“I don’t know about that. You’re going into the water trap.” I line up the ball near the windmill.
“If it gushes like you, I’ll gladly take the plunge.” He bumps my hip and my ball hops and skips into the running water.
“Why you!” I gingerly climb over the fence and duck under the bridge.
“Ha, you’re all wet.” He helps me climb back. “Just the way I like it.”
“Shhh … Livy,” I hiss, but fortunately she’s staring at her smartphone.
The next one is a right angle shot. If I can hit that diagonal perfect, it’s a straight shot into the hole. I line up my shoulders, square my hips, and wait for Carlos to jeer. I fake up, about to swing.
“Wait, wait.” He claps his hands right beside my ear. “Your ball still wet? You better compensate for the drag.”
“I think your club’s all wet.” I quickly take a swing and whack the ball hard. It flies straight at the diagonal, then rolls down the green toward the hole. The carpet is uneven, dang. I didn’t account for it, but it goes closer and plop. It lands in the hole.
“Whoo!” I raise my club in the air and jump up and down. “A hole in one. Ha, ha, you’ll never catch me now. Loser cooks.”
He puts his finger down his throat, gagging. “The way you cook, I better lose.”
“You guys are silly.” Livy yawns, bored with our antics.
“Let’s see how silly you are when you fall in love,” Carlos says. He gives her a noogie and she screams, “Ewww. Love is yucky.”
I screw up the next two holes. Did Carlos say he was silly because he’s in love? The thought it could be me is so delicious, I quiver, the same way I do when a dessert is super sweet and cold.
“Hey, hey.” Carlos grabs the score sheet. “We’re almost tied. Couple more holes like that and you’ll be cooking, but I’ll consider a foot massage instead.”
“I’ll massage your foot all right, right up your ass.” I shake the club at him.
“You’re always so violent. Is it because you’re so tiny? Yap, yap, yap.”
“Good things come in small packages.” It’s the refrain of my childhood, especially when first Evie, and then Genie shot up taller than me.
“Not my package.” He what? Did he just grab his crotch? My face heats and my heart flutters. I glance at Livy, but she’s still immersed in her phone.
“You’re trying to distract me and it isn’t working.” I grit my teeth and line up for the last hole. Whap. The ball rolls up the ramp and disappears in the longhorn’s mouth.
Carlos misses his shot, and Livy walks up to the mouth and throws her ball in.
“You two are disgusting.” She hands me her pencil. “I heard everything. I was only pretending to text.”
Chapter 33
“I’m driving by myself,” Livy says as we walk up the ramp to the go cart arena. “I’m your height so I’m tall enough.”
“Sure, just don’t crash into anyone,” I reply.
When the attendant lets us through the gate, Livy power walks to the first car in the line. Meanwhile, I tie my hair with the rubber tie provided and casually choose a car in back of Carlos. I’m not going to let him suspect I want to race at all.
He turns around. “Sure you don’t want this one? Ladies first.”
I give him the finger. “I think we’ve already established I’m not a lady.”
“I’m no gentleman either,” he speaks in my ear, barely above the putting noise of the idling cars. “That’s cuz you like it rough.”
“Get in your car. I think I’ll take a relaxing, leisurely drive around the track, smell the roses, take in the scenery, the landscaping, the flowers in bloom.”
“Yeah, right, me too. In fact, I’m going to take a video with my new phone.” Carlos steps into his go cart.
“Break a leg.” I laugh and strap myself in. I’m not afraid of going fast. These little lawnmower engines can move and the car’s center of gravity is so low, I doubt I can flip them.
Oh, crap, an older woman with a little girl is being led to the doubles car. They always let them go first. Shit. My heart revs. Livy’s behind some kid, and Carlos is behind Livy, and I’m behind Carlos. But that doubles car. Oh no. Another man and his son are getting into the second doubles car.
This is going to be tricky. I yawn loudly and slump in the seat, deep breathing, planning my strategy.
The attendant turns on the green light. He’s standing in front of the singles cars and waves to the doubles to go. The woman steps on the gas, and her car doesn’t move.
“Press down harder,” the attendant yells.
Her car barely putts onto the track. The man and little boy do a little better, and he immediately passes the lady who seems to have trouble steering.
The attendant waves the flag and we’re off.
Livy passes the lady from the outside, and Carlos follows her. The woman’s car weaves toward the inside, but I jam the gas and spurt into the tiny opening. My car fishtails but I make it through and dash down the straightway to catch Carlos and Livy. The little guy in first place takes the turn in front of us too wide. I cut the corner right in front of Carlos. He bumps me, but I jerk the wheel and barely graze the rail.
Keeping my foot down to the floor, I swing the wheel the other direction aiming for the inside corner of the next turn. Livy is barely ahead of me. She wastes precious moments looking back and doesn’t hit the curve at the smallest radius. Without slowing at all, I g-force around the tight turn.
Whoohoo! I’m in first place. The hair tie’s fallen, my hair’s flying loose, and the wind is in my face. I complete the first lap, but as we’re going up the slope on the straightway, Carlos closes in. This can’t be. I’m lighter than he is and my accelerator is already floored. I can’t depress it any more.
“Watch me pass you,” he jeers, but the turn is ahead, and I cut to it and corner it. He falls back, having to make a wide turn. It goes on for lap after lap. My cart sputters on the uphill, shaking hard and Carlos is on the verge of catching me.
My leg is straining, my arms pulling on the wheel, my back off the seat, because damnit, I’m so short I can’t depress the pedal all the way down otherwise. My muscles are getting sore. How many more laps of this torture must I endure? It’s endless. His taunting. His booming laughter, “I’m gonna get you now,” just over my shoulder.
Please, please, end this race before my car runs out of gas or blows a gasket.
I get sloppy on the steering and discover I can go a little faster on the turns if I don’t cut it so sharply. No need to slow down. But I’m straining now. No way do I want to lose to Carlos.
Fuck it. He’s coming up to me. He’s nudging me from the side. I can’t hold on anymore. With one leap, he’ll pass me. My legs and arms are shaking, my neck sore, my sides ache from the strain. The car shudders, sputtering.
The red light flashes and the attendant waves the flag. I speed up to him, not wanting to slow for the last turn. Ah! He’s standing right in front of me.
I jam on the brakes and skid. He waves his flag faster and at the last minute jumps onto the curb.
My cart jerks to a stop, and I lean back, exhausted. Yay! I did it. I beat Cocky Carlos, finally.
Carlos comes to a smooth stop behind me, but I don’t turn around. I protect my neck and sure enough someone bashes a car behind us, sending Carlos’s car into mine. That was a loud bang.
After everyone’s finished rear-ending each other, we calmly pull our cars to the curb and get out. I wobble on wiggly legs and hold my strained side.
“Had you shitting back there,” Carlos says. “I felt so sorry for you, I let you win.”
“Yeah, right. I’m a pro. I’m fearless. Did you see me cut for daylight at the beginning?”
“You cheated.” He grabs the back of my neck and twists his knuckle in my cheek. “You kept cutting me off. Next time I’m going to ram you good.”
I pinch his behind and hip bump him. “Is that a promise?”
“Yes, everything, my little princess.” Carlos loops his other arm around her. He turns to me and whispers, “Better enjoy it now because in a year or so, she’s not going to want to hang with us old folks.”
“May that day never come.”
He kisses me first and then kisses Livy on the cheek. “May this day never end. I’m with my two best girls. Who’s up for an all beef frank?”
“Garlic supreme, no sauerkraut,” I pipe in.
“Hot link, extra spicy,” Livy says.
After lunch, we hit the batting cages. I hate this part. Why am I so uncoordinated?
Carlos comes prepared. He fetches our batting helmets and bats from the van so we won’t have to wear the ratty ones provided.
“We should have asked Brian to come,” Livy whines.
She’s no doubt remembering the day Brian held her hands and helped her bat. Yeah, right. Let me make a note never to invite Brian anywhere.
“Brian’s a busy sixteen-year-old,” Carlos says. “He’s probably too cool to hang out at Bombers.”
I elbow Carlos. “Why’d you say that? Bombers is fun.”
Livy scrunches her nose at me. “If you’re into childish things. I’m only here so you two can play around.”
She takes her bat and walks off to the farthest batting cage, one that pitches softball. The closest one is the fastball, and I can hardly see the balls coming. There’s also one that’s not quite as fast, but still too fast for me.
I better go to the slow pitch cage. Carlos follows us.
“Aren’t you going for the one hundred miles per hour ones?” I ask him.
“That’s too easy for me.” He flexes the bat over his shoulders and stretches. “I’m here to show you and Livy how to get a hit.”
“I seem to remember you striking out last time.”
“Ha, at least I didn’t lunge into a pitch and get hit.”
“Earned a walk. So there.”
“And a kiss from the pitcher.” His mouth turns down and he walks off heavily. “Livy, batter up.”
For the next fifteen minutes, the ball machine lobs yellow softballs at Livy. She misses over and over, except when Carlos holds the bat from behind her.
“I suck at this,” she yells. “Just like you, Choco.”
“Speak for yourself.” Wait. That’s not how a mother should talk. “You can do it, Livy. Visualize yourself hitting the ball, swinging and it connects. Big hit, big hit.”
I sound stupid even to myself, so soccer mom like.
Livy’s turn is over, and she throws the bat on the floor. “It’s no use.”
I don’t want Livy to grow up negative and pessimistic. She has to be able to take the world by its horns, believe in herself. I’ll show her.
“Hey, watch me slam the ball out of the park.” I put on my batting helmet as if about to do battle.
Picking up the bat, I stretch and mimic the major league hitters in the on-deck circle. Oh, yeah, I’m bad. I’m bad. I’m really, really bad.
I strut to the plate and hit my shoes with the bat, rub my hands and spit. Then wiggle my butt before lifting my hands close to my ears, my back elbow cocked. I know the stance, studied it over and over again, watched guys hit. I know what it looks like.
Carlos slips the tokens into the machine and the pitching begins. The arm drops and blurp, a bright yellow ball lobs my direction.
I swing, and I miss. I swing again, and I miss. I swing, chop, lunge, bat, swipe, spin, and bunt. I miss. I miss. I miss.
Livy is holding her stomach laughing. This can’t be happening.
“Perhaps you want some help?” Carlos adjusts my hands on the bat, choking it up, while his hands grip below mine.
His hot, hard body is pressed against my back, his arms around me, face close to mine. I’m trying really hard not to melt into him when the pitching machine arm lowers and a fat yellow ball floats our way.
Carlos swings, almost yanking my shoulders out of their sockets, and we connect with a satisfying clunk. The ball floats toward the net at the far end of the circular cage.
“Did you feel it?” he says in my ear. “Could you tell when I was about to swing, how I anticipated where the ball would be? It has to become a reflex for you. You have to trust yourself. You don’t try to hit the ball, you meet the ball as it comes to you. Don’t reach for it.”
My heart swells and every warm, fuzzy, tingling, emoting feeling expands from my chest. Of course he’s right. I’ve always been reaching for things because I’m short. Reaching for accomplishments, friendships, relationships. Doing more for others, minding their business and caring for them, because I don’t think anyone would care for me.
“Let’s try it again. Ready?” He raises our hands to the batting position.
This time, I picture the ball coming to me. It’ll cross the plate in front of me even if I do nothing. I swing, guided by Carlos. We’re a little late, and the ball pops up to the right.
“That was better,” he says. “You still reached a little. Wait and it’ll come. Hold back and swing to meet it.”
It’s the same with love, isn’t it? If it’s right for me, it’ll come to me. I shouldn’t have to try so hard.
Carlos backs away from me and moves my hands to the proper position. My body misses him already. I feel exposed, vulnerable. They’re all watching me.
The pitching arm lowers and the ball comes toward me. It’s not going to run away. It’ll come. I whip the bat around and clunk! I hit it. A line drive to the left.
“I did it!” I jump up and down. “I hit it.”
Livy and Carlos whoop and cheer for me. I feel like a superstar who hit the game winning home run.
The next time the arm drops and the ball comes, I’m ready. I time it and snap the bat around. Thwap. Another hit. Wow, this is getting addictive.
I miss a few more times, but I hit more than I miss. When my turn ends, I hand the bat to Livy. “You have to do it again. By the end of summer, you’re going to be my little slugger.”
She takes the bat and sticks out her tongue, her eyes cartwheeling. “I got sick watching you lovebirds. Batting practice, my foot.”
“Get in there.” Carlos slaps her back.
She slaps her batting helmet on and gives him a thumbs up. “I approve. You two are made for each other.”
Chapter 34
Livy might approve of Carlos and I, but his mother definitely disapproves, and Carlos has unfinished business—mainly telling her he called it off with Julia.
After we returned from Bombers, I told Carlos I was spending the night at my parents’ place. I know, chicken shit, but things are moving too fast, and I’m not sure what’ll happen once Tita Gloria gets the news. Besides, my parents are going through some major problems, and I need to find out what I can from Johnny.
Fortunately, Johnny readily agreed to meet me for dinner. After packing most of my things, I tidy up my apartment and wait for him. I’m dressed in jeans and a plain black blouse. I can’t be bothered to impress anyone, least of all Mr. Smoke and Mirrors. He’s got a lot of explaining to do.
He knocks on the door a little after seven. When I open it, my mouth slams to the ground. If I looked disheveled and tired, Johnny looks even worse. His hair is flat and limp, he hasn’t shaved, and he’s wearing a grungy pair of cargo pants and a rumpled T-shirt.
He has a case of beer and a greasy box of pizza.
“Mi Chocoloco, you’re looking almost as bad as I feel.”
“Just come in already.” I drag him into the apartment, afraid Carlos could chance to look down the hall and see him. “What happened to you?”
“It’s been rough.” He sets the beer and pizza on the table and rubs his eyes. “Let’s eat, drink, and be merry, as they say.”
“First, tell me what’s going on with your mother.”
He opens a can of
beer and takes a swig. “She’s in jail waiting on my father to bail her out.”
“Your father?” I grab his arm. “Who’s your father?”
Johnny’s lips curl, and he shakes his head. “I bet you’re worried it’s your father.”
“Is it?” Panic seizes my heart. “This isn’t a joke. My entire family’s in turmoil. What was your mother talking about when she told my father she had the DNA results?”
“Oh, that.” He opens the pizza box and lets me inhale the cheesy, spicy, pepperoni scent. “Starved?”
“Don’t change the subject.” I bore my eyes into his. “If we’re half brother and sister, why did you put the moves on me? If I hadn’t stopped you, we would have …”
Johnny pulls me by the wrists and swings me around. “Is that what you thought? Is that why you’ve been pulling away from me? My sweet Concha shell.”
Somehow, I knew this would be a waste of time. “Stop playing around.”
“Rest assured you’re not my sister.” He purses his lips. “Shall we try and raise your kissing grade from a C+?”
He leans in to kiss me, but I duck away. “No more kissing. Who’s your father? Tell me.”
“You’ve met him. He’s the one who paid for the live band. You remember him and his girlfriend, the redhead?”
“No way! Rich Jewell? As in Jewell Capital?”
“Yep, I’m his firstborn son.”
“I don’t believe this. Is Mr. Dee still your grandfather?”
“Of course he is. My mother never married. I’m what you call a love child.” He preens his hair and winks. “Jack Jewell, Harvard MBA. Impressed?”
“Why the fake name? What are you hiding?”
“You wound me, ma chérie.” He presses my hand to his chest. “I didn’t want you to know I’m Rich Jewell’s son, because I wanted you to love me on my own merits. But now that you know I’m not your brother, want to be my girlfriend?”
His eyes are large and starry, kind of like a cross between an anime character and a puppy dog. I almost feel sorry for him.
“I can’t. It’s not you. I just have a lot going on right now.”
Claiming Carlos Page 24