I think back to Cassie’s presentation. I didn’t even register anything about hers because it went so seamlessly. It’s easy to not realize how many of my assumptions are still sticking around—because of my own insecurities—that I need to unlearn.
“Sorry, Cassie.” I look at her sheepishly. “My bad.”
Cassie laughs. “It’s fine.” She takes another bite of her sandwich and then gives us a playful glare. “But go on, you two. Keep making your plans without me.”
“So, uh, next time for sure you should come,” I tell her before looking at Edgar. “But today, can we go somewhere other than my house? My grandma might come home from work early, and I don’t want to deal with her bugging us.”
“We can go to my house,” Edgar says. “My mom and aunt should still be at work, if we go right after school, and my brother has plans too.”
I try to keep my smile in check at the thought of spending time alone with Edgar again. I shrug. “That would be great. I’ll walk with you after school.”
Edgar nods, and Miguel and Nina approach us, ending the conversation.
Edgar lives in an apartment complex off of Upper State Street, but we bypass the shops and restaurants by walking on cross streets. I wonder what he thinks of me, especially now that I’m not hanging out with Carlos. I kissed Carlos, several times, and I wanted more. Thankfully, we didn’t go all the way, and I know Edgar heard me tell Carlos I wanted to just be friends but I hope Edgar doesn’t think I’m a homie hopper or something.
“There’s something I’ve being wanting to talk to you about,” I begin, keeping my eyes forward rather than looking at Edgar as we walk. “The other night, at Cassie’s party, with Carlos—”
Edgar interrupts, “You don’t owe me an explanation.”
My lips part and I force myself to look at him. “Right, but I want to tell you. We didn’t . . . he and I didn’t . . .”
“Got it, good to know.” My cheeks flame, and Edgar gives me an awkward smile before maneuvering around a pothole on the street we’re crossing. Our steps slow as he directs me into a gas station parking lot.
I follow him, stepping inside after he opens the door for me. Edgar waves at the cashier, who smiles at us, his cheeks wrinkling as he does. “Edgar, my man!”
“¿Qué onda, güey?” Edgar slaps hands with the guy before he heads for the snack aisle, me trailing behind him. He grabs a bag of barbecue chips, and I take Flamin’ Hot Cheetos. We grab a couple of sodas, and Edgar pays up front.
“Luis, this is my friend, Ri.”
Luis shuts the cash drawer and grins at me. “Pretty.”
I blush. “Thanks, it’s short for Maria.”
Luis gives Edgar a look and a wink. “Don’t get into too much trouble.”
Edgar flushes and laughs, but a breath catches in my throat at the thought of exactly what kind of trouble we could get into with no one home.
At a small white apartment building, Edgar leads me up the concrete stairs and lets us into his apartment at the top. Inside, two black couches sit adjacent from one another. The one farthest from us has a couple of pillows and a folded blanket on it.
Edgar collects the pillows and blanket and pushes them neatly to the side. “Sorry, the futon’s my bed.” Edgar gestures to the couch. “I would have cleaned up, if I had known you’d be coming over.”
We both seem to avert our eyes from each other. He pulls the wooden coffee table closer to the couch nearest us and sets the bag full of snacks on it.
I sit next to Edgar as he passes me my chips and soda. “It was getting cramped with Armando and me sharing a room, so I thought I’d take the couch. Mi tía has José’s old room, my other brother.”
I open my bag of chips. “José’s the one who helped you buy your camera, right? I didn’t realize you have two brothers.”
“Had,” Edgar says quietly. He points to a family portrait on the wall behind the TV. In it, there’s a woman and three sons, including a preteen-looking Edgar. “I used to have two.”
Used to.
We both stare at the photo. My mind reels, so many thoughts, so many questions, but no words.
Edgar inhales deeply. “He died. José got in a car crash when he was seventeen. He’d be twenty-one, if he were still alive.”
“I’m so, so sorry,” I choke out.
Edgar gives me a sad shrug. “It was four years ago. It nearly killed my mom, when it happened. But we’re okay now. Or as okay as a family can be after something like that. Like I said, one of my aunts lives here now. It helps my mom having her around.”
“I . . .” I catch my breath. “I can’t even imagine . . . I—”
“I know,” Edgar says. “So, yeah. Anyway, now it’s just me and Armando.”
I grasp for something to say, something, anything. “How old is Armando?”
“Nineteen,” Edgar says. “I could have stayed sharing a room with him, but it was cramped, and we fought all the time over the dumbest stuff. I could tell it was driving my mom nuts. She and my aunt were going to share a room at first, but . . . I just couldn’t be the reason for her to have one more thing taken from her.”
My throat dries and I take a drink. “That was really nice of you.”
Edgar shrugs. Like it was nothing. I imagine Edgar moving his stuff out of his old room, him offering up the space to his older brother. Never trying to take for himself. He’s lost so much, and he gives so much. To his family, to me.
I look around again. Besides the family photo, there are more pictures on the walls in the living room—gorgeous scenic photos that I have no doubt Edgar took himself, always able to capture beauty and portray it for all to see.
I spot a picture collage on the wall nearest the kitchen. I stand, without thinking, and walk closer. In the center is a group photo with more than a dozen people in it. Edgar walks to me.
“That’s a family picture from the last time we were all together in Mexico.” He points to a preteen version of himself, his curly hair longer and unruly. “There I am.”
Next to him, I see younger versions of José and Armando on one side, and then a couple teenage girls on the other. As I look at everyone in the picture, I see that that there must be over twenty people photographed, all of varying shades. There are a few who have skin like mine. “Your family is so big. For me, I’ve only ever known my grandparents and mom.”
“We’re usually a little more spread out, but we had a reunion to celebrate my great grandmother’s ninety-ninth birthday. It was really nice to have everyone together . . . well, for most of the time.”
“What do you mean?”
“You know how awful old school Latinos can be about skin color, thinking lighter is best.” Edgar says. “One side of the family has indigenous roots. My great grandma sometimes called them prietos and teased them for their dark skin.”
I pull my head back in surprise.
Edgar sighs heavily. “Mis primas Isabelle y Camila hated it. It made them self-conscious. They thought she was calling them ugly, basically. And my great grandma was in rare form that day, with all of her comments. José noticed, though—he was always good at that kind of thing. So he rounded up all the cousins and snuck us out of the birthday party to play some soccer on the beach. My great grandma would have hated that too—girls shouldn’t run around kicking a ball, not very ladylike.”
“José sounds like a really great guy.” I watch Edgar’s face, his sad smile as he remembers his brother.
“The best,” Edgar replies, a hint of nostalgia in his voice. “He was really good at making people smile like that, getting them to have fun or to feel better if they were having a hard time.”
“Sounds like you,” I say quietly.
Edgar’s breath hitches. “Thanks.”
I swallow, feeling my heart in my throat, and then I look back at his family photo. His cousins. They’re beautiful. My mind drifts to Grandma and Mom. I wonder if anyone ever made them feel less than beautiful.
Edgar looks b
ehind us to his book on the table. “So, Spanish?”
I nod and we head back over and study. Sometimes our knees touch, and neither of us pull them away.
About an hour later, keys jangle on the other side of the door right before it opens, revealing a petite woman weighed down with several bags full of groceries.
Edgar rushes over to take a couple bags out of the woman’s hands. “Mom, you’re home early. This is my friend Ri.” He gestures to me on the couch, and I stand and make a move to help with the groceries.
“Ri, this is my mom, Catalina.”
Catalina’s round face illuminates with a grin. She shoos me away from helping as she makes her way to the kitchen. “So nice to meet you. Edgar has told me wonderful things!”
My face flushes and I look at my feet to hide my smile.
“I switched days with Susan for tutoring last week, when she needed the time off to help her mom after surgery,” Catalina explains to Edgar. “So I have the night off.”
I follow them into the kitchen, where they begin unloading food into the fridge and cabinets. “Ri, would you like to stay for dinner?” Catalina asks.
Edgar looks at me hopefully. Grandma’s not working tonight, so as much as I don’t want to be home, I know she’ll want me to be. But there’s no harm in asking, so I pull out my phone. “Let me just check with my—”
I see a text from Grandma, saying she ended up having to work tonight. Figures.
“I can stay.”
“Great,” Catalina says. “¿Me puedes pasar el pollo? Wait, you’re not a vegetarian, are you? Instead, I could make—”
“I’m not a vegetarian, and I love chicken.” I grin as I hand her the package, feeling a blush creep into my cheeks. Who says they love chicken? But really, I’m just thrilled I understood her when she asked me to pass it to her.
Catalina smiles at me before putting the chicken on the side of the sink. She pulls her long, wavy black hair into a bun and washes her hands. “Mijo, can you wash these and cut the fat off?”
Catalina starts shredding cheese as Edgar gets to work. “Ri, you can sit at the table,” he says. “If you want, I can keep quizzing you on Spanish from here.”
I shake my head. “I feel like we’re in a good stopping place. I can help.”
Catalina smiles before instructing me on how to make the sauce.
The three of us work together in the small kitchen. I remember Edgar telling me his mom loves corgis, so I ask Catalina about them.
Her eyes light up as she stops stirring the rice to show me her phone. “This is from Corgi Beach Day in Long Beach. I went last year.” I stop cutting the onion to look at the picture of Catalina, Edgar, and Armando on a beach, surrounded by hundreds of corgi dogs wearing costumes of everything you could imagine. Corgis wearing shark fins, superhero outfits, and one is even dressed as a banana. Behind them, a corgi stands on a surfboard, apparently riding a wave.
My eyes pop. “Is that dog surfing?”
“Yep!” Catalina exclaims. “And he’s really good!” She swipes to show me a photo of her posing with the corgi.
Edgar laughs. “She’s obsessed with this dog. She follows him on Instagram and likes all of his posts.”
Catalina nods and smiles at Edgar before putting chicken in the oven to bake and covering the rice. She grabs a pitcher of lemonade and sets it on the table. Edgar grabs three glasses and we join her.
As she begins to pour us each a glass, Catalina glances at me. “So Ri, Edgar tells me your family is from Mexico too. Which part?”
My eyes widen. I have no idea. “I . . . uh . . . ” I mumble, before Edgar furrows his eyebrows. I’m sure he can tell that I’m uncomfortable, which is so embarrassing to begin with, but does he know why?
Edgar jumps in and saves me from answering. “My grandparents on both sides are Santa Barbarans, but my mom’s grandparents—”
“Are from Teacapán,” Catalina finishes.
Catalina looks wistful, for a moment, and a little sad. “It’s this tiny, fishing village a couple of hours away from Mazatlán, in Sinaloa.” Catalina runs a manicured finger down her glass. “We used to go there once every few years when the boys were little.”
It takes me a moment to realize she must be remembering having José there on those trips too.
Catalina takes a deep breath before continuing, “I miss it. Santa Barbara beaches are wonderful but there is nothing like eating fresh totopos under una palapa by the beach.”
I look at Edgar. “You haven’t been back in a while?”
Edgar shakes his head. “No, but we should. And I’ve told my mom I could get a summer job to help pay for it.”
Catalina gives her son a warm smile. “Maybe one day soon, mijo. In the meantime, I have many good memories. Of the food, the singing and dancing at night with all my family around. But we can make memories here, too, sí?”
“She doesn’t need to be in Mexico for the dancing, that’s for sure.” Edgar chuckles and then he turns to me with a bright smile. “Mom volunteers sometimes at the nearby senior center, where they have a lot of Mexican seniors. She, my aunt, and a bunch of their friends did a performance for the center’s Día de la Independencia celebration a while back. Me and Armando helped the cooks make pozole.”
My eyes widen. He cooks too? Of course, he does.
Catalina grins. “Only because you boys wanted to have an excuse not to dance!”
Edgar widens his eyes in faux exasperation. “I’m just a simple guy. All I want to do is enjoy mi pozole and wait for el presidente to come on the television and lead El Grito.” Edgar pauses when he sees I’m confused. He gives me a silly smile and then pumps his fist in the air. “¡Viva México! ¡Viva!”
He’s adorable. When I catch Catalina watching me watch Edgar, I quickly look back down to my glass.
“I swear you get all los viejitos riled up—it’s like being en el medio de un zócalo. All I’m saying is that I would still love to see my handsome sons dance with me again, like when they were little boys. Maybe next year we’ll finally get Edgar, at least, to join us if you come?”
An invitation! And suddenly a new connection to my culture opens up. “I’d like that.”
Chapter
Sixteen
I busy myself with my locker as I see Brittany heading toward me. As angry as I’ve been, I still miss her. I’ve caught my hand twitching toward my phone when I wish I could tell her some cute thing Edgar said to me. Or when I’ve wanted to talk about how things have been progressing with my mom.
But before I feel sentimental enough to act, I remember. My stomach actually hurts when I think about everything Brittany’s said and done.
After setting my stuff inside, I slam the locker shut. Then I hear Brittany’s voice, soft and uncertain.
“Ri, can we talk?” Brittany’s arms cross in front of her, and she’s looking at my shoulder rather than at my face.
My tone is indifferent. “About?”
“Us. I hate this.”
For a second, I feel like telling her I agree, but I can’t shake off all the crap Brittany has pulled.
“I’ve got nothing to say.”
Brittany’s eyes cast down. “Okay, I guess I’ll leave you alone, then.” She takes a step before turning slightly. “I’ll tell my mom to cancel our golf lesson. It was stupid anyway.”
Unbelievable.
“Great, so your mom can tell my grandma I bailed on that too? You plan on telling her about the party, Brittany? Would that make your self-righteous garbage feel deserved?”
Brittany looks back at me sadly. “I’d never say anything.” And then she walks away.
I huff. I wasn’t ready for the conversation, one-sided as it might have been, to be over yet. Despite how I acted. Without thinking, I grab my phone and text Brittany. I’ll go with you to the stupid club to golf. I’m not giving my grandma another reason to come after me.
Brittany pulls into my driveway later that week to pick me up for the golf less
on. We’re to meet her mom at the club, keep up appearances like everything is fine between us and act like what Brittany said to Grandma at the store was just the result of a petty squabble that we already resolved. That’s what I told Brittany and what I expect her to tell her mom, who will report to my grandma if asked.
The second I open her car door, my eyes widen at her outfit. A short, pale pink pleated skirt with a white top, and a thick white headband holding her ponytail back. “My mom made me wear this,” Brittany says as I settle in beside her.
I look down at my old tennis shoes, leggings, and T-shirt I got from T.J. Maxx probably three years ago. On clearance.
“You look great,” Brittany says. But when she sees the look on my face, she nods over her shoulder at a duffel bag in the back seat. “But I have a change of clothes for you, another golf outfit, if you’d be more comfortable.”
Brittany leans back to unzip the bag and I see a white skirt, much like hers, and a black polo with some golf shoes. She looks at me, almost fearfully. “We’re the same size, so . . .”
I grab the bag and change quickly inside my house, leaving Brittany in the car. When I’m back, I ask, “Why didn’t you just tell me you had clothes for me in the first place?”
Brittany looks away from me, out her window. “We’re not really talking . . .”
My lips are a hard line. Because whose fault is that?
Brittany continues, “And I didn’t want you to feel like . . . like you had to, like there was anything wrong with whatever you chose to wear.”
Brittany stares at me and I stare back, and I know we’re both thinking about our fight, and everything that has happened between us. “Thanks,” I mutter. But that’s it.
We drive in an uncomfortable silence, up the hills overlooking Santa Barbara. The car pulls up to acres of pristine grass surrounded by lush trees and greenery leading to several red-roofed stucco buildings. I’ve heard Brittany complain enough about Riviera Country Club that I’ve imagined it many times, but as she pulls into the parking lot, I realize it’s the first time I’ve ever seen it.
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