Make Your Home Among Strangers

by Jennine Capó Crucet

  13

  APPARENTLY JAQUELIN DIDN’T FUNCTION ON the half-Mexican, half-Honduran equivalent of Cuban Time: I was almost an hour late—so pretty much on time by our standards—but she wasn’t standing just inside the foyer like we’d planned, and as someone took my coat and someone else put a paper wristband on my outstretched arm, I searched for anyone I recognized. The only thing that kept me from panicking about being there alone was the music—hip-hop playing so loud that I’d heard it from a block away, meaning actual speakers and not some shitty computer ones buzzing a song beyond recognition. Meaning, at the very least, a PA system—maybe even an actual DJ. Huddles of females tittered just inside the door, screaming nonsense over the music into each other’s ears, radiating a kind of fear I’d never seen on them: no one in their pack was willing to take the lead and go in. But the music gave me the courage to walk down the gauntlet of males holding up the entrance’s walls while they sipped like mad from their beers. I safety-hoisted my tube top—made sure things were as secure as they got in a shirt like that—and strutted down the long foyer past all of them, flipping my hair over my shoulders and showing off my collarbone, refusing to make eye contact with even a single person, my face set to look as bored and unimpressed as possible. This is how you enter a club, motherfuckers, I thought, and I knew they could hear me thinking it, because they all turned and watched me.

  A few steps before the archway leading to the dance floor, I heard a guy’s voice yell, Hey you!—a little different from the Hey girl, come here, or the Hey baby, lemme talk to you one normally heard while traversing the male-lined entryway of a Miami club, but it would do. I kept my eyes on the dark room in front of me, where the music came from, picturing those girls in the herds behind me totally incapable of taking even one step forward, until I heard, Hey OK! Hey OK! OK OK OK!

  I tilted my head so I could see (without obviously looking) who was having some kind of OK-breakdown against the wall—but he wasn’t against the wall: he was lunging forward, reaching toward me, beer in one hand, the other hand and its different color wristband going for my arm as he yelled, OK! OK, hey!

  When his fingers glanced the top of my arm, I swung out of his way and said, Who are you, trying to touch me? I scowled at his hand in the air between us, but even in the dim, red light, I could make out the freckles dotting his knuckles.

  —It’s Ethan, remember! From the library? And you’re OK! You’re OK, get it?

  I did. It was lame enough to remind me where I really was.

  —You straightened your hair, he said. It looks rad.

  I dipped my head forward to bring my hair in front of me, then pushed it back again like it was so annoying to have to deal repeatedly with something so substantial. Then I pretended to yawn.

  —I have a boyfriend, I said.

  He didn’t even blink. Good for you, he said.

  He glanced around, trying to nod with the beat but missing it by a little each time. Now that I stood next to him (instead of towering above from my library desk), I saw he was thin and a good eight inches taller than me. He kept leaning down, as if trying to see the room from my height, and the terrible plaid shirt he wore over some faded T-shirt kept falling open in my direction, as if lined inside with stolen watches he wanted me to check out.

  —This party is way loud, he yelled into my ear.

  The red light bulbs illuminating the entrance made his already-red hair look orange. Disorganized red scruff glinted from his chin.

  —I know, he said, I’m a freak, right? This light. It’s like I’m glowing.

  He’d caught me staring, so I said, Sorry.

  —Nah, it’s cool, he said.

  One team of girls from the front door grew a little brave, tiptoed their way behind me. I didn’t want to move—I wanted to break them up like a school of fish around a shark—but Ethan touched the top of my half-exposed back and scooted me closer to the wall. It was a little quieter there, without the beam of sound from the dance floor’s entrance directly hitting us.

  —So I can keep calling you OK, he said. But if you have an actual name, you can tell me what that is at any point.

  —Okay, I said.

  And I couldn’t help it; I laughed. So did he, his throat flashing as he sent the boom of it toward the ceiling.

  A pair of hands clamped down on my shoulders from behind me.

  —Liiiiiiz, Jillian slurred when I turned around. Where were you? We were looking for you!

  Her necklace was now wrapped around her wrist. Her hat was gone, her face glazed with so much sweat I would’ve guessed she’d just been jogging.

  —You guys left me at the dorm, I said.

  —Wha? No we did-it. Tracy said she could-it find you when you left the bathroom.

  Ethan yelled over the music, Who’s your friend? and I said, She’s not my friend, she’s my roommate.

  —She’s pretty wrecked, he said.

  —No, she’s just a little sloppy, I said. Right, Jillian?

  —Li-zet! she said, a hand still on each of my shoulders. I. Love. Dancing!

  —Who knew! I said. Hey, maybe go get some air?

  She closed her eyes and nodded, then jolted them open and squealed, I want to see you dance later!

  I kept my mouth shut but smiled.

  She grabbed me in a bear hug—said, You are one fucking hawt mamacita!—then freed me and ran away, yipping as she sprinted outside.

  I shrugged at Ethan and said, She sucks sometimes.

  —I can see that, he said. He took a sip from his cup, leaned down even more, then said, Li-zet.

  —Are you drunk, too? I said.

  He tipped the cup down. This is water, he said. I don’t drink shitty beer.

  —There’s non-shitty beer?

  —What? he laughed. Where are you from?

  —Miami, I said. I braced myself for the follow-up But where are you from from? by watching people’s shoes turn slush into water on the floor, but it never came.

  —Well that explains you not knowing there’s good beer in the world.

  I asked him where he was from, and he said Seattle.

  —Which explains my excellent dancing outfit, he said. He pulled open the plaid shirt even more. The T-shirt underneath said YIELD.

  I grinned. I didn’t say anything about your clothes, I said.

  —You didn’t need to. He sipped more water, then sniffed his armpit. Damn, I really have to do laundry.

  I recoiled with extra theatrics but then turned to stand by his side against the wall. I said, I can smell you from here, and he laughed and said, Right on.

  —Yield? I said. I prefer Stop.

  —Oh, right, so you’re too sophisticated for Pearl Jam, like everyone else now?

  —What does Pearl Jam have to do with anything?

  He scratched the red hair sprouting on his chin, then pointed to the word on his shirt. He said, You know this is a Pearl Jam album, right?

  I didn’t. I couldn’t even name a Pearl Jam song, though of course I’d heard of the band. I looked at his shoes—big, black boots—then up at his face, to his eyes, which sort of startled me with how light they were. A blast of cold came down the foyer as the song playing melted into another—one I loved. I knew exactly how many seconds I had until it got to the hook.

  —But it’s also – I work on campus as a street sign, he said.

  I bent forward and laughed. The next school of girls flitted their way into the vast room where the music lived. Inside that room, just past its entrance, was some of the worst dancing I’d ever seen up to that point in my life. Even though the song playing had a heavy bass beat, had been all over the radio for months, even though the music video for it showcased a wide array of booty-dancing options for the viewer to imitate, either no one in there had seen that video, or something got lost between their brains and their bodies. Some people were just sort of jumping in place, not even moving their arms, while others thrashed from side to side—all to slightly different rhythms, as if
they had on headphones and were listening to other songs. The girls who’d just walked in shoved out their butts, squatting as if doing some slutty aerobics. One girl started pumping her shoulders and high-stepping like a bird searching for a mate. I looked back at Ethan and expected to see him laughing at them, but he wasn’t—not at all. He was tapping his foot. I slung my thumbs into my belt loops and tugged my jeans down my hips a little more.

  —You gonna go dance or what? I said.

  He smiled into his cup. I don’t dance.

  —You don’t dance? Then why are you here?

  —I came with some of my residents – I’m an RA in Donald Hall. Before you got here I was actually about to go.

  —Uh-huh, I said.

  He held up his arm, turned his wrist, showing off his wristband.

  —Really, he laughed, I was really leaving. Probably head up to the bars and see who’s around. It’s twenty-one-and-over, though, so, sorry.

  He pointed at my wristband and I snorted. The new song had been on for at least a minute by then. If I moved now, I’d catch the chorus.

  He said, You’re a freshman, right?

  I looked away from him, back at what passed for dancing.

  —Dude, he said, don’t be ashamed. Enjoy it.

  There was no way I looked only eighteen and he had to know it. He raised his cup to his mouth in an awkward move meant to hide his eyes as they moved over my waist, then my chest. I leaned back on the wall, pinning my hair against it with my shoulders.

  He said after the long sip, I’m graduating this spring, and every time I think about it, I feel like I’m going to hurl. Time flies, Lizet.

  I said, Would you say it yields for no one?

  He cringed and said, OK, that was a good one, that was clever. But, on that note.

  He pointed down to the ground. He said, The underage beer is in the basement, but you didn’t hear that from Ethan the RA.

  —You’re really leaving.

  He handed me his empty cup, gave me a crooked salute, then shot each of his thumbs toward the house’s front door. He took one step away, then swung back to me and said, Do you like ice skating?

  I scrunched my face, shook my head no. Never been, I said.

  —What! He shoved his hands in his outdated hair and pulled it. You’re kidding me.

  —Remember when I said I was from Miami?

  —So what? That means you’re too cool for ice skating? I mean, it’s ice skating!

  —You don’t dance.

  He hopped in place and said, OK, tomorrow? One thirty in front of Donald Hall, I’m in charge of – it’s a program for my residents. Not that many people signed up. You should come.

  He stopped hopping and held up both his hands and said as he rolled his eyes, Don’t worry, I know you have a boyfriend.

  He backed away with his hands still up, like I was suddenly dangerous.

  —I don’t have skates or whatever, I said.

  —Don’t need ’em. Provided free of charge courtesy of Rawlings College.

  He raised his arms to the ceiling as if Rawlings was God in the sky.

  —Maybe I’ll be there, I said.

  —Stop being a poser and just show up tomorrow, he yelled from a few feet away.

  —I’m not being a –

  He made a buzzer sound, then yelled, Poser! Look at you posing! before ducking into the new crowd at the door.

  The other people in the foyer all looked at me as he left, and I wondered if I was too cool for ice skating. I wondered what he’d meant by that—if I’d come off as snotty as I’d walked in rather than just confident and in control, finally in my element. Maybe it was simpler than that: maybe RAs got bonuses for recruiting another dorm’s residents to their programs—double points for minorities! Why go through the show of inviting me otherwise, if I seemed too cool for it?

  Jillian tumbled down the foyer toward me, way too excited about something.

  —And who was that? she said.

  Her hands slipped back to my shoulders. She pressed them against the wall, but I pulled her hands away and freed my hair by swinging it forward.

  —Some guy I met at work. He’s an RA.

  She lurched at me and said, He totally wants you.

  —And he’s totally not my type. He’s – it’s like someone set fire to a palm tree.

  —No! He’s cute! she said. Wait! Is he why you’ve been avoiding Omar?

  She wagged her finger in my face and I smacked it away.

  —Don’t you fucking do that, I said.

  She cradled her hand and said to it, Whoa Nelly, calm down, Miss Thang.

  —I don’t even know that guy. And why do you – you smell like shit.

  She stood up straight and grinned—said, I. Vomited. And now? More dancing!—then she darted back into the music before I could say anything.

  A minute later I surveyed the perimeter of the massive room—the ceiling high and crisscrossed with wooden beams, the windows twelve feet tall and swathed in poured-looking curtains. Hundreds of people pulsed on the dance floor, and a DJ and his equipment stood far off on a platform in front of it. I finally found Jaquelin near that platform, right up against a speaker. She hugged me—her arms damp and cold from her sweat—then yelled, Look! and pointed to the DJ, a muscular guy wearing a red bandana over his hair, a pair of mirrored sunglasses shielding his eyes. It’s a miracle! Jaquelin yelled, and we immediately started dancing together, immediately fell in sync. When we’d lift our hands in the air, the girls around us did it too, a few seconds later. When we went from a slow grind to shaking our asses as fast as we could, the girls around us tried to match us. Eventually the DJ threw on a song with a beat enough like a merengue, so then we danced as a couple, deploying every turn and spin we knew, and a circle started to grow around us. I was happier than I’d been in weeks, just moving like that, but Jaquelin kept pulling people into the circle with us, trying to show them a turn we’d just done. I heard her yell, Like this! to one girl, then she put her hands on the girl’s hips and pushed them from side to side. Even though the girl was half a beat off, Jaquelin said, You got it! You’re doing it! She came back to dance with me for another thirty seconds before spinning out and pulling another shitty dancer back in with her. When enough of them were around us that the circle had collapsed, she told me she was going to the bathroom, not to move from that spot. I closed my eyes and concentrated on the chill of some guy’s sweat-soaked shirt as he edged behind me, pressing against me to dance, and I felt closer to home in that moment than when I’d been back there for Thanksgiving.

  The DJ, a guy they’d brought from the closest big city, had been watching over the top of his sunglasses as me and Jaquelin danced, and now that it was just me grinding on some faceless stranger, he leaned down from his kingdom and yelled an invite up to the platform in my direction. I didn’t need to answer: he grabbed my whole forearm and yanked me the three feet up to his side. A silver ring circled each finger he’d wrapped around my elbow. He wore a white tank top—a wife-beater, is what Omar would’ve called it—and what I’d first thought was a Mexican flag tattooed on his shoulder was actually an Italian one. He slid a headphone back from his ear, put his arm around my shoulder, and pulled the side of my head to his mouth.

  —I’m not supposed to let people up here, he said. But you’re not people.

  He asked me what I was doing at a party like this, and when I said I was a Rawlings student, he said, No fucking way! When I said, But I’m from Miami, he kissed the top of my head.

  He set up the next song—another intense favorite, this one by a morbidly obese Puerto Rican rapper who, at 698 pounds, would be dead of a heart attack in less than two months—and as I danced with him, I slid his sunglasses off his face. From so close I saw he was older than I’d thought. I hid my own eyes behind the mirrored lenses. The heads in the crowd, hundreds of them, bobbed and swayed and jerked, their bodies packed together. Jaquelin was edging closer to the speaker again, standing in a new circle,
the only nonwhite girl in it, her back to me. I spotted Jillian near one side, up next to one of those colossal windows, doing what looked like a very drunk impression of someone who couldn’t dance. The farther out she stuck her ass, the more obvious it was that she didn’t have one, and I laughed, hard.

  Behind me, the DJ put his thick hand on my waist. I shifted so we stood side by side, bodies churning in front of us. He leaned over and said, Baby, tell me what you want me to play for you. I pulled my hair off my back—it was hotter up there, a few feet closer to the ceiling—and tied it into a loose knot on top of my head.

  —What songs you got, I said out to the crowd, with the word ass in them?

  He lowered the hand to my hip, and I pretended not to notice. I slipped the headphones from around his neck, avoiding the film of sweat clinging to him, and put them over my own ears.

  14

  I LEFT JILLIAN (IN HER CLOTHES from the night before, minus the boots) sleeping facedown on her still-made bed, getting dressed and leaving without waking her. After a few hours in the library rereading the early chapters in my chem textbook and outlining them the way my tutor had suggested, I hauled myself and my stuff to Donald Hall. It was one of the more modern dorms, with a wide entrance and a sort of concrete porch, which is where a group of ten or so people—Ethan not among them—stood waiting, a few with skates hanging from their shoulders. As I walked up to the circle, I glanced through the building’s glass doors and realized I’d never been inside any dorm but mine.

  Ethan materialized from a stairwell door and met me with a huge wave, saying, You made it! as he came outside. He introduced me to the other residents all up for ice skating that afternoon, most of them freshmen like me. Everyone looked exhausted, pale: Ethan even said, I’m thinking this is a much-needed break, you guys. Just one week left before study week starts. We can do this!