by Lea Santos
“Any question? How can that be fair?”
“Take it or leave it,” Gia said playfully, leaning her hip against the counter and crossing her arms.
Emie’s lips parted. Before she could answer, a knock on the back screen door interrupted them.
“Em?” Paloma sounded teary.
Both Gia and Emie turned. “Paloma,” Emie said, reaching from under the cape to put on her glasses. “What’s wrong? Come in.” She stood and crossed to the door.
Paloma’s puffy cheeks and red-rimmed eyes showed she’d been crying. Pep shuffled in next to her, his head bowed. Paloma’s protective hand cupped his tiny neck. “I’m sorry to interrupt. Hi, Gia,” she added, distractedly.
“Hey.”
“You’re not interrupting, honey, you know that,” Emie added, turning her attention to the boy. She softened her tone and squatted to his level. “Hey, Pep. Aren’t you going to say hi to your auntie?”
His head came up slowly, and he did a double-take at her foil-wrapped hair and black plastic cape. His pout brightened tentatively. “Cool. You look like a creepy space man.”
“Coming from you, m’ijo, that’s great praise.” Emie noted the deep purple bruising around Pep’s eye, the fresh cuts over his brow and on his swollen lip. She flickered a glance at Gia, who was studying the boy’s face with a concerned frown. “And you look like a heavyweight boxer, kiddo. What happened?”
“I don’t wanna talk ’bout it.” Pep’s scowl deepened.
“It’s okay, baby,” Paloma said, her voice wobbly from holding back tears. “You go in the living room and watch TV while I talk to Auntie Emie and Gia. Later I’ll take you to McDonald’s, okay?”
Pep shrugged, then scuffed listlessly out of the room.
“Where’s Teddy?”
“I dropped him off at my mom’s.” She stared wistfully at the doorway through which her older son had left. “I figured Pep could use some one-on-one time.”
“Can I pour you a cup of coffee, Paloma?” Gia asked.
She nodded before slumping into a chair at the end of the table and dissolving into tears, her face in her palms. Paloma’s shoulders shook as she wept.
Emie scraped a chair over until it faced Paloma, then laid her hands on her friend’s knee. “Honey, what happened? The same boys again?”
She nodded. “He’s just a baby, for God’s sake. Why is this happening?”
Gia set the mug in front of Paloma, then laid her hand on Emie’s shoulder, intending to let her know she’d wait in the other room. Gia’s insides knotted whenever she saw a woman cry. She should give the two friends privacy.
Emie peered up at her, expression disturbed. Before Gia could take her leave, Emie covered her hand with her own and said, “Pep’s been having trouble with some bullies in their neighborhood. He’s been coming home beat up all summer long. This is his fourth—”
“Fifth,” Paloma corrected.
“His fifth black eye since school let out.”
“And he’s six. Six! His permanent teeth are just starting to come in, and I’m afraid he’s gonna get them knocked out.” Paloma sniffed loudly, then smeared at her eyes. “He’s such a peaceful, introverted little guy. What’s with young kids, Gia? Do you know? Why do they always pick on the weaker ones?”
A feeling like a steel-toed boot kicked Gia’s gut. She sank into a chair and smoothed a palm down her face. If they only knew they were talking to the grown-up version of one of Pep’s tormenters. A tidal wave of guilt engulfed her. She felt like a fraud. “I don’t know, Paloma. Have you or your wife talked it over with Pep yet?” Way to go, G, pawn it off.
Paloma’s eyes flashed. “That’s another thing.” She glowered at Emie, flailing her small hands to punctuate her emphatic words. “She has time to solve all the problems in the world, but she can’t take half a day to stay home and talk to her son.”
Emie glanced at Gia again, twisting her mouth to the side. “Deanne is a cop with the Denver force. We all went to high school together,” she explained, her eyes conveying more than her words did. “Her…schedule keeps her away from home a lot.”
Chipper cartoon voices and zany sound effects filtered in from the living room, oddly out of sync with the gravity of the conversation. If Paloma and Deanne had argued that morning, Gia felt certain she—being an outsider—stood way on the wrong side of enemy lines. Emie and Paloma watched as she geared up to traipse through a verbal mine field in this partner war. Woefully unarmed, Gia swallowed and took one tentative step, bracing herself mentally for the explosion.
“Maybe she’s really busy at work. A lot of police departments are understaffed these days. I’m sure she’d stay home if she could,” Gia offered, not sure at all. She didn’t even know Deanne. The woman could be a complete asshole, for all she knew. All Gia could give Paloma were air balloons of false assurances, weightless and empty and trite.
No mines blew, though, thank God. Paloma half laughed, half huffed at Gia’s suggestion. “Yeah, it’s just swell for the boys having a ‘tough butch’ for a mom when she can’t even help them escape the neighborhood jerks.” She reached for a piece of cake and nibbled at it halfheartedly.
Gia tiptoed over one mine and faced another. She had no business offering anyone parenting or marital advice. But Emie—wide-eyed and serious despite the glob of purplish gray dye meandering down her temple from her berserk silver crown—kept looking at her like she should save the day. And, damnit, she didn’t want to let Emie down.
She stood, pointing vaguely at the doorway. “Why don’t you two talk for a while? I’ll go hang out with Pep.” Gia jerked her head toward the ticking timer. “Call me when that goes off so I can rinse you.”
“I will,” Emie said distractedly.
“Don’t forget unless you want to fry your hair.”
“I won’t. I promise. Go talk to Pep.” She smiled like Gia was a knight riding her shining steed in to rescue the little prince. Tenderness welled inside Gia to the exploding point. She leaned toward Emie, wanting so badly to capture those red apple lips with her own. Instead, she nicked the blob of dye off her temple.
“She’s so kind,” Gia heard Paloma murmur as she left the room.
Gia’s heart pounded an army cadence as she marched toward the front of the house. She paused in the hallway. What in the hell should she say? Long pause. What would you have wanted to hear as a confused six-year-old, G? She didn’t think she would’ve wanted to hear much of anything from an adult, unfortunately. As a child, she’d yearned simply to be listened to more than anything else. She’d just wanted someone to hear her. With that in mind, she forged ahead. How scary could a six-year-old pipsqueak be, after all?
Gia stopped in the archway to the living room and leaned one shoulder against the wall, crossing her arms. Pep slumped on the sofa enveloped in his stylish baggy clothes. The animated action on the screen prompted no emotion on his innocent, battered face. Bright colors shone in his listless round eyes. His bottom lip jutted out and his shoulders hung. He looked depressed. At six years of age, that was just goddamned unacceptable. Pep stole a sidelong peek at Gia, trying to pretend he hadn’t.
“Órale, chavalito.” Gia pushed off the wall and sauntered toward the young boy.
He blinked, solemn. “They kick you out?”
“Something like that.”
Pep pursed his lips. “Chismas time. No one allowed except Auntie Emie or Auntie Iris,” the boy added, his tone resigned and knowledgeable.
Gossip time. Gia grinned at Pep’s assessment of his mother’s discussions with her friends. She settled onto the couch next to the tiny boy, mimicking his position. Pep’s feet didn’t come close to reaching the floor, a detail Gia found overwhelmingly endearing. He looked too small to be targeted by bullies. Her fists clenched of their own volition. She fought to relax them.
For a few minutes, they just stared at the screen together. Gia gave the boy time to wonder what the heck this weird grown-up was doing next to him. “What
’re we watching?” she finally asked.
Pep’s feet bounced three times, then stopped. His eyes remained on the screen. “Somethin’, I dunno.”
Gia scooped up the remote. “If it’s that boring, then maybe we should watch a soap opera.”
“No, please no!” Pep whined, reaching for the remote. He wore the desperate look of a boy who’d suffered through one too many of the sappy shows.
“Aw, come on, how about one with girls crying and lots of kissing?” Gia mimicked a few big loud smackeroos in the air.
A grudging smile lifted one corner of Pep’s mouth, tugging at an angry-looking cut that had puffed his bottom lip. “No way. I don’t like those shows. Let’s watch this.”
Gia shrugged and handed the boy the remote. “Your choice, big guy.” She stretched her arms up, then interlaced her fingers behind her head.
Pep hugged the remote to his bony chest. Pretty soon he set it down, then stretched his arms up and interlaced his fingers behind his own head. He peeked over at Gia. “Aren’t you that one with the black Ford truck?”
“That’s me.”
“I forget, was it an extra cab or a crew cab?”
“Extra cab.”
Pep pondered this. “You know the crew cab has real back seats ’steada jump seats,” he said, tone matter-of-fact. “If you got kids, you should get the crew cab. Got kids?”
“Nope.” She angled a glance at the boy. “You?”
Pep giggled at the absurdity. “What’s your name again?”
“Gia.”
“Gia,” Pep repeated, as though trying out the sound on his tongue. “Am I allowed to call you that?”
Gia lowered her arms, then lifted one ankle to rest across the opposite knee. “Sure.”
“You got that Ford truck here right now, Gia?”
“Mm-hmm.”
His interest piqued, Pep stretched his neck up to peer out the front window, then whipped back toward Gia. “I don’t see it parked out there.”
“It’s in the back,” Gia told him. “I live here.”
The boy’s eyes widened and his jaw dropped. “You live with my auntie Emie? Are you her wife?”
Gia barked a laugh. “Slow down, buddy. I haven’t even kissed her yet.”
“Yuck.” He blinked up at Gia with pure innocence and thinly veiled disgust. “That’s sick. What does kissing have to do with bein’ a wife?”
Gia narrowed her eyes with playful menace. “You want me to turn on that soap opera, buddy?”
Pep’s missing teeth gave his grin the look of a seven-ten split. “Naw.”
“Then quit flappin’ and watch your show.”
Pep giggled again. A few cartoon-filled quiet moments passed before he lost his ability to sit without speaking. “Are you Auntie Emie’s auntie?” he asked.
“Nope.” Gia frowned. “Sheesh, how old do I look?”
“I dunno.” Pep shrugged. “Just regular old. As old as any other grown-up.” He touched his swollen lip gently, then checked his fingers for blood. “You her cousin?”
“Nope.”
He cocked his head to the side. “Her sister?”
Gia glanced at him with lighthearted exasperation. “I’ll make you a deal, Pep, how’s that? I’ll answer your questions if you answer a few of mine.” She offered her palm.
“Deal.” The handshake engulfed the little boy’s hand. “So, are you?”
“Am I what?”
Pep rolled his eyes. “Auntie Emie’s sister.”
Gia sighed and ruffled the boy’s hair. “Sometimes it feels like it, chavalito, but no, I’m not her sister.”
*
Emie offered a listening ear and a shoulder to cry on until Paloma felt a little better, infinitely stronger. With a long exhale, her tiny friend raised her gaze to her foiled locks. “So, wow. Science fiction. What’s this gonna look like, Em?”
She stood and carried their dishes to the sink, then turned back. “Who knows, but the official color is eggplant.”
“Ay.” Paloma cringed. “What did Iris say?”
It was a given that she’d consulted their resident supermodel. They generally expected her to know everything about everything having to do with grooming. And she generally did. “She said it will look good, it’s a popular color or some such nonsense.” The timer read ten minutes. “Anyway, anything new should work to kick Vitoria in the ass for what she did to me.”
Paloma tilted her head to the side. “Aw, honey, don’t say that. When are you gonna open your eyes? Forget Elizalde. It’s so freaking obvious Gia’s into you. Having a red-hot woman like her on your arm is the best revenge.”
Emie closed her eyes and mentally counted. “Paloma, I don’t want to get into this with both you and Iris in the same morning, okay? I have to do what I have to do. Period.”
“You still think Gia is here out of some sense of guilt?”
“Yes.” Pause. “No.” Sigh. “Hell, I don’t know.” She dropped back into the chair. “She’s nice to me. We’re friends.”
“So, why don’t you—”
“Friends, Paloma, that’s all,” she affirmed. “She’s not my girlfriend, I don’t want a girlfriend, and I have to even the score with Vitoria the way I see fit.”
“Even the score.” Paloma scoffed, but held her hands up in surrender, turning her face to the side. “Look, forget I said anything. I love you, Emie.”
“I know. I love you, too.”
“You’re a genius, you’re funny, you’re kind.” She ticked Emie’s assets off with her fingers. “You have a great career, a gorgeous house.”
“That’s not the—”
“And I,” Paloma continued, “know how amazing you are.”
Emie smiled a little sadly. “Well, if I could see myself through your eyes, maybe I wouldn’t be trussed up like a futuristic turkey. But I can’t, so I am. End of story.” Her voice dropped to a whisper. “Please just support me.”
“You know I do.” Paloma snagged another piece of coffee cake off the platter. “I just worry for you.”
“Well, don’t.” Emie checked the timer again. Five minutes to go. “I’m going to get Gia now. I don’t like the idea of having all my hair fall out. Be right back.”
Emie could hear the ebb and flow of conversation as she approached, and she slowed her steps so as not to interrupt. She hung back, just outside the living room, peeking around the corner. Gia and Pep sat side by side in the exact same position—one ankle across the opposite knee.
Pep, looking endearingly tiny next to Gia’s sculpted bod, stared with rapt attention at his new friend. “So, if you aren’t Auntie Emie’s sister or auntie or wife, what are you?”
“I’m her friend,” Gia said easily.
The boy screwed up his face and pulled his head back. “Huh? You live with her!”
Emie ducked back and covered her mouth to muffle a laugh.
“So? You can live with friends, Pep.”
“But who’d want to? First you hafta be friends with ’em, then you hafta buy ’em stuff. Sooner or later you gotta kiss ’em.”
Gia chuckled. “Once you get older you’ll realize that doesn’t happen nearly as often as you’d like, my pal.”
“Sick. I don’t want it to happen ever.”
“Yeah? Talk to me in ten years about that,” Gia murmured, her tone wry. Her voice changed when she added, “Okay, my turn for a question.” A beat passed. “What’s up with the bruises, guy? Who’s giving you a hard time?”
“I don’t wanna talk about it,” Pep groused.
Gia’s voice rumbled smoothly through the room. “We had a deal, Pep. Remember? I answered your questions, now you answer mine.”
Pep clicked his tongue, sounding dejected. Even at six, he couldn’t bring himself to welch on a deal. “I don’t do nothin’ to those kids, Gia,” he said in a plaintive tone. “They just don’t like me. They don’t like that I have a mom and a mama. They call me a freak and a queer, and they won’t leave me alone.”
“Nuh-uh, they’re way older. Like, nine.” Awe laced his words. “They started calling me mama’s boy and sissy, and now they say I’m a snitch because my other mommy’s a police officer. They call me bad words I’m not allowed to say. And they call Mommy and Mama bad words, too.”
Emie could feel Gia’s underlying outrage from where she stood. She didn’t even have to see her face. Her ability to hide it from Pep was impressive, though. “And you walk away?” Gia asked, her voice level.
“I try,” Pep said, “but they grab me.”
Emie peered around the corner again. Gia had turned toward Pep and rested one arm along the back of the sofa. She looked intently at the boy.
“Have you talked to your mama about this? Or your mom?”
“A little, when she’s home. Mom tells me to stand up to them…but I’m afraid,” he finished, his voice a shame-riddled whisper. Emie could see the boy’s swollen lip quiver from her hiding place, and a bolt of anger at Deanne shot through her. How could the woman tell an innocent little child like Pep to “stand up”? She never thought she’d utter these words about another woman, but…macho jackass.
Gia nudged Pep’s chin up with her knuckle until the boy met her gaze. “It’s okay to be afraid, chavalito. You hold on to that fear.”
“But Mom’s not afraid of nothing. She’s a police officer.”
Gia shook her head. “Everyone’s afraid of something, Pep. It doesn’t make you less of a man to admit it.”
“Well, I’m afraid to stand up to ’em, then,” Pep muttered. “I don’t know how to fight.”
“What your mom is trying to tell you is not to fight back with fists, you fight back with this.” Gia pointed at her temple.
“My head?”
“Your brain. Your smarts.”
Pep fidgeted. “Whaddya mean?”
“A lot of bullies act mean because they don’t have a lot of smarts, they’re empty up there.”
Pep’s eyes widened with horror. “They don’t got insides? Like brains?”
Gia chuckled. “No, I meant they don’t have anything in their hearts. No love, no feelings. You understand?”