by Amber Hart
On the left, tattooed waves crash against the bone of her hip as if it’s a protruding rock. Beneath the curl of a big wave is a surfer, riding the rogue. A sea mural—coral, seaweed, and neon-colored fish—drift in the current. Whoever inked her is a pro. Her work is amazing.
On the right, a skull and crossbones leaps out of bright red flames. Charcoal gray smoke seeps from the fire, carrying with it tiny images. Demons, if I had to guess. A message. Perhaps Faith has demons. Come to think of it, doesn’t everyone?
Faith’s body is near perfect. My eyes trace long legs, tiny freckles on her knees. Her hand cups saltwater, drips it along her arms and back.
“¿Que pasa, mami?” I ask.
She bites her lip. “Nothing,” she replies.
“You didn’t charge into the water back there for nothin’,” I say.
The hard glint in her eyes suggests anger.
“Talk to me,” I request, taking her hand in mine. I want to have a chance with this girl, a chance to know the real Faith.
She sighs. Looks at me. “You were flaunting her in front of me.”
“True,” I admit.
A small wave approaches. We grasp the seat until it passes.
“Is it real?” she asks. “With that girl, with any of them?”
I think about lying. Change my mind. “No.”
“Then why do it?” she asks.
Gentle ripples in the water rock us slowly back and forth. I motion to our surroundings.
“It got you out here, didn’t it?” I say. “You wouldn’t have come if I asked nicely.”
Faith bends, collects more water with her hand. Drips it down her legs. It puddles in places.
“Why be nice now?” she asks.
I lean against the handlebars. “I can be a nice guy. You haven’t given me a chance.”
I have her talking. I don’t want her to stop. It’s like the club, only better.
“Do you want a chance?” she asks, worrying at the strings on her suit.
“Of course,” I reply. “But something holds you back. I know when people look at me they don’t see someone who deserves you. And they’re right. I don’t. But I want you anyway.”
She shakes her head. I’m losing her. She’s fading.
I gently pull her toward me. She gasps when I place her hands on my chest. I take her pointer finger and lay it on a scar.
“That’s from a knife,” I say, holding her gaze. “Back home in Cuba—”
I pause, wondering if I should admit it. Only a few members of mi familia know the truth. If I tell Faith, she will be forever close, held to me by my secret.
No turning back.
“In Cuba, a deal went bad. Hospitalized me.”
I watch her eyes. I expect her to want to leave, but she doesn’t.
I continue. “This one,” I say, moving her finger to my shoulder, “is where I was thrown into a metal fence. Twenty-seven stitches to close.”
Faith breathes evenly, in and out. I move her finger again, this time to my arm.
“Bullet.”
She gasps. I pause.
Neither of us speaks. I let it sink in.
When her face relaxes, I guide her fingertip to my other arm. “These five are from a broken bottle. Crazy how much damage a bottle can do.”
She traces my scars. There is something insanely intimate about it. Her touch is soft. Her eyes are hope mixed with sunlight.
I move her hand to my scalp, where hair meets forehead. “Butt of a gun. Needed staples.”
She moves to a four-inch slash on my stomach. “And this one?” she asks.
A gull screeches above, perhaps interested in the fish beneath us.
“Another knife,” I answer.
Her fingers reach for my throat. I block her hand. Not that one. Not yet.
“Your turn,” I say.
Faith stares at me. Debates answering. I don’t want to push her, but I need something. Finally, she speaks.
“My scars are on the inside,” she says.
I wait for more. She glances away, dips her feet in the warm water.
“My dad’s a pastor,” she says. “I live with him, my stepmom, and my baby sister, Grace. Grace is amazing.” Her mouth curves up for a second. “Melissa is the only one I let get close. We’ve been friends forever. Our parents split at the same time. It was tough, you know? She was there for me.”
She pauses. Blinks quickly. I’m not sure if she has salt in her eyes. Or tears. Or both.
“My dad’s world is different. There’s stuff we’ve had to compensate for. Past issues.”
She hasn’t said much, but it’s something all the same. The possibility of her clamming up at any second is high. I rub circles on the back of her hand.
“At church, people expect everything from me. I have to be perfect. Have to date the star football player. Have to smile and nod and never make mistakes. They don’t know the real me. None of them do.”
She looks at me. Really looks at me.
“You being here with me, hearing me say that, is more time with the real Faith than any of them have ever experienced. Combined.”
Baby steps for sure, but better than nothing.
“Thank you,” I say. I want her to know I appreciate her trust. She has mine, too.
She doesn’t say anything about her mom. That’s fine. Neither do I.
“Why do you have to be perfecta?” I ask.
She squeezes my hand. Her body tenses.
“Because it’s what’s expected,” she says. “I can’t ruin my father’s image. Someone . . . came really close to doing that once.”
She winces as though she’s said too much. I graze her cheek. This time, she doesn’t pull away.
“I don’t know what it’s like to live up to other people’s standards,” I say. “But I do know what it’s like to want to run away. And you, mami, want to run away. I see it in your eyes. ¿Por qué tienes miedo?”
“I’ve only had one class of Spanish, Diego. You’re going to have to help me out,” she says.
“What I’m askin’ is, why are you scared? Why do it? Why do you care what they think? Stop goin’ to church if you hate it.”
She shakes her head. Thin strips of hair fall in her face like spun silk. Crazy beautiful.
“I don’t want to stop going to church. I have never felt as calm as when I’m in that sanctuary alone,” she says. “I’ve gone unaccompanied a handful of times. While my dad worked in the office on the other side of the church. There’s nothing like it. I just don’t get the same feeling when it’s full of fake, pretentious people.”
I understand now. It is not the church that drives her away. It’s the people, their impossible standards.
“Do you know what happened when someone showed up at my church in board shorts and a tank top one day?” she asks.
“No,” I answer.
“They turned him away. Told him to return when he was more appropriately dressed. Unreal.” Faith scowls, frustrated. “What’s wrong with showing up in board shorts? So what if he looked like he just stepped off the beach? At least he came.”
“That’s messed up, Faith. It really is,” I say.
No wonder she dresses the way she does.
We drift, gazing at the horizon. Birds fly around us, occasionally diving headfirst for a fish. I stay quiet, listening to water babble with the wind. Old friends.
I’m dealing with a heart that I didn’t break. Faith is a wound that has been packed with gauze, but never actually closed. I want to explore her in full and then suture her injuries shut so no pain remains. I am fracturing rules that govern her life, and she is silently begging me to show her the way.
“Don’t get me wrong, not all churches are like that,” she says in a soft voice. “In fact, most aren’t. But my father’s is. He’s the head pastor, but he can’t change anything. A board of people makes the decisions. When the situation, the stupid shorts thing, was addressed at a meeting, my father and a few others voted
against the dress standard that the church wanted to mandate. Majority ruled, said no to anything more lenient. They disregarded my father’s wishes, and he still preaches there.”
She reaches for a piece of lost seaweed. Bends it this way and that.
“Maybe my father’s afraid of change,” she says, almost a whisper. “So my fate’s sealed. Because I will not abandon my family. Ever. No matter how bad it is.”
I stare at her in disbelief. Words are not enough. I don’t bother.
She is trapped.
In some people’s worlds, reputations are everything. I would not have survived as long as I did in Cuba without mine.
When Faith looks at me, I feel the ice around my heart start to splinter. I have never let a girl in.
Until now.
Something changes between us. It’s calming, freeing.
“Thanks for talking,” she says. Leans toward me. For a second I think we might kiss. But then she pulls the vest out from behind my back and almost sends me toppling into the water.
She laughs.
Dios mío, it’s good to hear her laugh. Even if it is at my expense.
“I need to get back,” she says. A genuineness ropes through her voice that wasn’t there before our excursion.
“Sure,” I reply. Help her put on her vest. Then mine.
I turn around and start the engine. One more glance. A smile. I take us back to the shore. Faith holds on to me like she never wants to let go.
We’re alike, Faith and I. And we are both messed up in different ways.
Different, but the same.
29
faith
When I get home that evening, my family is sitting down for dinner. Grace grins at me. Happiness floods my heart, filling every vessel with goodness. Grace does that to me. I want to hug her and make her smile and protect her forever.
“How was your day?” Grace asks, her voice low and sweet.
“Great,” I say. “Yours?”
Tiny arms wrap around me. My eyes close. This is the best kind of happiness.
She lets go. “I finally memorized ABCs! Want to hear?”
“Of course.”
She sings, pauses at one point, trying to remember which letter comes next. She gets it wrong, then remembers right and continues.
When she finishes, I clap like it’s the best song I’ve ever heard. Which it kind of is. Grace can transform little things into something meaningful, because it’s from her.
Dad tells Grace that her song was perfect. Susan agrees. They ask me to join them. A plate is waiting. Grilled chicken, veggie medley, and rosemary mashed potatoes.
I sit and eat. Susan picks up the conversation from where she left off when I walked in. Something about work. Lawyers at the firm are sticking her with a case she doesn’t want, but she has to represent it if she wants to stay on their good side.
While my stepmom talks, I tease Grace. I tickle her little leg underneath the table. She cracks up every time. Whenever Susan or Dad ask what’s so funny, we act like nothing happened. We’re a team, Grace and I.
When Susan finishes talking, everyone looks at me.
“So, what’s going on in Faith’s world?” Dad asks.
I try not to unload my problems on him. “Nothing,” I say. Keep it simple.
Susan cocks her head. “Do you want to talk about last Sunday?”
My defenses go up. “No,” I answer.
Susan chuckles. “Come on, Faith. You weren’t sick. Are you and Jason fighting? Is that why you sat next to me?”
Years fade into oblivion, forgotten. Months pass with no intrusion from Dad or Susan. But now they choose to ask questions about my love life. My personal feelings misfire in every direction, confused, tentative.
Things with Jason are over. Word around school is that Jason wants to fix our relationship. I don’t want that. When it’s done, it’s done.
Then there is Diego. Beautifully troubled Diego. He got me to talk, cracked my shell. It was the scars, I think. Seeing his weakness and recognizing it as strength.
Diego and I can’t be together. But maybe we can be friends.
I trust him.
“Don’t worry, Faith,” Dad says. “I’m sure whatever it is, you two will resolve it.”
I set my fork down, look, seriously look, at my dad. His brown hair is thinning. Dark bags under his eyes collect stress like dirt in drainpipes.
When was the last time I was real with him?
“Actually, Dad, Jason and I broke up,” I say. “For good.”
I wait for his reaction. It’s not what I expect.
“Are you happy with that decision?” he asks.
No yelling. He wants to know if I am happy. It feels strange, not like his usual demeanor when it comes to my personal life.
“I’m okay with it, yeah. I do care about Jason. I couldn’t not care; I mean, we spent so long together. But it’s not what I want anymore. And it was his decision—granted, I think it’s a good one—so it’s on him to explain to the people at church.”
That way, it won’t look bad on my dad.
“Honey, the only person I’m worried about is you. If you’re happy, then we’re happy,” Dad says, though the pinched look on his face hints at something else.
My chest tightens. My eyes sting.
“Thanks,” I say.
I eat the remainder of my meal, hope and sadness swelling within. I think Dad wants to be happy for me, but I know I’m not the daughter he expected. And change doesn’t come easily.
In my room, I practice dance routines—readying myself for our next competition—until my arms and legs feel like rubber, until I sweat from head to toe. I take a shower and lie down to sleep. I replay everything from the beach. In my dreams, Diego is mine. And I love every minute of it.
At 8 A.M., Grace jumps on my bed like it’s a trampoline. Time for church. My little sister wears a frilly yellow dress speckled with white flowers. Her hair is tied back with elastic bands. She looks angelic.
“Morning, Gracie,” I say.
“Good morning, Faith,” she says.
I wrap my arms around her and squeeze. She giggles and tries to squirm away.
My cell phone chirps. Text message. Probably Melissa. When I got back to the shore yesterday, I found her and Javier talking. As far as I know, they had a good time. Nothing serious. Diego’s friends were there, too. They won’t mention seeing me at the beach, Diego says. I believe him.
After we got off the Jet Ski, I wanted to touch Diego again. Of course I didn’t. He kept a respectful distance. He understood that I couldn’t go there, especially in front of so many people. I didn’t miss the looks he snuck me, though—a smile here, a grin there.
I view the message. Don’t recognize the number.
Good morning, bonita. –D.
Diego.
How’d he get my number?
Melissa. I should’ve known.
Diego’s text makes me smile.
“Who is it?” Grace asks, reaching for my phone. Forever trying to be like me.
I lower my voice to a whisper. “Can you keep a secret?” I ask.
She can. Grace is the best secret keeper ever, even if she’s only five years old.
“Yes,” she says sweetly. Her eyes go big in anticipation.
“Okay,” I say. “But you have to promise to never, ever tell.”
“Bananas,” she says, pretending to zip her mouth shut.
“Bananas” is Grace’s equivalent to “Promise.” I don’t know where she draws the similarity. I asked her once. It was disorienting, like getting turned around in an unknown city. Completely lost in her five-year-old logic.
“It’s a boy,” I say.
Grace isn’t old enough to be grossed out by boys yet.
“Not Jason,” she says, without missing a beat.
Have to be careful with words around her. She’s a sponge, soaking everything up.
“Not Jason,” I confirm.
She giggles
. “Who?”
“D,” I tell her. Just in case. I don’t want her to accidentally say his real name too loudly.
“Come on,” I say before she can ask more. “Time for church.”
I quickly program Diego’s number in my phone—under “D,” of course. Grace leaves the room so I can shower and get ready.
Church is the same routine—say hello to everyone, yes, I’m doing fine, thanks, take a seat next to Susan. The sermon lasts forty-five minutes. At the end, Jason cuts through the crowd. I try to slip away. Too late.
“Faith,” he says. “How are you?”
“Good, Jason. How are you?”
“Good,” he answers. “You look nice.”
I’m wearing the same thing I always wear—a dress that says nothing about my personality, except maybe that I follow the rules. I understand now how clothing can speak volumes, how it can tell a story. My dress feels like it’s telling someone else’s.
And Jason is wrong. I do not look nice. I look fake.
“Thanks,” I say, being polite. People are watching.
Jason shifts from one foot to the other. “I’ve been wanting to talk to you. Do you think maybe we can go out tonight? Sunset on the beach?”
At the mention of the beach, my heart gallops. I think of Diego. Memories assault me.
“No,” I say.
“No?” Jason asks.
He expected me to jump back into his arms.
“Don’t be mad, Faith,” Jason pleads. “I made a mistake. I hated thinking that you might be into Diego, or that he was into you.”
Guilt crawls up my spine. He was right all along. I am into Diego.
“It would be better if we were just friends,” I tell him.
Jason’s eyes are exaggerated in their surprise. “Faith, babe, we have almost three years together. Don’t throw that away.”
Irritation makes its way into my tone. “You threw it away. Not me,” I say quietly, sharply.
He shouldn’t have let me go in the first place.
I turn away. Jason calls to me.
“Now is not the time,” I say, referring to our audience.
