The Truth Is

by Nonieqa Ramos

  Sarah smacks her forehead in disgust. “Really?!” Prisha folds her arms and frowns.

  “I’m sorry. I did get the buns. But . . .”

  I fill in the blanks. Baldwin ate the buns.

  “You know what?” I reach out for the banana. It’s warm, bruised, squishy. “This is . . . We could . . .” I bust out laughing. “No. We can’t. It’s dis-gross-ting.” I grab it and toss it at Jane, who screams as she catches it. And tosses it to Baldwin. We are in circle formation playing hot potato with a warm banana.

  “What are we going to do now?” Baldwin says, tossing. “We can’t stop! Ha ha. Ha ha ha. We’ll be jinxed.”

  “We have to eat it! Everybody stop!” Jane catches the banana and unpeels it. Takes a bite. Passes it to Sarah, then Prisha on her right. Baldwin. After Danny it will be me. I am not homophobic (anymore), but I am germophobic. I try not to imagine all the microscopic cells in their unbrushed, unflossed mouths that haven’t seen a dentist in who knows how long. I now hold the banana.

  “All right,” I say with a mouthful of immune-building or death-inducing warm mush. “Let’s get cooking! On tonight’s menu: arroz con pollo con tostones.” I toss the slimy banana peel to Jane, who screams and drops it on the floor. Nobody picks it up. We walk around it like it’s sleeping.

  I make stations at the island. Prisha volunteers to cut onions. “Firstly,” she says, “put the onions in the freezer for about ten minutes.” She holds up a potato masher. “I’ll work on mashing these stewed tomatoes while they chill.”

  “In the freezer?” This is new. My moms taught me to chop the onions underwater, but I could never do it right.

  “Yes. To prevent the acid from being released. I’ll also need your sharpest knife.”

  “What do I do?” Sarah asks, looking around the kitchen like a puppy just freed from the kennel. “I’m so excited. Cooking in my house was using a can opener.”

  “Come and I’ll show you how to mince the herbs,” Prisha sings. “Oh, I miss the smell of fresh cilantro!”

  Jane is sniffing the bottles of oregano, garlic salt, the cumin for the rice like they’re cocaine. Until she gets too much up her nose and starts sneezing like a cartoon. She knocks over an entire collection of ceramic angels, Paschal Baylon and his holy ladle separated.

  “Contain!” I holler at Baldwin. “Contain!”

  Baldwin—all ninety pounds of them—tackles Jane. Which causes Jane to sneeze and laugh hysterically.

  Jane: “I almost feel like I’ve had an orgasm. Another one.”

  Danny aims the sink hose at them both: “TMI!”

  I survey the kitchen. Prisha is all Julia Child showing Sarah the difference between mincing and dicing. Any minute now, Jane will slip—yep, is slipping—in the puddle Danny made, and I’m wondering where Simone keeps her Crazy Glue with a calmness and reserve that only comes from knowing you’re probably screwed.

  “Okay, okay, enough!” Baldwin leaps up, further splashing water every-freakin-where. “We’ve got to get organized!” They clap. “Jane, you are DJ. Sit down right here.” Baldwin places Jane on not one, but two of the still-upright chairs. “Don’t move. I’m on cleanup. Danny, rummage for paper plates, plastic forks—for the safety of everyone.” They look at Jane playing on my phone. “And whatever baking items you can find. Verdad: Cook. I’m hungry, damn it.”

  Order is as restored as it’s gonna get. I join Prisha and Sarah in chopping red and green bell peppers for the chicken. I make a mixture of garlic powder, earthy cumin, black pepper, YUM, and fiery cayenne pepper in a Ziploc. After stabbing the chicken, I toss it in the bag to absorb the deliciousfreakiness.

  Danny has made room beneath the cupboards for what looks like will be some kind of fancy custard.

  I absorb the sifting, the chopping, the talking, the fragrances that make a kitchen a sacred place. This is what I imagine college will be like when I move out. Except for Blanca, who should be sitting up on the counter and testing the ripeness of the peppers, everything is perfect. We have a pot of rice going in no time. While it boils under the lid with the stewed tomatoes, waiting for the peppers and onion, I mash the plantain for the tostones. While Danny is doing whatever witchcraftery that conjures up the prettiest pink custard, I fry up the chicken just right.

  Danny: “Taste.”

  Me: “Heaven.”

  Danny: “This I learned how to make from my aunts. They were the experts on desserts.”

  Me: “You have an armada of tías too?”

  “Yeah. Zias! I couch-surfed with them for a while. But they’ve got their own kids. Their own problems. As cool as they were, their husbands, not so much.”

  I turn off the stove. “How long has it been? If you don’t mind me asking.”

  “No, it’s okay. It’s been almost a year. For all of us.”

  “A year and counting without family. That’s hard.”

  “Sometimes you have to make your own family.”

  Everybody nods and gets quiet. Jane hands me my phone. I buy the song she wants and toss it back to her, and she fumbles. Sarah catches it before it hits the floor. “Do you ever think about going back?”

  Jane runs to the sink, holds up the island sink hose and belts out, “If I could turn back time!”

  Baldwin turns the water on.

  Jane looks like she’s dog paddling against the deluge from the hose. “Sweet baby Jesus! I’m drowning.”

  Sarah throws a dish towel at Baldwin like a fastball. “Okay!” Baldwin turns off the water, ha ha’s, and tenderly dries off a pouty-faced Jane.

  “In all seriousness, you guys,” Jane says, dabbing at her beard, “I’m curious. I want to go back . . . and see that everybody is sad and they, like, kept my room exactly as it was. But what if it’s completely the opposite?”

  “Yeah.” Baldwin hugs Jane. “What if I go back and my parents changed all the locks?”

  “That is true.” Prisha lays down her knife by perfect mounds of spring-green chopped cilantro. “But if that were the case, we would haunt them.”

  “Yes!” Sarah says, fist bumping Prisha. “Rearrange the furniture. Leave a message. Steal all the shoes!”

  I join Danny by the stove and fry up the tostones while he turns the chicken. “I would go back with you to get your shoes.” I nod to the girls. “And”—I nod to Baldwin—“your glasses.”

  Baldwin pinballs a look that hits every target around the room. “Cinder-ella, are we hatching a plan?”

  “This is so exciting!” Jane almost accidentally steps on the banana peel. But manages to catch herself.

  Everybody sighs with relief.

  “The banana,” Sarah declares, “is magical.”

  We wash hands in the sink—and manage to soak half the kitchen floor. Between that and the sink hose, Baldwin just decides to mop up. Prisha finds candles, lights them on the table, then takes one look at Jane and blows them out. Baldwin sits on Jane’s lap. After Sarah wipes down her counter, she joins Prisha, sharing the same chair. Danny sets a plate at the table but leaves the chair empty. “What would be Blanca’s favorite?” That is it. I love him.

  I point and Danny serves Blanca tostones. We sit beside each other and hold hands. I try not to cry into my rice.

  We all argue over whether we should pray, whom we should be praying to. Settle on holding hands and saying what we want in our own heads.

  Baldwin shrieks, “I’m going to stick my face in the rice bowl, y’all!”

  I lift the lid of the rice and sprinkle in fresh cilantro. “Vamos a comer!”

  The two kinds of food that are best in the world, food made for you by someone you love and food you make with friends. No grain of rice is left, no morsel of juicy tender chicken is not scraped from the bone. Of course, Prisha sticks to the rice and plantains and lectures all of us on the intelligence of chickens. Jane’s strangely tiny burp signals the end of the meal and erupts us all into laughter.

  “We got friends, food”—Jane slaps the table, sending a f
ork flying—“now music.”

  Jane’s music is K Pop that sounds like K Hip Hop, which makes me feel conflicted because anyone can appropriate pop, but rap is a no-no.

  Baldwin: “Oh! Verdad is making a frowny face.”

  Sarah: “Verdad is gonna kick your ass.”

  Jane switches it to Bollywood. At which point Prisha busts some major moves. Which makes me bust some moves. I’m that girl in the horror movie who can’t walk without falling down, but I can bring the salsa.

  Jane stands up and almost knocks over the table. Danny pulls the table against the wall and sits on it, watching. I like being watched. Baldwin waltzes Sarah around the room. Jane twerks, which is surprisingly sexy but also comforting because it keeps her in one spot.

  At some point this leads to us all doing a Gloria Estefan conga up the stairs to my bedroom.

  Jane sits on my bed. When Baldwin joins her, I worry it might crash through the floor. Prisha and Sarah perch on the windowsill. Danny sits at their feet. They braid his hair. This annoys the living shit out of me.

  “So I have a surprise for everyone,” I announce. “Wait here.” I run to the linen closet, load up, and return. “For you,” I say, laying a thick, fluffy towel on Sarah’s lap maybe a little hard. And on everyone else’s.

  “Sarah and Prisha first?” Nobody questions that they will shower together. “Toss your clothes out the door and I’ll throw them in the wash.” The door closes and the shower water runs. The two girls laughing and undressing sound like birds uncaged. Clothes fly out of the bathroom like discarded feathers.

  “This is going to sound weird,” I announce, “but can the rest of you just undress and wear towels? I should probably throw all your clothes in a quick wash together.”

  Jane gestures like a queen. “You just want to see me naked.”

  Are you there, God? It’s me, Verdad. I really don’t want to see Jane naked. Amen.

  “Yeah no. I’ll wait outside. Just toss the clothes out the door.” No offense, but I run downstairs and grab a pair of tongs. I mean, think about it.

  The washer is set on thirty minutes. I return to Prisha and Sarah singing. To Jane wearing a towel like I do wrapped around her chest, sitting on the bed all lady-like. Baldwin on the edge of the bed hiding under my blanket. Danny in a T-shirt (thank you, Monster High) with the towel wrapped around his waist. Makes sense.

  Prisha and Sarah emerge and so does the smell of every single bath and body product Simone keeps in the guest room.

  Sarah says, “I feel like I’ve been baptized.”

  Prisha spins her around the room.

  Baldwin smiles at Jane: “Our turns!”

  “Oh! Hey, Verdad. Your phone’s vibrating.” Jane holds up my cell.

  Now it’s my turn to be horrified. “No offense, but where was my phone just now?”

  “You wish you were so lucky, honey. It was just lying on the pillow.”

  Jane hands me the phone as the songbirds and the scents of their shampooed hair whirl around the room. And Danny watches them. If I see just one of his nostrils inhale, I swear the girls will wake up bald.

  My phone vibrates again. The text says, “Hope all is well. Miss M says she had a great time meeting you and your friend. Our neighbor Ms. J will be stopping by any minute. She might want to stop in your room to measure for curtains she’s making us. Do you need her to bring dinner?”

  “Oh. No.” I say aloud. I check my text about having friends over. Somehow, I never actually pressed send. Shit.

  Also: The curtain bullshit is clearly just an excuse for neighbor lady to spy on me.

  “Oh my God, my dad’s neighbor is coming over here and everyone is naked!!!!!”

  Danny flies to his feet. “He’s what? What?”

  I run to the washer, peel the wet clothes out, and toss them in the drier on quick dry. Bang into Danny when I turn on my heel to haul ass to my bedroom.

  “So let’s take a breath here,” he says. “I replied to your dad’s message. I asked him if your neighbor could bring dinner. That will buy us some time.”

  I nod and exhale.

  “He said Ms. J is packing up some Tupperware for me—I mean you.”

  “I’m laughing on the inside, Danny. How long do I have?”

  “Your dad said maybe twenty minutes? Baldwin and Jane are showering now.”

  “Together?!”

  “They promised they’d only engage in oral sex. No worries.”

  Okay. I’m laughing on the outside. “But for real, what am I going to do with another dinner? How will I explain the kitchen downstairs?”

  “Prisha and Sarah are on it. They’re Hefty-Bagging the evidence. Listen, you did tell him you were having us over though, right?”

  “Yeah. I mean, I meant to.” Did I? Was not sending the text a Freudian slip? “Regardless, you all need to be dressed and get going.”

  Despite the ticking time bomb that is my life right now, I grab Danny by the waist. “It’s not fair. You are the only one who isn’t getting to shower.”

  “True. But I stole your toothpaste and deodorant.”

  “Really!” I pull him closer.

  I get hit in the culo with one of a pile of wet towels flying at my head. Make-out session, interrupted. Everybody sits in front of the dryer as I dole out clothes that are still burning hot.

  Shit shit! Fuckity fuck! is the general interjection as hot buttons and zippers cause second degree burns.

  “All right, Underdogs!” Baldwin claps. “Ándale!”

  A moment later they’re all fresh and frisky and waiting in the car—except Baldwin, who’s dashed back for one last trip to the bathroom. Danny and I are standing on the porch. I love standing in the dark with him, looping my fingers through his belt loops.

  “Thank you for coming here tonight. I needed to be in the present. Before tomorrow.”

  “Tomorrow is gonna be heavy.”

  I grab Danny’s hoodie and bury my face in his chest. I hear Baldwin run past us, down the steps to the car. “I don’t think I can make it through school.” I look up. “Mental health day?”

  “Definitely. Maybe we can go get Baldwin’s glasses.”

  ……

  My dad’s neighbor, of course, wants to sit down and talk. I know she smells the food, but she doesn’t ask about it. She asks to use the bathroom, but I’m pretty sure she’s just seeing if there’s any evidence of a party. She tries to talk, but I pull the I’ve Got Cramps card and get her out of the house so I can decompress.

  That night, I pray.

  I’m not a hypocrite. I pray because everything I’ve ever understood about math—science—the universe—proves God exists. I don’t need faith.

  I pray that I can walk up to the movie theater again and take it back from the man who stole it. Who stole our stories, ripped out pages, and forced Fernando and Bambi and Blanca to the end. Forced me to rewrite my story, myself, without my sidekick, my sage, my best friend.

  And who was that man? That thief of our paragraphs, chapters, lives?

  An illiterate piece of garbage who thought his existence, his thoughts, feelings, and ideas entitled him to delete everyone else exponentially. The selfish, soulless asshole who held a gun and shot Fernando, Blanca, and Bambi before they could duck. Shot me in the leg as I turned to run.

  I played possum. Waited for the sound of sirens. Dragged myself to Bambi and the hole in his head making a tunnel straight to his afterlife. To Fernando and the bullet that stopped him from ever telling his mom and little sister I love you again. To Blanca, the red circle on her chest spreading into a pool, thinking like an idiot You spilled your slushie! You spilled your slushie! because I knew it couldn’t be blood. Blood spilling from her chest emptying the most beautiful wild heart I had ever known.

  I pray the rest in tears.

  I don’t sign the cross when I’m finished because that would make me a hypocrite.

  22

  At school, I meet up with Danny and the others in the parkin
g lot. I’m carrying an emptied-out backpack stuffed with bags for everyone. Baldwin is wearing suspenders over their Afro Punk T-shirt. Prisha and Sarah have braided each other’s hair and Danny is wearing a tie over his standard skater outfit. What they don’t have are jackets.

  Baldwin raises their hand. “Cinder-ella, shouldn’t we be doing this in the dark?”

  “That depends,” I say, handing a duffel bag to Jane. “Do your parents work? If they do, then we hit the houses now when they’re gone.”

  Baldwin adjusts their big-ass octogenarian glasses. “My mom and dad run a salon. Sometimes they even sleep in the back. I used to work there after school. I hated it.” Baldwin rubs Jane’s beard. “I wanted to tell all those hairy girls, keep those mustaches!”

  “Seriously,” I say. “We say we have souls but we define ourselves by skin. Do souls have vaginas?”

  Prisha buries her face in Sarah’s chest and cracks up. “Verdad, you’re terrible!”

  “What’s terrible is not that I say vagina but that your parents think they own yours. What do your parents do?”

  Prisha answers, “They’re in IT. I’m going into IT too. I’m going to design computer games. Ones for lesbian Indians who like to skateboard and be gangsters.”

  “And,” Sarah says, “I’m going to go to school for business. To get our company off the ground.”

  “Wow. Are you going to go back to high school? I mean eventually?”

  “We are.” Sarah pulls on her hood. “For now we use the library to study up. Prisha wants to be emancipated.”

  I must admit I’m impressed. Still venomous and poised to strike if she touches my man. But impressed.

  “What about you?”

  “I was emancipated at ten when my parents started—”

  “Well, now we will emancipate our parents from their earthly belongings for all their misdeeds,” says Prisha. Sarah laughs but is clenching and unclenching her fists.

  “My dad is in the military and my mom is a wedding planner,” Jane volunteers. “They won’t be home. But there will be an alarm. I think I know the codes, and maybe their guard is down because it’s been a while so they haven’t changed them.”