The New David Espinoza

by Fred Aceves

  IT TURNS OUT the perfect dress, the one Karina and her mom agreed on after an extensive search, is not the dress her mom bought. Instead, she bought the one Karina hated.

  “It really is the worst kind of ugly imaginable,” Karina tells me once we’re inside Macy’s, at 8:41. We have nineteen minutes before this place closes.

  She grabs a simple black dress from the rack and checks the tag to make sure it’s the right size.

  A saleslady is going through receipts at the register. As we head over, my formal shoes click and Karina’s sneakers squish on the floor.

  “It can’t be that ugly,” I tell Karina.

  But when she pulls it outta the bag and sets it on the counter for the woman to inspect for return, I see I’m wrong. Ugly might be an understatement.

  It’s long and unrevealing the way moms probably like, but why is it blueberry-colored? And what’s up with the roundish sleeves and shiny stuff around the collar?

  The lady eyes the receipt and asks, “What’s the reason for the return?”

  “It makes me look like a piñata.”

  “Hey,” I tell Karina. “You know how much I like piñatas.”

  She gives me some side-eye.

  Serious situation = no jokes. I need to remember that.

  The woman accepts the return. Minutes later Karina emerges from the fitting area, mouth slack with disappointment.

  I don’t get it. Is that not the right dress? It should be. Please be the right dress. She looks so amazing.

  The way it hugs her completely, from the breasts down to mid-thigh where it stops, showing off her legs.

  “Dayum!” I say, louder than I wanted to.

  My girlfriend is a straight-up stunner, despite the frown on her face.

  “What’s wrong?” I ask.

  “It’s my legs,” she says, without averting her gaze from the mirror. “I hate them.”

  “I’ve always loved your legs.”

  Back when we first met she considered herself fat—a ridiculous idea. It’s why she wouldn’t let me see her naked the first two times we did it. I switched the light off and called her silly, but I was actually grateful for the dark. Because I didn’t want her to see me naked.

  That’s only because I’m supposed to have some bulk on my body. Hell, I’m supposed to defend her with force if it comes down to it.

  “How thin do you wanna be?” I ask.

  Karina doesn’t answer. She’s staring down the mirror as if it’s a person she doesn’t trust.

  I encircle Karina’s shoulders with my arm. Our eyes meet in the mirror reflection. For the millionth time since I’ve met her I wonder, how can someone so pretty worry about her appearance?

  “You always look amazing,” I tell her. “Today you look extra hot. Lava hot. Surface-of-the-sun hot. You look Tabasco-sauce hot.” I pause to consider what I just said. “I know my examples make no sense but I can’t compare you to other girls. That’s how hot you are.”

  “You’re just being nice.”

  “No. I’m being real. And you’re sort of being a spoiled brat,” I tell her, trying to keep my face straight.

  Her eyes dart away from the mirror and onto me. “What did you say?”

  “Rather than appreciate all your beauty, you just want more.” I shake my head in mock disappointment. “It’s an injustice how sexy you are. You should spend the whole day apologizing to every girl you see.”

  She laughs, breaking loose from my embrace. Seconds later she’s still smiling when she pulls me close for a kiss.

  “Okay,” she says. “Let’s get the dress and get out of here.”

  3

  WE’RE SITTING at one of the six outside tables in Emily’s backyard, among the supertall palm trees, cords of dotted light swirled around the trunks. As EDM plays from two large speakers, people come through the side gate or the house, boys and girls in ties and dresses, red Solo cups in their hands.

  The glass door slides open and two more formal kids come out. Neither of them bullies. The punch from earlier still has me on edge. I told Miguel about it because I tell him everything.

  He gets picked on almost as much as me, being fat with those wild curls on his head and all. Yet he emerged from the house with a drink, unscathed. He’s certain nobody will mess with me.

  Our table is made up of three girls, and the three guys they brought along—a sort of triple date. One side is girl-talk: Karina and her two friends are desperately catching up after being apart for a whole three hours. They’re wearing nice dresses and have their long hair all swept up and close to their heads. I don’t know what it is about fancy parties and dances that makes girls hide most of their hair.

  On this side it’s Miguel, Enzo, and me. I’ve been friends with Miguel since the summer before fifth grade. That’s when our dads, sick of us being in front of all kinds of screens, forced us out into the sun. There we were on our front yards, Miguel across the street and four jacked-up houses over. He walked over and we sat in the shade of my porch, talking about video games and Marvel vs. DC. We’re still into those three things.

  Enzo I barely know. He’s Janelle’s boyfriend, who’s Karina’s second bff. Today’s the first time I’ve said more than wassup to him.

  “This tie is killing me.” He loosens it by tugging it back and forth. He unbuttons the top button of his shirt and looks around. He’s been looking around a lot, as if he’s not sure he belongs either.

  Enzo is about 5'8", neither tall nor short, neither fat or skinny. Too average to stand out to bullies.

  “So what do you think?” he asks. “Do you think Emily wanted a fancy party because juniors can’t go to prom?”

  “Maybe,” I say, and pop another barbecue chip in my mouth.

  Miguel tells Enzo, “Maybe it’s because Emily thought that dressing more formal would make everybody act more civilized.”

  If so, it’s working. Nothing has gotten smashed, though after some people have a few drinks that all might change.

  The popular guys aren’t tormenting anybody either. Then again, I’ve seen only two of them, briefly, when they stepped out here real quick. For all I know, they’ve set up a torture chamber inside.

  Miguel lifts his almost brimming cup to his nose. Cringes when he takes a whiff.

  “How nasty can it be?” Liliana asks. “You barely put rum in it.”

  They’ve been going out since two months ago, when Karina and I each brought our best friends to the movies with us. Nobody was playing matchmaker or anything. It just happened.

  “Super nasty,” Miguel says. “The rum ruined the taste of the whole soda.”

  We all wait for his second attempt to take a swallow. He sips from the cup and winces. A second later he spits it out on the grass.

  “I told him not to put rum in his Coke,” Liliana tells the girls.

  Miguel sets down the cup. “I didn’t know it would be this bad.” He pushes it to the side.

  “Give it up, man,” I say.

  “I’m no quitter,” he says. “Also, I heard this TV chef say that we gotta taste new stuff three times before deciding if we like it.”

  I really wish I had something to drink, anything without alcohol. Since nobody’s drinking at this table, there’s no pressure. With certain guys around, you don’t do something they’re doing and you lose your guy status.

  Enzo starts talking about Nightchaser, which is one of his favorite movies too. Miguel and I have watched it about a million times.

  “With all the special effects,” Enzo says, “I thought maybe that wasn’t Van Nelson’s actual body, but he really is that big and ripped.”

  “Why wouldn’t it be real?” I ask.

  “Did you see his last movie?” he asks. “He played this regular-sized dude, some corporate lawyer.”

  I didn’t see it.

  Miguel points out that back in the day action heroes weren’t that buff. “James Bond was skinny as a pencil. Or how about the TV Batman and Robin? I could’ve kicked both t
heir asses. Like, at the same time.”

  “Yep,” I say. “Back in the day superheroes didn’t even wear muscle suits underneath.”

  “Actors who wear muscle suits are lame,” Enzo says. “If you get paid a zillion dollars, you should make the effort, you know?”

  “Why get all muscular for one role?” I ask. “What if the next role you want doesn’t require big muscles?”

  Enzo shrugs. I guess he doesn’t take his opinion too seriously. I’m the same way. How cool that we can disagree without turning it into a huge competition, like some guys do. Enzo is alright.

  “The Ovato Mission is out next week,” Miguel tells Enzo. “David and I are going. You should come.”

  “I’m down for that,” he says.

  Maybe we could all hang out this summer and, more importantly, sit together during lunch when school starts. It’s just been Miguel and me since our other friend Tommy moved to Kansas because of his mom’s job.

  “Third and final attempt.” Miguel is staring down the cup like it personally challenged him.

  “You can punk out if you want.” I smile, a total instigator. “I won’t tell the whole world you couldn’t swallow even a tiny sip of a drink you prepared for yourself.”

  “Thanks.”

  “I’ll tell only the people we know.”

  The girls have stopped talking to watch him again.

  Miguel takes a deep breath, lifts the red cup to his lips, and takes a swig. Actually holds it in his mouth for more than a second, cheeks puffed and lips pressed tight. It’s going to happen. He’s going to swallow.

  But then he ducks his head under the table to spit it out.

  The girls make grossed-out noises.

  Miguel pops back up, face scrunched. “Nobody can say I didn’t try.”

  He gives his head a vigorous shake, as if taste vanished that way.

  He turns to Liliana. “I hope I still have your respect.”

  “You never had it,” she jokes.

  After a few more laughs, Enzo says “Duuuude” to nobody in particular. “Just remembered there’s a new Nightchaser ride at Universal Studios. It’s supposed to be awesome, and there’s a discount for Florida residents.”

  Though Orlando is only an hour away, I haven’t been to any of the theme parks there. Gaby is forever asking to go to Disney World and Dad tells her what he used to tell me—that we’ll go when we have extra money.

  The closest thing we’ve ever had to a vacation trip is when we went to Mexico for my abuelo’s funeral three years ago.

  Miguel says, “Count me in.” He turns to me. “What about you, Big Money?”

  “I’m down,” I tell Enzo. “And I’m not Big Money.

  “I have almost two grand saved up,” I explain, “because I wanna buy a used car. I’ve earned it by mowing lawns in the neighborhood and helping my dad at the auto shop.”

  I’ll be helping out more since the part-timer Diego moved back to New Jersey. I won’t feel bad about spending money on Universal Studios. Summers are all about having fun.

  “Universal Studios sounds awesome,” Karina says.

  The girls look at each other and Janelle shouts, “Triple date!”

  “It sounds cheesy if you say it like that,” Enzo says.

  Cheesy or not, I love the idea. Friends packed into a car, a short road trip to Orlando, where we’ll have a blast. Maybe we can go for the whole weekend to hit another theme park while we’re there!

  Miguel says, “I’ll be in the Dominican Republic for six weeks, so it has to be before or after.”

  Enzo starts telling us his favorite rides and shows at Universal. Then, all of a sudden, I hear something that puts a stop to my good time.

  “Ricky.”

  The sound of that name makes me snap my head to the left. Liliana said it.

  “What about Ricky?” I ask, heat spreading in my chest.

  “We’re talking about what he said to Karina today.”

  Enzo busts out laughing. I guess Janelle already told him.

  Miguel and I eye each other.

  I must look confused because Janelle turns to Karina. “You didn’t tell David about rapping Ricky?”

  No, she didn’t. Why the hell not?

  Karina sets down her Diet Coke, red nails bright against the silver can, and says, “It happened during PE.”

  PE today = the punch

  “After class, when we were going back inside to change, he goes up to me all,” she says, and makes her voice dumb and deep: “Hey, girl, you look good. Let me rap to you for a bit.”

  My jaw clenches. Shitbag Ricky knows we’re going out! I force a smile to fight back the anger.

  I guess he figured that if Karina could like someone like me, she would like him even more. You know, since in his mind he’s much cooler and better looking than the dork he named Fuckstick.

  My brain goes to the dark place of wanting to inflict pain—nonstop punches, kicks, and body slams.

  “As if that were a smooth line,” Karina says. “Who talks like that?”

  “Then what?” I ask.

  “I told him that I had a boyfriend, and even if I didn’t I wouldn’t give him the time of day.”

  “Cool,” Miguel says.

  Janelle says, “You forgot the part about him calling you a bitch.”

  “Oh yeah.” Karina shrugs, without looking at me. “There was that.”

  It all makes sense now. She didn’t tell me before because there was nothing I, her weakass boyfriend, could have done. And Ricky, who got shot down, punched me because he wanted to take his hurt out on somebody.

  Miguel leans closer to me. “If you have a hater, you must be doing something right.”

  That actually makes sense, to my surprise. It hurt Ricky to learn he wasn’t above my level. So I forget all about Ricky, who’s old news anyway.

  All of a sudden, one of my favorite songs comes on. “Uptown Funk” will never get old. It’s one of Karina’s favorites too.

  When Karina’s eyes catch mine, she breaks into a smile.

  She stands up and calls out to everybody at the table, “Give us some toast, bitches.”

  I stand up and add, “Because this is our jam!”

  I take Karina by the hand as her friends try to get their guys to join us. I wind through the tables and standing bodies in the yard until Karina and I are on the reddish tiled patio.

  Over a dozen people are dancing, more girls than boys, Karina the sexiest of them all.

  Okay, maybe I’m biased. But she’s stunning tonight, and dances really good. She flashes me a smile, liking how I move too.

  I’m not James Brown or anything, but rhythm does run on both sides of my family. Dancing is an obligation at family celebrations, whether it’s a baptism, quinceañera, or a wedding, and I’ve been doing it ever since I could stand on two feet.

  To my left Enzo is giving the minimum effort, shifting with the music just enough to qualify as dancing. Janelle in front of him doesn’t notice, with how into the song she is, eyes closed as she sings along to the hook.

  Miguel can’t dance—something I learned at his older sister’s quinceañera three years ago. But what he lacks in ability he makes up in energy. He’s all smiles and sort of hopping up and down, like he’s the mascot at a school pep rally. Liliana, both embarrassed and entertained by this, sways with slightly less energy.

  Karina takes her phone from my front pocket to snap group selfies. Tries to get all six of our moving bodies in the shot.

  By the time the next song drops the crowded patio has me turned around. I’m facing the backyard again.

  The too-many-bracelets girl from Language Arts is pointing me out to a friend. When they look away, I check my shirt and zipper. Everything seems fine.

  Maybe she’s shocked that stickboy can dance.

  Seconds later a guy over by the snack table points to me with a Dorito as his two friends gawk at me.

  I glance around to make sure—yep, at me.

 
; My heart drops and I freeze up. Why didn’t Karina tell me I looked ridiculous?

  “What’s wrong?” she asks me now, oblivious that I’ve become entertainment.

  “Nothing,” I tell her. “I’m getting something to drink.”

  I’m thirstier than ever and now the inside of the house seems like the right place to be. At least nobody in there witnessed me making an ass of myself on the dance floor.

  I leave Karina dancing with her friends and head over to the patio door, feeling eyes on me every inch of the way.

  As soon as I slide the glass door open, the smell of weed hits me hard.

  A smoke cloud is dissipating above the coffee table. A bunch of cool kids are gathered under the smoke, on the furniture and floor, passing around a joint. They’re cracking up at something on the TV. I can’t see it from where I’m standing, but I bet it’s a big screen, top of the line, just like everything else in this swanky place.

  The kitchen to my right is so crowded, like it’s a second party. That’s where my cold drink awaits. I can already feel it in my hand. I slide the door shut behind me. It dulls the music out there and amplifies the laughter in here.

  “That’s not funny,” a girl in cat-eye glasses says.

  “No, it’s not funny,” a girl sitting on the rug says, her voice heavy with sarcasm. “It’s hilarious. Play it again, Jared.”

  Jared Ross, as douchey as he is popular, sits facing the TV. I move toward the kitchen.

  “It’s David!” somebody shouts—a voice I don’t recognize.

  “Holy shit!” That’s Jared’s voice for sure. “David, wait, is that you?”

  I stop and turn around. His pink eyes have gone round.

  Jaws hang open and silent. A second later there are surprised comments like “No way” and “Oh my God!” partly drowned out by loud laughter. Aimed at me this time. Real laughter, not that kind bullies force to make you madder. If it’s possible to literally laugh one’s head off, heads will be dropping to the floor soon.

  What’s going on? How do these popular people know my name? And how am I funnier than whatever they were watching before?

  The sarcastic girl sitting cross-legged on the rug catches her breath to say, “Come here, David.”

  The nervous jitters hit me all over. Especially in the stomach—a steady tingling in there telling me something bad is going to happen.