Selena smirks. “She can speak a little. And she understands everything, so you don’t have to worry.”
I flush. “Oh. Right. Okay.”
I turn to Nico’s mother and hold out my hand. She looks at it for a moment, then shakes it lightly, her hand barely moving.
“Carmen,” she says, continuing quietly in heavily accented English. “Nice to meet you.”
I nod shyly and hold out the food I brought. I am Cheryl Barros’s daughter; I know better than to visit someone’s house empty-handed.
Carmen accepts the bag and pulls out the selection of French cheese and baguettes that cost me about half of my budget for the week. I didn’t know what to bring, so I just bought the kinds of things my mother would. Carmen takes out a Saran-wrapped lump of bleu, then looks at Selena and says something in Spanish that I can’t understand.
Selena examines it. “It’s cheese, Mami. The good kind.” She looks at me, and there’s a little kindness in her brown eyes.
“Oh. Thank you,” Carmen says to me. She holds up the cheese, and then hands it and the bag to her daughter, who moves around the tiny kitchen looking for a plate.
“Of course,” I say. “Thanks for having me.”
We stand awkwardly until I remember the other reason I came in.
“Um, could you tell me where the bathroom is?” I ask quietly as I look around and see nothing like it. “El baño?”
Both women look at me strangely, echoing that same expression I just got from Nico. Okay, I know my Spanish is bad, but is it really that bad?
“Over there,” Selena says, pointing to the corner.
I follow her gesture and immediately realize why I missed it. The door to the “bathroom” looks like a cabinet, a flimsy stall made of painted plywood that surrounds a toilet installed in the middle of the kitchen. No sink, unless you count the one in the kitchen. A door that would only provide privacy if you’re sitting down. That’s it.
I swallow and meet both Carmen and Selena’s faces straight on. I know then what they’re expecting—what they’ve all been expecting since I walked in. I’m the rich white girl, someone who should think she’s too good for this place, for them.
But it’s just a bathroom. It’s just an apartment. And ultimately, the only things that matter are the people inside it.
So I meet both of their gazes and smile. “Gracias,” I say and push the door open.
* * *
In the end, it’s a pretty normal Thanksgiving. The only difference is that I only understand about ten percent of what’s said. All of the Solteros fall in and out of torrents of Spanish that are very different from the stiff, formal version I’m learning. I’m quiet for most of the meal, trying to understand what I can, listening intently whenever Nico leans over to translate.
But besides that, it’s the same, just dished out on a mixed set of dishes instead of my mother’s china. The half-turkey is just as moist, and they put marshmallows on the pan of sweet potatoes too. There are a few dishes that are unfamiliar, Puerto Rican-style foods that are clearly favorites of Nico’s and his siblings’. I make sure to take a second serving of the arroz con gandules, the yellow rice dish with peas and peppers. It’s not hard—it’s freaking delicious.
After a while, the family lapses comfortably into raucous conversation with each other, appearing to forget that I’m even there. Nico and his sisters throw insults at each other over the pumpkin pie, Gabe gets in trouble for talking with his mouth full, and Allie breaks every awkward silence with some adorable phrase. I try to smile when, every so often, I catch Carmen openly examining me, but for the most part, I eat my food and feel thankful that I’ve been included.
At the end, after Nico and Gabe have finished clearing the dishes away, Carmen looks around the table with a contented expression, in that same way any parent looks when all their kids have come home together.
“Listos?” asks Carmen.
Her kids stop talking, and like a wave, everyone stands up.
“Where are we going?” I ask.
It’s very abrupt. One minute, we’re sitting around, laughing, but also talking kind of awkwardly, and the next, everyone is getting ready to go. Most Thanksgivings I’ve been to usually end when people migrate to a living room to watch football and loosen their pants while they sink into a food coma. Except, I realize, the television in the corner is maybe big enough for one or two people to watch. And there aren’t enough comfortable seats for everyone to relax.
Nico winks as he hands me my coat. “We’re going to Tía Alba’s place,” he says. “K.C.’s mom. It’s where we always go after the meal at Thanksgiving and Christmas. She puts on a party for all the family.”
I cover up, trying and failing to swallow the newly formed lump in my throat. Party? Family?
“Come on, baby,” Nico says, taking my hand in his as we follow his family out the door. “Let’s go.”
Chapter Thirteen
Nico
It’s dark as we follow my family out into the cold night air and start down the street to the high-rise where Alba, K.C.’s mother, lives.
The dinner went well, I think. My sisters were a lot nicer than I thought they would be, being relatively careful only to talk about Layla when she was legitimately out of earshot. Gabe was his usual eager-ass self, working hard to entertain my guest while he threw around big words, trying to sound smart while Allie threw pieces of pasteles at his face. Ma was Ma, quiet and watchful as always. I can’t tell yet what she thinks of Layla. She’s never been the type to trust outsiders, and even if Layla has a last name like Barros, she’s still an outsider.
Jesus Christ, I’ll never forget the look on her face when she followed my mother out of the kitchen carrying the plate of that smelly fuckin’ cheese. I had no idea what she’d brought for dinner. I could have told her that my family wasn’t going to eat food that smelled like it had been lost under the couch for two weeks. I’m more adventurous than the others, but even I didn’t want to eat that stuff. It smelled like feet.
But her face. Her poor, beautiful, embarrassed face. You could tell she knew the mistake she’d made as soon as she set the platter of that crap on the table. We all stared at it. No one wanted to touch it. And then she turned to me.
“I brought cheese,” she said and bit her lip.
Yeah. I was already a goner before she did that, but I can’t say no to that face. Not when she looks at me like that, dying for someone to like her. So I leaned over, loaded a piece of bread with the slimy blue shit, and took a giant bite while my sisters laughed behind their hands and my brother watched with eyes about the size of our dinner plates.
“Ewwww!” Allie cried from across the table. “He just ate the mold!”
“Hush!” snapped Maggie.
“It’s delicious,” I said with my mouth full.
Beside me, Layla looked like sun was beaming straight out of her face. I’m not going to lie; that shit tasted like feet too. But I’d eat a whole closet of shoes to make her happy. And after catching her watching us with a gleam in her eye, I think my mother knows it too.
Layla looks up at the high-rise with surprise when everyone starts through the revolving glass door. “K.C.’s mom lives here?”
She was expecting another apartment like my mom’s. Maybe something a little bigger that could accommodate all the family, but roughly the same. That used to be the case—Alba, my mother’s best friend, used to live just downstairs from us in a bigger two-bedroom place. But the first thing K.C. did when he started to make some money was upgrade his mom’s apartment.
It’s hard not to be jealous. I’d love to do something like this for my mom one day, but who knows if that will ever happen. Nice apartments usually require all the tenants’ names to be on the lease, and that’s not something my mom is willing to do.
“K.C.,” is all I say, and Layla nods. She’s been to his apartment in Hoboken. That place is crazy nice.
We take the elevator up to the fifteenth floor, and a
s soon as the doors open, salsa music floats down the hall. Layla looks at me nervously.
“I thought this was just a family thing,” she says.
I squeeze her hand. “It is, sweetie. But this family is...big. It’s a generous term. You’ll see.”
Inside is a familiar scene to me, but Layla holds my hand like she’s about to drown. Alba has a big space, even bigger with her furniture pushed to the walls for the party. Her big table is filled with a potluck of foods, mostly leftovers people brought from their own Thanksgivings. The place is full of people I grew up with. People I call family, but who are really just a part of the extended network that helped raise my mother and, by default, her kids. Countless tías and tíos, their kids, and their kids’ kids scurry around the apartment. Layla watches curiously as I greet most of them with a quick “bendición,” accepting kisses to my cheeks from the aunties and a few uncles too, letting the older ones murmur “Dios te bendiga.” It’s close to fifteen minutes before we’re able to make our way to the far side of the room, where I can toss our jackets on a pile by the balcony and get us some drinks.
Layla’s a champ. She clutches my hand with a death grip, but nods politely at everyone she meets and accepts kisses where they’re offered. They look curiously at her, but she’s not the only stranger at the party. A few other people have brought their girlfriends or boyfriends to meet the family too. It’s hard. I can’t come out and say that’s what she is, because she’s not. Every time I have to say she’s just my “friend,” there’s this stabbing in my chest, so eventually I just tell them she’s Layla and let them make whatever assumptions they want.
Most of the people here are Puerto Rican, which means the older ones mostly speak Spanish, but the younger ones, like me, speak English peppered with Spanish or a mix of both. There’s a playlist blasting a mix of Latin music from Alba’s stereo, and already the group is getting boisterous. Even the line of men standing against the picture windows like a line of pigeons are starting to move a little with the music.
Beside me, Layla polishes off her cup of coquito. “Wow,” she says. “That is really good.”
I smirk, then take her cup for a refill. Alba really went all out this year. Coquito, the coconut and rum drink, is usually something we have at Christmas. I wonder if my mom asked for it since I won’t be around this year. K.C. was moaning all last week about missing it since he was hired for a big party in Vancouver over the weekend.
Layla starts to loosen up. She still looks a little like a scared deer, but her hips are starting to undulate to the music, some random bachata song.
I nurse a beer, but my eyes stay on her. She catches me watching and immediately turns red. It’s fuckin’ adorable.
I snake a hand around her waist. “You want to dance, baby?”
“What?” Maggie’s loud fuckin’ voice blasts from at least three people over. “You want to dance? Since when do you dance?”
I roll my eyes. My sister had a few drinks already back at the apartment, and the people she’s standing with shake their heads and laugh. There is nothing Maggie likes more than giving me shit. I give her a rude hand gesture behind Layla’s back, which Maggie ignores. Behind her, Selena covers a laugh, and across the room, Ma watches us with interest.
“I can dance,” I insist. I look back at Layla. “I can dance.”
“I didn’t say you can’t,” Maggie says as she moves over to us. “I said you don’t. You hate bachata. You don’t even like salsa.”
Layla watches our exchange curiously, but stays silent. I feel myself turning a little red.
“Maybe I like it better now,” I say, starting to move my shoulders and hips a little with the music. I don’t know what it is, but something about being here with Layla makes me want to show off. “Maybe I just needed to stop hearing it every damn day like I did living with you. I can only take so much Marc Anthony, Mags.”
Maggie pouts, but she can’t totally hide her smile as I start moving a little more. I’m not a great dancer or anything, but I have a few moves. I’m not doing it for her, though; I’m doing it for Layla. I’m doing it because of the way her mouth falls open as she watches my hips. Just then, the music shifts. The bright guitar of the bachata fades away, and a sultrier beat replaces it, accompanied by the telltale horn section of salsa and the crooning voice of Marc Anthony, the man himself. I recognize the tune––it’s hard to live in New York and not hear this voice. Especially living with Maggie, the man’s superfan.
“Well?” Maggie asks Layla. “You gonna dance with my brother or what?”
Layla flushes, but I’m already halfway to the dance floor, hand at my stomach as I step backward with the beat. God, this girl turns me into such a fuckin’ cornball. But I don’t care. She’s laughing, and I’m feeling on top of the world tonight. If all I ever did for the rest of my life was make her laugh, I’d die a happy man. So I hold out a hand.
“Come on, baby. I’ll teach you how to move.”
Layla lets me lead her to the center of the party crowd, and she watches carefully as I take both of her hands and instruct her on the steps, just like Ma taught me when I was a kid.
“Move your right foot back, two, three, left foot forward, two, three. Yeah, like that, sweetie. On your toes, not your heels. Yeah, you got it.”
She follows my feet, and after a bit, she starts to move naturally. It’s a basic step, much more basic than some of the moves other people are doing. The real experts are the older ones who moved here from one of the islands or who grew up when salsa really got going. Layla’s doing pretty good, actually. She might look like a white girl, but she doesn’t move like one.
Back and forth we move, until I get bored. I pulled her close. Her flowery scent surrounds me and makes it hard to think. It’s been three days of this. Three days of hugs in public places, of holding hands across a dinner table or a coffee shop, of one quickie in her room on Tuesday before her roommates returned from their classes. I’m ready to do a lot more than that. I want to take my time with her, again and again. I want her to know how much she means to me, get as close as we can for as long as we can until I have to go. Tonight is ours, and I want to make the best of it.
“Get ready, baby,” I say.
Before she can ask for what, I slip a hand around her back and twist her around the combos my mom taught me long ago. Ma loves to dance, so she made Gabe and me both learn with her. I bitched about it a lot when I was a teenager, but I’m sure as fuck glad she taught me now.
I turn Layla through one, two, three separate maneuvers that include ducking her under one of my arms and pulling her backwards against my chest. With the last one, she yelps a laugh, catching the attention of a few other people on the floor. Plenty of people have been watching us—Layla really doesn’t know how beautiful she is. But now Ma stops her conversation with Alba and zeroes in on us as I continue to turn Layla around the floor. She’s not sure about Layla yet; my mother is a hard nut to crack. But when Layla laughs, I think I can see Ma soften.
“You’re doing pretty good, baby,” I say as I turn her around some more. “You got the hips down, that’s for sure.”
I spin her out and do a little shimmy of my own. Watching me, Layla trips over her own feet. It’s hard not to feel smug as I catch her and pull her flush against my body. I know that look in my girl’s eyes. It’s that look she gets when I’ve done something that gets under her skin. She’s thinking about one thing, and now it’s all I can think about too.
I hold her waist in the middle of the crowd. We’re both breathing hard now; there’s a thin sheen of sweat on Layla’s brow, and her rose-petal lips are open slightly. Our eyes meet. In the middle of this loud, crazy room, we’re both silent.
If this were a club, with dimmed lights and people we didn’t know, we’d already be all over each other. I probably would have dragged her to a dark corner somewhere to cop a feel, drive her crazy with my fingers, watch her lose herself in the dark. Or maybe we’d have already left, gotten
lost on some street corner or in the back of a cab, racing against time to reach the moment when we have to come together, public place or not. Central Park. The bathroom at AJ’s. An alley by her dorm. How many times did we forget where we were, who we were, out of the blind need for each other’s bodies?
I’m wearing the same black shirt and pants I told her about last week, the ones that made her growl and kept me up half the night fantasizing. I’ve unbuttoned my shirt a few buttons and rolled up my sleeves to combat the heat, and by the way her gaze drifts down every so often, it’s clear she likes the way my tattoos poke out on my chest and over my elbow.
She’s wearing a little black dress, one that’s a far cry from her club wear, but which does fuckin’ nothing to hide her curves. Caught slightly with sweat, the dress clings. Fuck me. If we were even close to alone, I’d have already torn it off.
But we’re in a room full of my relatives, many of them watching the show we’ve put on, watching how the new girl, the blanquita (a term I’ve heard a couple of times when they thought I wasn’t listening), is going to fare at the family party. As Layla catches her breath, she looks around, blue eyes wide. The joy disappears from her face.
“You okay?” I step closer.
Layla presses her lips together and waves a hand at her face. “Yeah. I’m just going to get some air, okay? It’s hot. There’s a balcony, right?”
I nod and point toward an open door that’s covered by retractable shades. “Over there. I’ll get you another drink.”
Layla escapes to the balcony while I go to the kitchen for another beer and a bottle of water for Layla. When I come back out, Gabe is waiting for me in the hallway.
“Hey, papi,” I greet him, tossing him the water. I reach back into the kitchen and grab another.
“You were tearing it up out there with NYU,” Gabe remarks as I shotgun my beer. Shit, that’s good.
I nod. “Yeah, she was doing pretty good for a first-timer.”
Bad Idea: The Complete Collection Page 48