From What I Remember

by Stacy Kramer, Valerie Thomas

  “I did everything your mother told me.”

  Dad is using that voice, the one he uses before he gets angry and leaves the room. I wonder if he’s going to leave the table and go to the garage, like he usually does.

  “I’m trying here, Jake. Are you listening to me?”

  Of course I’m listening to him. No one else is talking.

  I wish Kylie were here. She would have done it right. She knows what I like. She doesn’t get mad at me.

  Kylie hasn’t come home yet. She’s late. Really late. That makes it even harder to be happy. I like seeing Kylie and talking to her about my day. We learned about the Trojan horse in school today. I wanted to tell Kylie about it. It was a big wooden horse that the Greeks built. They hid inside it and entered the city of Troy and won the war. I don’t think Dad would be interested, so I’m not going to say anything to him. I’ll just wait to tell Kylie later. I hope she comes home soon.

  When Kylie didn’t come home after school, I told Mom to go to work and leave me alone until Dad got here. It was only ten minutes. At first she didn’t want to do it. She never leaves me alone. I knew I would be okay all by myself for ten minutes. And I was. I took off all my clothes and ran around the house. I went from room to room. It was so quiet, like being underwater. I like the feel of the smooth carpet under my feet and the cool air on my body. It was the first time I’ve ever been alone in the house. It wasn’t scary, it was fun. I think Mom is afraid I’ll do something stupid. I’m not stupid. Kylie knows that.

  Mom told me Kylie was still at school. She had to stay late for something. It’s Thursday. She’s usually done with Advanced Chemistry by two forty and then home by four. When Dad came home he didn’t seem very happy to see me. He was angry that I was naked and he made me put my clothes on. I think I make Dad feel sad.

  “Why don’t you eat the apple, buddy?” Dad says.

  “No, thank you,” I say, remembering how they told me to try to be more polite in school.

  I won’t eat the apple. Fear of fruit is called carpophobia. I don’t have that. They don’t scare me, I just don’t eat apples. I don’t like their shape. I will eat watermelon, though, and cherries. Fear of vegetables is lachanophobia. I don’t have that either. Fear of the number 666 is hexakosioihexekontahexaphobia, and I definitely don’t have that. I think I have neophobia, the fear of anything new.

  “Okay, so what are we going to do about dinner?” Dad asks.

  “I’m not hungry. Can I just watch Star Wars?”

  “You always watch that. Why don’t you do something else tonight?”

  “I don’t want to do anything else.”

  I’m starting to get mad. I wish Kylie were here.

  Dad finishes off the rest of his beer, gets up, tosses the can in the garbage, and grabs another one. He takes a long swallow and looks at me for exactly eleven seconds. Dad doesn’t understand that I watch Star Wars at least eight times a week, sometimes twice in a row. He doesn’t understand that I don’t want the apple, and that I want my milk on the other side of the place mat. He doesn’t understand anything. I don’t want to look at Dad anymore. I just want to watch Star Wars and wait for Kylie to come home.

  “You know what? Watch Star Wars. Don’t eat your dinner. I don’t care. I’m going out to the garage.” Dad walks out the back door and he’s gone.

  Fine.

  our dad and I had some crazy times when we were your age. They called us Los Buscarruidos.” “Troublemakers?” I ask. “Yeah, basically.” Manuel laughs. We’re walking away from the harbor and the main part of town. The crowds are thinning, the streets are narrower, quieter. The air feels lighter, fresher. Somehow, it all seems more authentically Mexican. No more tacky souvenir shops, no more bars. Kids are playing soccer in the street, people sit outside on lawn chairs, talking to their neighbors. The houses are pressed close together, with only a sliver of grass between them. They look like little Lego homes that Jake would build, with their bright colors and blocky construction.

  “We used to climb out of our windows at night and go to clubs in Tijuana, stay up all night, and sneak back in before our parents got up. We surfed The Killers during a hurricane. We even jumped out of a plane on our last night of high school. Crazy times. We were bad. Don’t try that at home, kids. I probably shouldn’t even be telling you all this. But it’s so long ago, I figure you’ll get a kick out of it.”

  I’m getting a lot more than a kick out of it. More like a sucker punch. I’m listening to Manuel and wondering who this guy is that he’s talking about, because it doesn’t sound like my dad. At all.

  “We know about getting into trouble on the last day of high school, right, Kylie?” Max asks me, pointedly.

  “Yeah…”

  I know Max wants me to acknowledge the rich irony here, but I’m too distracted by what Manuel is telling me. Was it Jake that drove Dad so far underground, his mother dying, or something else? I mean, my dad used to have fun, surf, and play professional soccer? It’s all pretty hard to get my mind around.

  “I think the last time I saw him was ’97. Before that, I hadn’t seen him in ten years, since he left Ensenada. He came back right after your grandmother moved to the States, to clean out her house. We had a beer and talked about his new baby boy, San Diego, your mom. You were probably only four or five at the time.…”

  Max and I follow Manuel up the steps of a bungalow painted a daffodil yellow. There’s music coming from an open window and the smells of something cooking. The house sits atop a gently sloping hill, with views of the bay. Before we enter, Manuel stops and points to the rough blue waters in the distance.

  “That’s Estero Beach over there. Your father and I spent most of our youth on that beach. Swimming, fishing, surfing. It’s one of the nicest beaches in Mexico. We call it La Bella Cenicienta del Pacifico.”

  “Cinderella of the Pacific? That’s a weird name for a beach,” I say.

  “It’s often overlooked for the fancier, newer beaches in Cancún or Puerto Vallarta,” Manuel adds. “But its charms will suck you in. No matter where I go, I always want to come back to Estero.”

  I stare out at the jagged blue waves. They do look inviting.

  “Ready to go in?” Manuel asks.

  “Yep,” I say. Ready or not, here I go.

  Manuel opens the door and goes inside.

  I start to follow after Manuel, but Max pulls me back. “You good?”

  “Yeah, I think so. I’m just sorry you got dragged into this whole thing. Yet another crazy situation I’ve managed to find for us.”

  “You’ve got a gift, Flores.”

  “I’m really, really sorry.”

  “Don’t be. I’m digging this.”

  “Okay. Thanks. It’s just…weird that you’re here with me.”

  “I know. But I’m glad I am. Manuel is awesome. And I’m psyched to hang here for a while. I just…want to make sure you’re okay. It’s a lot.” Max puts his hand on my shoulder. “If you want to leave, just say the word, okay?”

  “Yeah and…thanks again, Max.” How weird to be thanking Max Langston twice in the span of thirty seconds.

  We step inside, and immediately we are swarmed by people. Young, old, there’s even a guy in a wheelchair and a tiny baby in a bassinet. It seems like the whole town is here, cradle to grave.

  “Kylie Flores. Javier’s daughter. Dios mío, you are gorgeous! Like a movie star!” says a tall, slender woman.

  I blush sixteen shades of red. Max’s eyes must be rolling so far back he can see out the other side of his head. A movie star? She’s the one who looks like a movie star, with her thick mane of jet-black superstraight hair that frames her perfectly well-defined features. I would give a kidney for hair like that. Manuel’s arm rests protectively around her waist.

  “This is Carmela, my wife. She knew Javier as well. We all went to school together,” Manuel tells me.

  “We miss your dad so much. You must tell him to come visit,” Carmela says.

&n
bsp; Carmela pulls me into a tight hug. I’m having a little trouble adjusting to all this affection and attention. It’s not normally where I reside.

  “Il Maestro’s daughter. It is an honor,” says a man in a blue suit.

  “You have your father’s eyes,” says an older woman with skin like bark. “Let’s hope you didn’t inherit his mischief-making.”

  “No worries there. Kylie’s a good girl,” Max offers.

  Because I’m the most neurotic person in the world, I will worry about the veiled significance of Max’s comments for days to come. Does he mean that in a bad way? A good way?

  “And what is your boyfriend’s name?” Carmela asks me.

  “Oh, no. He’s not—”

  “I’m Max.” Max shakes Carmela’s hand. “Thanks for having us over.”

  I’m glad someone is equipped to deal in this hall of mirrors, because I’m having trouble putting together nouns and verbs. Three adorable children appear at my side, two little boys and a girl. They tug on my sleeve.

  “Do you want to play ball?” asks a small boy who looks like a mini Manuel.

  “No. She’s going to play dolls with me,” declares the prepubescent girl.

  “You are a serious celebrity,” Max whispers. His lips graze my ear ever so gently, sending a shiver down my spine. I start to giggle, partly out of nerves, partly out of a sense of the absurd. I’ve just dragged the hottest boy in school to a BBQ in Ensenada to meet my father’s old friends. On the last night of school. It’s so not what Max had in mind for tonight.

  “What’s so funny?” asks the little boy.

  “Nothing, I’m just…really happy to be here. And a little nervous,” I say. “It’s nice to meet you all,” I announce, because everyone is staring at me, waiting for some kind of response. That’s all I’ve got. This is not my forte, being brilliant on the spur of the moment.

  “It’s cool. This is going to be fun,” Max whispers. “More interesting than a high school house party. C’mon, where would you rather be?”

  He’s right. This is bound to be interesting. Max manages to put me at ease the way so few people can. It’s bizarre. My nerves settle. I smile at everyone.

  “We’re honored to have you and Max join us today,” Carmela says. “Move away, everyone. Give them a little room to breathe. Ay yi yi.”

  Carmela leads us through the house, which is decorated with wicker furniture and plastered with family photos, and into the backyard. It’s lush with flowers, potted plants, and bougainvillea. There’s a clear view of the water. Several picnic tables with colorful tablecloths are piled high with plates of food. Paper lanterns are strung from the trees. It’s lovely out here. I wouldn’t mind settling in for a nice long holiday.

  From the table, Manuel grabs a pitcher full of a deep red juice. He fills a number of goblets, and he and Carmela hand them out to everyone. Now that I’m getting a good look at the crowd, I realize it’s not quite as overwhelming as I thought. Maybe only about thirty people or so.

  “This is wild, huh?” Max asks me. “These people are so psyched to see you. Your dad must have been way cool, back in the day.”

  “Yeah, maybe back in the day.”

  We all take glasses and follow Manuel’s lead, holding them up in toast.

  “To Kylie and Max’s visit,” Manuel says.

  Everyone drinks. I take a huge gulp and my eyes water a bit. The stuff is strong. It warms my throat as it goes down. It’s certainly not juice, whatever it is.

  “Carmela makes the best sangria in Baja. But it packs a punch,” Manuel says.

  I’ll say. There must be a bottle of tequila in every glass. My buzz from the bar is almost completely gone. I wouldn’t mind getting it back on.

  “Yo, slow down, girl. We need to pace ourselves. This could be a long night,” Max says. “Speaking of which, we should call Will, let him know where we are.”

  I borrow Manuel’s phone and excuse myself. It would be a nice reality check to talk to him, explain my current surreal state. I give him a call. But, alas, Will’s not answering his phone. Maybe he’s in a dead zone on the 405. I text him our new details and hurry back outside, worrying that I’ve left Max to fend for himself. But there’s clearly no reason to worry. Max has made himself right at home. He’s got a huge wonking plate of fish tacos, and he’s listening intently to a story the old man in the wheelchair is telling him. He’s also managing to toss a baseball to a little boy, in between bites.

  “Hey, Kylie, come here.” Max motions me over. “You have to help translate. I think he’s saying that he used to be a bullfighter, for real.”

  He slaps the old man on the back as if they’ve known each other forever. Is all of Max’s life this effortless? Can he just slip seamlessly into any new situation? This is what it means to be popular. Max has a certain comfort level with himself, with new people, that is deeply ingrained in his DNA, unlike me. He is relaxed, happy, enjoying himself, while I am uncomfortable, awkward, questioning my every move. I’m starting to see the pattern here—Max crumbles in the face of a real threat, but put him in a room full of strangers and he shines. I’m just the opposite, but I’m going to try to be different tonight, because it makes a lot more sense to be like Max. I mean, I spend a lot more time in fairly harmless rooms with strangers than I do in serious peril. My skill set is not so handy in real life. Only in the movies.

  I turn to the man and ask him, in Spanish, if it’s true, was he a bullfighter?

  “Sí, sí,” he says. And then he lifts his shirt up and reveals a six-inch scar under his rib cage. Whoa! Serious. Max and I gape at it.

  “Holy shit,” Max says. “My man, I have never seen anything like that.” He whips out his iPhone and snaps a picture of the scar, up close. He shows the photo to the man, who smiles at the image. I didn’t know they had bullfighting in Mexico. It turns out there’s a lot I don’t know.

  “This is fantastic, Kylie. I totally dig it here,” Max says.

  Max refills both our glasses. We toast and knock back the sangria. Max’s body is pressed close to mine as we take a seat on the wooden bench. A gentle heat starts in my stomach and slowly spreads out to my extremities, some of it alcohol related, some of it Max related. All of it good.

  is lips are devil red and his skin’s the color mocha. He’ll wear you out. Livin’ la vida loca.” I’ve got the top down on my Mini, and I’m singing at the top of my lungs as I shoot down the 405, on a bullet to Mexico. I’ve gone old-school homo with my playlist—Ricky Martin, George Michael, Boy George. I don’t normally do music this queer unless I’m alone, in which case, I change the pronouns (because, really, Ricky Martin has no business singing about girls) and blast the suckers. I can make out the border up ahead. In a few minutes I’ll be on Mexican soil. Arriba arriba. Not even sure what that means, but I like the sound of it. Mexico, get ready, ’cause here I come.…

  I’m loving the fact that Kylie got herself into this mess. It’s unclear to me how exactly this all happened, but who cares? She’s trapped in a foreign country, in need of help. So Bourne Ultimatum. And so not Kylie, which bodes well for NYU. This is the kind of adventure a boy like me can only dream about—getting caught somewhere exotic-ish (it is Baja, after all, not Bali) with an Adonis like Max Langston. Talk about ending the school year with a bang. And to think, only a few short hours ago, I was so disappointed by the day.

  I approach the customs booth and am relieved to see that the cars ahead of me are being waved right through. There’s barely a wait. This should be easy. We might even have time for a few drinks, maybe some guacamole and chips seaside before returning stateside.

  I slow down as I approach the booth, expecting a simple hand flourish that will mean my entrée into Baja. Instead, the grim little troll in the booth takes one look at me, holds up his hand, and pops out of his cage. I stop the car, and his nasty face is at my window, leering down at me. Calm down, boyfriend, I’m not running drugs or guns. I’m one of the good guys, just your average everyday hero
rescuing his damsel-in-distress South of the Border. I deserve praise, not scorn. But that doesn’t look like it’s happening.

  I roll down the window.

  “Hi there, big guy,” I say, realizing my mistake immediately.

  A scowl materializes on his already unhappy face. Oops, my bad. Shouldn’t have called the little guy a big guy. He thinks I’m making fun of his size. I’m not. It’s just what I say. A peccadillo, if you will. Please don’t shoot.

  I switch to downright obsequiousness. “How can I help you, sir?”

  “I’m going to need to see your passport, license, and registration.”

  His uniform is too tight and he’s sweating profusely in the unforgiving Mexican sun, which can’t be helping his mood. He’s looking at me like he’d love to make an example of me.

  “Nooo problem, officer.”

  I smile broadly at the hobgoblin. It has no impact on his sour mood. I know enough to check my snarky comments at the door. The border is not the place to try out new comedy material.

  I rummage through the glove compartment and gather up all the necessary papers. I’m shockingly well-prepared for just this type of situation. This would not normally be the case, save for the fact that my sisters, my mother, and I drove down through Mexicali last year en route to Rancho La Puerta, the bougie spa in Tecate, where we were cosseted, coddled, and catered to for a solid seventy-two hours. Sheer bliss. We were also frisked and questioned at the border, as our trip coincided with a huge spike in drug activity.

  I hand over the documents.

  “What is the purpose of your trip?”

  “I’m visiting a friend in Ensenada.”

  I know enough not to say that I’m picking someone up and bringing them back across the border. That would just throw up a slew of red flags. Weirdly, my innocuous comment seems to have the same effect.

  “Please step out of the car.”

  What? Are you kidding me? Everyone else is literally speeding through the pearly gates, barely slowing down. I want to scream at him, Who, in their right mind, sneaks into Mexico? Seriously? But I bite my tongue.