From What I Remember

by Stacy Kramer, Valerie Thomas

  “I was thinking as a graduation present I’d show you all a little trick that helped me with college calculus.”

  There’s an audible groan. I mean, seriously? Give it a rest. Everyone’s texting on their phones. Mr. Daimler looks out at us for a minute, throws up his hands, and takes a seat. He opens a drawer, pulls out a bag of chips, and sets them on his desk.

  “Fine. Do what you want. Just don’t let it get too loud.”

  Everyone gets up and starts to mingle, like we’re at some fabulous cocktail party. I sit at my desk and stare out the window, ignoring Charlie and Shirah, who wave at me from across the room. Isn’t the last day of school supposed to be the best day ever? I want a do-over.

  I’m going to try my damnedest to wring some kind of small joy out of graduation, but I’d be shocked if it happens. My life is in shambles. My future is completely uncertain.

  And Kylie Flores and I will be wearing the exact same cheapo dress when it becomes official that she’s done better than me in school. Sure, I’m one of the valedictorians, one of nine, but Kylie’s at the top of the heap, giving the speech. No medals for trying. Yeah, tomorrow is pretty much a wash. Soon, all of Dad’s dirty laundry will be public information. I might as well write off the rest of the year, the rest of my life. Jesus, it’s been a day, and it’s not even two o’clock yet. And where is Max? I mean, what is up with the disappearing act? I haven’t heard from him since last night.

  “You okay, Lil?” Charlie asks, taking a seat next to me.

  “Yeah, just…tired.”

  “I hear you. Last night at Joe’s was pretty crazy.”

  “I’m not sure I can keep this up every night.”

  “It’s good college prep. It’ll build up your tolerance. Make you the best drinker at Stanford.”

  “That’ll make my parents proud.” If only Charlie knew the half of it. But I’ve got to love Charlie for trying. He’s a glass-half-full kind of guy, which can be nice to have around at moments like this.

  “Have you seen Max?” I ask Charlie.

  “Got a text from him this morning. He was at Starbucks. But haven’t seen him yet.”

  “I haven’t heard from him. And he’s not in school.”

  “You know how Max can go off the radar sometimes. Maybe he needs a breather.”

  I’d be worried, except I know Charlie is right. Max is most likely lying low, not wanting to deal—with me, with the last day of school. He’s not into all the rituals. He’ll appear at the party when he’s good and ready. It’s so Max. I’m pissed just thinking about it. The last we spoke, at Joe’s party, I wanted to talk about next year—how things were going to work when I was at Stanford and he was at UCLA. We need to figure these things out, but Max never wants to talk about it. He said it would all work out, which is just so Max. In March, the night after a big fight (where I told him he needed to spend Friday nights with me, not playing squash with Charlie), he went surfing with Charlie instead of meeting me at Stokely’s birthday party. He said he forgot. But the truth is, he just didn’t want to deal.

  Emotions freak him out. I wish it weren’t the case, because I really need to unload on him about…absolutely everything. I have no idea how he’ll take it. I’m going to have to go slowly. Really slowly. Because he cannot break up with me now. I need a boyfriend, a rich boyfriend. I know how awful that sounds, but I’m fighting for my life and I’ve got to play hard.

  “Luca Sonneban’s having a pre-party at the new house. After school. Full liquor cab. No one home. His house is sweet, right on the beach. I’m sure Max will show up.”

  “Sounds good. I’m there.”

  Maybe getting drunk is the answer. Might be helpful if I knew the question.

  ’m sucking down the last of my margarita and laughing so hard at something Max said I almost pee in my pants. When I realize that I can’t even remember what it was he actually said, I laugh even harder. Max looks at me and then bursts out laughing.

  “Settle down, Flores,” he says.

  I kick Max in the leg to show him I’m feeling a little feisty. Ready to tussle. Max kicks me back, gently.

  “Don’t make me get off this stool.”

  “Ooooh, tough guy.”

  I have to assume I’m flirting again. I may be new at it, but I know it when I see it. I’m also not stopping to consider why I’m doing it. Whatever. It’s fun, that’s why, nothing more. The truth is, I’m feeling pretty good. Great, even. Warm and relaxed. I totally get this drinking thing now, why everyone wants to spend all weekend doing it. I could hang here, at this dive bar, forever. It’s the most beautiful place I’ve ever been.

  “Whatever. We’re in Mexico. Go crazy,” Max says, a grin slipping across his face. “So what do you think?”

  “What do I think about what?” I bite my lip so that I won’t laugh. I’m finding everything funny.

  “Did you hear what I said?”

  “Not really. I couldn’t stop thinking about your addiction to blue Play-Doh in kindergarten and how your mother freaked out when she looked in the toilet.”

  “Funny stuff. Hard to top that.”

  “I don’t think I want to.”

  “I asked if you’re going to miss Freiburg.”

  “God no. I hate the place.”

  Max looks surprised by my answer. “Really? That sucks.”

  “It’s no biggie. I learned to deal.”

  “But you’ll miss Will, right?”

  “I’ll talk to Will all the time, so there’s nothing to miss.”

  “Yeah, but it’s different after high school. You can’t hang with people like you used to. I mean, for the first time in fifteen years, Charlie and I will be in different schools. It’s weird. I’m gonna miss him. He’s, like, my better half.”

  “Better half? I don’t think so.”

  “Trust me, he’s a much nicer guy. What do you have against Charlie?”

  “Nothing, really.”

  “You think he’s a dumb rich jock, like me, right?”

  I don’t reply. What can I say?

  “That’s a cheap shot. You may be right about me, but there’s a lot more to Charlie than that. He’s always been there for me. And I’m not sure I can say the same thing.”

  “For the record, I don’t think you’re a dumb jock. And I’m sure Charlie’s a great guy once you get to know him.” Ugh. Whatever. How did we get to the place where we’re talking about Charlie Peters? It was much more fun when we were discussing blue Play-Doh. “You know what? I think we need another margarita,” I say, pointing to our empty glasses. I want to get this party back on track. We seem to have veered off course.

  “I thought you didn’t drink.”

  “Yeah, well, I’m a bundle of contradictions.”

  “You sure are.”

  I’m not sure what he means. Is that a good thing?

  “What do you say? Another margarita? Or should we try a shot? I’m buying,” I say. I’m out of my comfort zone and drop-kicking the rulebook.

  “You don’t want to pound tequila first time out of the box. I’ve been there. It’s not pretty.”

  “I’m fine. Don’t worry about me.”

  I’m liking the buzz and I want it to keep on keeping on. The circuit of worries looping through my brain has stopped for the moment. I’m not thinking about Jake or Mom or Dad or school or…anything, really. I’m just hanging, without a care. Is this what everyone else feels like all the time?

  “We should pace ourselves. Tequila can give you a crazy headache.”

  Max puts his hand on my arm as if that will slow me down. It doesn’t. Instead it speeds everything up. My whole body is spinning from his touch. I don’t want him to ever move his hand.

  “I’d like one more, please,” I say to Manuel, ignoring Max.

  Max interrupts. “Could we get some water first? And maybe some chips?”

  “Water and chips coming right up,” Manuel promises.

  “And then another margarita,” I remind Manuel. />
  Manuel looks at me askance. “Only got two hands, darling. All in good time.”

  Manuel’s been watching us, since there’s no one else here. He’s probably nervous I’m going to puke all over his bar.

  He sets two glasses of water in front of us and then pulls out an iPod and puts on some music. He’s obviously delaying the margarita. Whatever. I can wait. I’m having the second margarita, and possibly a third, if Will doesn’t get here and spoil the fun.

  Hard-core Mexican rap blasts from the speakers. It’s kind of brain numbing, or maybe that’s the alcohol.

  “What do you guys think of this?” Manuel says. “It’s my nephew’s band. I told him I’d play it. But I think it’s going to drive customers away.”

  “I like it,” Max says.

  “I don’t,” I say. “Can you put on something else?”

  “Don’t hold back, tell him what you really think, Kylie,” Max says.

  Manuel laughs. “It’s fine by me. I’d rather hear the truth than some bull.”

  “Sorry,” I say.

  “Even without alcohol, she can be kinda harsh,” Max tells Manuel.

  Max squeezes my shoulder playfully. I guess he’s kidding. I can’t help but notice it’s the second time he’s touched me in the past five minutes. But who’s counting?

  Manuel fiddles with the iPod, and soon we’re listening to this incredible guitar music, sort of classical meets gypsy meets Jimi Hendrix. I like it. It’s a lot better than the nephew’s band.

  “This is Rodrigo y Gabriela, right?” Max says. “I love them.”

  “They’re fantastic, no?” Manuel asks Max.

  “Totally. My brother used to play them all the time. He took me to see them in San Diego. They killed it,” Max says.

  “They used to be in a Mexican thrash band, like heavy metal. But now they’re totally acoustic.”

  “They live in Ireland, right?”

  “Yep. Dublin. They’re huge over there.”

  “My brother says they’re about to blow up in the States.”

  “I knew them when they were nobody. They played right here in the bar a bunch of times.”

  “No way,” Max says, impressed.

  They are still nobody to me, but their music is freaking awesome. It’s sexy, fast, and rhythmic. It’s a good soundtrack for hanging out in a bar in Ensenada with a boy I barely know. It’s the kind of music, in a movie, that underscores scenes where people go off the rails and do the unexpected, like sky-dive, bungee jump, or fall in love. The kind of movie I’d love to watch. The kind of life I don’t lead.

  And yet, here I am. In the bar. With the boy. Listening to the music. What exactly it means, I have no idea.

  ’m not sure what to make of Kylie. She’s not at all what I thought she’d be like. She’s not at all what she was like an hour ago. She’s not at all like anyone I know. She’s totally unexpected, wicked smart, funny, off-the-wall, way more fun than she is in school. Different, in a good way. And kinda awesome.

  “Where you guys from?” Manuel asks us.

  “La Jolla,” I say.

  “Actually, I’m from San Diego,” Kylie corrects me.

  “What about you?” Max asks Manuel. “Born and raised in Ensenada. I moved to New York for a year, but I hated it. Missed Mexico too much. Came right back to Ensenada and opened this bar. Been here ever since.”

  Manuel still hasn’t served us the second margarita. He’s waiting for the water to soak up Kylie’s first. She was laughing her ass off, but she seems mellower now.

  “First time in Ensenada?” Manuel asks us.

  “First for me. But Kylie’s grandmother used to live here. And her dad grew up here. You’ve been here before, right?” I say, turning to Kylie.

  “Uh, no. I haven’t.” Kylie looks like she doesn’t want to talk about it.

  “What’s your dad’s name?” Manuel asks Kylie.

  “Javier. Javier Flores,” Kylie says, softly.

  Manuel’s face lights up like a Christmas tree. “Il Maestro?”

  Kylie stares at him blankly. “Il Maestro? I don’t know what you mean. I think you’ve got the wrong guy.”

  “Is your grandmother Lola?” Manuel asks.

  “Yes,” Kylie says.

  “Then it’s the same Javier Flores. Your father is Il Maestro. I knew him really well. He was one of my best friends. You must be Kylie.”

  Manuel rushes around the bar and pulls Kylie into a hug. Kylie lets herself be hugged, but she looks completely weirded out. I’m kind of stunned too—Kylie’s dad and Manuel know each other? I mean, what are the chances?

  “Your father and I grew up together. You’re like family. I can’t believe I’ve never met you!”

  “Yeah, my dad doesn’t talk about Ensenada much,” Kylie says.

  I have a feeling this is a loaded subject. Kylie’s body language has changed. She’s stiff, awkward, much more like the Kylie from school.

  “That’s too bad,” Manuel says.

  “Yeah, well, that’s my dad.”

  “Your dad is a complicated man.”

  Like father, like daughter, I’m thinking. Damn, I never should have said anything. I was just trying to be friendly. Now I’ve messed with the vibe. Wish we could roll back fifteen minutes, before I brought up Kylie’s dad.

  “I haven’t seen your father in years. He’s only been back a few times since he moved to the States. How is he?”

  “Um, he’s good, I guess. Why did you call him Il Maestro?”

  “That was his soccer nickname.”

  “Soccer?”

  “You know, because he was such a virtuoso,” Manuel tells Kylie, as if this will suddenly jolt her memory.

  “My dad doesn’t play soccer.”

  “Are you messing with me? Your dad was one of the greatest soccer players to ever come out of Ensenada.” Manuel doesn’t seem to believe Kylie. He thinks she’s bullshitting him. I’m pretty sure she’s not. “You really don’t know about your dad?” Manuel asks, the disbelief hanging awkwardly in the air.

  “No. He’s never said anything, nor has my mother.” Kylie looks kind of stricken.

  “Wow. Okay.…” Manuel looks thrown. I am too. “When he was younger, he was a soccer hero. He played in the World Cup in 1982. Kicked a few winning goals. Mexico didn’t win, but he came out of it an MVP.”

  The World Cup? An MVP? That’s some big stuff to keep hidden. We did not need another curveball. This day seems to have a mind of its own.

  “Maybe we could get those chips?” I say to Manuel.

  “Sure thing.”

  As Manuel grabs some chips, none of us say anything for a minute or two. Manuel watches Kylie out of the corner of his eye. I’m keeping an eye on her as well. I can’t figure out what she’s thinking. I want to find a way in, but I’m not sure how. It feels like she’s shutting down.

  Manuel places the chips and salsa in front of us.

  “I’m sorry if I’ve said too much. I was so excited to meet Javier’s daughter, and I figured you would have known about his past. I’m surprised your dad never talks about soccer.”

  “My dad doesn’t talk about much. Period.”

  Manuel looks like he’s about to say something else, when his cell rings. He picks it up and goes in the back to talk.

  I turn to Kylie. “You okay?”

  “I can’t believe I didn’t know any of this.”

  “It blows.”

  I instantly regret my clumsy reply. I want to say more to make her feel better. But this isn’t really my thing, propping people up. That’s Charlie’s job. It’s why I like him by my side. I could use him here right about now.

  Kylie looks like she’s about to cry. She deserves better than me, sitting silently next to her, racking my brain for some words of comfort.

  “It’s embarrassing,” Kylie says.

  “I’m sure some stranger in a bar could tell me a lot of crap about my dad that would surprise the hell out of me.”

  Kyl
ie smiles, which makes me feel a little less lame.

  “Before he got sick,” I say, “he was never really around, and I was so caught up in my own stupid stuff, I never asked him questions about himself.”

  Kylie’s listening, taking it in. Maybe I can help in my own feeble way.

  “This is kind of huge,” she says. “It’s freaky. I mean, a soccer hero? I’ve never even seen him hold a ball. What else isn’t he telling me?”

  “I’m sure he’s got his reasons. You can ask him about it when you get back.”

  “He probably won’t answer. He’s like that.”

  Manuel is back. “Look, I’m sorry if I upset you. I just assumed you knew all of this.”

  “Yeah, that would make sense. That I would know that about my dad.”

  “Tell you what: why don’t you guys come to my house. We’re having a late afternoon barbecue, in celebration of St. John the Baptist. It’s probably getting started about now. I’ll take you over there and we’ll show you how we party, Ensenada style. Maybe I can dig up some old pictures from your father’s glory days.”

  “We’re getting a ride back to the States in a little while. So we’ll be gone by dinner,” I say, jumping in to save Kylie. I’m thinking there’s no way she wants to go.

  And then Kylie looks at Manuel and says, “Thanks. We’d love to come.”

  She turns to me. “We can go for a little bit, right? Will won’t be here for at least two or three hours.”

  “Yeah, sure.”

  This girl is a total mystery.

  ad is staring at me as he drinks his second beer. He’s not saying anything and neither am I. I don’t know what to say. I’m not happy. I wish I were. I like being happy. People can get frustrated with me. I don’t do what they expect, and that can make people like Dad mad. I’m not trying to be difficult, it’s just that everything’s wrong and that makes it impossible for me to eat my dinner. “Hey, Jake, eat up, it’s your favorite,” Dad says, pointing to my bowl. “I can’t. It’s not right.”

  I haven’t touched the pasta. Dad put my glass of milk on the left side of the place mat, not the right side, where it belongs. He put my fork in the bowl, not next to it, which is where it goes. And he gave me an apple. I don’t eat apples. They aren’t on the list.