Shaking my head—“No, I mean, what I meant to say is, are you hungry?”
She’s full-on grinning. “I could eat.”
She follows me into the kitchen as I try to remember where Ana keeps . . . almost everything. Recipes. Baking trays. Spices.
Linny pulls up a chair to the breakfast bar. Studies me intently. “I didn’t know you cooked.”
“Oh yeah”—dusting off the comment—“all the time.”
I crack open a window, attempt to let out the heat. Unfortunately, it’s just as sauna-ish outside.
“Right,” I say, largely to the spoons. “Let’s do this!”
I fumble around for some onions and tomatoes and olives, pull some chicken legs from the fridge, dump everything into a pan (or maybe it’s a lid?), find salt and pepper silos on the table, and give the whole thing a really good grind. (That sounds wrong somehow?)
Chicken in the oven, I turn on a timer—fifty-five minutes should do it! In the meantime, we select a documentary on Netflix about a man who walks a tightrope between the Twin Towers. Then we avoid the couch like it’s made of combustible materials. Sitting down means determining how close we’re going to be. When it becomes more awkward to hover than take the plunge, I bravely park myself in the middle of the left cushion. Linny plops down on the right. The blob nearly eats her.
“Comfy,” she says, and I laugh. Then she notices the extra pillows. “So do you, um, sleep here?”
Uh. Have I really just lured her into my bed, after one kiss and a hand hold? “Yeah,” I say, and bullet forward. “This-movie-looks-really-good-let’s-press-Play-shall-we?”
And it’s true, the movie’s awesome, and it’s even more awesome watching her watch the awesomeness. Eyes: brillante. She really loves this stuff. Mom says that when I’m reading A Brief Compendium of Astrophysical Curiosities, I have this rapt expression on my face. Like a great white could be gnawing at my lower extremities and I wouldn’t notice. Now I know the face she means.
“How much of a movie snob are you?” I tease.
She acts offended. “I’m not a snob!”
“I bet you’re one of those people who spell theater with an r-e at the end and deliberately mispronounce it thea-TRA.”
That elicits an eye roll.
I inch a bit closer.
“I’m glad we’re hanging out,” I say.
“Technically speaking, we hang out all the time.”
“I mean outside of an old-people’s home, without five other people asking for the remote in the game room. And not during a manuscript hunt.”
What I don’t say: It’s nice to act our age. Nice to forget about the people without teeth and the smell of sickness. And as much as it kills me to admit it, nice to forget about Álvaro—for just a second. To watch a movie with a cute girl without wondering how I’m going to push “I’m your son” from my mouth.
She smiles. “I know what you mean.” And maybe she actually does.
Pulling Chapstick from her pocket, she strokes it over her lips. Does that mean something? Am I supposed to kiss her?
All my systems react.
God dammit, an instructional manual would be useful. How to Hold a Girl’s Hand in Three Simple Steps. It was so easy in the ball pit.
Yeah, I tell myself. Because she took the first quantum leap. Just like at the playground.
Twenty minutes into the movie, as my hand is within 0.002 millimeters of Linny’s, the back door swings open and—clomp, clomp, clomp—Ana treads into the kitchen. “Seb, I got a pizza! Not sure what we had in the fridge.” Rounding the corner with the box in her hands, she sees us. “¡Hola!”
Here’s the weird thing: Linny and I spring apart. Like we were doing something (or thinking about it, at least).
Linny’s embarrassed.
I’m mortified.
Ana introduces herself by scooping Linny off the couch and into a bear hug. “I’ve heard so much about you,” she says, which is not strictly true but humiliating nonetheless.
“Oh,” Linny says, “good things, I hope.”
“Very good things,” Ana says, at which point I stand up, grab her elbow, shepherd her back into the kitchen.
Whispering to her, “Not cool.”
“What? I want to make her feel at home. Mi casa es su casa.” She holds up her hands. “But okay, okay, making myself scarce.”
Except she doesn’t. Even though Ana’s not my mom, she’s still mom-ish. Example: She pokes her head out of her bedroom every fifteen minutes. The implication: Linny and I are going to fly on top of each other as soon as she leaves.
I wish we were. I wish we were doing everything there is to do.
But instead of jumping her, I spend the next half hour peering at her from the corner of my eye. Waiting for my cooling mechanism to kick in. Then slowly, slowly, slowly—inching my hand toward hers. Initiate countdown:
Tres,
Dos,
(Can you die of anticipation?),
Uno.
Mission complete!
Just like in the ball pit, I cradle her fingers in mine. Trace little circles in her palm.
Neither of us looks at the other, like our hands are independent beings. Like we’re casually just watching a movie while our hands are making out. I don’t want to look down, either. It feels too much like I’m intruding. Like I’m Aunt Ana-ing the situation.
But then, from the corner of my eye, I see Linny turn her neck an inch. She’s looking at our hands, so I do, too.
Can a hand be hot? Just a hand by itself? (Not like a severed hand or anything. I’m explaining this badly.) It’s just that she has a constellation of freckles by her wrist. And cute fingers. And her skin is unnaturally soft.
Two minutes later, the timer beeps in the kitchen. It’s loud. Obvious. But both of us stay still for an inappropriately long time. Hands squeezed together. At some point, the moment has to end. But I’m disappointed that Linny’s the one to break away first. Our hands have been smashed together long enough that they make a sticky thwunk when separated.
“Shouldn’t you take out the chicken?” she says.
From Ana’s bedroom: “Sebastian, turn off the timer!”
So I spring to a stand and trail into the kitchen, Linny at my heels. I slip on some oven mitts and wrench the dish/lid from the oven. It smells . . . interesting.
On the breakfast bar, I set some plates, serve the chicken, and hand Linny a fork. I’m standing across from her, so I witness the first bite. She’s smiling. Yes! Smiling! I’ve done it!
She chews, chews, swallows.
“Sebastian, I have to tell you something.” Smiling turns to laughing. Pointing at the chicken with her fork—“This is literally the worst thing I’ve ever eaten.”
“Seriously?”
“Seriously.”
I cut off a small piece and put it in my mouth. Immediately spit it out in an attractive way. “Oh, gross. What have I done? It’s like Frankenstein’s monster.”
This makes her laugh even harder. I lose it because she’s losing it.
Ana pops into the kitchen. “Have I missed something?”
I can’t catch my breath for long enough to answer her. That is, until she picks up a fork, about to sample the chicken.
“No!” Linny and I yell simultaneously, and she drops the utensil like it’s molten lead.
We decide that pizza is the safer option, so we watch the rest of the documentary while scarfing down double-cheese slices. As the credits roll, I’m dreading her leaving. We stare at the ticking list of names. Then in rapture at the blank screen until it becomes too weird.
“So,” Linny says.
“So,” I say.
She clears her throat. “I should probably . . .”
“Yeah, of course.”
We clean up the plates, and I walk her to the front door, where Linny—backpack in hand—clears her throat. “What are you doing on July tenth?”
Random. But I grin and give an answer I heard in a nineties s
itcom. “Hanging out with you.”
Her smile is state-of-Florida big. “You probably should ask me what we’re doing before you commit.”
“Okay, what are we doing?”
“It’s kind of awkward, but my parents are having this Future Doctors of America lunch, and they asked me to invite you.” Both of my eyebrows arch toward the ceiling. “But you totally don’t have to come,” she adds, fingers dancing at her sides. “It’s just lots of miniature cheese sandwiches and conversations about medical-school rankings—kind of like gladiatorial combat, except we battle with SAT scores instead of swords, and I spend most of the time looking out the window and wishing I were at the opposite end of the globe, but if you were there it might be tolerable.”
Wow. The heaping-gulp-of-words thing must be contagious.
I take three steps forward. “Then I’ll be there.” Suddenly, I’m hyperaware of her lips. How they’re approximately fifteen inches away from mine, definitely within kissing distance. “We can lock ourselves in your room or something.” I mean it as a joke—to avoid the party—but it sounds like something I’d happily donate my moon rock collection to do.
I lean in as she breathes the words, “That would be—”
Ana cuts in. “It was really nice to meet you, Linny!”
Oh no, not now.
I turn around, and Ana’s left hand is on the living-room doorframe. Eyes firmly on us.
Kissing moment, killed.
PLEASE, future self. Solve the mysteries of time travel so I can return to this exact moment and not have it messed up.
“You too,” Linny says to Ana, and then to me as she’s slipping out the door: “See you tomorrow, okay?”
“Yeah,” I muster, watching her hips swish down the front path. I close the door and glare at Ana.
“What?” she says.
“What?”
“Oh, did I just . . . ?”
“Yep.”
She runs her hands through her waves. “Oops.” Pause. “You really like her, don’t you?”
“You could say that.”
“Let’s talk.” Beckoning me into the kitchen—“Ven conmigo. I’m making frijoles negros.”
Like black beans will fix the situation.
I march in anyway, as Ana thrusts a wooden spoon into my hand and orders me to stir. Little waves of concern etch her forehead. “I like her, too,” she says. “But, now that I’ve seen you together, I just . . .”
Stirring vigorously, I create a vortex of beans. “Just what?”
“Don’t you think you have enough on your mind? I assumed this was a summer thing, but it seems like more than that.”
The air goes still for a moment. I deliberate between words. “What if it is?”
“Is what?”
“More.”
Breathing in—“Then I’m concerned that you’re setting yourself up for disappointment with . . . too many things.”
I drop the spoon into the pot and stare at her. “I’m handling this. And besides, she knows about Álvaro. She’s helping.”
Ana unties and reties her apron strings. Picks up a knife and begins to chop (read: attack) an onion. “Okay,” she says, “you’re right, you’re right, it’s your business.”
The knife smacks against the wooden cutting board. In the air: the sharp tang of onions. Ana swipes at her cheeks as a few tears run. “It’s just the onions,” she says. “I’m not crying.”
Extraño. Why the need for clarification?
She repeats it again, forcefully, eyes veiny with red. “I’m not crying.”
It’s an interesting chemical reaction, actually. Enzymes convert the amino acids of the onion into sulfenic acid, which rearranges itself and mists into the air, irritating the eyes. But the onions aren’t that strong. I’m two feet away, and my eyes are fine.
She says, “You’re a good boy, Sebastian.” Dropping the knife, she presses a hand over my heart. “Just protect this, okay?”
21.
Linny
WHO: Neurosurgeon Carl Strinberg of a Mount Sinai hospital
WHEN: Three weeks in 2010
WHY: After performing an unsuccessful operation on a nine-year-old car crash victim, Dr. Strinberg hiked the Adirondacks alone, trying to come to terms with the loss. “At some point I decided to turn around,” he writes in his memoir. “I always urge my patients to stand up and face their trauma. What kind of person would I have been if I’d kept running?”
NOTES: Stop. Running. Grace.
Two weeks later is the Fourth of July, which my sister loves. She never misses an opportunity to strum out “The Star-Spangled Banner” on her guitar, holding the notes in her best Jimi Hendrix impression. Besides her black boots, that guitar is the only thing I’m positive she took with her. I wonder who she plays for now, if that’s how she’s supplementing her life savings on the road.
Instead of being Grace’s groupie on Independence Day, I pin Marla’s memos to all the notice boards, to which Cass (during her one-day-a-week volunteering) takes the liberty of adding handwritten messages.
NO DRINKING ALCOHOLIC BEVERAGES BY THE POOL.
unless it’s tequila. then it’s A-OK!
SHOES MUST BE WORN AT ALL TIMES.
extra points if they’re leopard print
FIREWORKS ARE NOT PERMITTED.
. . . until after 5 o’clock, when this place will look like Chinese New Year
“Such a troublemaker,” I half joke, and she winks at me like “It’s the only way to live.”
In her infinite coolness, Cass has not one but five invitations to Independence Day bashes. I have five by extension but decide only to attend the Silver Springs “party,” a liberally used term, considering all the restrictions.
Once there, it’s difficult for me to concentrate on anything but Sebastian, flipping burgers on the Rent-A-Grill across the courtyard. He’s wearing bright-red swim shorts, and every time he stretches his hands over his head, I can see his back dimples. He has back dimples, for goodness’ sake. I want to press my thumbs into them.
“If you look at him for too long,” Álvaro says, suddenly appearing at my shoulder, “you will burn a hole in his head.”
Seventeen different shades of pink etch up my neck. Apparently I’m not as covert as I think.
“Oh,” I say, “I wasn’t . . .”
“It will stay between us, mi amor.” A low-burning cigarillo is in one hand, and with the other, he strokes his stubbly beard. It’s gray, as is most of the hair on his head—silver tendrils stark against the remnants of black hair dye. Even the skin on his hands is changing color. Where it was brown before, now it’s elephant gray.
And I really don’t want to notice this, but his chest hair’s whitening, too.
He’s been wearing the same linen shirt for two days now, scraps of paper overflowing from his pocket. Looking at him, it occurs to me that he’s probably doing the same thing I do with film: gathering little moments and squirreling them away.
Álvaro rotates his head at an abnormal angle, as if warming up for yoga or a bullfight. “What do you want to do?” he says. Smoke drifts into my face.
“Well.” I cough. “I was thinking about getting something to eat, maybe see if—”
He holds up a hand to stop me. It shakes like a windblown leaf. “No, no. I mean with your life.”
Whoa. That’s a little deep for a pool party.
It’s not fair that he can do this so effortlessly: shoot me a question that cuts me to the quick. The more times I ask him about Joe, the easier he slips away from the topic. I wish I could be like him. I wish I could have the kind of voice—the kind of presence—that grips people’s hearts.
He’s just so darn intense. Sometimes he’ll hypnotize Sebastian and me for hours, relaying stories about his childhood in Cuba. Or I’ll arrive in the morning and he’ll be rapid-fire punching his typewriter; I almost see smoke rising from the keys.
Other times he’s not so okay. Sometimes he looks—I’ll just go
ahead and say it—dead, like the ghost I thought he was. When I open his desk drawers, I find them stuffed with odd bits of string, more scraps of paper, and leftover napkins from the cafeteria.
I figure that happens when you get old. There are good days. There are weird days.
I parrot his question. “What do I want to do with my life?”
If he hears me, he gives no indication, just puffs away at his cigarillo. It dangles and bobs as he speaks. “I’ll tell you un secreto pequeño, niña. Only two things matter in life. How we love and how much we love. You’ll remember that, yes?”
See what I mean? Intense. He’s looking at me like he’s handing me a sliver of his heart. I stutter, “Yeah—yes, of course.”
Stamping out the remains of his cigarillo in one of the red, white, and blue cupcakes, Álvaro points to a jug of yellowish liquid on the snack table. “Have you tasted la limonada?”
“Um, no,” I say.
Resting his cane against the snack table, he fills two Dixie cups with a lemonade-like substance and offers me one. I take a wary sip. The stinging liquid hits my tongue like an atom bomb. I fight it—but it fights harder, spewing from my lips and Impressionist-painting the concrete.
Tilting back his head, he drains the Dixie cup in one gulp. “I added vodka.”
Someone’s playing the Eagles’ greatest hits over the loudspeaker. Grace’s absence slaps me in the face again—she loves the Eagles, even though I joke with her that they’re an old-people’s band. (I guess I have definitive proof now!)
Álvaro snaps his fingers. “We should dance, ¿sí?” Next to the grill is a makeshift dance floor with two or three couples shuffling around it. At first I think he’s joking, but he extends a hand, skin crackly like clay baked too long in the kiln. Together we walk (ultraslowly) to the dance floor.
But once there, he is anything but slow. The only thing I can liken him to is a sheet in the Miami breeze, the way it twists fluidly in elegant motion. He’s graceful, swift, measured—everything I’m not, apparently.
“Bah!” he exclaims, ten seconds into the dance. “You are horrible!” Except he pronounces it in Spanish, oar-ee-blay, which sounds harsher somehow. “I’ll teach you,” he says. “First, stop moving. Enough movement for right now. Your hand, here. Begin on the second beat. Two, three, cha-cha-cha.”
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