinero was there to lend to him. To us. We signed a promissory note, and he holds a mortgage on the property. We’ve been making the annual payments to him out of the harvest. But those payments are small. The big payment—the balloon—is due next year.”
“The whole balance?”
“Yes.”
“How much is it?”
“With interest, more than we make in five years of harvests.”
I blanch, then pull up the collar of my shirt, covering my mouth and nose. Thinking fast, I struggle to figure a way out of this. “We’ll pay him back. I’ll get a different job somewhere. We’ll win la lotería. I don’t know, we’ll pay it back.”
“Impossible. If Señor Molinero calls the loan, we will lose our land. He’ll foreclose. And he has the right to seize our bank accounts. Take our future income except for minimum wage. Spain has just about the fewest protections in Europe.”
“I had no idea we had a problem.” But I did. I’d seen my beautiful mother become more drawn and haggard over the summer. I didn’t question her finding ways to scrimp or earn more money, like renting out the extra room. It makes sense now.
She arranges the food on the serving tray and pulls a large spoon and tongs out of a drawer, then drops them with a clatter. As she picks the utensils up and wipes them off, I catch the palpable sadness in her eyes. Clearing her throat, she goes to speak and stops. When she speaks, it’s tentative. “I hate to mention it, but Señor Molinero and I have been talking, and he thinks you and Sonia make a good match. Eduardo has informed me that if you marry his daughter, he will forgive the debt.”
“If I marry Sonia, we don’t owe any money,” I repeat in a voice devoid of emotion as I struggle to process what she just said.
“It’s a combining of assets, Gustavo. He would count it as a dowry. A gift.”
I repress a dry heave. “Are you seriously asking me to marry her?”
She pats my cheek. “Is your family not worth this little sacrifice? You are my good son, and you will do what’s right in your heart, because you honor your family. You will do the right thing.”
“I don’t even like her, Madre,” but she’s nodding along as I speak, not hearing me.
“She likes you. She positively glowed when I asked her to dinner tonight. She specifically wanted to know if you’d be here.”
“That’s because”—joder—“she’s been a pest my whole life. I don’t know why she’s stuck on me, but a crush isn’t enough to marry her. Besides, why can’t Guillermo or Antonio do it? Maybe one of them likes her.”
Dios, I should not have given in. I’m the biggest idiot. I don’t know how to fix this. Sonia’s childhood attachment to me—all those times she followed me around the property picking olives—has now gone stalker-level. Did she plan this? Did she tell her dad to tell my mother that I needed to marry her? Of course she did.
Fuuuccckkk.
My mother’s nostrils flare. “She likes you. She asked for you. It’s not like you’re interchangeable. And besides, Guillermo is still a boy. Antonio shows such promise as an engineer. You, with your course of study, will have plenty of time for the
farm.”
I’m about to explode, then hush my voice. No one outside needs to hear this. “That’s ridiculous! I’m going to the United States. I don’t have plenty of time for the farm.”
“Don’t use that tone, Tavo. You can still travel. Just come back here.” My mother’s face starts to crumple. “If you don’t, what will she tell her father?”
“Don’t let her hold us hostage!” I seethe.
“She’s not holding us hostage. For what it’s worth, I like her. She has a good family and will make you a nice wife.” With a snap, she picks up the serving dish and utensils.
Sweat beads around my hairline. “She won’t. I know she won’t.” Again, I want to tell her that we got together, and it was a complete and total mistake.
Like I can tell my mother that.
Carrying out the tray, she calls over her shoulder, “It’s the way things are done all over the world. People marry who their parents choose because their parents know what’s best for them. Their parents see beyond what they can see for themselves. Of course her father would want you, our oldest son, to marry his daughter. To keep the land in our families.”
I run and stop her before she goes outside. “That’s positively medieval.”
“It is. And it isn’t. It’s the way things are done around here—”
Cutting her off, I hiss, “No. Not so.”
She points a laden finger at me. “If you don’t, we will lose our home. Our home for centuries.” She raises the tray to walk around me. Her now-flinty eyes lock on mine, but there are tears behind them. She’s giving me a brave face, and I read so much into it.
My jaw muscles contract. I cannot promise her I’ll marry Sonia. But I cannot tell her I won’t.
After dinner and driving Sonia home, thankfully with a minimum of pawing at me by her, I find my grandfather. He and I plunk our culos on a stone wall that faces the hectares of olive trees. In daylight, it overlooks the landscape, which undulates off to the distance. The city of Granada is just south of us, and beyond are the mighty peaks of the Sierra Nevada mountain range. In late summer, there’s no snow, but come winter they’ll have majestic white caps. Right now there are a few points of light on the ground, but we’re mostly illuminated by stars. The incessant clicking of the cicadas creates a strange but comforting night song.
He lights a cigarette, inhales in satisfaction, then gestures over the dark countryside. “There is no finer land in all of Spain.”
“This is probably true, abuelo. Although I haven’t seen all of Spain.”
His snap-front hat hides the twinkle in his eyes. “You aren’t missing anything.” Then he sighs. “I don’t have many harvests left. It is your responsibility to take care of the huerta. You must ensure that generation after generation of de la Guerras grow up knowing how to make the superior olive oil.”
I bite the inside of my cheek. “I know, abuelo.”
“You hesitate?” His hand reaches for mine to give me a quick squeeze. Warm, dry fingers extend from his craggy hand with thin skin and prominent bones.
Kicking at the stones, I grumble, “It’s not what I want.”
After a drag on his cigarette, he asks, “What do you want, my nieto?”
“You know. I want to go to America. I want to sing. Play my guitar. Paint. Draw. Perform. Travel. Create. Explore.” I want those things so badly they make my stomach jumpy.
He raises a shoulder. “You can still travel and do those things. Just come back home.”
My words come out with quiet vehemence, especially after the conversation with my mother. “No. I’m not going to be tied to anyone or anything. I’ll pick where I want to live and what I want to do. I’m not going to have it decided for me.”
“When I was a young boy, I wanted to do that.” He pats my hand, and I feel like a child.
“I’m not a boy.”
“No. But you have much to learn. I learned that there is value in honoring tradition.”
“I do honor it. But I want to get out of here.” I pinch my lips together. “Don’t you remember what it was like? You have all this American music. Didn’t you want to go there?”
“No. I just liked the music.” He grasps my shoulder firmly. “I talked with your mother and Señor Molinero. His daughter wants you to marry her. She has always been enamored by you. We have discussed this since you were young. He wants you to make his daughter happy.”
I’m nauseous. I have no one, no one on my side. I ask quietly, “Abuelo, do you think that’s fair?”
“Life isn’t always fair, my Tavo. When Franco was in power, we did not have the freedom to choose for ourselves. But life was better.”
“No. It’s better now. We have all this opportunity, and we can make ourselves whatever we want to be.”
“The simple fact remains that if we don’t do something, the property will go out of the family after six generations. And that cannot be.”
The wind is knocked out of me. Because although my mother said it before, it hadn’t hit me until now.
I’ve been served with a life sentence. The fate of my family is on my shoulders. And I’m not free to do anything different. All I can say is, “I know, abuelo. I know.”
And I don’t say any more. Wishing things were different is a fool’s desire. Because no matter how hard I wish, I’m never going to be able to escape my obligations.
After talking with my grandfather, I shuffle back to my casita. I pull out my guitar and sit on the stoop.
My fingers aren’t only rough from working the huerta. I have callouses from playing the guitar as well. I begin strumming with my pick, playing the complicated Spanish guitar I learned from my father.
I sing as the stars come out and the lights extinguish in the main house. Once I’ve sung out my lament, I go inside and crawl into bed alone.
But I don’t sleep for a long time.
Two
Kim - Name card
“Do you haff Hello Kitty tooth-brusshhh?”
Randy, my boyfriend Shane’s best friend, has spent the last fifteen minutes faking a really bad Arnold Schwarzenegger accent while making me list every single thing I’m taking on my trip.
He’s such a madman. I have no idea why he’s using the accent. Randy’s about as far from Arnold as you can get. With spiky, jet black hair, ebony eyes, and a huge build, he could pass for Samoan, even though he’s mostly Mexican with a Chinese grandmother. Maybe he just saw Terminator. But he won’t quit talking like this.
Not one to stay quiet when she knows an answer, my mom pipes up. “Oh, Kim hasn’t used a Hello Kitty toothbrush since she was eight.” I give her a sidelong glance, then pretend to think about it, playing along with Randy.
We’re hanging out in my parents’ living room. I leave tomorrow on the biggest trip I’ve ever taken in my life, and this is the last time I’ll see all of them for months. When I agreed (sorta) to stay home and go to state school, it was to save money. But my parents weren’t planning on this scholarship I bagged for best grades in Spanish. I did that one on my own. So, I’m headed to school overseas, and I’ll live with a family in the southern part of Spain, on an olive farm just outside the city of Granada.
Finally, I’m getting the college experience everyone else has.
Randy’s imitation has put my parents in stitches. Shane’s alternating between fidgeting and laughing, his laugh higher-pitched than usual. All afternoon he’s been running his hands through his russet brown hair. His hair’s freshly cut, in the style of the photo on the barber’s wall—three down, middle picture, a fade that’s longer on the top than the sides. It looks good on him. But with the exception of his weakness for nerd shirts like the one he’s wearing saying “Gamers don’t die, they respawn,” Shane always looks good.
I should be grateful that Randy’s making me go through my bags—even though he’s doing it in a wacky way—because he’s calming my nerves and at the same time fulfilling my compulsion to check and double-check everything before I go.
But I’d really rather do this without an audience, since no one here needs to know that I packed a bullet. The personal kind, not the weapon kind—I’m not messing with the TSA.
Having an agent pull out a sex toy would be mortifying, though. I shudder.
Focusing on the toothbrush, I shake my head and snap my finger. “Darn. I totally forgot. I’ll just run to Hy-Vee Pharmacy since obviously they don’t have toothbrushes over in Europe. Never would have thought I needed one.” I gesture at the toiletries kit. “Oh, wait. It’s in there.”
“See, Linda, you don’t need to worry about her. She’s ready,” says my dad.
I give him a small smile.
Shane clears his throat and bounces his knee while he sits on the couch. He’s been unnaturally quiet because he doesn’t want me to go away. It messes up his plans.
And is he ever a planner. He’s an accounting major, which means he’s super orderly and meticulous. Like, he has a written five year plan for life after school, which lists me under “PERSONAL.” His goal is to get his CPA license and go work at a big accounting firm. He works out on a schedule. Consumes protein powder instead of food that you chew. Posts memes daily on his Instagram urging others to stay focused on their goals.
Me studying overseas wasn’t scheduled, and he doesn’t know how to deal.
Since kindergarten, when Shane punched stupid Tommy Nilson for pulling my hair and turned around and gave me a dandelion, we’ve been inseparable. He’s been my rock, my place to hang, my someone. “You okay, Shane?” I ask. “Need some water?”
“No. I’m good. Just kinda wondering what it will be like without you at school.”
I squeeze his bicep. “It will be okay. We’ll still talk.”
“Yeah …” he trails off.
Poor Shane. Except for this scholarship, I never would have imagined doing something without his input, because he’s so much better at organizing than me. I just do the best I can.
My mom’s exactly like him. Since I’m the only child, and I grew up before her weight loss business took off, she filled my calendar with after-school activities. I had something every night of the week, although none of it stuck with me. Hockey (no good, since I duck when the puck comes at me), gymnastics (no balance, so I fall off the beam), Mandarin (uh, just no), and after-school candy striping at the Lutheran Hospital when I was old enough (I hate the smell of disinfectant). All in all, although she’s pushed me into a well-rounded education that looks good on a résumé, I have no idea what I want to do. Really, I just want to finish school and get out. To where and to do what, I don’t know. Some place where no one will make me recite the list of things I’ve packed.
Sombra Page 2
