I pop the lens cap off and run my finger across the rim. Shake my head. “I already took the video, actually. I’m just doing the editing now during class.”
Edgar’s face falls slightly. Truth is, when I shot the video, I did think about him—how talented he is. But I never thought to invite him or ask for help. Not when I was capturing a place so personal to me. The beach where I’ve run to think ever since Nina and I stopped being friends years ago. When I needed space from Grandma and Brittany. The place where I reunited with my mom. I won’t say those words on the voice-over for my project, but I will say how important the space is for me. It’s the only physical place I can truly be myself. Free of judgment. Alone.
“But if I need editing tips, you’ll be the first person I ask,” I add as Edgar takes a gulp of milk, and then a bite of brownie. “This looks really cool. I mean, the camera. It’s nice. So are the pictures you’ve posted.” I pause, feeling myself start to blush. “But I’ve already told you that.”
Edgar swallows. “Thanks. Which is your favorite? Or which one were you talking about specifically?”
“All of them.” My words come out in a rush. “The sunsets, the mountains, the ocean. You’re super talented.”
Edgar smiles wistfully at the camera. “I learned in a summer program after third grade. I’ve been back every year since to practice.” He reaches a finger out and twists the strap around it.
“This camera seems really fancy,” I say awkwardly, wanting to be nice, to get to know him better. I’m always with Carlos when Edgar’s around—I never really get the chance to talk to him one on one.
“I saved my birthday money for three years for this and it still wasn’t even close to being enough.” Edgar chuckles and looks at his camera. “When my brother José gave me a ride to the camera store and I realized I was short, he covered the rest. He said I could pay him back when I’m a famous photographer someday.”
Edgar looks down, his expression turning somber. If it’s because he thinks he won’t make it as a photographer, he couldn’t be more wrong.
“What is it that you like about taking pictures?”
Edgar reaches his hand for the camera and rests it on the top. I don’t move my hand from the lens. We lock eyes. My chest warms and I laugh softly before looking away.
Edgar looks at the camera, chewing his lip for a second. “I like the way pictures can tell a story,” he finally says. “How someone who doesn’t even know the photographer or the subject can see truth in a photo.”
He looks up at me. “You can see something real in an instant, sometimes something you’d never be able to describe with words, you know?”
Before I get the chance to respond, Edgar brings the camera to his face and snaps a picture of me. It happens so quickly that I don’t smile or react. I wonder why he did that, why he’d want a picture of me. He turns the camera around, looks at the screen, and smiles.
“What do you see?” I ask.
Edgar’s eyes flick to me and then back at the picture. “Someone who’s searching for something.”
My breath catches, stuck in my throat.
Edgar fumbles the camera back to the table.
I stare into Edgar’s eyes for a second before lifting the camera myself and snapping a picture. I turn it around to look at his image on the screen. See Edgar with his glasses and his curly hair getting longer. The way his lips turn up and his eyes brighten when I look at him.
And now he’s looking at me and I’m looking at him, and I realize it’s really hot in here. I close my eyes and nod quickly. “I, uh, here. Now you have one of you.” I slide the camera back toward him.
Edgar picks it up and looks at the picture briefly. “I like the one of you better.” He laughs softly and looks down at the table.
I swallow, my cheeks flushed. Neither of us say anything for a moment.
“So, Spanish.” I finally pull my book from the other side of the table.
“Spanish.” Edgar slides his camera out of the way.
I flip through my textbook to the opening of the section we’re working on in class.
“All right,” Edgar says. “How about I ask some of the practice questions here, after the end of the first section we studied a few weeks ago, and you answer them.”
My throat tightens. I nod.
“Oh, wait.” Edgar pulls his book and a stack of notecards out of his backpack. “I made these for you.” He pushes them to me.
I reach for the cards, revealing some of the words we’ve been working on. Salió, empezó, pidió, recibió, decidió.
“You don’t need them to study? I thought you said before that . . .” I trail off, not wanting to give too much away about my lack of Spanish-speaking ability. I’d rather seem like I have test-taking anxiety. “Don’t you study too? To learn it the way white people speak it?”
Edgar’s hand rests on the table, about a foot from mine. He looks into my eyes, his warm and without pretense. “I don’t need them. I do the worksheets and pay attention in class. My mom and aunt tutor Spanish as side jobs. They were careful that we learned the way it’s taught in school, not just how we all speak it. They say it might be valuable to be able to tutor people since so many are trying to learn to be bilingual nowadays.”
I blanch. I had hoped I might be able to get away with hiding my ineptitude, but that seems unlikely now if Edgar could theoretically tutor people.
Edgar’s thick black eyebrows furrow. “What’s wrong?” His hand twitches slightly closer to mine. “Did I say something?”
I shake my head. “You didn’t. And thank you, this is nice, since I’ve been so nervous. It’s really nice.” I nod my head again, vigorously, and stand. “I’m just going to get some water. Want some?”
Edgar grabs his milk. “I’m good here, thanks.”
I hold my hand on the water pitcher in the fridge before pouring some into my glass. I take a long drink, the cold water sliding down my throat slowly, juxtaposed against my warm, embarrassed body.
I wipe my hands off on my dress and walk back to the kitchen table.
“¿Quién decidió esto?” Edgar reads from his textbook, his voice deep and fluid, his words natural.
In my mind I translate the words, “Who decided this?” I look at the pictures in the book, indicating a woman under a thought balloon in the box showing this happened in the past. I swallow, close my eyes, and blurt. “Ella lo decidió.” I have this idea that if I say the words quickly, it will sound more natural, because a lot of Spanish is spoken fast. I watch Edgar, and his expression doesn’t change.
“Muy bien,” he says. “Nunca habíamos vivido en la ciudad. ¿Y tú?”
Quickly, I reply, “Nunca había vivido en la ciudad,” the syllables blurring on their way out of my mouth.
Edgar smiles. “Relax. It’s just me here.”
Who was I kidding? It only took Edgar a couple of minutes to notice.
“I’m really not good at speaking Spanish,” I finally admit. My eyes are glued to my hands, sweating in my lap. “My grandparents didn’t teach me. They always focused so much on fitting in.” Shame floods through my body. I’ve never said these words out loud—not like this, to someone with my heritage, anyway.
“We know a lot of people who don’t speak Spanish,” Edgar says. “Especially people who are older than us, since it’s kind of a generational thing for immigrants’ kids. They were trying to assimilate. And you know, for families who have been here forever too. Not everyone learns it and that’s totally normal.”
I raise my eyes to his. I want to believe him so badly. Even if some people I know don’t speak Spanish either, I assume it’s likely that their families don’t push them towards whiteness the way Grandma does with me. They know they’re part of our community. Unlike me.
He shrugs. “You’re learning Spanish now.”
I exhale, long and heavy. I’m afraid that if the others in class found out all about me and how I was raised, would they agree with Grandma? That
I’m not Mexican. Not like her or them. Or Mom.
Edgar’s still looking at me, with a reassuring smile, his face void of judgment.
“I can understand some,” I tell him, “especially now that I’m hearing it spoken regularly again. It’s just speaking it’s hard. Especially in front of people our age, who are fluent. Like in class.”
Edgar looks down at the book. “Like Carlos?” His glasses slip down his long nose, and he pushes them back up with his index finger.
I blink. Not liking the way Edgar won’t meet my eye all of a sudden. “Everyone. Carlos, Miguel, Nina . . .”
Edgar looks back at me. “You must have never watched any of them give a speech in class. You’ll see that everyone has a different relationship with Spanish and it’s okay.”
I sigh. He’s right. I am learning now, but even if I weren’t, wouldn’t that be okay too? If Edgar didn’t speak Spanish, I wouldn’t think any less of him. So why can’t I give that same treatment to myself? I want to. I really do.
He grabs the textbook in front of him and pulls it onto his lap. “And even if people speak Spanish, they can still get nervous giving speeches in front of everyone. That’s pretty much a universal fear. So, if your accent or delivery or whatever isn’t perfect, no one is going to pay that much attention to it. It’ll probably just seem like you’re nervous being in front of a bunch of people.”
Relief floods through me as Edgar flips to another page in the book. With not so much as a pause, he reads the next question—“¿Que quieres beber durante la fiesta?” in Spanish and I answer in Spanish “Quiero beber muchas cervezas,” and we both laugh and go on like it’s no big deal.
Chapter
Twelve
The morning of oral presentations, the knot in my stomach twists and eventually starts to gurgle.
As if reading my thoughts, Edgar leans close so only I can hear him whisper. “You got this.”
Carlos smiles at me and looks surprised at the glare I give him. I never responded to his text about not coming to study and haven’t talked to him since. He faces forward, his legs splayed wide, taking up his space and some of mine.
Señora Almanza calls on Nina first. Nina drags her feet to the front of the room, and her eyes dart around until they land on mine.
Nina keeps looking at me and I can’t look away. Does she get nervous speaking in front of the class? When I hung out with Nina at her house years ago, everyone in her family spoke Spanglish, so I thought this would be easy for her. But when Nina answers Señora Almanza’s questions, she fumbles on a couple of words.
I keep eye contact with her and smile. Like I’m encouraging her. Like it’s just us in the classroom. She finishes her answers quickly.
“Muy bien,” Señora Almanza says. Nina shoots me a grateful look before returning to her seat. “Good job,” I whisper, and she smiles at me.
Carlos goes next, his speaking fluid and assured, and then Señora Almanza calls on me.
I stand and face the class, grasping my sweaty hands together in front of me to keep them from shaking. Jorge whispers something to Miguel and laughs. Miguel doesn’t. My whole body tenses.
Nina looks right at me and nods reassuringly.
I hear Edgar’s words echo in my head. You got this.
Señora Almanza repeats the same question she asked Nina and Carlos. “¿Qué te gustaría hacer este fin de semana?”
The answer tumbles out of my mouth fast. Señora Almanza gestures for me to try again. “Habla despacio, por favor.”
I take a deep breath, glance at Edgar and then back to Nina, before repeating my answer slowly. “Este fin de semana, si es posible, quiero ir al cine.” I don’t actually go to the movies that often, but it’s the first thing that pops into my head. I know I don’t sound natural like Nina and Carlos. Señora Almanza asks me another question, and I answer as slowly and calmly as I can, praying my voice isn’t shaking. I feel sweat pooling at my hairline, but I don’t want to draw attention to it by wiping my face. I keep my eyes trained on Nina as I’m asked a couple more questions, and I answer.
And then it’s over; Señora Almanza says, “Muy bien,” mercifully.
I lunge toward my desk, practically falling back into my seat. “You did good, Ri,” Edgar says.
I wipe my slick hands on my jeans. “Thanks,” I breathe. In and out. It’s over.
The bell rings and Edgar and Carlos walk with me out of class. Carlos wraps his arm around my waist. “I didn’t know you don’t speak Spanish. Now I see why you wanted to study so much.”
I look down at my feet as my cheeks burn, despite myself.
Edgar keeps pace with us. “I bet she did better than you did, since she spoke it by the book. And no one asked you, Carlos.”
Carlos laughs. “Touchy, touchy.” He pulls me in closer to him, and though I’m angry, I let him.
Edgar looks at me for a second but then seems to ease up. He shakes his head and chuckles at Carlos, who is still grinning.
Don Abrams and Nate Sanders walk toward us. Carlos takes his arm off me, and I try not to visibly react.
“Hey, Carlos, now that you’re not on the team, you too busy for us?” Don asks with a smile.
“Nah, man. I was too busy for you then. I just couldn’t admit it, otherwise you’d never hand off the ball!” Carlos chuckles as he mimes catching a football and running away with it.
Nate laughs and pats Carlos’s back. “So, we’ll see you later, at—?”
Carlos cuts him off. “Yeah, I’ll be there.”
Carlos grabs my hand and pulls me in the direction of my locker. Edgar, who looks annoyed, mumbles he’ll see us later, before he walks away.
Stung from Carlos not acknowledging me, I start to ask, “What was that ab—”
Carlos interrupts me. “So, there’s a party coming up at Cassie’s house next weekend. Wanna come?”
I open my locker and switch out my Spanish stuff for what I need for my next class. “I know. She already invited me.”
Carlos gives a half smile. “Well, look at that, you’re already Miss Popular.”
He looks me up and down with exaggeration, before leaning in close, whispering into my ear. “Wear something sexy for me.”
I watch him walk away, flustered by my boomerang emotions. Passing by him, Nina strides toward me. “Thank God that presentation is over,” Nina says. “I hate having to stand in front of the whole class and have everyone watching me.”
I nod vigorously. “Me too. And . . .” I hesitate, but since Nina already knows, I might as well. “Well, it’s hard for me especially. You remember how my grandma is? Never wanting me to learn Spanish.”
Nina’s expression darkens. “I remember your grandma.”
Something about the way Nina says grandma makes me pause. Her not teaching me Spanish is ridiculous, but not enough to warrant such a strong response. But then again, Grandma is Grandma and there are a number of things she could have done to piss Nina off way back when.
I sigh. “She’s tough, my grandma, now as much as ever. Lately, it’s like we can’t be in the same room for more than five minutes without going at it.”
Nina puts her hands in her pockets. “That sucks.” She rocks back on her feet for a second, uncharacteristically quiet. A moment passes and she brightens again.
“So, Cassie’s party. I’m really glad you’re going to come.” She pauses as though thinking. “You could even invite Brittany . . . if you want.”
“Invite me to what?” I flinch as Brittany’s voice rings out behind me.
Nina turns to Brittany. “To Cassie’s party next weekend. Her parents are going to be out of town. There’ll be food, drinks, music, everything. It’ll be fun.”
Brittany looks from Nina to me, her lips pursed. “Uh, well, that’s when Brody’s having his Halloween party. I figured Ri and I would go to that one. His parties are always epic. He usually gets a few kegs, and his house has a massive yard with a firepit and a hot tub. Partying there is, like, th
e best.”
Nina’s smile fades, but I quickly jump in. “Brody’s parties are tired, and anyway I’d rather try something new.”
Brittany tenses beside me. “I guess we could go to Cassie’s, then.”
I roll my eyes and honestly, I don’t even care that Brittany sees as long as Nina does. Because I don’t want her to think I’m like Brittany.
“Why don’t you go to Brody’s?” I plaster on a fake smile. “You obviously want to, and we don’t have to do everything together.”
Nina chuckles, but quickly rearranges her features when Brittany’s eyes dart to her, wide.
Brittany’s voice comes out small. “It just . . .” She looks at Nina, visibly uncomfortable. Brittany gives a little throaty laugh and then clears her throat. “We haven’t, um, spent much time together lately and Brody’s parties are great, but I’d rather hang out with you.”
I swallow, my chest tightening at the guilt I feel. Slightly embarrassed by Brittany’s earnestness in front of Nina, I nod. “Yeah, definitely. We’ll go to Cassie’s together, then.”
The next day, Señora Almanza hands us each printouts detailing how she graded our oral presentations, but before I can read her reasoning, my eyes focus on the grade on the top. B. I got a B!
It’s not the A I would hope for, but for an oral presentation, where pronunciation is taken into account, I’ll take it! I scan through Señora Almanza’s notes, commenting on a few places my delivery faltered or when I messed up a word, but overall, what she wrote is complimentary.
When the bell rings, Carlos leaves after a quick goodbye, and I feel slightly rejected for a moment before I remind myself to not be clingy. I turn toward Edgar as he puts his Spanish book and workbook in his backpack. I flash him my graded paper and smile. “I don’t think I would have been able to get up there and talk in front of everyone without barfing yesterday if it weren’t for you.”
Edgar raises his head to look at me, his curls bouncing slightly as he does. His eyes rest on mine a full second before he speaks. “You had it in you the whole time. You just needed to be reminded.” But his usual smile is absent. He looks like he has something on his mind. He stands, but holds his footing, waiting for me. I quickly finish packing up.
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