“It takes more than a few stupid comments to scare me off,” I say. “It’s just late. I have to get back to the dorm.”
“Good. Because I’d kill her if she did.” She offers me a glass of lemonade and when I decline, puts it back in the fridge. “Maybe we could do something on the weekend?” she says, returning to her earlier enthusiasm. “Sometimes I go to the Farmers’ Market with Mia if she’s not being a total butt. Rudy works there on Saturdays. He sells chiles. You could come?”
“Rudy sells chiles?” I say instead of responding to the invitation. I sound like a jerk, but I think of Esha on the phone, telling someone to pick up the chiles from some guy named Rudy this Saturday at the Farmers’ Market, and it can’t be a coincidence.
“Yeah, so?” Mari says, folding her arms defensively. “Is that a problem?
“No,” I quickly say. “I just heard the name somewhere, that’s all. Of course I’ll come.”
“Great,” she says, as Alma returns. “See you in a few days.”
Ten
“You sure you don’t want to come?” I ask Clem for the third time on Saturday, a couple of minutes before Alma and Mari are set to pick me up. I waggle my eyebrows. “Dahlia’s selling goat cheese.”
“Oh, well, if there’s goat cheese…” he jokes. “Nah. Seriously. I have things to do.”
“Okay, but you don’t know what you’re missing.”
“Actually, correction,” he says, picking up his violin. “I live here. I know exactly what I’m missing.” He bows a few lively notes. “I used to play at the market on Saturdays when I was little. The cute kid in a bow tie, playing classical music. It earned me enough to buy all the candy and comic books I wanted.”
I give in and accept that he isn’t coming, thinking maybe it’s better anyway to spend the morning on my own with my sister. But when I say good-bye and go outside to wait for Mari and Alma, I’m struck by a wave of insecurity. Eight days ago I knew nothing about these people. Suddenly we’re all insta-family—just add water! What if there’s more to being a family than “just adding water”? What if I don’t have what it takes? What if I blow it? What if Mari decides she doesn’t like me? What if—
Two short, impatient honks startle me out of another “what if?” I’d assumed Alma would be driving, but when I look up, it’s Amelia behind the wheel. She’s driving a truck that should’ve never been allowed off the ranch. If the thing were a horse, it’d be one step away from the glue factory. Four colors of paint show through its New Mexico suntan, and the clatter the engine makes is like someone’s dragging something metal by a chain or like an elephant’s chomping on a mouthful of ball bearings—not to mention the fact the front tires move more or less independently of each other, which I’m guessing is a pretty good indication of the state of the suspension.
I open the door and squeeze into the jump seat behind Amelia. “Where’s Alma?” I still can’t bring myself to call her Gran, a word that implies history and relationship.
“Gran works at the greenhouse in the summer. She’s the plant whisperer,” Mari says.
“That’s stupid,” Amelia retorts. “How can you be a plant whisperer?”
“Maybe plants have feelings,” Mari says defensively. “Ever think of that?”
Amelia’s response is a mocking snort.
Mari twists in her seat to look at me. “All I’m saying is Gran’s really into plants. She knows everything about them and can make anything grow. The summer is crazy busy in the greenhouse, so she works there all day and then takes care of Mrs. Gonzales for her home health-care job at night. She doesn’t get home until midnight on Saturdays. Poor Gran.”
“And I got assigned the task of driving.” Amelia grunts and eyes me in the rearview mirror.
“You were going anyway,” Mari says. “It’s not like it’ll kill you to drive one more person.”
“Don’t be so sure,” Amelia mutters.
***
Ten minutes later we park in an underground garage and head into the Farmers’ Market, a festive atmosphere of vendors lining a narrow, outdoor corridor, their stalls covered with white canopies like sails against the blue sky. Crowds of people with colorful shopping bags and clothes mill up and down the corridor, drinking coffee and poking at the various fruits and vegetables and bundles of lavender and sage.
Amelia weaves through the crowd and stops at a stall where a guy, who looks just a little older than me, hunches over a scale, weighing a bag of green chiles for a waiting couple.
“Hey, Babe!” she calls in a girlie singsong that makes me wonder if Amelia hasn’t been abducted by aliens and replaced by a boy-band loving, #OMG, teen-girl cult member.
Babe, who must be the alleged Rudy, looks up and smiles. His freckled brown skin and sunburned nose gives him a rugged, outdoorsy look, and his smile oozes a laid-back-California-surfer vibe. The backwards baseball cap adds to the impression.
“Babe!” he responds (do they wear matching underwear, too?) and wraps a tattooed arm around Amelia’s waist, bringing her in for a kiss. When the tongue action subsides, he lets go and sends out a fist in Mari’s direction.
Instead of reaching out for a bump, Mari puts her arm around me and blows air from her bottom lip, sending a curl skyward. “This is Faith.”
Rudy tosses his chin toward me and I toss mine back—introductions for the twenty-first century. “Man, it’s been sick busy all morning,” he says, turning his attention back to Amelia. “Can hardly keep up with all the sales. You ladies want to help?”
Amelia looks torn, like the word “help” might kill her, but also like she’ll do anything for her guy.
“I’ll help,” Mari pitches in, surprising me, since seconds ago she wouldn’t give Rudy the time of day. “For a free bag of chiles!”
Rudy takes off his hat and scratches his head in comedic introspection of the request. “What the hell,” he says, putting the cap back on. “Ernie will never know if I give a few away. Just stay away from those.” He points at the sealed crate on the ground behind the table.
“Why?” she asks and goes straight for the crate.
“I said stay away!” Rudy snaps. “Premium goods. Special delivery. No touching.”
“Jeez. Take a chill pill. What’s so special about them?”
“Extra capsaicin, engineered to be extra hot. Ernie’s leasing his fields to a scientist who sells them to the specialty chile market. She grows these bad boys and today I started delivering them to her buyer who brings them to his uncle’s restaurants. They’re way too hot for you, girl.”
“Nothing’s too hot for me,” Mari counters.
“Yeah, well these are. Trust me. Extra hot. Extra special.”
At that moment there’s a shout from the far end of the corridor. Rudy and Amelia turn to see what’s happening. I turn too. It’s like a wave, carrying with it a raft of unusual creatures, in this case the human sort, but all of them costumed as if for some bizarre fruit-and-veggie-themed Halloween parade. Many of the paraders carry signs, and all of them chant the same slogan: Hey. Hey. Ho. Ho. GMOs have got to go!
I turn back to Mari just in time to see her prying open the crate and slipping one of Rudy’s special chiles into her pocket. I catch her eye and she winks. I wink back.
“I’ll share it with you later,” she whispers. I give her a subversive thumbs-up, then jump as the paraders close in on us.
“There he is!” the blond chile leading the parade shouts. She stops in front of Rudy’s booth, and I read the sign she’s brandishing like a machete: Save the New Mexico Chile!
“Holly Redding, what a surprise. Always a pleasure,” Rudy says, invoking the god of sarcasm.
“Where’s Ernie?” she demands.
“At the farm. Not coming today.”
“Well then I have a message for him.” Holly scrutinizes Rudy with fierce blue eyes. “You tell
him we won’t stand for genetically engineered chiles in New Mexico! Tell him we’ll do whatever it takes to stop him.”
“Like dress up like corns and chiles and wave signs in our faces? I’m trembling, pendeja.”
“Well, you should be!” a tomato in the back of the group calls. “We’ll do what it takes. GMOs aren’t welcome in New Mexico!”
The protestors raise their signs and march off, shouting their anti-GMO slogans as they part the shoppers like an organic Moses splitting the Red Sea. They might look weird, but I have to admit, you wouldn’t catch me dressed up in a chile suit. Those guys have guts.
“What was all that about?” I ask when the last chile and a kindergarten-sized ear of corn have passed.
Rudy leans on the open tailgate of a small truck backed up to the stall. Amelia sits beside him, texting. “Let’s just say me and her don’t see eye-to-eye on the future of the chile and the roles of the farmers here in New Mexico.” He slings an arm around Amelia, and I look over at Mari, bent down in front of the stall, petting a dog. “My family, they’ve been here on the land a long time, since my great grandfather. We know chiles. And they’re dying. We lost our farm due to these pinche insects that destroyed the crop, so I had to go work for Ernie. He’s got a deal with this scientist lady, Dr. Richmond. She leases land from him to grow her chiles. He gets a good chunk of change out of it. Not a bad deal, if you ask me. She’s got a project to make a genetically engineered chile that’s going to save the industry.”
“Engineered to be extra hot?” I ask, even more confused. “But how does that help fight off an insect?”
“Nah. Dr. R does the bug chiles. The extra-hot ones come from Dr. Margolis, the other scientist lady.”
“You mean Esha?”
“Yeah, that’s her. Dr. R’s chiles aren’t on the market yet. Dr. M started harvesting hers a few months ago. She asked me to bring them into town for her buyer and collect the cash.” He looks longingly at the crate of chiles, which Mari has managed to reseal, and lets out a low whistle. “These beauties are worth a lot of money.”
So Esha has a chile project, too. Maybe that’s what she was sequencing when I saw her name on one of the DNA vials, and that was the distribution issue I heard her talking about on the phone. Jonah says everyone’s been working their butts off. I guess this is Esha’s contribution to keeping SCPG open. And Holly Redding is none too happy. She doesn’t just have one GMO to deal with. She has two.
Amelia yawns and tucks her phone into her pocket. “Bo-ring,” she says to Rudy. “What do you want to do?”
“I have to work until four,” he says. “But there’s a party tonight. You want to go?”
At the mention of a party, Mari stops petting the dog and stands up to join us. Amelia glances at her sister and rolls her eyes. “Can’t. Gran’s working late. I’m in charge of Mari. She’ll kill me if I take her to a party after what happened last month.”
“Come on, Babe. Mari’s a big girl. She can take care of herself.”
“I have an idea,” Mari interjects.
Amelia folds her arms and sighs as if the mere suggestion of an idea is an irritation.
“Faith can come to the party with us,” Mari goes on, not letting Amelia’s irritation deter her. “She can keep an eye on me if you’re so worried.”
“Um, no,” I say, holding up my hands. “Sorry. I’m not a babysitter, and I don’t do parties.”
“Pleeease, Faith,” Mari begs, clasping her hands in front of her.
Looking at this skinny girl with the big eyes and messy curls, this girl who wants to fit in and who has ribbons of sadness coiled inside her, I feel something I’ve never felt. For a second I can’t put a name to the feeling, and then I get it. Affection. I want to hang out with her, even if it means going to some party where I don’t know anyone. Because she’s my sister.
“Fine,” I say. “I’ll go, but I’m not a chaperone.”
Amelia groans, but I barely notice because Mari throws her arms around me and lets out a loud whooping sound in my ear that makes me go deaf. Whatever, I think, as she chatters excitedly, hearing’s overrated.
Rudy explains where the party is and we agree to meet there at seven-thirty. Mari skips off to the bathroom. I move over to the shade. As I sit on a bench across from Rudy’s stall, waiting for Mari to return, I see Amelia and Rudy huddling. Their huddle has a different vibe than their earlier lovebird grope fest. There’s something secretive and exclusive about the hunch of their shoulders. My nosey gene kicks in. I reposition myself to see what they’re doing.
I can’t hear what they’re saying, but I see Rudy handing Amelia a shoebox sealed with blue duct tape. Something about how guarded and stiff he seems makes me think back to what Alma said about Rudy getting arrested for selling pot—worse, it calls up the other night at Alma’s when Amelia admitted she was high. Is he giving dope to Amelia now? A dizzying rush of worry about my half sister and drugs has just rocketed up in me when a silver truck with big, jacked-up tires and a Broncos plate squeezes into the stall next to Rudy’s truck and a bulky, twenty-something guy with pale, acne-scarred skin, a flattish bulldog face, and a tattooed bicep steps out. My worry over Amelia screeches to a stop because I’m all about the Bulldog guy now. Sometimes you don’t need to open the refrigerator to know something’s bad inside.
Rudy gives Bulldog the crate of extra-hot chiles and Bulldog hands Rudy an envelope. The deal happens in a blink of an eye, and call me paranoid, but first the box now the envelope, and I’m thinking how many times have I watched a scene like this on some rundown Philly street corner? Rudy said he was selling a box of extra-hot chiles for Esha. Their little transaction looks more like a drug deal to me, like maybe it wasn’t just chiles in that box. Maybe Rudy’s still selling dope.
***
“I hate parties,” I complain to Jesse via phone a few hours after Amelia drops me at the dorm and I’ve explained the situation to him. “I suck at small talk. I don’t know anyone. I don’t drink. I don’t dance. And the music is always crap.”
“Man. Sounds like a blast,” he says. “I’m jealous. Wish I were you.”
I groan and bury my head beneath my pillow.
“If it’s that bad, don’t go,” his now muffled voice tells me.
“But I want to see Mari. Besides, I promised.”
“Isn’t there anyone else you can invite? Any of the other interns?”
I yank the pillow off my head and sit up. Great idea. Why hadn’t I thought of it? “Well, yeah, actually there is,” I say, not telling him who the other intern is. I should tell Jesse about Clem, but what exactly is there to tell? Hey, Jesse, there’s a boy here with whom nothing has happened. It’s like turning on the TV and the anchorperson saying, “Today in the news we have nothing to report!” But that’s a lie and I know it. Just because nothing’s happened with Clem, doesn’t mean nothing’s there, at least not in my mind. You don’t need to cheat to be disloyal.
“Hello? You still there?” Jesse asks, and I realize he’s waiting for me to elaborate on who I’m inviting.
“Sorry. Yep. Still here.” I change the subject. “You still coming out for the Fourth?” I ask, even though just yesterday we talked about his plan to spend the Fourth of July weekend in Santa Fe.
“Nothing’s changed in twelve hours.” He pauses and then, in this uncanny ability Jesse has, he reads into everything I’m not saying. “Do you still want me to come?”
“Totally!” I say, a little too eagerly, and then—“Why wouldn’t I?”
“I don’t know. You tell me.”
For a second I consider again telling him about Clem. This is my chance, but instead I say, “I can’t wait to see you.”
Because that’s also the truth.
Eleven
“You finish practicing, Maestro?” I ask when Clem opens his door.
“Never and yes
.”
“So…that means?”
“It means ‘Twinkle Twinkle’ is starting to sound like a good option. Or maybe ‘Yankee Doodle Dandy.’ Maybe they could set off fireworks and nobody has to hear me play.”
I peer into his room. The window is closed. The blinds are down. The smell of socks and armpits wafts into the hall. “You get out at all today?”
“Yep. Went to the bathroom three times.”
“Right. That’s not what I meant. Go change your clothes.”
“Why?”
“Because we’re going to a party. Even world-class musicians need a break, don’t they?”
“Not really.”
“Okay, forget that. Just come on. It’ll be…”
“Fun?” he asks when I don’t finish the thought.
“No. I hate parties, but it’s something I said I’d do.” I explain what happened at the Farmers’ Market and conclude by saying, “I need moral support.”
His face breaks into a tired grin. “Who could resist an invitation like that? I’ll be ready in five.”
***
Amelia picks us up a few minutes after Clem finishes changing, and I repeat this morning’s routine of climbing into the truck, this time with Clem climbing in behind me.
“What’s that?” I ask, moving two large bowls covered with tinfoil off the jump seat, so Clem and I can squeeze in, me on the tiny jump seat and him on the floor.
“Food for the party,” Mari says, as I put one bowl on my lap and hand the other to Clem to put on his. “Rudy said people would be bringing stuff. Amelia made her famous mole—”
“It’s not famous,” Amelia interrupts.
“Yes, it is, after what happened,” Mari retorts, and I pick up the snide in her voice.
“What happened?” I ask.
“Nothing!” Amelia snaps, throwing me a look in the rearview mirror.
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