The Scars That Made Us

by Inda Herwood

  He holds up a hand to stop me, and for the first time I notice what he’s wearing: his favorite pajama pants with the dinosaurs on them and a blue blazer set over a T-shirt that has a baby duck on it. Not for the first time I wonder what planet he was dropped off from.

  “Hey, you don’t…you don’t need to explain,” he says, expression softening. “She’s a really awesome girl, and if something had happened to her, no one would have felt worse than me. I shouldn’t have brought her. But I don’t regret it, either. It wasn’t fair that you knew more about her than she knew about you. She isn’t Renee, man.”

  The blood in my veins goes cold at just hearing her name.

  “I know that,” I say tensely, a muscle in my jaw twitching from strain. “But I would have liked to have told her myself.”

  He looks at me for a long minute, eyes calculating, and then he says, voice quiet but confident, “No. You never intended to tell her anything. Least of all why you really race. And she deserves more, Jag. She deserves to know the truth.”

  Looking away, he walks off into the kitchen where a commotion of voices is rising and falling, laughter bleeding out into the foyer. I remain standing in place, feeling suddenly like I’m the one that doesn’t belong here.

  Cyvil

  A noise like I’ve never known before infiltrates the kitchen, and I suspect the rest of the house. It’s amazing – the energy, smiles, and laughter that comes from all these women, all of whom help with setting the table, putting dishes out, and talking with me; having me join in on the family dynamic, making me feel as though I’ve always been here – letting me into the fold like I belong.

  Just as Rosy’s cousin, Mona, is telling me about her time in school at Columbia last year, Moon walks into the kitchen, saying over the loud murmuring of female voices, “What’s up, ladies? The man candy has officially arrived.”

  In one great boom of white noise, every woman in the kitchen talks over each another, greeting him with a kiss on the cheek and a “Hey, Moon!”, making me laugh by the time he makes his way over to me. The man definitely knows how to command a room. And I notice absently that no one seems surprised that he wears a shiner on his smiling face.

  “Hello, Tessa,” he greets me, and I replicate the others by giving him a kiss on the part of his cheek with the least amount of bruising. I pair it with a sympathetic smile.

  “Did you at least see a doctor?” Even as I ask the question, I know he didn’t. Otherwise his once long, straight nose wouldn’t be slightly tilted to the left like it is.

  He waves off my question, and that’s when I notice the beautiful bouquet in his hands. As Mrs. Nunez walks by us, she takes them from him, saying, “Thank you, muffin.”

  “You’re welcome, Lotta.” He smiles as she disappears out of the kitchen, probably to find a vase for her flowers. Turning his attention back to me, he says smugly, dark eyes glittering, “Something you should know about me is that I am from a long line of warriors, Montae. My people frown upon medical help. It is a sign of weakness.”

  I huff a laugh, still stirring the pot I was put in charge of. “Then I suspect there aren’t many of you left, are there?”

  As he’s about to open his mouth and say something else that’s ridiculous, Ayla, Rosy’s younger sister who’s my age, walks into the kitchen, saying, “I tried to tell her they were fine, but Mom doesn’t think the tortillas are hot enough – oh, hi, Moon – Oh my gosh, what happened?” She comes to a sudden stop in front of him, her tan skin pinking in the cheeks, expression worried as she takes in his impressive injury.

  Ayla is beautiful like the rest of the women in her family, what with her high cheekbones framed by midnight hair cut into a stylish bob around her chin, her lashes dark enough to showcase her brown eyes without the use of mascara. She’s just as sweet as her mother, welcoming me with a smile when she walked into the kitchen shortly after I got here.

  Carefully, her fingers prod at his face, brows narrowing the longer she inspects it.

  “I’m fine, little Nunez. Nothing to get upset over.” His voice hitches on the last word, and I can honestly say I’ve never seen him look like this before. He actually seems shy from her looking him over, the only one in the family that seemed concerned about his obvious fight with a fist.

  Letting her fingers fall from his face, she too looks surprised that she did what she did. Clearing her throat, she walks across the kitchen to the freezer and grabs a handful of ice, putting it in a towel. Coming back over, she gently places it on his face, asking after a minute, “Is that better?”

  I watch his back exhale in a sigh, his eyes closing. Not able to speak with the towel over his mouth, he nods instead. I quickly look back at Ayla to see her shoulders deflate in brief relief. “Okay, well, you should keep that on there for a bit, to help with the swelling. Maybe take some Advil after dinner to manage the pain.” From talking to her earlier, I know that she’s an aspiring nurse that just got into NYU, so this is almost instinctual for her. But with the quietness in her voice when she speaks, and the way she’s looking at him when he can’t see her, I’d say there is something more going on here than just helping out her brother’s friend.

  “Cyvil?” she says, almost startling me.

  “Yeah?” I say, deciding the soup I was stirring should be done by now, and I turn off the burner.

  “Make sure he keeps this on, alright? I don’t trust Mr. Warrior here not to get rid of it the minute I leave the room.”

  “I’ll watch him like a hawk,” I promise her, and she smiles gratefully, giving Moon one last look before going back into the dining room with the rest of the family. She forgot her tortillas.

  As soon as she’s gone, I slap Moon’s arm.

  “Ow,” he hisses around the ice pack.

  “Oh jeez, I barely touched you.” Looking back at the doorway to the kitchen, now empty, I ask him, “What the heck was that?”

  He pauses, turning his face to look at me, though the act is pointless since he can’t actually see. “What was what, ninja?”

  “Little Nunez.” I repeat what he called her, trying not to laugh. “What, is that some kind of trick to remind yourself that she’s your best friend’s little sister?”

  “What are you talking about? It’s what I’ve always called her.” He defends, leaning back against the opposite counter as me, face looking down into the ice filled towel. When he takes it away for a second to resituate it, I don’t miss the stubborn, almost bothered look in his eyes.

  I sigh, moving the pot off the stove and onto a potholder, just like Mrs. Nunez said to. Spinning around to face Moon while we are the only two in the kitchen, I say, “How long have you known her?”

  Just his lips visible, I see them turn up in a reluctant smile. “Since she was just a kid, barely ten years old. She always tried to get the guys and I to take her along when we went places,” he explains. “Never into dolls or any of that stuff. She liked cars like Jagger, motorcycles like her brother. A tom boy.”

  “I bet that got annoying for you,” I say, remembering Atillia getting mad at me when I would try to get her to take me to the mall with her and her friends when I was little.

  He remains silent for a minute, a record for him. And then he says, using the same, thoughtful voice Ayla had, one I haven’t heard him use often, “No. Not for me. I was the one that usually convinced the guys to let her tag along. She just wanted to be a part of something, be one of us, you know?”

  I barely contain a smile, crossing my arms over my chest as I imagine Moon fighting for her case, the adoration that probably grew for Ayla from having him be her advocate. “That was really nice of you. I’m sure she appreciated it.”

  He and the towel look up, mouth set in a suspicious line. He then proceeds to wag a finger at me. “No. I see what you’re doing here, devil woman, and it’s not going to work.”

  It’s a good thing he can’t see my grin. “Oh, and what exactly am I doing, Moon?”

  He shakes his head wi
thout answering, dipping out of the kitchen, leaving me alone.

  ***

  Dinner is great. I can’t remember the last I had this much fun at a family meal, and the entire time there isn’t a lick of silence. They all ask about each other’s week, what they did, who they saw. It’s loud, and fun, and just…everything I never had with my own family. For as long as I can remember, our time together has always been tense, unfamiliar. We don’t have the kind of freeness of speech as the Nunez/Reyes family does. It’s a nice change of pace.

  Afterwards, I offer to help Mrs. Nunez with dishes while the others go out onto the back patio with cookies and coffee, the chatter audible even in here. I smile down into the soapy water as a chorus of laughter rises beyond the window.

  “What is it, honey?” Lotta asks, drying one of the beautiful serving platters she said was passed down to her by her grandmother.

  “Nothing,” I say at first, but then decide that there’s no harm in being honest with her. “Actually…this has been a wonderful day for me. I just wanted to thank you for letting me into the fold like you have. It’s not something I’m very used to.” I’m embarrassed to admit.

  She puts the dish down on the counter before resting her right hand on my shoulder. “You are welcome in my home any time, Cyvil. You’re officially a part of this crazy family now, no take backs.” She smiles, taking the next dish from me.

  “Thank you,” I say, giving her a returning smile that I hope conveys how happy that makes me.

  She nods, another particularly large roar of laughter making her look out the window and onto the back patio. She smiles fondly at whatever she sees. “You’re good for him, you know.”

  My gloved hand pauses on a piece of silverware, not daring to look up. “You mean Jagger?”

  “Mm-hmm. I haven’t seen him wear a smile as much as he has around you today. At least not since his mother passed away a few years ago.” Her smile evaporates, and she returns to take the newly rinsed forks and spoons from me.

  “Oh,” I say distractedly, my mind swarming over this new piece of information. So…his mother died. That’s why he doesn’t ever talk about her? It still seems odd.

  “It was a tragic thing. A miracle he even survived the car crash like he did.” Her voice thickens, hands stilling around a wine glass. “Lucinda was a wonderful friend to me. But I’m glad I still have Jagger. He’s my son now, just like Moon is. They’re as much blood to me as Ambrosio and Ayla are.”

  Lotta looks at me then, her eyes filling with glassy tears, making a rock form in my throat in response. “It’s your turn to look after him now, honey. He needs a bright light in his life, someone to take away the darkness his mother’s death left in him.” She sniffles, breaking my heart further. “After seeing the way you two looked at each other today, and how happy you being here made him, I’m confident that you’re the one to do it. So…please. Take care of my boy, will you?”

  Shelling off the gloves and leaving them in the sink, I embrace her, and her returning hug is tight, and warm, and full of a mother’s love. I’m touched and comforted that she cares that deeply about Jagger, and flattered that she thinks I can be something needed in his life. But at the same time, I can hear a part of my soul tearing, knowing that deep down, I’m not going to be that person for him. I can’t be.

  I swallow the thought, deciding to pretend it doesn’t exist for the time being. Instead, I go back to doing dishes with Lotta, and let her fill my ears with funny tales of the three musketeers outside.

  Far too soon, it’s time to leave. Everyone meets me and Hanna at the door, giving each of us hugs with invitations to come to next week’s dinner. We assure them that we’ll try, and the boys bid their own ado’s.

  Walking into the warm evening air of summer, I find my car right where I parked it, the street lights flipping on one by one, illuminating the houses along the block. In my right hand I have three containers of leftovers given to me by Lotta, Moon giving me dirty looks out of the corner of his eye as I get a better grip on them. When I ask Jagger what his problem is, he just laughs under his breath, not bothering to answer.

  Saying goodbye to Hanna, Rosy, and the scowling Moon, I ask Jagger as he walks me to my car, opening the door for me to put the containers in the backseat, “What is Moon’s deal with Ayla?”

  Shutting the door once all my stuff is in, I lean my back against the side of the Bug, watching Jagger’s profile lit by the lights overhead. It makes his dark hair look rimmed in gold.

  He smiles like it’s some sort of private joke, eyes looking in the direction of where his friend skulked off to. “He’s had a thing for her since we were teenagers. It’s only gotten worse with age.”

  A-ha. “And it’s two-sided, isn’t it?”

  He nods, looking back at me. “Yeah. I’m surprised you picked up on it. They didn’t really interact during dinner.”

  I explain the incident in the kitchen with her giving him the ice pack, the tortured look in his eyes when she left. His smile saddens. “Neither wants to admit it. I think for Moon it’s because of upsetting Rosy. And for Ayla, it’s the fact that she doesn’t think he sees her that way.”

  “You’d have to be as blind as a bat not to notice,” I say, making him chuckle. “But seriously, do you think Rosy would be mad? You know, because it’s his little sister?”

  Jagger shrugs, joining me by leaning against the car, staring up at the brick house before us. “I don’t have siblings, let alone a sister. So I don’t know what my reaction would be, let alone his. But I think if he knew Moon really liked her, maybe even loved her, he would step aside and try to be happy for them.”

  “It’s amazing, isn’t it?” I say, feeling a breeze ruffle my hair, making me close my eyes to enjoy the coolness of it against the summer heat.

  “What is?” he asks quietly, his voice sounding far off.

  “How we convince ourselves that no one could love us, even if it’s staring us right in the face. The people around us see it plain as day, but the ones it involves are completely blind to it. Strange, right?”

  “Yeah. I guess it is,” he breathes out, and I open my eyes, only to see him leaning his head back now, staring up into the night sky. “But why do you think we do it? Pretend to be ignorant?”

  “I don’t know. Maybe the idea that someone could love us is also based in the fear that one day they could also decide not to anymore. It’s easier to avoid love when you think of the sting it leaves when it’s gone.”

  I can feel the smile in his voice when he says, “I think I’m hearing the first side effects of you being a notorious bibliophile.”

  “I didn’t get that from a book, if that’s what you’re thinking,” I say, feeling my butt go numb from being flat against the car. I push off, turning to face him on the sidewalk.

  “Well in that case,” he grins, “what you said was very insightful, yet quite cynical for a teenager.”

  “Wow, thanks.” I roll my eyes, using my arm to push him away from my door. “Because you’re just so old and full of wisdom yourself. I’m glad I could impress you.” Putting my key in the door, I say as I turn it over, “Well, me and my little, underdeveloped brain are going to go home now. Have a good night.”

  The grin widens, Jagger stepping away from the car, his eyes watching me with a smile in them. It reminds me of what Mrs. Nunez had said to me in the kitchen.

  I haven’t seen him wear a smile as much as he has around you today. At least not since his mother passed away a few years ago.

  Once again, my heart drops in my chest like a falling boulder.

  He sees it in my face the moment it happens.

  Stepping close enough that the tips of our shoes touch, he looks down into my face, mouth ringed in discontent. “What is it?” he asks, and I watch one of his fingers climb to touch my face, but at the last second he lets it drop.

  “Just thinking of something sad,” I answer honestly, wishing he hadn’t thought twice about touching me. Going back to
the key in the lock, I take it out and open the door, forcing him to take a step back. “I’ll…I’ll see you on Wednesday,” I tell him, sliding into the driver’s seat and shutting the door in one motion. I turn on the engine before he can say anything else, pulling away from the curb and the disappointed look in his heather gray eyes.

  Jagger

  For the next three days I torture myself by wondering what I did, said, or didn’t say, to make her up and leave like she did. I don’t think it was the teenager comment. She can’t be petty enough to have let that bother her. No. It was something else, and it was big enough that it had her shoulders falling and her eyes looking crushed.

  I’m still thinking about it when I pull up to the guest house a little before seven. Tonight’s the stupid beach party, and it’s the last thing I want to do right now. Not only because I’m afraid Renee will be there, but because keeping a fake smile on my face takes so much energy, and it reminds me that I’m a complete and utter fraud. For a dozen reasons, none of which Cyvil knows about.

  Moon was right. She deserves better.

  Breathing a deep sigh, my hand knocks on her door a total of three times, able to hear Grim warn Cyvil that someone is here. A few minutes later, the deep blue painted door flies open, a frazzled looking Cyvil standing in the doorway. Her hair is down and floating around her shoulders, eyes a deep shade of caramel as she stares back at me. At least five different shirts are hanging over her arms – legs covered in jeans that look excruciatingly hot.

  “I don’t wanna go,” she says seriously, dropping the clothes at her feet. “This was a stupid idea to begin with. We’ll just go to some other idiotic party in a few weeks and no one will notice we missed it.”

  She goes to shut the door but my hand stops it, giving her a raised brow as I step across the threshold. “We already RSVP’d, your parents passed me in their car in the driveway when I pulled up, and I don’t think it’d be much fun explaining why we weren’t there, as much as I would love to ditch this thing myself. I know it sucks, but we kind of have to go.” Giving her another once-over, I ask, “Why are you wearing pants on an eighty-five degree night?”