by Amber Hart
May is staring at my scars like she feels sorry for me. The pink lines that mar my skin. That rip a pretty picture to bits. Just above my pubic bone. Inside my belly button. One right below it.
I cover them with one hand. Ashamed. Tears prick my eyes.
May looks up. Knows that I’ve seen her.
She flinches. Like the scars hurt her. It’s the flinch that gets me the most.
“Oh, Lissa.” My sister’s voice in my ear. Her arms hugging me like maybe she can hold me together, all my broken pieces. “I’m so sorry this happened to you,” she whispers.
I draw a hand to my heart. Try to stop the sobs.
“I’ve got you,” she says. “You’re never alone. Not ever.”
So I let it go. All of it. The emotions that beg to be freed. My shoulders sag and my lungs heave with silent cries.
May lets me cry. Doesn’t bother with the wetness on her shoulder or the weakness in my bones. She lets me cry and cry. Every tear that needs to be set free.
“We don’t have to go anywhere tonight,” she says. “We can stay in. I won’t leave your side.”
What I need is to get out and forget my diagnosis, my scars, Javier. All of it.
“We can do whatever you want,” May offers. Whatever I want? Right now what I want is to get out of this house.
And forever end these tears.
10
javier
Pedro hands me a beer. Not my first one of the night. Usually a guy with my body type, over six feet tall and two hundred pounds, can handle several beers, but I don’t drink a lot so I’m feeling a little wasted. It’s a good kind of wasted, though. The kind that numbs awareness. That makes me not worry as much about the fact that I blew Melissa off and probably ruined any chance I had with her—not to mention any chance of hearing from her what happened to Faith.
It’s not that I’m cool with how it all played out, but I’m glad that she didn’t meet mi mamá. That would have been worse.
I get up and concentrate on not stumbling in the sand.
“Where you goin’?” Pedro asks.
“To piss,” I mumble, not caring that only one half of me is obscured by the patch of sea grass where I’ve stopped.
My brother laughs. “Haven’t seen you this way in some time, hermano. You sure that chica didn’t get to you?”
“Her name’s Melissa,” I say, zipping up. “And what way are you talking ’bout?”
I plop back down on the blanket laid out on the sand.
“Drinking like this,” he says. “You trying to forget?”
Her mouth. Dios mío.
Her skin. So soft.
Her look.
I gulp more beer.
Pedro doesn’t back down. “You’re trying to erase her.”
Yes. “Maybe.”
“That’s what I thought.”
So what? I’m trying to forget. Nothing wrong with that. I remember many nights of Pedro trying to forget after mi mamá drove away the only white girl he ever had the nerve to like.
“I get why you did it, though,” he says, serious.
Of course, he does.
“You know how mamá is. It’s not worth the trouble.”
Mi mamá is exactly what got me into this mess in the first place. I wish she could just be cool about the girls we pick. I hate that I can’t flirt back with hot gringas who make it obvious that they’re interested. I don’t like crumpling strips of paper with phone numbers on them just because I know it would never go anywhere, thanks to mi mamá.
“I should’ve been smart ’bout it like you. Pushed the gringa away before I got in too deep.”
He hands me a water bottle, but I shrug it off. “Damn, Javier. This is supposed to be my birthday week. You gonna make me babysit you tonight, aren’t you?”
“Fuck you talking ’bout? I don’t need a sitter,” I say, the words slurred. “I need a new memory.”
Pedro shoves the water at me again.
“Do yourself a favor and drink this. You can thank me tomorrow.”
Fine. I chug the water. Stop once to burp. My stomach sloshes and I think I might puke.
“Cierra los ojos. It’ll help.”
I take Pedro’s advice and close my eyes. At this point, I don’t care to watch the world spin around me. I let the background noise—a lapping ocean, screeching gulls, music—drown out my awareness.
And when sleep knocks at the door to my mind, I gladly answer.
I don’t open my eyes again until sometime later. The night has grown colder; the sky has darkened. I look to my left. Find Pedro talking with a few of our friends.
“Time is it?” I ask. Slowly, I sit up.
The beers have worn off some. I feel an appropriate buzz. Enough to take the edge off, but still think straight. Enough that the world is no longer twirling. I don’t feel like I need to puke. But I’m not completely sober, either. Perfect.
Pedro glances at his watch. “Midnight.”
He hands me another water. I drink most of it.
“Gracias,” I say, feeling guilty that I made him stick by my side.
“You good?” Pedro asks.
I nod. “Lo siento.”
“What do you say we hit up the party down the way?”
I glance in the direction of a blazing bonfire.
“Muchas chicas,” Pedro says. He’s offering me exactly the distraction that I need.
“Vamonos.” He doesn’t need to ask twice.
The salt water is warm where the sand is cool beneath my feet. It takes only a few minutes to walk to the shore party. At the outskirts of the firelight, a guy I’ve never seen before holds out fresh beers, stopping us as we approach. He says, “Welcome. You bring anything other than alcohol and the cops find it, it’s on you.”
His message is clear. I don’t do anything other than drink. Not that I’d blame anyone else if I did.
“Got it,” I say, taking a beer from his outstretched hand.
Luis takes the other beer he offers. My brothers grab drinks from the table behind the welcome dude. He looks at a few of us—namely Juan, Esteban, and Ramon—like maybe he’s wondering if we’re old enough to drink. He doesn’t question it, though.
I’ve never understood the legal drinking age in the States. In Cuba, as long as you’re sixteen or older, people don’t care. And if I’m being honest, most people don’t care even when you’re younger than sixteen. I’m not sure that my country has a legal age.
The United States.
A million rules.
To break.
My eyes, on impulse, take inventory. Bodies lounging in the sand. Speakers stacked atop one another, music pouring out. So many girls.
No danger noted.
“La playa always has the best parties,” Eduardo says, smiling at some chicas walking by.
There’s more people than I expected. Half of them female. A fifty-percent chance to forget the way I blew it with Melissa.
My friends get to work immediately. Ramon approaches a gringa. “Hola, muchacha. ¿Cómo te llamas?”
“English,” she says.
I’m partially surprised that she stops, gives him the time of day. Ramon runs girls off, mostly. True to form, he starts saying something about her skirt being pretty and how he’d love to get in it. The girl walks away, clearly annoyed.
“I don’t understand how you ever get women,” I say, laughing.
“That’s ’cause you haven’t seen my charm.” He smiles.
“Sleaze isn’t the same thing as charm, Ramon,” Luis says.
“Is in my world,” Ramon replies. Eyes another girl. “Later.”
He takes off. On his way to being shot down again.
“Wanna scope it out?” Luis asks.
I follow his eyes to another part of the party where a group of girls are huddled together, laughing, wearing nothing but small suits.
“Sure,” I say, keeping pace beside him.
The girls look up as we approach.
&nb
sp; “Hi,” a few say at once, taking us in.
I don’t have a hard time with girls. But I choose wisely. If they’re white, it’s Luis’s territory. He knows I only date Latinas.
One of the girls looks like she might have Latina blood pumping through her veins. I ask just to be sure.
“¿Tu eres Latina?”
“Sí,” she answers, smiling.
“¿De dónde eres?”
I’m watching her features. Honey brown eyes. Matching skin and hair. I try not to think about how Melissa is a splash of color in my mostly homogeneous world. Blue eyes. Light skin. Blond hair. A rainbow of sexy when I’m used to something different.
Stop.
She tells me where she’s from. “Colombia.”
I claim the spot next to her.
“Soy Javier. ¿Cómo te llamas?”
“Mariella.”
“Ella,” one of the girls says, rolling her eyes. “How are we supposed to understand you?”
I eye her gringa friend. She’s not talking to me, but I answer anyway. “Learn Spanish.”
Mariella laughs. Her friend’s eyes narrow; she’s not amused.
“Why should I learn Spanish when you clearly speak English?” she asks. “And Ella, you always speak English around us, remember?”
She keeps calling her that, Ella. I’m guessing that’s her Americanized name. An abbreviation of her heritage. And I can’t help but think, bullshit. I don’t see why names should have to change like that. I wouldn’t tweak mine to fit in. A name is a link to who you are. Regardless of who thinks it sounds better a different way.
And another thing, what’s with this chica butting into other people’s business? I don’t remember asking her what she thought about my language.
I don’t like a lot of things about Cuba, no. I don’t think Cuba’s safe, no. But I’m proud to be Latino.
“Well, he speaks Spanish,” Mariella explains.
“Right, but we’re in America,” Clueless says.
I decide then that I don’t like her friend.
“Anyway,” Mariella says, tossing ringlets over her shoulder. They bounce like a springboard. “¿De dónde eres?”
“Cuba.”
The word is memories on my tongue.
Clueless starts complaining to another friend about how she feels left out. How it’s rude to speak another language in front of people who don’t understand it.
Why is Mariella friends with people like this?
“Wanna go for a walk?” Mariella asks.
In English. That way her friends get the point.
“Definitely.”
I wipe sand from my shorts while her friends spear us with daggerlike stares. Mariella ignores their rudeness. Warm air wraps around my bare chest as we walk across a floorboard of broken shells. When we get far enough away she says, “So you speak English, too.”
“Yeah. Just not in front of people like that, no offense.”
She shrugs. “They’re not so bad.”
How is she cool with them?
“Being in America doesn’t mean people have a right to tell you who you are,” I say. “It doesn’t automatically change things.”
She watches my face. Sidesteps things that have been washed to shore by the pounding waves. A collection of coral strangled by seaweed. The remains of a jellyfish. Pieces of fishing net.
“It’s just easier. To give in to this new life. It’s more accepting, you know?”
No. I don’t know. Listen to friends who shun your first language? Who tell you how to speak? Who Americanize you, change your name? Sure, maybe it seems more accepting. But only if you can let go of a part of yourself. Which I’m not willing to do.
Mariella waves to a few people in passing. One dude says, “Hey, Ella.”
And I can’t walk any farther. I’m tethered to this spot, my feet unmoving.
What the hell?
My breath speeds up. Heart hammers.
Breathe.
I’m so close, so close, so close to losing it.
Breathe.
Not because he said hi to Mariella.
But because of who he’s got tucked under his arm.
11
melissa
My world wobbles like a seat atop a Ferris wheel. Every now and again, my stomach drops out and I have to remind myself that I’m not on a ride. The air out here is warm and damp and I desperately want to jump in the ocean, run through the waves that nip my feet, begging me to take a dip. The water is enticing. Refreshing. Maybe it’ll dull my buzz. I really shouldn’t have drunk that last beer. But I had to. After my breakdown in front of May tonight, I had to erase the tears. Fill them with this numbness that helps ease the emotional ache. Just tonight.
I’m grateful to the arm that’s helping hold me up.
“What the fuck,” I hear someone say. Harsh. Sobering, with a dangerous note.
I look up.
Of all the people, it had to be you.
I swallow. Look him in the eyes.
“Hi, Javier,” I say, forcing my voice to be steady.
He’s the one that blew me off, I remind myself. He’s also the one standing beside a beautiful girl. Guess May was right. He must have been waiting for her. His dismissal makes more sense now.
Anger turns to sparks, catching fire in me.
Javier’s stare is crippling. Like he wants to yell at me and undress me, both.
“What are you doin’?” he asks, jaw tight.
Moonlight curves around his neck. The stubble there. Deliciously enticing.
“Hanging out.” Smile. “You?”
He looks at Aaron’s arm around me. His fists clench.
“Same,” he says.
The girl next to him looks at us in confusion.
“You know this guy?” Aaron asks.
I’m not sure if he’s talking to me or the other girl, but I answer. “Yes.” At the same time that she says, “Not really.”
Wait.
She doesn’t know him?
“I need to talk to you,” Javier says.
“No thanks.”
How’s it feel to be blown off?
His brows draw together. I lean into Aaron more. Press my face to his shirt.
Javier takes a step towards us. “What you’re seeing is not what you think,” he says.
I glance at the girl next to him. “Seems clear to me.”
The world tilts again and I’m reminded that I drank too much. I close my eyes.
“You okay?” Javier asks.
Not really. “Sure.”
He sees through my lie.
“You’re coming with me,” he says, his words suddenly in my ear.
Snap. My eyes are open. Staring at his face. So close to mine that I can make out the individual eyelashes that frame his angry eyes. There are tiny freckles across his cheeks. I didn’t notice them before. I can’t believe I didn’t notice them.
Aaron stares at me. Suddenly looking like he’s in over his head. He takes a step away at the same time Javier takes a step forward. Now it’s Javier balancing my woozy legs.
Not wanting drama, Aaron says, “This okay with you?”
I should say no. I want to say yes. I should tell Aaron to take me far away from the boy who makes my heart beat erratically. My pride is frayed. Saying yes would only make this worse.
But what I do is nod.
Javier doesn’t hesitate to take me away. Aaron turns to leave with the girl that Javier came with.
“Mujer,” Javier says, putting space between us and the crowd. “What are you doing with that pendejo?”
“He’s not so bad,” I say.
Javier stops. Tips my chin up toward him.
“You want that guy, mami?”
And I can’t for the life of me find my voice. No, I don’t want that guy. He was a nice distraction. But I never would have gone with him if Javier hadn’t blown me off. I break his stare.
“You want that girl?” I ask, watching as Aaron and th
e girl walk in the opposite direction.
“What I want is for you to look me in the eyes and tell me why you’re drunk and feelin’ up some dude.”
“What I want is for you to want me like I want you!” I clamp a hand to my mouth. Regret slaps me in the face.
Javier pulls my hand away. His stare takes in all of me. My eyes. My lips. I’m embarrassed by what I said. I’m embarrassed by my ridiculous heart, which thumps loudly, echoing his every touch.
“You want me, mami?”
Yes. In the deepest parts of my bones, yes.
Silence.
“Answer me.” His voice is demanding.
“No,” I say, stubborn.
A grin crawls across his face.
“I owe you an apology,” he says. “I couldn’t talk to you earlier. Wanted to. But I couldn’t. You understand?”
“Not at all.”
Javier’s warmth reminds me of the water. Of wanting to jump in. I’d do anything to cool off.
“If I explain it to you, will you remember in the morning?”
“Probably not,” I answer honestly. “But then again, you’re hard to forget.”
I wince. What is with my traitor lips?
Javier laughs. “In that case, I’ll tell you one day. Maybe.”
Whatever that means.
“Let’s go in the water,” I say, voice slurred.
I don’t wait for Javier’s reply. One step, two steps, three steps in. The ocean laps at my knees, instantly cooling. I don’t bother to remove my shorts. Javier eyes my suit. White with tiny pink hearts splattered across the fabric.
I can’t let him see the scars.
I sigh. “Much better.”
Four steps, five steps, six steps in.
Strong arms wrap around me. One hand rests just below my belly button. Too close, too close, too close. The other sits lightly on my exposed hip. He must be wearing a metal ring because I feel it against my side, cool on my flesh.
And suddenly I can’t breathe. Another flashback.
The cold steel of a knife presses against my stomach. I feel that much, even in my drug-induced state. The doctor asked me to count to ten. I’ve reached four, the last number I can muster. There’s too much fog in my brain. The doctor’s saying something about proceeding. That they need to get it out.