From What I Remember

by Stacy Kramer, Valerie Thomas

  Kylie flags down a guy crossing the street, and in impressively fluent Spanish asks for directions to the bus station. He’s wearing a T-shirt that says “Jessica Bernstein’s Sweet Sixteen—June 16, 2007.” It’s pretty hilarious. I mean, I probably went to that stupid party, and somehow the T-shirt ended up on this guy’s back. Most likely some cleaning lady who takes the hand-me-downs from rich people gave it to her brother’s family back in Ensenada. What a long, strange trip that T-shirt has been on. I pull out my iPhone and snap a quick picture of him.

  We drive about a mile down the road, turn in to the center of town, and park on a street that runs along the side of a big plaza. Kylie throws the keys onto the front seat.

  “I am so done with this truck.”

  “Tell me.”

  “Now we just have to find the bus station and we’re good to go.”

  “If you say so.” It’s all too easy to be believed, after the day we’ve had.

  “We just have to hope the bus won’t be hijacked.”

  “Shouldn’t be a problem for you. You’ll just do a Keanu and take it over.”

  “So, what? You’re like a connoisseur of action movies? Speed, The French Connection?”

  “Not really. But I know stuff. Yeah.”

  We leave it at that.

  As we walk toward the bus station, I keep looking over my shoulder, thinking the dudes are going to pop up at any moment and shoot us dead. But it doesn’t happen, and we make it to the station in one piece.

  I feel a huge sense of relief as I watch the woman slide two tickets for the three o’clock bus to San Diego under the glass divider. It’s all good. Everything is going to be okay. An hour ago, I was shaken to the core, shivering in my own sweat, convinced I was about to die. And now, all I have to do is kill a few hours in Ensenada.

  Sweet.

  The ticket seller leans forward and says something to Kylie in Spanish. I watch as a look of concern sweeps across her face, wiping away her smile. It’s like a shade being drawn. Kylie slides the tickets back under the divider and then looks at me. Jesus. I don’t know if I can take another hitch in the plan. I’m already running on fumes.

  “What?” I ask. I hate not being able to understand. I should have studied Spanish and just ignored Dad. I live on the border of Mexico. I can say maybe ten words in Spanish, and one of them happens to be the word for hand-job. Pathetic.

  “She asked me if we have our passports or birth certificates,” Kylie says.

  “Jesus, I didn’t even think of that. We can’t get over the border without them?”

  “No.” Kylie takes in a sharp breath and doesn’t seem to exhale.

  I feel dizzy, like the floor is spinning. This day is really beating the shit out of me.

  Kylie thanks the ticket seller and walks away. What is she thanking her for? Reminding us that we are once again totally screwed?

  Kylie heads over to a wooden bench in the corner and collapses onto it. I sit down next to her. I can feel myself slipping into the panic and fear. The sitting is only making it worse. I get up and walk out of the station, leaving Kylie behind. I don’t want to look at her. I don’t want to talk to her. I’m back to being pissed at her for getting us into this. I can’t help myself. I don’t want to be here. And it’s starting to look like there’s no way out.

  I wander out to the street. My mood has dipped dangerously low. I look around the town. It’s not a bad place. There are bars and restaurants everywhere, and little pastel houses. It’s the kind of place I expect to end up in on some crazy spring break during college, slamming back shots of tequila and cruising the streets all night. But not today. Not now.

  “I know this sucks. I’m really, really sorry. I should have never gotten you into this,” Kylie says, appearing at my side. She seems eerily calm. And genuinely sorry.

  “It’s not all your fault. I mean, I’m a big boy. I could have bailed,” I say.

  I both do and do not mean this. She didn’t want any of this to happen any more than I did. At least she’s not whining about it like me.

  “What are we going to do?” I ask. Because hell if I know.

  “I have a passport at home. But I can’t call my parents and tell them what’s going on. I just can’t. They’ll freak.”

  “Yeah. Me too.”

  “Couldn’t you tell them you came to Mexico on, I don’t know, some kind of senior prank or something, and they could come down with our passports, or meet us at the border?”

  “Not gonna happen. Listen, I can’t let them know any of this. It’s just…it’s a long story. Trust me. It would be a very, very bad idea.”

  My eyes meet hers. I want to make sure I’m getting my point across.

  “Shit.” That’s all Kylie says. And then she walks across the road to a little park. There are about a million pigeons and a few old guys playing dominos. Kylie sits down on a mound of grass and stares out at the harbor. I lie down on the grass next to her, staring up at the sky. It’s a cloud-free day, perfect for surfing, biking, running. Instead, I’m stuck at a dirty bus station waiting on a miracle.

  “Things are, like, hanging by a thread at my house. I seriously think this would push my mother over the edge.” Kylie lies down, rolls onto her side, and stares at me. “Just when we thought everything was going to be okay, it all goes to hell again.”

  “What do you mean, hanging by a thread?”

  Kylie heaves a sigh. “My brother Jake is special needs. He has Asperger’s syndrome. He requires a lot of attention. I mean, he goes to school and stuff, but everything is really hard with him. It’s practically my mother’s full-time job to worry about him, except for the fact that she actually has a full-time job as a nurse. And my Dad is always away, working out of town.”

  Kylie pauses to make sure I’m still with her. I am.

  “I’m kind of the glue that holds things together. Between taking care of Jake and working as a nurse, Mom doesn’t get around to doing things like making dinner or laundry. Anything, really. So that’s all me. I don’t know what they’re going to do tonight if I don’t get home.”

  “That’s a lot of shit to deal with.” No wonder Kylie never smiles.

  “Usually it’s okay. I’ve got systems for getting things done quickly. And I really like spending time with Jake. The worst part is the mental stuff. I feel like they’ve got all their hopes pinned on me, since Jake will never become the doctor they wanted him to be. I’ve already kind of disappointed them by choosing film school over premed at Brown. So I try not to stress my mom. If I call and say I’ve been smuggled into Mexico illegally in the back of a U-Haul, I might as well be hurling my entire family in front of a moving train.”

  Heavy.

  “I’m sorry. That sounds shitty. I’ll give you an eighty-nine on the life-sucks scale,” I say.

  “I didn’t even crack ninety? Are you grading on a curve?”

  “Totally. You get an A minus in overall suckage.”

  “Cool. I feel so much better. Okay, your turn.”

  “My Dad is sick, with cancer.”

  I blurt it out, just like that. I’m not sure why. Maybe because we barely know each other. And, most likely, we’ll never see each other again after today. It’s easier to be honest.

  Kylie looks startled. Cancer has a way of doing that to people.

  “My Mom, who kind of has a compulsive need for everything to be perfect, is in denial. So she never talks about it. My older brother is an outcast because he refused to go to law school and join my dad’s firm. Instead, he plays guitar in a crappy band in dive bars around Seattle. I am the last remaining beacon of hope, kind of like you, I guess. I’m expected to go prelaw at UCLA and join the firm. If I do what I want to do, like my brother did, it would be the ultimate blow to my dad.”

  “Wow. That sucks.”

  Kylie looks at me with such sad eyes that I actually feel bad. So I lie to her.

  “You know, they cure cancer all the time these days, so, hopefully, he’ll b
e okay.”

  “Yeah, hopefully.”

  Neither of us says anything for a minute.

  “So, what do you want to do?” Kylie asks.

  “I don’t know. Lots of stuff. I’d like to try a few different things. Just not law.” I hedge. I don’t want to go there.

  “Congrats. You’re the big winner, Max Langston. Cancer trumps disabled sibling. Cancer trumps everything. I’d say that’s a ninety-seven on the suckage scale.” And just like that, Kylie changes the mood. I’m grateful, because I’m not sure I could have done it.

  “Excellent. I love winning.”

  I don’t mind talking to Kylie. In fact, I’m digging it. If this were any other day, I’d say we should kick it and grab lunch. But it’s not any other day. It’s the last day of high school, the day before graduation, and we’re stuck in Ensenada, Mexico.

  hat if I ask Will to drive down?” I say. “He’ll be totally into it. He can go to my house, get the key from under the mat, and then grab my passport. Can he get into your house?”

  “Definitely. Our housekeeper’s always there.”

  “He can probably cruise down here in a few hours,” Kylie says.

  “That’s very cool that he would do that.” Max sounds surprised.

  “Whose best friend wouldn’t do that? Charlie would do it, no?”

  “He would. He totally would. Should I call him?”

  “No, Will would be mad if I didn’t call him. I don’t know why I didn’t think of it before. You might call him Weird Will—”

  “He knows about that?”

  “He’s not an idiot. Anyway, he’s an amazing guy. And an amazing friend. He’d do anything for me. Besides, he lives for a good story. He’ll dine out on this one for years.”

  “Okay, I’ll call the housekeeper and tell her a buddy of mine is coming by to pick up something. She’s gonna be a little weirded out about the girl’s clothes. Any chance Will will wear jeans and T-shirt?”

  “Not a prayer,” Kylie says.

  “Man, I do not get that. What is up with the cross-dressing? It feels like he’s just making things more difficult for himself, you know?”

  “He likes to make a scene.” That’s all I say because explaining Will Bixby to Max Langston is like explaining quantum theory to Jessica Simpson.

  I rush back into the bus station and buy a phone card. Max is right behind me. I slip into a tiny booth with an old-fashioned phone. It’s caked with years of dirt and grime, a leftover from 1985.

  Max stands outside, leaning on the glass. Damn, he’s sexy.

  I’m pretty sure he doesn’t see me the same way. Guys find me neutered, detached, invisible. I’m Switzerland. The girls Max dates are Brazil. Still, it’s hard to ignore the facts that 1) I’m stranded in Ensenada with him, 2) he’s not the total asshole I assumed he was, and 3) he’s undeniably hot. I push out this train of thought. I can’t let myself go there. What’s the point? He’s got a girlfriend. We’re worlds apart. And, technically, I don’t even like him.

  I call Will on his cell. He picks up immediately. Just as I predicted, he’s thrilled with his task, positively giddy that I seem to have found myself marooned in Mexico with Max. He acts like I’ve just won the Nobel Peace Prize. He can’t stop telling me how proud he is of me. It’s so Will, I have to laugh. I tell him where to find the extra key and the passport at Max’s house, and before I can say good-bye he’s out the door and on his way. He sounded a little too excited at the chance to paw his way through Max’s bedroom. I just hope he’s discreet. I look at my watch; it’s a little past one. He should be here by six, at the latest.

  I exit the phone booth and Max squeezes inside. His large frame looks pretty funny squished into the diminutive booth. He calls his housekeeper, and we are good to go.

  “I cannot believe my new hero is a dude who wears dresses and combat boots,” Max says.

  “It’s true. Will is a superhero.”

  I slip back into the phone booth.

  “Who are you calling now?”

  “My mom. I’ve gotta come up with a reason I can’t watch Jake after school today.”

  I’m dreading this call. Dad will have to pitch in. At the very least, he’s a warm body in the house. I shut the door to the booth for a little privacy, and dial Mom’s cell.

  “I’m gonna be a little late,” I say.

  “How late?” Mom sounds irritated, frustrated.

  Wasn’t she ever in high school? I mean, really, it’s the last day of school. I shouldn’t have to get home right away. If I were even the least bit normal I’d be going to one of a million parties. Of course I don’t say any of this. I never do.

  The conversation is blessedly short. When I tell her I have to attend a “valedictorian meeting,” there’s not really much she can say. We hang up and I exit the booth.

  “How did it go?” Max asks me as we leave the bus station and walk toward town.

  “My dad is going to have to watch him.”

  I can’t help but wonder if Mom would be concerned for my welfare if she knew the truth, or just worried about what time I’d be punching in tonight. Sometimes I feel more like her star employee than her daughter. She has complete faith in my competence, and since I never complain, she assumes it’s all going well. Well, it’s not. And I’d really like to talk to her about it, but I know it would just stress her out. She needs to see me as independent and strong and happy. The complaint department is closed, and I just have to deal.

  “Excellent. Problem solved,” Max says.

  “Jake is probably going to freak out. He likes things to be predictable. If his schedule changes at all, he usually throws a tantrum.”

  Nothing I can do now. Got to put it out of my head before my brain travels to the worst-case scenario: Jake lying dead somewhere in the house. Dad completely oblivious.

  I shake my head to clear out the bad juju. That’s just absurd. Dad may be out of it, but he’s not going to let anything bad happen. Is he?

  “Your dad will deal with it.”

  “Maybe. But not particularly well. My dad doesn’t really deal with much. Especially not Jake. I think Jake scares him. My dad just wants a kid he can toss a ball around with in the backyard. Jake is not that kid.”

  I stop myself because I feel like I’m about to vomit out all my family drama, and that could get messy. I’ve already said way too much. There’s no need for Max to know any of this. Why am I even telling him? No one knows anything about me, except for Will. It’s better that way. Max and I may be sharing stuff for the moment, but I remind myself that it’s just an illusion. We’re not friends.

  “Aren’t you going to call your mom?” I ask, changing the subject. “You should let her know you’re not coming home.”

  “Nah, she won’t notice.”

  He obviously doesn’t feel the same need to over-share.

  know Kylie would not want me snooping around in Max’s bedroom, but what she doesn’t know, she doesn’t know. And this is too juicy an opportunity to pass up. The housekeeper was much more of a problem than Kylie indicated. It was like getting past the Gestapo. Clearly, the old Mexican woman does not like boys in kilts. I’ve now been through Max’s closets, his drawers, his bathroom, and I’m not really coming up with anything that floats my boat. Lots of squash shit, random technology (like old iPods and PSPs), trophies up the wazoo. But nothing scandalous, salacious, or even mildly interesting. No porn, no sex toys, no drugs, nothing I could use to start nasty rumors on the Internet. Damn. Max Langston is as clean as a whistle. A closed book.

  Time to rock and roll. Just need the passport and then, vamos a México.

  I open Max’s desk drawer and easily find his passport. I’m about to close the drawer and be on my way when I catch sight of a stack of photographs. Really cool photographs. Funky landscapes. Strange portraits with only one eye visible or half a face or just a mouth. I open the other desk drawers and discover a treasure trove of pictures, hundreds of them. There’s a whole series of f
eet. Another of what looks like garbage on a beach, some dogs. And they’re all really freaking awesome. I feel kind of depressed. Max Langston isn’t only gorgeous, he’s talented. The guy has an eye, and possibly even some depth. I came here hoping to be able to ridicule him and his stupid possessions. As it turns out, Max has a more impressive interior life than I do. I have no intention of telling anyone about this. Max doesn’t need any more positive reinforcement.

  My work here is done. Well, almost. Just one more itsy bitsy teeny weeny thing to do…

  “You finish in there? Is taking a long time,” Hitler’s little helper calls out to me from the hallway.

  “Just grabbing the passport and then I’ll be out of here,” I say. Seriously, bitch, chill. I’m not a terrorist.

  I pull out a tube of lipstick, purloined from my sister’s overstuffed cosmetic bag (she’s only thirteen, but the girl can paint her face like a pro). I go into Max’s bathroom and write on the mirror. After all, what’s the point of a visit to the great Max Langston’s bedroom if I can’t leave my mark? I may not have found anything spicy, but the least I can do is leave a little drama in my wake. I cover his mirror with red lipstick scribblings.

  “Thanx for the blow job, dude. You’re the best. I owe you one. XXOO Charlie.”

  Maybe the housekeeper will stumble upon my little gem. Maybe his mom or dad. I’m sure it will find an appreciative audience.

  eople wander in and out of stores and sit on benches eating. It’s a lively scene. Not a bad place to get stranded. Too bad Dad never brought us to Ensenada when Nana was living here. I’d actually know where to go now and what to do. Not to mention the fact that it might have been nice to get to know my father’s hometown. But just like everything else with Dad, it’s a blank page, and I’m just a tourist with a few hours to kill in a foreign city. “So what are you in the mood for? Mexican, Mexican or…Mexican?” Max asks. “Mexican sounds good.”

  “Excellent. Me too. Let’s head down that way. Looks cool.”

  Max places his hand on the small of my back, guiding me down a narrow alley.