Did I mention clothes? I can never keep up with the trends. High heels, miniskirts, ruffled shirts, flashy jackets, rows and rows of bangles on my arms—who can afford all that? My mother takes my sister and me to the swap meet (sometimes rummage sales) to buy our clothes. My mother isn’t able to afford retail or mall type clothing; it’s second hand jeans, sweaters, tennis shoes and T-shirts for the two of us. I’m oftentimes embarrassed or ashamed even envious I don’t own any of those shiny high-heeled pumps the popular girls are wearing today in the 1980’s. Although I try to fit in, I never do. Girls my age tease their hair—the wilder, the better—have perms; I wear mine straight and long passed my shoulders. Young women today wear a lot of make-up: eye shadows of purple, turquoise, magenta, cinnamon, I choose none. I’m a plain simple girl, wearing plain simple clothes still anticipating the day for my something special to happen.
I’m also very tall. I tower over those petite fem. fatales strutting around campus with their elevated footgear. I’m also a jockette. A girl who loves to play sports, get dirty, feel the thrill of throwing a runner out at first base. Yeah, baby. I’m the catcher on the girls’ softball team and I love to wear that mask over my face, eyeing the spectators in the stands unable to see my eye contact. I stand erect and high behind that plate, all five foot eleven of my sturdy frame. I consider myself lean and fit, with strong tone legs and in my sport, I’m a force to consider, and although I reign on that diamond, I unravel the moment I take off that uniform. Those short mini-skirts are far too intimidating and my self-esteem withdraws immediately.
Trailer Trash.
If you want to really hurt someone deep, call him/her Trailer Trash—Caucasian with little or no money, that remark definitely lingered like garlic, and through life I was led to believe that being broke was Trailer Trash. Although my Dad gave my Mom the house when they divorced, my Mom is always struggling with the house payment and we girls oftentimes suffer for it. Or maybe it was low self-esteem. Yah, I have to admit I have low self-esteem. Boys just want to use me and I’ve never had a best friend.
Boys...let’s talk about them; I hate them, all of them. They should all be locked up in cages—Smelly Apes that they are. No, just kidding, I don’t hate guys; I’m rather fond of males. Since my Dad left me at such an early age, I’ve always felt the need for comfort, for some big strong man to wrap his arms around me and chase all the nightmares away. Sad to say, I’ve had my share of promiscuous loser boyfriends. Being passed around, not really getting to know any of the guys I’ve happened to kiss. I lost my virginity to a senior at sixteen, a one-night stand and an unplanned pregnancy I’ll always regret. Low self-esteem will do that to a girl; not having a Father Figure will do you in as well. I guess I’ll always feel like that little girl searching for a capable influence to guide me into solace and keep me safe and warm. I tilt from one juvenile slack to the next never really able to hang on long enough to keep a mature relationship.
Those Smelly Apes only want one thing from me and that’s to unhook my bra. Did I mention I have a nice rack? My Assets seemed to form at an early age. By fifth grade, I was already into a C-cup. By junior high, “My Assets” (that’s what I call them because that’s really all I’ve got going on for me) formed into a nice pair of D-cups. Naked, I bet I could measure up to someone who had breast implants. Playboy, watch out. Mine are just as plump, just as perky, nipples just as high. I’m proud of my breasts; so much in fact, I know I can always count on them to be my channel in taking away some Smelly Ape’s concentration. Neighborhood primates always seem to stare at them before noticing my face. Kissing Smelly Apes would never stop short of my mouth; they always seem to want to tear down my bra. What is the fascination anyhow? Don’t they want to know how the game went that day? Those silly monkeys, don’t they want to know what I’m thinking or how I’m feeling? Those boring, single-minded chimps, watching them gawk at me, as they seem to talk down to my chest, trip or bump into something, never taking their eyes off My Assets, inspecting them as I walk by, hearing them shout obscenities because of my figure. At the beach, sun bathing near a pool, at the supermarket, any public place. I know men stare at them; Smelly Apes, males, all men, even all my Father Figures! Feeling their eyes lowering to my sweater, T-shirt, softball uniform; noticing all my Father Figures watching me walk away, checking out my bottom, such parental inspiration! What creeps! I’m your step-daughter for crying out loud!
Did I mention that I’m still waiting?
I’m a romantic, in love with love, always with my head in the clouds, determined to meet my sweetheart whether right or wrong. In love with old movies where the men were admired, fought for what they believed in and swept his lady off her feet. I believe my soul mate is walking this very earth right now and is searching for me as well, and when we see each other, I expect to see shooting stars, hear the sweet sound of violins and savor electricity dart through my veins. I’m not partial to any one physique really, but I do require that my arms wrap around his body and meet. He has to have a persuasive personality and be stern enough to calm me. Bring me home. Console me when times are rough, and believe me, times have been pretty stormy.
And I’m still waiting…Waiting to be swept away (or blown away) whichever comes first.
Two
Careful What You Wish For
“What the hell—” Amber expressed with utter objection. Amber was in the dark room processing negatives into pictures when a beam of light penetrated through the darkness.
“Oh man, I’m sorry; I didn’t realize anyone was in here,” Victor apologetically gives to her.
“Well, I am, now close the darn door!” Amber shouted back at him. Battling through courses, Amber took Photography 101 as an elective to help bring her grades up her senior year.
“Sorry, so sorry...I just need to get some film from the shelf really quick, I won’t be in your way, I promise,” Victor replied, reaching around her and pushing her body unintentionally into the chemicals.
Amber rolled her eyes, he smelled good, the air in the little room suddenly filled with Old Spice.
Victor walked over to her side and sneaked a peek at what she was doing. Transforming through the chemicals was an image of a guitar player on stage, his head back in the waves of ecstasy performing a solo on his electric guitar. Victor looked in closer, couldn’t believe his eyes, Eddie Van Halen? “Awesome! How’d you get that?” He quipped in awe.
Amber doesn’t look at him, “It’s mine—I took it.” She then tapped the picture against the edge of the bucket and gently clipped the photo above her on a nearby string of other photographs of the same rock star. “And don’t go telling Mr. Whitman that I’ve been using the school’s chemicals for my own gain.”
“Are you kidding me? Van Halen is my all-time favorite band! Can you make me a duplicate of that?” He asked her, squinting and focusing trying to figure out what she looked like in the dark.
Amber leaned over and turned on the light. Victor strained, tried to focus. Amber tried as well, and when she did, there was a boy, no taller than her staring back. He was Mexican, she realized, and cute with dark brown wavy shoulder-length hair, brown curious eyes with subtle shades of an introductory mustache just above his lips. His outfit resembled hers; puka shells around his neck, Levi 501’s, and Good Lord! That wonderful insignia of the letters VH on his T-shirt! “VH” of course (for any hard core fan of the group) meant Van Halen.
Victor’s mouth dropped open wide, fell in love with her at first sight. “Victor Sanchez,” he pronounced, extending out his hand.
“Amber Fitzgerald.”
Victor couldn’t help but gawk. He’d seen her in class from afar, but Amber Fitzgerald always seemed to be unapproachable walking around with her head down all the time. He never imagined she’d look this stunning up close. Long jet-black hair that shined brightly even in the dim light, a smooth complexion enhancing incredible oblique eyes, Mexican? No, American Indian, he realized. Radiant those eyes, hazel almost, suntanne
d skin, and her smile, such straight white teeth; her smile could melt a tortilla chip! “Did you see them the last time they were here in L.A.? Did you take those at the concert?”
“Yep,” she smiled again, realizing he was just as big a fan as she. “Front row seats. My Dad felt guilty for not picking me up one weekend and bought me the tickets.” Now why on earth did she just confess that to him? She never offered personal information to anyone before, especially to Smelly Apes!
Victor collected the delicate info and decided not to pursue it, he was just too stoked that this ravishing girl was as crazy about Van Halen as he was. “That’s awesome...my cousins and I went last year, followed them all the way to Portland, came back with tons of posters and T-shirts, this is one of them,” he presented, pulling down his shirt for display.
Amber grinned and turned her body around, flaunted her backside and lifted up her mane. “I got this shirt actually signed by David Lee Roth back stage, it’s at home...I wear this one to school though.”
Victor was bowled over! “Awesome! Have you eaten lunch yet?”
Amber turned sharply around and bore into his eyes. Warm, brown and sincere, she’d never met anyone quite like him.
They sat together in the cafeteria, not paying attention to the other kids doing double takes at the mismatched twosome. They spoke about everything: school, cars, part-time jobs, dogs, cats, and then finally family. She informed him about her sister and Mom—failed to point out one or two dark little secrets—explained to him that she wasn’t Native American like he initially thought, but Irish American on her father’s side. That somewhere in her ancestral line was gypsy blood bronzing her skin. Victor seemed intrigued, but Amber felt awkward talking about her clan and instantly wanted to know about his. His parents were from Mexico and he had one brother, and when he spoke about the rest, she was enthralled. She learned that he came from this huge Mexican family of nearly three hundred or more relatives, all-living close by, or in California, and on certain holidays, usually the big ones like Christmas, they would all gather together and have a huge party—like a fiesta! Amber was in heaven, the more she learned about Victor Sanchez and his marvelous family, the more she was interested in him. If it weren’t for him popping into the dark room unexpectedly, she would have never given Victor Sanchez a second glance. He wasn’t her usual one-night stand boyfriend either; he was a jock, which was totally abnormal for her and she sometimes had to pinch herself that someone that good wanted to spend time with her.
After graduation, they dated awhile going to the movies, meeting at the arcade and taking walks in the parks with their dogs. Talking, talking, talking, they communicated about anything and everything, it was all very innocent, casual and smooth. Nothing was complicated about Victor; he was always there when she called on him, always available when she needed a shoulder to cry on, especially on the days her father never showed. He was there with open arms and restful comfortable hugs. The further she hung around him, the more she wanted to be with him.
* * * * *
Victor parked his car in the driveway and shut off the ignition. “Now Amber, let me tell you something about Mama,” he said, looking deep into her eyes and searching for a nice way, a cautious way to tell her. “Mama is, well, she’s your typical Latina mother.”
Amber was about to meet his parents for the first time. Amber was apprehensive herself, having never been introduced to any of her boyfriend’s parents before and was constantly shocked with Victor’s sense of honor. Amber was willing to sleep with him months ago, but Victor refused. Told her that he would know when the timing was right. When the timing was right? Good Lord, she had never come across a male with so much integrity, he was definitely a keeper, definitely not a Smelly Ape. “Oh Victor—relax, I think I can hold my own with your mother, Latina or not. My Mom is very opinionated, and I think I hold my own with her.”
Victor let go a hoot. “OK—whatever.”
Amber fanned out her hand and combed her locks with it and bit down on her lower lip (an unconscious act she always seemed to do, by the way). “Will you stop?”
Victor watched Amber survey her face in the passenger vanity mirror. “Thanks for wearing that skirt by the way, Mama still thinks all girls should be wearing dresses, cried the day she saw a girl wearing pants.”
“Oh my,” Amber let go, fanning her fingers through her hair a second time. “I borrowed this from my mother actually; we’re the same size, thank God. I just folded over the waist a couple of times to make the skirt look like a mini, so you like it, huh?”
Victor gazed down at her legs, so smooth, so tan. “Awesome. I hope Mama approves.”
“Oh Victor, you’re so nervous. Don’t be! There’s nothing to be nervous about! I’m going to make such an impression on your Mama and your Papa that you won’t ever have to worry.”
“I know, but this is sort of a special day,” he said looking out the window towards his house. “My brother just graduated law school; everyone will be there, all my aunts, my uncles, all my cousins—”
“Good Lord Victor, relax! What could be so bad?”
Amber didn’t know what she was walking into, but when Victor opened up that door—all one hundred Sanchez’ that day alone—she knew exactly what he meant! She had never been so panicky. Amber’s family only consisted of her sister and mother, and that was it. Her grandparents both died ten years prior in a train accident and her father’s parents were virtually strangers to her.
The Sanchez home was both elegant and comfortable simultaneously, with warm Spanish colors of terra cotta, brown and green, simple sofas, La-Z-boy chairs and hand-painted oil paintings of Jesus. Countless pictures of family members—some so old—were faded and ripped. A display of tropical palms and green ferns filled several corners of the space as smells of fresh oregano finished every crevice of the living room. Outside, a piñata hung from a large tree and directly underneath the standing timber, a hefty barbeque with a massive piece of Tri-tip sizzled in the center of the grill. Streamers trimmed the rafters, while screaming kids filled the swimming pool. Each person was laughing and enjoying him or herself; it was like walking into a wondrous circus.
Amber was in awe of every little thing; grassy play area away from the pool, several enormous fruit trees midpoint and an endless amount of folding chairs lined up against the walls for relatives to sit on. Victor told her once about every activity—he and his brother along with dozens of other cousins—played during the summer in this great backyard. Fabrizio (Victor’s father) learned welding at a very early age, became so successful at it; he was able to purchase the four-bedroom/three bath home in the San Fernando Valley with half an acre early on. Now the home was paid for and the Sanchez family lived relaxed and celebrated often.
Victor guided Amber around and introduced her to every relative that he came across: Tiá Lorena, a red-haired beauty, her husband Lamberto, equally just as handsome, heavy-set Tiá Sonya, skinny Tiá Gemma and her husband Simone, just as thin. So many aunts and uncles, she couldn’t keep track. And his Cousins? Five Javier’s, two Justino’s, ten Maria’s, a Connie, a Hector, Priscilla, Monica, Jorge, Sylvia, Magdalena, the list went on forever and ever. And everyone (oh, and Amber couldn’t believe it when it happened) greeted you with a hug or a kiss on the cheek! She didn’t know any of those people, and they all welcomed her with such a personal gesture. It was all so amazing and uplifting she actually felt like she was walking on air.
Walking around with a stupid smile pasted to her face, Victor was suddenly taken away when it happened. It was so swift, such a surprise; she actually felt her heart skip a beat. A man on the other side—across the backyard laughing with a woman—tempted Amber’s intrigue. She didn’t recall being introduced to him and tried to figure out who he was. The man was very handsome and assuredly nodded to every affected lady that seemed to walk by. He certainly was put together very nicely, tall in height, several inches taller than Amber, she assumed with broad shoulders and a slim waist, t
awny skin, groomed chestnut hair. She actually felt compelled to go and talk with him, which was really odd and felt her feet moving towards his vicinity. Where the heck was she going? Amber turned away from him instantly, the fellow made her feel sensations she never felt her entire life! Frightened of the temptation, she marched around in the opposite direction bumping into bodies looking for Victor. Bumping, knocking, bashing into the crowd until Victor spun her around to face him—he’d been following her this entire time?
“You OK?” Victor asked visibly noticing Amber’s uncertainty.
Amber blinked the man out of her system. “Um—oh, Victor, I was looking for you, where’d you go? Don’t leave me all alone to fend for myself again, you brat,” she squealed, pinching his shoulder.
“Ouch...sorry, but my cousin Javier wanted to show me the present he got for my brother,” Victor said, putting his arm around Amber’s shoulders and hugging her near.
Amber gave him a small peck on the cheek. “Where is your brother? I haven’t met him yet.”
Victor squeezed her tight, “First things first, ready to meet my parents?”
Amber sucked in her stomach, “I think so—for sure.”
He led her back into the house and towards the vast kitchen domain where other family gathered. Victor then walked over to this large lofty woman and tapped her on her shoulder. “Mama—Mama, can you turn around for a moment?”
Rosalba Sanchez rotated around with a spatula in the air. “Qué? What’s so important to take me away from my sopá?”
Victor swallowed hard. “Mama, this is Amber. You know, the girl I told you about? Amber?”
Unsuitable Obsession - Part One Page 2
