“No. I didn’t hate it. I was just surprised by it.”
“Surprised. Why?”
“I don’t know. I guess the quote felt pretty average. Kind of dull, predictable. I figured you’d have some obscure movie lines or some brilliant insights into our future. You don’t think like anyone else I know. So I was expecting something different, I guess. Does that make sense?”
I’m pretty sure he means this in a good way. Still, it doesn’t bode particularly well for my speech.
“You have to hear the rest of it. It makes perfect sense in context.”
“I’m sure it does. And I know it’ll be great. I’m hardly the person to give advice. I’m a terrible writer. You should do the opposite of what I say.”
“You think people can’t relate to the quote?”
“Look, Kylie, I haven’t heard the whole speech, so what do I know? It’s just, now that I know you, I bet you could stand up there without any speech and just ad-lib and it would blow everyone away. You’re funny and smart and insightful. You don’t need to quote anyone but yourself.”
“Yeah, well, that’s not exactly how I roll. I show up prepared for everything.”
“Whatever you say is going to be awesome. Don’t over-think it. And don’t take my opinion too seriously. I’m almost always wrong about stuff like this.”
“Okay,” I say. But Max’s words ring in my ears. Is it too stiff? Not relatable? I don’t ad-lib my life, so no chance that I’ll just show up and wing it.
We walk by a cluster of people standing on a street corner singing Mexican folk songs at the top of their lungs. Like mostly everyone else in town, they’re drunk. Oddly, they don’t sound half bad. As we pass, a woman pulls us into the circle, throwing one arm around each of us. It’s exactly what I need to shift the mood. I don’t want to think about my potentially disastrous speech tomorrow.
We all sway together, like trees in a breeze, as everyone continues to sing. Even though I don’t know one of these people or the song they’re singing, I want to be part of it, which is bizarre since I’m so not a group kind of person. I attempt to sing along, catching words and phrases here and there. They finish singing and the circle splinters.
Max and I wander back into the street. We’re no longer touching. I wish we were, but I’m not sure how to initiate it. I spend several endless seconds thinking about how I should do it. Do I just grab his hand? Or would it be more subtle to slip my arm through his and then slowly, gently, wind my hand down his arm until my fingers find his? As I’m strategizing, Max casually throws his arm over my shoulders, and once again we are connected. I am freed from the misery of figuring out how to do it myself. Max probably didn’t think about it for a minute.
We turn down a small alleyway lined with open-air stalls. Couples kiss in discreet corners. Stragglers loiter on stairs, sharing cigarettes. It’s quieter as the revelry from the main street dies down. A dress in a tiny shop window catches my eye. I stop and stare at it. It’s a deep fuchsia, delicately embroidered with yellow flowers, with layers of lace on the front, and tiny cap sleeves. The body of the dress hangs in tiers, almost to the floor. It looks as if it’s been fashioned out of paper, like an elaborate valentine cut by hand.
“You like it?” Max asks me.
“Yeah, it’s sort of fantastic. Tacky and chic at the same time.”
“Let’s go in. You can try it on,” Max insists.
“First of all, I don’t wear dresses, especially not one like that. Second of all, I’ve got practically no money; and third—”
“Slow down, Flores. You know what, I don’t care about number three. Or number one or two, for that matter. You like it. You should try it on.”
Max opens the door and pushes me into the store. There are racks of brightly colored flouncy dresses crammed into every pocket of the tiny space. The shop is packed so full of dresses there’s barely room to maneuver around the clothes. Purses and hats hang from the low ceilings and line the walls.
“Hola,” says a round old woman as she approaches us. She’s so short she barely makes it to my shoulders. “Let me help you find something, señorita.”
Before I can respond, she ushers me toward a rack of dresses. She plucks a lime green macramé number from the mass and holds it up to me. The skirt is speckled with pink pom-poms. Hideous does not begin to describe this frock.
“You like?” The woman peers up at me, hopeful.
I catch Max’s eye and can see he’s holding back laughter. I grope for something diplomatic to say, but what comes out is, “Uh, no. Not at all.”
Upon hearing my blunt response, Max bursts out laughing.
I switch to Spanish so that Max can’t understand me. I try to tell the woman that I’m not really a frilly dress girl, but she’s so delighted that she can speak Spanish with me, she isn’t really listening. She’s on a mission and there’s no stopping her. The little round ball of a woman is a whirling dervish as she bounces through the racks in search of the perfect dress for me.
I feel bad. The woman seems sweet and she clearly wants to make a sale, but she’s got the wrong girl. I don’t want to try any of these dresses on. I can’t even remember the last time I wore a dress. I’m all about jeans and T-shirts. Dressing up for me means buying a new pair of high-tops. What am I doing in here? Oh, right—this was Max’s idea.
“C’mon,” Max whispers to me. “Just try something on. It’ll be fun.”
“I don’t do dresses,” I say.
“Make an exception.”
“Only if you will.”
“What do you mean?” Max asks.
“You try one on. I’ll try one on,” I offer.
Max stares at me, trying to determine if I’m serious. I am. His eyes crinkle into a smile. He’s up for the challenge. I should have figured; he’s the kind of guy who’s up for anything.
“’Kay. I’ll pick yours. You pick mine.”
The old woman is pulling out dress after dress, one more hideous than the other. I shake my head at the choices, saying, “Lo siento,” after each one. She is surprisingly chipper, undaunted by the fact that I’ve yet to give her any positive reinforcement.
Max, meanwhile, begins to peruse the racks, checking out dress after dress.
The woman disappears into the back and returns with a plain white cotton gown. It’s lovely in its simplicity. Perfect for Max. “Sí,” I say. She smiles, pleased with herself.
“But it’s not for me. It’s for my friend,” I say, this time in English so that Max will understand. I’m worried she’s going to freak and kick us out of the store. Instead, she smiles broadly.
“Ah, St. John brings out la niña in all of us. I get a bigger one for you,” she says to Max, sizing him up. She retreats into the back room again.
“What have you got for me, Langston?”
“I think you’ll do the pink one in the window, Flores.”
“No. It’s too…too. For me.”
“Sorry. Too late. I’ve made my decision.”
The woman returns and hands Max his dress.
“Can you get the pink one in the window for my friend?” Max asks.
The woman yanks the dress off the hanger and holds it up to my body.
“Yes. She’s beautiful, no?” she says to Max.
“Yeah, she is,” Max replies. It’s hard to tell if Max is just being polite or if he means it. Nonetheless, I turn seven shades of red.
Max and I head to “the dressing room.” A generous term. It’s more of a broom closet. There’s only room for one of us at a time, which is a relief. I couldn’t deal with us both changing at the same time, my big butt exposed for Max to see.
I let Max go first. He squeezes himself into the room, and after some grunting and groaning, he returns with the dress on. Max’s long, buff limbs look strangled in the form-fitting dress.
The old woman claps at Max. “You look so funny. It makes me smile.”
“And by that you mean handsome and debonair,” Max says
to her.
The old woman just laughs.
“What do you think, Flores? Can I go head-to-head with Will?” He looks absurd. Not like Will, whose lithe frame is made for the delicate lines of women’s clothes.
“’Fraid not. Will kind of blows you out of the water on the cross-dressing front. But you rock jeans and a T-shirt much better.”
“C’mon, you’re bringing me down. I am totally feeling this transvestite thing. I thought it could be my new look for UCLA.”
Max sashays in between the racks. His lovely tight ass is obscured by the folds of the fabric. Max’s ass was invented for jeans.
“I’m sorry, dude. You can’t work it like Will does.”
“That’s cool. I’m good with guy clothes. It seems really hard to walk in a dress. And if you add heels to this, I’d seriously kill myself. Okay, your turn.”
Max retreats to the dressing room, throws on his clothes, and comes back out looking even better than when he went in. How is that possible?
Max hands me the pink dress. I wrinkle my nose and start to protest. I worry it’ll look silly on me. Like I’m dressing up in my mother’s clothes. Like I’m trying to be something I’m not.
“We had a deal. I showed you mine, now show me yours,” Max says.
I can tell he won’t back down, so I capitulate and head to the dressing room. I pull my jeans and T-shirt off and shimmy into the dress. It fits me perfectly. I turn to look at myself in the cloudy mirror. Someone has written Ensenada rules across the length of it.
The bodice of the dress is tight. It emphasizes my A-cup breasts, making me almost look like a B. The cap sleeves hang off my shoulders just a little, framing my upper arms and giving the illusion of sculpted muscles. The low scoop of the neckline reveals my cleavage, and my instinct immediately is to cross my arms over my chest. But I don’t. I stand there and stare at myself, shocked that I don’t look as ridiculous as I thought I would.
I step out of the dressing room to find Max and the old woman staring at me. I feel exposed and excited in equal measure as I stand there awkwardly. Max doesn’t say anything for a moment, which adds to my insecurity, tipping the scales toward exposed.
“Yeah, like I said, it’s not really me.”
“No. It’s definitely you,” Max says. “You look incredible. Really.”
And then Max reaches over and pulls the band from my hair. My curls tumble out of the ponytail and onto my shoulders.
“You look like a rose in bloom, like fireworks in the sky,” the old woman says to me. Her eyes fill with tears. “So lovely. Bella. I have never seen someone look so good in that dress.”
Okay, enough with the bad metaphors and the hard sell. I’m kind of wishing she would just go away at this point. It’s getting embarrassing.
“Well…I’m going to change now,” I say, and turn away.
“No, no.” The woman rushes up to me and tugs here and there on the dress to adjust it. “This dress is perfect on her, no?” she asks Max, like he’s in charge of me, or something. Got to love the Latino culture.
“I’m buying it for you,” Max announces.
“No…Max, come on. That’s ridiculous. I can’t let you do that.”
I inch my way toward the dressing room. Max takes my hand to stop me. The old woman makes herself scarce, sensing that her sale relies on Max’s power of persuasion.
“Kylie, let me buy it for you. As a graduation gift. You can wear it tonight and then throw it away if you want. You’ve been wearing those jeans all day. You must be dying to change into something clean.”
“So, I’m looking dirty?”
“That’s not what I meant. I think you know that.”
Max is looking at me with such expectation and excitement in his eyes, I am loath to disappoint him.
“Okay,” I say, even though I am not the kind of person who ever wears dresses, especially frilly fuchsia dresses, or lets guys buy things for me. Tonight, I will be that person—for Max. And maybe for me as well. “Thanks, Max.”
“You’re welcome, Kylie.”
Our eyes meet. We’re standing close. Close enough so I can feel his breath on my face. I am transfixed by his full lips, his green eyes. His hair hangs over his left eye. I want to push it off to the side, touch my hand to his face. What must it be like to kiss Max Langston? Clearly, I’m not going to find out now, because the old woman suddenly materializes next to us, holding a pair of white cotton shoes—espadrilles with woven soles and strings that tie around the ankle.
“To go with the dress,” the woman says. I’ve got to hand it to her; she’s milking this for all it’s worth.
I take the shoes and slip them on.
“Perfect,” Max says.
Max hands the woman U.S. dollars, which she’s happy to take, and we leave the store. If I didn’t feel like I was wandering through someone else’s life before, now I really do. I’m in costume; I’m just not sure what part I’m playing. The obvious allusion to Cinderella does not escape my attention. I’ve got the ball gown, someone has slipped a new pair of shoes on my feet, and there’s Max, the prince. Two big problems with this picture: Max is someone else’s prince, and I’m so not a princess, it’s laughable.
As I’m burrowing into these thoughts, Max makes a beeline for a small plaza with a stone fountain in the middle. He takes my hand and drags me with him. A couple of teenagers emerge from the fountain, dripping wet, and wander off, laughing. Otherwise, the plaza is relatively deserted. A few old men stand in a circle smoking cigars. Several couples wander by, hand in hand. A man to the side of the fountain is playing the violin, and a woman next to him plays the cello. This is not mariachi music. It’s not even Mexican music, as far as I can tell. It’s mournful, sweeping, and romantic.
“Dance with me,” Max says. It isn’t a question. And it isn’t a command. His comment lies somewhere in between. He’s serious, not even a little bit joking.
I don’t say anything. But my eyes say, Yes, yes, yes. I’d love to. Right here. Right now. In the middle of this street in Ensenada. And, like we’ve known each other for years, like we have some kind of secret way of communicating, Max takes me in his arms without my ever saying anything. Without him ever responding.
My heart is beating so loudly I’m afraid Max can hear it. I put my head on his shoulder. Our bodies are pressed close. Every one of my senses is on high alert as we move to the music, slowly, perfectly in sync. I am completely transported. I can’t remember being happier than at this moment. I wish I could stop time just for an hour or two.
The musicians and a few other stragglers watch us. A couple wandering by stops and starts to dance as well. I take my head off Max’s shoulder, pull back and look at him. He’s staring at me intently.
“What?” I say, suddenly self-conscious.
“You should wear your hair down more often. And you should wear that dress, like, every day.”
“That would be kind of weird.”
“Yeah, maybe.…”
“And it would start to smell.”
Max doesn’t say anything; he just gazes down at me. I realize that he is going to kiss me. We’ve been on the verge of this for what seems like weeks. The interruptions have only added to the anticipation. I’m literally shaking from the suspense, the desire. Max leans into me, his lips hover over mine. I can feel the warmth from his breath. I want his lips on mine so badly my whole body feels the craving like a deep ache. My pulse races. I try to slow it down, breathing deep. I’m waiting, eager, and scared to death. I’ve never done this before.
Max’s lips move in, and, at the same time, due to nerves or some kind of sudden onset of Tourette’s, I turn the slightest bit to the left and his kiss lands on my cheek. I’m mortified and disappointed. Such an amateur. I completely blew it. I’m a total freak.
Max pulls away, not much, just enough to look at me. Is he mad? Hurt? Confused? It would all make sense. I mean, what am I doing sending mixed signals like this? I don’t know what I’m doing,
that’s the problem.
But he’s none of those things. He breaks into a big smile.
“How about we try that again?” he asks.
“Excellent idea.”
Max takes my face in his hands, to prevent any sudden moves, I’m guessing, and plants his sweet, soft lips on mine, and then I hear—
“Go for it, Kylie!!” Someone yells from a window above the plaza. Someone who sounds suspiciously like Will.
Max takes his lips off of mine. No. Wait. Please. Don’t go.…
Damn. What the hell? Foiled again.
We both look up and scan the buildings nearby. I can see someone leaning out of a fourth-story window, waving a T-shirt in the air like a war surrender.
“Kylie! Over here.”
It’s Will. I’m happy to see him but pissed at the terrible timing.
“‘Darling, I don’t know how to tell you this, but there’s a Chinese family in our bathroom,’” he yells from the window.
On the upside, we found Will. On the downside, we lost the moment. Maybe we’ll find it again.
“Your movie thing?” Max asks me.
“(500) Days of Summer.”
“Get your butts up here. Now,” Will insists. “We’ve got a party going on and we’ve been waiting forever for you guys to show up.”
That makes absolutely no sense, which is perfectly consistent with this whole day.
hat took you guys so long?” Will is standing in the doorway of an apartment where a party rages behind him. He’s wearing jeans, a button-down shirt, and flip- flops. This is not the Will Bixby that’s been flying his gay flag as high as he can for six years.
“We’ve been looking for you for the past two hours,” Kylie says.
“Look no further, darlings, ’cause here I am!” Will exclaims, seemingly oblivious to the fact that he left us stranded.
“Yeah, would have been nice to know where you went,” Kylie says.
“Shit happened, if you know what I mean.”
“Why do you look so…straight?” Kylie asks.
From What I Remember Page 19
