O-key dokey. Tension. Knife. Change of subject. “What’s mole?”
Clem’s the one who answers. He explains that mole, sometimes called the national dish of Mexico, is a sauce made with chile peppers and chocolate and about twenty other ingredients. Although Amelia acts disinterested, I can tell she’s listening to every word, that there’s more to the mole than meets the eye.
“So what’s in the other bowl?” I ask Mari when Clem’s done explaining.
“Amelia couldn’t be the only one bringing food.”
“Yes. I could,” Amelia mumbles.
“So I made green chile stew. Extra-hot,” Mari says, ignoring Amelia. She turns and gives me a knowing look and a wink, and I get that she’s made the stew with the special chile she took from Rudy. “It’s super good. Super spicy. Onions. Chile. Garlic. You want to try it?”
“Not right now,” I say.
“You want some?” she asks Clem.
“I wouldn’t if I were you,” Amelia warns, a dig at Mari’s culinary skills, and I’m getting that all this food-making has more to do with sibling rivalry than with providing sustenance for a bunch of soon-to-be-smashed teens.
Clem, the diplomat, smiles. “No thanks. I’m sure it’s great,” he assures her. “But I’m not hungry.”
Mari shrugs. “Okay, but you don’t know what you’re missing.”
***
The party’s in a neighborhood of small brown and beige stucco houses. Some are surrounded by chain link, some are manned (dogged?) by pit bulls and Chihuahuas, others are enclosed by walled-off courtyards. A few of the houses have gardens, but mostly the landscaping is a back-to-nature theme: rocks, weeds, dirt, and a few thirsty-looking cacti.
Amelia parks along the curb behind Rudy and the five of us walk up to the house together. Rudy pushes open the door and we make our entrance to a round of “S’up, bros?” and complicated handshakes. The smell of beer and pot is overwhelming, and the fact of far too many bodies packed into far too small a space, not to mention the thumping electronic beat—which played at a normal level would be bad enough—does nothing to improve the situation.
Amelia, our fearless party guide, is ramming through the mob when she stops so suddenly that Mari bashes into her. I follow Amelia’s gaze to see what’s causing the holdup and find her staring, with an expression I can only interpret as horror, at a skinny, redheaded girl wearing a sparkly green, doll-sized dress.
“You okay?” I say, tapping her shoulder.
Without answering my question she thrusts her mole dish at Mari and takes off in the opposite direction of the redhead, disappearing into the crowd.
Mari sighs and says she’s going to bring her stew and Amelia’s mole to the kitchen and see what other snacks they have. I check out the keg, the beer bongs, the empty bottles of wine coolers—mandatory party paraphernalia—as she too, gets swallowed up by the swarm. I’m totally not here to babysit, but the second she’s out of sight, I think of Alma’s story, how Mari snuck out and the cops brought her home wasted. How she’s in with the wrong crowd at school. I think of all Mari’s sadness, the way she disappears, and I have a twinge of unease because I know the easiest way to evade all that sadness. I was indoctrinated into the escapist school of Mom. When the going gets tough, the tough get wasted.
The song changes, some kind of ganster rap played too loudly to be enjoyed. I mean rap is cool when it’s not all bitch this and bitch that. It can be poetry, but whatever this is, it’s just bad.
Clem is saying something, but I can’t hear him. I cup my hand to my ear and he points toward the door. I give him the thumbs-up and follow. He stakes out a place just outside where the breeze carries the smell of rain and diffuses away the stink of beer. Clouds have stacked up over the mountains. The sky is a moody gray. Any minute now it’s going to pour.
“So, these are your half sisters.” Clem says, now that we can hear each other. “The older one’s…interesting.”
“Jerk would be another word for it.” I sigh as I hear the first crack of thunder. “I don’t know what her deal is, but she really seems to hate me.”
“I doubt that.”
“Why?”
He shrugs and steps aside as three guys brush by. “I could see the way she was looking at you. She kept checking you out in the rearview mirror as she drove. Maybe she’s just jealous.”
“Of me?”
“No, of the wall.” He laughs and slaps my arm. A zing of electricity charges through my belly, and I slap him back. We have a brief, promiscuous slap fest as inside the music changes again. This time it’s Latin salsa.
“You like to dance?” Clem asks.
“No.” I back away, fearing he’s one of those guys who know a few moves and like to show off on the dance floor.
“Good. Neither do I.”
I breathe a sigh of relief that I won’t be forced to dance and make a fool of myself, but then the door opens. Three people stumble out and stagger toward the street, and Clem asks if I drink.
“Nah,” I say, hoping that not only doesn’t he dance, but that he doesn’t drink either. “You?”
He shakes his head. “Sometimes I wish I did. It would help to fit in or whatever.” He seems embarrassed to admit this, and I’m surprised that he cares about such things. “Being a violin geek doesn’t exactly make you popularity king.”
I consider saying “but you’re so great and talented and cute.” Instead, I bite down on my lip and say, “I know what you mean, but screw it. Fitting in’s overrated.”
So, the Latin music actually isn’t salsa. It’s a horrifying mash-up of Latin meets rap meets electronica meets whiny-girl pop. Clem and I both start to laugh.
“What do you say we find the person in charge of the tunes and teach them a thing or two about music?” he says and leads me back into the house.
That’s when I see her.
On the other side of the room, my fourteen-year-old half sister is accepting a beer from a pretty-boy blond who looks to be about twenty. There’s something predatory about his posture, too close, too confident. I’m not a chaperone, but I’m also not into a perverted older dude hitting on a younger girl, no matter who she is. And more than that, the idea of Mari drinking, of making the same screwed up choices as Mom, awakens a beast in me I had no idea was there.
Without a word to Clem, I push through the crowd in their direction.
“I’m Thomas,” I hear Pretty Boy tell a doe-eyed Mari as I get closer. I see now that she’s holding an empty plastic cup of beer she’s already finished and is reaching out to Pretty Boy for another.
“Hey,” I say, stepping in between Mari and the out stretched hand and grabbing the cup. “Thanks for the drink.”
“Whoa, man, I was giving that to her,” Pretty Boy says, somehow managing to flex and show off his sculpted and tattooed biceps as he draws his fists to his waist.
I smile sweetly. “Yeah, well, she’s fourteen, so, like I said, thanks anyway.”
“I think she’s old enough to make her own decisions,” Pretty Boy says, lowering pale eyebrows over bleary, drunken eyes.
“And I know judo. Back off.”
“Whatever. She’s not that hot anyway,” he says and walks away.
Mari’s mouth drops open. I’m about to apologize for the assholes of the world and for my outbreak of motheringitis, but she laughs and says, “God, what a major jerkazoid. Like he’s so hot! I’m not exactly into grandpas. I just wanted a beer.” She imitates him flexing his muscles and now we both laugh.
“Total jerkazoid,” I agree.
“Hey,” Clem says, wandering back to my side as the music changes to something quiet and moody. “I saw Thomas stagger off. What’d he want?”
“You know that guy?” I ask, setting down the confiscated beer on a table.
“Kind of. Not really.” He jams his hands de
ep into his pockets. “My mom helped his mom out a few times and I had to go to his house with her. I think he might’ve said what’s up.”
Two girls brush past us, talking loudly. “This chile stew’s so good,” Girl One, who’s carrying a bowl in one hand, a beer in the other, says to empty-handed Girl Two. “You should totally try some.”
“Ugh. No way, Eslee. My butt’s like the size of Texas,” Girl Two, a skinny blonde, says.
“What-ever. Probably just as well. I think I ate like all of it, ” Girl One, apparently called Eslee, says with a bitchy eye-roll as they merge into the crowd.
“Yes!” Mari pumps her fist in the air. “I told Amelia people would like it! I wonder if anyone ate her food?” She picks up the beer I put down and takes a few sips. “I’ll be back soon.”
She sways a little on her feet, and I wonder how much she’s had to drink. “Hey,” I call after her. “Can I finish that?” I indicate the beer still in her hand.
She looks at the cup as if she’d forgotten what she was holding, shrugs, and hands it to me.
“I thought you didn’t drink,” Clem says when she’s gone.
“I don’t.” I toss the cup into a trashcan. “But she doesn’t know that.”
Clem and I park ourselves on a mattress someone’s dragged into the room. Someone’s dimmed the lights. Cliché romance rock has come on and apparently it’s hook-up hour. I glance around at the bodies entwined on couches, in doorways, on the dance floor. Embarrassed by the suggestion of what everyone else is doing, I avoid looking at Clem, and instead, turn my eyes to the window, surprised to see it’s gotten dark. Even without looking at Clem, I’m consumed with awareness of his presence, his knee brushing mine, the heat of his arm. I’m also consumed with awareness of Jesse, and the fact he’s texted me three times to ask how the party’s going.
Maybe I should say something to Clem about boyfriend-girlfriend stuff, but what? What if I tell him about Jesse and he doesn’t want to hang out anymore? Worse, what if I tell him and he doesn’t care because he doesn’t like me in that way and I make a fool of myself? Then again, words are overrated. I could just turn and kiss him. Then again, the shoulder bump and leg brush could mean nothing. And then again there’s Jesse.
Clem clears his throat. I get he’s about to speak, and more than not speaking, whatever he might have to say terrifies me, so I whirl around and blurt, “Game show host!”
Of course I can see how this non sequitur would take anybody off-guard, and I’m horrified at the when-did-this-girl-go-off-her-meds? expression on Clem’s face. I quickly point to a charismatic guy with long black hair, who’s leading four or five others in a drinking game and add, “You know. His thing. He’s a game show host.”
“Nah,” Clem says, nudging my ankle with his foot. “Used car salesman. See the way he got that girl to do a shot?”
I look around for some other party victim to examine, and as I do, I catch Mari’s eye. From across the room she waves and holds up a finger, indicating she’ll be over in a minute. She’s talking to Rudy, who’s giving her another beer. I’m trying not to be overly interested in the Mari-plus-beer-equals-a-wasted-fourteen-year-old situation, trying not to return to my previous outbreak of motheringitis and intervene, when the voice of Marta—the school counselor I saw for a year in Philly—goes off in my head.
“What happened to your mother wasn’t your fault,” Marta says. “You can’t take responsibility for other people’s actions.”
Thanks, Marta. Mari lived her life without me until now. It’s her deal if she wants to drink. I smile weakly, ignoring the urgent signals my brain is sending to make Mari stop, and return to the game. Clem’s pointing to the front door where a trendy girl with skinny jeans and streaked green hair is skulking. I’m trying to decide on a fit for the girl when I see Bulldog, the guy from the Farmers’ Market, come in, beer in hand. I look back to Mari, but it’s Rudy who catches my attention. He’s staring past me at the door, frozen and wide-eyed. I follow his gaze to Bulldog. When I turn back to Mari, Rudy’s gone.
Mari shrugs and starts over toward me. Bulldog reaches her first.
“You seen Rudy?” I hear him ask her.
“Maybe,” she slurs, coy and a little drunk.
He seems to find her slurring and coyness charming. He hands his cup of beer to her, leans against the wall with a smirk and watches her drink. It’s not the same lecherous vibe as before with Pretty Boy, more like he’s having fun with her, teasing. Ply someone with alcohol and shave off their eyebrows kind of thing. I have to make an effort not to leap up and make it stop.
“So maybe yes, or maybe no?” he asks.
“Maybe yes.” She points to a side door, leading outside.
Bulldog turns away from Mari without saying anything and takes off in the direction she pointed.
Mari mumbles something, wobbles a bit, then collapses into a chair.
“I’d keep an eye on her if she were my little sister,” Clem says, noticing where my attention has gone. “She’s not looking too good.”
I nod. “I’ll be right back.” Instead of going to Mari, though, I follow Bulldog.
It’s raining. Hard, angry drops send up puffs of reddish-colored dust. Rudy and Bulldog don’t seem to notice, or if they do, to mind. They’re standing on a buckled sidewalk under a streetlamp, their hair and clothes getting drenched. I can see that they’re angry, but with the rain and the inside noise, I can’t hear anything. I edge closer and slip behind a car, hoping to hear what they’re saying.
A small white dog I hadn’t noticed before whimpers and sniffs at me. “Hey, there,” I whisper, reaching down to pet the animal. The dog starts barking and I quickly retract my hand, hoping my cover isn’t blown. Rudy and Bulldog look up. I duck lower and hold my breath. Something tells me I don’t want those guys catching me listening. Satisfied nobody’s there, they go back to business.
“You ripped me off,” I hear Bulldog say.
“You’re full of it, bro,” Rudy snaps back.
“Nah, man. I’m not. You got twenty-four hours to make this right and get the rest to me, and if you don’t, there’s gonna be trouble.”
A clap of thunder drowns out Rudy’s response.
“You’ve been warned,” Bulldog says, and climbs into his truck. He sprays Rudy with muddy water as he guns it down the road.
Alma said Rudy had been arrested for selling dope. I’m thinking now that my earlier suspicions were right. It wasn’t just chiles Rudy sold to Bulldog. It was pot. I’m overcome with a fierce urge to find Mari and Amelia and Clem and get out of here. I dash back inside, but when I get there I realize I haven’t seen Amelia since we arrived, and the chair Mari had occupied is empty. Clem’s the only one I can find. He’s in the middle of a conversation with a guy wearing artsy glasses and a bow tie.
“Hey,” I interrupt, tugging at Clem’s sleeve. “We have to go.”
“You read my mind. I tried to talk to Mari, but she was all spaced out and wandered off,” he says as we strand the guy by an impressive vinyl collection.
“Okay, here’s the plan,” I say. “You search that side of the house.” I point down a long hall going in one direction. “And I’ll go that way.” I point down the hall going the other way. “Text me if you find her.”
I squeeze between a pair of hipsters in retro Seventies glasses, then worm around a pack of red-eye burnouts, cigarettes dangling from their fingers. I bump through a pair of dirty dancers and open the door to a bedroom where a couple is making out. I don’t find Mari anywhere, but I do find Amelia, lurking by a closet door as if she’s contemplating going inside.
“Your boyfriend left,” I say.
“Duh, Guera. You’re not the only one with eyes.”
“Well, I’m ready to go,” I say, refusing to give into whatever angry little psychological game she wants to drag me into. “Have you seen Mari?�
��
“Um, no. That would be your job. Remember? You were the chaperone. Not me.”
I fight back a stitch of nervous guilt, even though I hadn’t agreed to the position. “Fine. Whatever. Let’s go look for her.” I text Clem and tell him I found Amelia and ask if he’s found Mari. He texts back that he hasn’t.
Amelia and I are walking back into the main room when she stops abruptly and veers left into the kitchen. “This way,” she says, indicating a sliding glass door leading to the back of the house.
“It’s raining. Why would she be out there?”
“She wouldn’t, but we can get into the other side of the house that way.”
I’m about to protest and tell her that Clem’s already searched that side of the house, but I peer into the main room and see that redhead she’d been avoiding earlier. For whatever reason Amelia doesn’t want to confront the girl; now isn’t the time to push it. I shrug and follow her outside.
The rain is pounding down now. We’re crossing the yard, holding our hands over our heads, when I make out a shape on the ground by the back wall. A guy stands over the crumpled figure.
“Come on, Guera!” Amelia shouts. I don’t move and she gives and exasperated sigh. “Fine, whatever. You have a thing for rain, stay out here and catch pneumonia and die. See if I care.”
I don’t answer. I inch closer to the crumpled figure and the guy. As I get closer I see that the guy is Pretty Boy, and sprawled on the ground—curls flattened, dirt spattered, soaking wet—is my fourteen-year-old half sister.
Amelia sees her, too. “What the fuck?” She shouts and runs toward Mari. Pretty Boy takes off as Amelia and I reach her side.
Twelve
I hardly remember calling 911 or Alma, but I know I did because here we are, the four of us, Alma, Amelia, Clem and I, sitting in the ER waiting for news. I hunch over my chair, elbows on my knees, face buried in my palms, thoughts racing between this being my fault—that I should have been watching Mari—and that I’m going to kill Pretty Boy.
After what seems like hours, a tall Asian woman in scrubs enters the waiting area. She identifies Alma as Mari’s guardian, introduces herself as Dr. Kendall, and leads us to the back to a curtained off cubicle where Mari is asleep on a bed with wheels. Tubes and wires dangle from her arms, nose, and chest. She looks so tiny in her hospital gown, so helpless on the thin mattress. I want to cry, but I fight back tears, not wanting to cry in front of these people who are both family and strangers. Amelia, on the other hand, who hasn’t stopped crying since we found Mari, rushes to her sister’s side in a flurry of snot and sobs.
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