I like the feel of his hand on me, guiding me, taking control, even though it’s bound to be fleeting. Max seems comfortable with the role of alpha male. I guess this is what it must be like to be Lily Wentworth, famous other half. Max takes my arm and steers me around a huge mound of garbage that I was seconds from plunging into. Not only is he not an asshole, he may actually be nice. Or nice-ish. Or maybe he just plays a nice guy in Mexico. For years, I was so sure he was a complete jerk. Maybe my snap judgments of people aren’t always so accurate. Is it possible they have more to do with me than with them?
Max points to an old-fashioned taquería. It’s less of a restaurant, more of a cross between a street vendor and a storefront. It’s probably a good choice. I remember my grandmother telling me that the best tacos are made right on the street.
Thoughts of Jake and Dad surface again. I push them down and away, but it’s not so easy. It’s like tying a brick to a body and forcing it to sink. I’ve got to do it or I’ll never get through the day.
We walk inside to find two tables, an overhead fan, and a poster of a motorcycle race on the wall. Not the most inviting atmosphere. The counter girl looks over at us, annoyed we’ve stumbled into her lair.
“¿Qué quieren?” she asks, like she’d prefer not to know.
Max looks at me.
“She wants to know what we want,” I tell him.
“What is there?” Max asks.
“¿Un menú, por favor?” I ask.
“No menú. Tacos.”
The girl stares stonily back at us. I gather she’s not going to be much help. I’m guessing this is the kind of place that serves about three or four dishes to their regular customers. Cheesecake Factory it is not. They’ve got tacos and more tacos. Luckily, I’ve got an advanced degree in tacos.
I decide to mess with Max a little. I’m not sure why; it just feels right. I sense he’ll appreciate a little game playing. Maybe this is what normal people do? Or maybe not. It’s all so strange, having lunch in Mexico with Max Langston. I’m orbiting a whole new universe, just feeling my way in the galaxy, hoping I don’t crash the ship.
I order two tacos. The girl disappears into the kitchen.
“Did you just order for me?” Max asks.
“Yep.”
“Cool. I like it when a girl takes charge.”
“Does that happen to you a lot?”
“Not usually, but today it keeps happening.”
“Well, I’m not into being submissive. I like to call the shots. So get used to it.”
“Noted. Flores calls the shots. I’ll try to fall in line.”
“Yeah. You do that, Langston. ’Cause I don’t want to have to mess with you.”
What am I saying? Who am I? It’s my voice coming out of my mouth, but it doesn’t sound like me. It sounds distinctly like I’m flirting. I’m not really sure why I’m doing this, or even if I’m doing it. I’m new at it. I could just be embarrassing myself. I should shut up now.
“So what are we having?”
“It’s a surprise.”
We take a seat at one of the rickety tables. There’s a plastic red-and-white-checked tablecloth covered with cigarette holes. This place has seen better days.
“Love it. It’s all very when in Rome,” Max says.
“Yeah, too bad we’re not in Rome.”
“Ensenada isn’t so terrible. Now that we’ve got a ride home, I’m into it.”
Max is into it? Suddenly I’m nervous. That feels like pressure. Can I keep up my end of things? My confidence of only five minutes ago starts to drain away. The worries are back. Does Max think I’m a weirdo who’s trying too hard? Why do I care what he thinks? I shouldn’t. I’m sure he’s not neurotically worrying about what I think.
The girl returns with two heaping plates of food. Soft tacos with meat, cabbage, and a little sauce. It looks innocuous enough. But that’s kind of where my surprise comes in. Was this a bad idea? I should have just ordered him something normal. Too late now.
“So what is it?”
“Eat it first. Tell me what you think.”
I know if I tell him, he won’t eat it. I also know if he eats it, he’ll like it. That’s how my grandmother got me to eat it. Hopefully, he won’t think I’m a freakazoid for making him eat it.
“Wait,” I say, and squeeze a little lime onto the tacos. “Okay.”
Max takes a bite. I wait a beat as he considers it.
“Whoa. Amazing. You can order for me anytime.”
Max devours the entire thing in a matter of seconds.
“Okay. Hit me. What did I just eat? Cockroach? Poodle?”
“Nope.”
“Just tell me.”
“It’s tripe.” I pause for effect. Max looks at me, confused. “Cow stomach lining.”
Max takes out his napkin and wipes his mouth. “You’re shitting me?”
Oh, no. Is he going to throw up into the napkin? Is he pissed?
And then Max bursts out laughing. “Cool. I like cow stomach lining. Who knew?”
“You never would have eaten it if I had told you what it was.”
“Never.” Max signals to the girl. “Por favor, uno más.”
“Nicely played. I thought you couldn’t speak Spanish.”
“Learned that at a bar in San Diego. Otherwise I never would have gotten another beer. Una más Tecate. So, tell me more about your food fetishes.”
“I wouldn’t call them fetishes. Let’s just say I have an open mind.”
I’m enjoying myself, which is so not me. I rarely enjoy being in the moment. I’m usually ten to fifteen moments ahead of myself, worrying how things will turn out.
“Tell me about your open mind,” Max prods me.
“Well, I have a thing for goat. It kinda tastes like—”
“Wait, don’t tell me…chicken? Everything weird always tastes like chicken.”
“No, more like lamb. And I’ve been known to eat fish eyeballs on occasion.”
“Okay. That’s freaky. Seriously?”
“Too much information?”
“I love it. Did you ever watch that show with that crazy chef, Anthony Bourdain? Where he travels around the world eating lungs and ants and shit?”
“No Reservations. Love that show.”
“He is the coolest dude ever. I totally want to travel to wack places like that and eat funky fish-tail stew with the locals. My family basically eats roast chicken and vegetables every night. And, you know, everyone at Freiburg just wants to go out for pizza. So it’s not going to happen anytime soon.”
“Except for today.”
“Yeah. Except today. Thanks.”
Max smiles at me. Our eyes meet. An electrical current shoots up my spine as we take each other in for a moment. I have to look away, afraid I’m blushing. It feels too intense, staring at him that way. I’m pretty sure any intensity is one-sided. Goose bumps form on my arm. I pray Max doesn’t notice—it’s all so teenybopper.
“Okay, tell me about the fish eyes,” Max says.
“They’re really good with sprinkles and a little whipped cream.” I stare at the table, willing myself out of this adolescent schoolgirl behavior. Max and I are just friends. New friends hanging out.
“You’re kidding.”
“Yes. I’ve only eaten them a few times. You know, when there’s a whole fish on a plate, I’ll dig out the eyeballs and take little slices out of them. They don’t really taste like much of anything. Kind of salty. It’s a parlor trick, to freak people like you out.”
“You’re going to have to try harder next time. Because fish eyes don’t even faze me.”
The girl hands us two more tacos. Max takes out his iPhone and snaps a picture. I lean over to see it. Then he takes a picture of me as I’m staring at my taco.
“Oh my God. Delete that. I must look terrible.”
I hate getting my picture taken.
Max looks at his iPhone. “No way. It’s a keeper. You look adorable.”
&nb
sp; Adorable? I don’t think anyone has ever called me that. I’ve gotten interesting, appealing, and a few times, beautiful, but it doesn’t really count because it was from construction workers or the cholos down the block. They call any girl with a pulse and boobs beautiful. Most people think I’m too prickly to be adorable. Maybe adorable like a porcupine.
“Let me see that.”
I hold out my hand. Max gives me the iPhone. He’s right. It’s not a bad picture. I look good. Pretty. Happy.
Max is on his feet. He leaves a twenty-dollar bill on the table, way too much for a couple of tacos, but that’s life on the other side of the world. I wouldn’t know about that. I’m always counting out change, hoping to find an extra dollar in my backpack.
“We should head out. We don’t have a lot of time and we’ve got shit to do.”
“Like what?”
“It’s a surprise. Payback for the tripe.”
I stand and follow him out the door, eager to go where he leads, which is just too bizarre. Before today I hated Max Langston. I’m still not exactly sure how I feel about him, but I definitely don’t hate him. Though it was a lot more convenient when I thought he was a stupid asshole. It made it easier to write him off. My general policy is that I don’t need many people in my life, besides Will and Jake. There’s too much that can go wrong when you start depending on people. But really, what’s the worst that could happen? We’ve only got a few more hours together, and then we say good-bye forever.
Outside the taquería, back on one of the main streets, I get my first real look around the town. Driving in, I was still so nervous, I didn’t take much in. The town bends around the harbor, where huge cruise ships vie for space with sailboats and rickety fishing crafts. Craggy cliffs jut out above the water, which is dark green and shimmering in the afternoon sun.
“We’re going to just jump in the water. Right off the dock. ’Kay?” Max asks me, like it’s practically perfunctory.
“I don’t think so,” I say. I’m so not jumping off the dock right now.
“Give me one reason.”
“I don’t have a bathing suit. That’s just off the top of my head. But give me a minute and I’ll come up with several more.”
“We can buy bathing suits.”
“Uh, yeah. I’m not a big ocean swimmer. I’m afraid of eels.”
“Eels? I surf all the time; I’ve never seen an eel.”
“I was swimming at Ocean Beach once and an eel wrapped around my leg.”
“It was seaweed.”
“It was an eel. I swear to God.”
“So, you’ll eat a fish eyeball, but you won’t get in the ocean. Have you ever heard of managing risk?”
I laugh. In the space of ten minutes Max has gotten me to laugh three times. It’s wild how people can surprise you. But I’m still not going in the water. The truth is, I’d rather throw myself under a bus than have Max see my big Latina butt in a bathing suit. Putting on a bathing suit and jumping off a dock is not the kind of thing I just do spontaneously. It’s the kind of thing I plan for months.
“Okay. I’ve got another idea. A lot safer. No eels, no fish eyeballs. I think you’ll like this.”
Max turns and heads down another street. I follow. People are in the process of decorating their storefronts with streamers and balloons, like they’re preparing for some kind of party. Max walks with purpose. He seems to know where he’s going. Must be nice to go through life always feeling like you’re in charge. After a minute or two, he stops in front of a bar. He turns to me and smiles.
“I’ve got excellent news. I’m finally legal. The drinking age in Mexico is eighteen, and so am I. We’re gonna celebrate with a drink.”
Max ushers me into the bar. It’s housed in an old warehouse with huge wooden beams across the ceiling. I’ve never been in a bar. I’m not much of a drinker. Sure, I’ve had a glass of wine or a beer at Will’s house, but it wasn’t particularly pleasant. The whole thing always seemed like a big waste of time.
“I don’t really drink,” I say, fully aware of how lame it makes me sound, but what am I going to do, lie? Tell him I’ll have a martini, neat? It’s so not me, it’s laughable.
The bar is dark and cavernous. A few weathered drunks nurse drinks. Otherwise, the place is empty. Funky wooden stools line the black stone counter. Photographs of crazier times are tacked up on the walls, pictures of people drinking and dancing at the bar. Serious partying has happened here. We’re probably a few hours away from a wild night.
“Kylie, you don’t have to drink. Whatever. Get a Coke. I don’t even drink that much. But I really want a margarita in Mexico. You know, when in Rome…”
Max plops down on a stool. I take a seat next to him. It’s not going to kill me to hang out in a bar for an afternoon.
No one seems to work here.
“Hello?” Max yells out.
From the back we hear, “Hola. Be right there.”
A few seconds later a barrel-chested man appears. He looks about fifty, ruddy cheeked, with a full bushy beard and a little black hat, kind of like a Mexican Santa Claus crossed with an aging hipster.
“Sorry about that. My dog ran away, slipped out of the kitchen. Bastardo. He’ll come back when he’s hungry. I just hope he doesn’t eat a kid or something in the meantime.” At this, the huge man chuckles. “I’m Manuel,” he says, shooting a beefy hand at Max and then at me. “You two from the States?”
Max and I nod.
“Welcome. Welcome. Great day to be in Ensenada. Hope you’re enjoying yourselves in our humble little town.”
“We are,” Max says.
Manuel grins. I can tell he’s the kind of guy who smiles easily.
“Ensenada is an easy place to have fun.”
I like this man immediately. Good vibes circle around him.
“I’m Kylie,” I say in English, since Manuel is speaking English.
“I’m Max.”
“What are you guys doing here? School’s not out in the States for a couple of days. I wasn’t expecting anyone here until next week.”
“We dropped out. And eloped,” Max says.
I stare at Max with a look of disbelief. Max peers back, a look of mischief dancing across his face.
“The thing is,” Max continues, “we were going to have a big wedding, you know, white dress, tux, cake, and all, but then we thought it would be more romantic to come to Mexico and get married on the beach.”
Okay. Now I want to play. Is this more flirting? Or something else entirely? Whatever it is, I could get used to it. It’s challenging and fun, forcing me to think on my toes. I would have thought Max Langston was too cool for games like this. I’m certainly not.
I interrupt Max. “And with the baby coming and all, I just wasn’t up for a big wedding anymore.” I have no idea who this person is talking. But I want to be just like her someday.
Manuel’s eyes crinkle into a smile. “You had me until the baby.”
Max and I crack up.
“Tell you what. I’m going to make you guys the best margaritas you’ve ever had. And you celebrate whatever it is you want. Wedding. No wedding. Baby. No baby.”
“Thanks, man. That sounds great. But she doesn’t drink,” Max says, pointing to me.
“So there really is a baby?” Manuel asks.
“No. She just doesn’t—”
“Actually, I’d love a margarita. Salt. No ice,” I tell Manuel. It’s high time I tried one.
h. My. God. Check it out!” Stokely screams as we approach school.
I turn to see Jason Simon and Billy Stafford streaking through the quad. Completely freaking naked. They must be totally high. Last day of school, indeed. Everyone is standing on the lawn watching.
Ms. Glades, head of the upper school, appears out of nowhere.
“Okay, show’s over, people. Back to class. Let’s try and get through the last day with a minimum of wreckage. We’ve already had a lunchroom table and two chairs destroyed.
; Let’s see if we can’t keep our bodies calm for the last hour,” Ms. Glades tells us, like we’re five.
Our bodies calm? Lady, our bodies haven’t been calm in years.
Mr. Cane and Mr. Yarrow, the Rec Arts teachers (otherwise known as “gym” in public school) flank Ms. Glades like bodyguards. She signals to both of them and they break into a run, easily overtaking Jason and Billy. They throw towels around the boys and haul them off to God knows where. Detention? A dungeon? Seriously, what can they do? It’s the last day of school. We’re seniors. No one cares.
Stokely and I file into the building with the rest of the sheep.
I head up to my locker to finish cleaning it out. I get to the sixth floor and find people partying like it’s the end of the world. Justin Brandt and Lola Kellogg are making out in the stairway. Shirah Lang, Ella Bing, and Nicole Collins are singing along to Eminem, which they’ve got blasting from mini speakers hooked up to an iPod, and Charlie and his crew are tossing around a football. The inmates are running the asylum. I gather Ms. Glades has yet to visit the sixth floor.
“Wanna scratch our names on the bathroom wall?” Celia Higgins asks me as I’m throwing crap from my locker into a garbage bag. I don’t really care what it is. It’s all got to go. I’m not in the mood for memories.
“Already did it last week,” I say. That is so Celia—a day late and a dollar short with every idea. She’s got middle management written all over her. But then again, so do I now. Maybe we can job share at McDonald’s. God, how depressing. Dad has seriously got to figure something out.
“Wanna, maybe, go grab a smoothie at Jamba Juice?” Celia’s desperation drips from her like a leaky faucet.
“I’m actually going to class,” I say, throwing the stuffed garbage bag into a corner already loaded with garbage bags, and head toward math, pointless as it is.
Celia trails me. Please, Celia. It’s over. We’re not friends. Never will be. It’s just not going to happen for us.
“Why? You totally don’t have to.”
“I know. But I’m going anyway.”
The thing is, I’d rather sit in Calculus than talk to people right now.
I slip into AP Calculus without saying anything more to Celia. Mr. Daimler is standing at the chalkboard writing up some formula.
From What I Remember Page 11
