by Amber Hart
Aunt Ria wraps me in a hug, tsking when she pulls back and sees my purple bull’s-eye shiner. She doesn’t ask questions, though. Probably because she’s seen a lot worse in the past.
“Come in, come in,” she says, opening the door wider.
I say hello to my uncle next, an older version of Javier. While Uncle Dimitri and Aunt Ria say hello to mi padre, I make my way inside.
The house is small for all the people who live here. Of the twelve kids, nine are boys. One room belongs to Aunt Ria and Uncle Dimitri, one room to the girls, and the remaining three rooms are split among the boys. Each room has enough space for three twin-sized beds and shelves for clothes. It sure beats life in Cuba.
In the kitchen, I find the girls. They squeal when they see me. Their names are Maria, Tatiana, and Alejandra—fourteen, twelve, and nine years old. I greet them and offer to help with the cooking. They turn me away, telling me I have too many people to visit. I thank them and stick my hand inside a large brown bowl filled with tortilla chips, eating a few as I go.
The screen door is open and I find the boys outside. They range in age from twenty down to four, with two sets of twins. Javier sees me and runs over.
“¿Que pasa?” he asks.
“Not much,” I answer.
The guys are playing soccer, which is hard for them to do in the small backyard, but they manage. I greet the rest of mi familia and join the game. Just like old times.
Images flash through my head. My mind is suddenly a fast-paced scrapbook of snapshots. Cuba. Home. Soccer. Finding my first soccer ball. The feeling of scoring the winning goal.
Florida is different. Grass instead of dirt, clothes instead of rags. But soccer all the same.
Uncle Dimitri moved his family here with nothing but the clothes on their backs and hope for a better life. His first job paid under the table. Immigration was difficult. They required Uncle Dimitri to memorize U.S. laws, pay court document fees, and take a bunch of tests. Once he passed, the U.S. government gave him a temporary visa. Fortunately his family didn’t have to endure the same thing. As his wife and children, they were automatically added to his visa. Only then did he get a legal job, get promoted. Buy a house. After my cousins moved to the States, mi padre, mi madre, and I visited them every summer. That’s how I learned English. Seventeen people in one small house was craziness, but I always looked forward to it the next year.
Sometimes I wonder why mi padre didn’t get us out of Cuba sooner.
“Dinner’s ready,” Aunt Ria calls from the kitchen.
We go inside and wash up. Since the table isn’t big enough to fit everyone, some of us take a seat on the couch, some on bar stools, and some on patio chairs. I sit outside with Javier and two of his brothers. Eduardo and Pedro are identical twins, two years older than Javier and me.
“What’s happenin’, Diego?” Eduardo asks.
He and Pedro look like Javier, but with shorter hair. I take a moment to soak in the subtle differences that time has given them: longer chins, darker freckles, more carefree smiles. Their features are sharper, mature. But also more relaxed, as though living in the States has rounded the edges. The line that used to constantly furrow their brows is not as defined. They seem happier.
I wonder what I would see in the mirror if I actually looked close enough.
“Nada,” I answer.
“Look at your face,” Pedro says, laughing. “Already gettin’ in trouble, I see.”
“Cállate la boca,” I reply. “It’s tough gettin’ used to America.”
Aunt Ria brings plates, heavy with pork, white rice, black beans with finely chopped poblano peppers mixed in, and plantains. I take a bite of maduros, sweet fried plantains, and suddenly my mind is in Cuba again.
I am nine years old, laughing and playing, chasing a raggedy stray dog that took to me for some reason. I have a maduro in my hand, a rare occasion back then. It’s not like I fed the dog; I barely had enough food to eat myself, but he liked me nonetheless. I pop the fried plantain in my mouth and the dog licks between my fingers, wanting a taste. I’m pretty sure he had mange and ticks, but I didn’t care. He died after a few years, a life cut short by harsh conditions. Just like most of us.
It’s strange how one bite of food brings me back home, as though no matter where I go, I will always be reminded.
I cannot escape.
“What’s the deal with the big C?” Javier asks.
The big C means the cartel, but most of Javier’s younger siblings don’t know anything about that. I intend to keep it that way.
“They haven’t come for me,” I answer. “Yet.”
“Do they think you’re dead?” Pedro asks.
He takes a bite of food, almost finished with his dinner already. Another survival instinct. Eat quickly. Run fast. Hope to make it out alive.
“I don’t know for sure,” I answer. I can only hope that when they filleted my neck, they assumed it killed me. I don’t like to think about the alternative scenario, the one where they find out I’ve left the country.
“You know what you need?” Eduardo asks.
“To meet some of the girls from our school,” Pedro answers.
They’re always doing that, finishing each other’s sentences. Where one stops, the other picks up.
“What about Anita?” Eduardo suggests.
“Sí,” Pedro says. “We should introduce you to Anita. She lives in the dorms.”
The twins attend the University of Central Florida, better known as UCF. They have come a long way from our days in Cuba.
“Anita is Colombian and really chill,” Eduardo says.
“Personal experience talkin’?” I ask.
I know what “really chill” means to them. And thanks, but no thanks. I have no interest in someone who has been with my cousins.
“No. It’s not like that,” Pedro answers. “She’s just cool. You’d like her.”
“What are you doing Friday night?” Eduardo asks.
I stiffen at the mention of Friday night. It makes me think of Faith. I wonder if I can actually get her to go out with me.
Javier laughs. “Diego already has a date. Isn’t that right?” he says.
I take another bite of food and answer him coolly. “Maybe I do.”
“Yeah, right,” Javier responds. “Unless you plan on kidnappin’ Faith, she will never go anywhere with you.”
Eduardo and Pedro look confused.
“Who is Faith?” Pedro asks.
“This white girl from our school Diego has his eyes on.” Javier laughs. “Give it up, man. Never happenin’.”
“A gringa?” Eduardo says. “Diego, I’m surprised. But hey, if that’s what you’re into, we know a lot of white chicks, too.”
“I’ll pass,” I say.
I realize then that I don’t want another white chick. I want Faith.
I think about her grabbing my shirt and pulling me to her. I want her to do it again, only this time without the “psych.”
At the same time, I cannot want Faith. I have to stop. Now.
“I’ll meet Anita, though,” I say. I need to hang out with another girl. It’s apparently been too long for me if I’m thinking about Faith like that. Maybe Anita can make me forget.
Here’s to wishful thinking.
“Meet us here Friday,” Pedro says. “We’ll bring Anita and some of her friends.”
Good. I need to get Faith off my mind once and for all.
17
faith
Jason has called seven times in three days. He is a big ugly lie that I can’t ignore, a wreck I shouldn’t gawk at but can’t turn away from. I should feel bad. I should listen to his explanation. At the very least, I should answer one call. I’m being unfair, especially considering all the times I’ve lied to him. It’s unlike me to avoid him at school, to eat in the library instead of with him.
With Jason.
Everyone knows that’s where I belong.
Speaking of the library, Diego has
been avoiding me, treating me like a disease he doesn’t care to catch. I offered to explain the book fair process to him, tell him what we needed help with, but he said he’d rather talk to Melissa.
I’m thrown for a loop. And I find it strange that I’ve been thinking more about Diego than I have about my boyfriend.
“What do you want?” I answer my phone, irritated.
It takes Jason a moment to reply. I’m not sure if it’s because he expected me to ignore the call, or because he can’t believe I just spoke to him that way.
“Hi,” he says.
“Hi,” I reply sharply. “What do you want?”
“Come on, Faith. Tell me why you’re mad.”
“You know exactly why I’m mad.”
Jason sighs. “It’s about Diego, isn’t it?”
Silence, my lips sutured shut.
“Faith, babe,” Jason says. “I just wanted to make sure he stopped harassing you.”
The seams burst.
“How do you even know he’s harassing me?” I shoot back. “You weren’t there for any of my conversations with him. Be honest; you’re angry about what I said at the restaurant.”
“Yeah, I’m angry,” Jason says, a little too harshly. “When my girlfriend of nearly three years announces to the world that she thinks some tattooed thug is hot? Yeah, I get pissed!”
“What are you worried about?” I ask. “So what if he’s hot! You think other girls are hot. I’ve seen you look at them. I’m not trying to beat people up over it.”
I’m furious. My anger is a bubbling vat of acid.
“Who cares about that loser? Are you really going to let him come between us?” Jason asks.
He doesn’t get it. “It’s not him that I’m worried about. It’s you, Jason. You’re being insecure.”
There. I said it.
Jason’s silence speaks volumes. I’ve hit a nerve.
“I want a boyfriend who doesn’t get bent out of shape like that. You could’ve gone about it differently. You could’ve smiled in his face, knowing I’m with you. You didn’t have to corner him three-on-one like a bully.”
What I really want to say is this: Jason, you could’ve been a man.
“What are you saying?” Jason asks.
“I’m saying that you acted like a fool. I’m saying that you should know already that no matter what you do, my choices are mine and mine alone. If I want to leave you, there’s nothing you can do to make me stay, so the least you can do is have some damn dignity!”
Even as the words leave my mouth, I can’t believe I said them. I don’t know that I’ve ever been this truthful with Jason. I’m suddenly nervous, anxiety pinching my stomach.
How will he react? Will he apologize for being out of line? Will he get upset with me but hold it inside? Will he act like nothing happened, the way we always do?
I’m sick of pretending.
“Are you there?” I ask.
“I think we need a break,” Jason says.
Great. He’s going to act like nothing happened—just like always, what he always says, what he always does. Let’s take a break somewhere to cool off. It’s Friday night. Let’s go to the park, or the beach, or the pier, just you and me. And everyone will expect me to be a link on his arm, his shadow, there but ignored.
“I don’t think we should ignore this,” I say. “That’s what we always do. Why don’t we talk, really talk for once?”
I take a deep breath. Here goes.
“There are things you don’t know about me, Jason.”
Pause. Breathe.
“I’m not everything you think I am. Nights I should have been studying, I went out partying with Melissa. I did bad things. Tried stuff I shouldn’t have. And then there’s my mom . . .”
I choke up. Try to right my voice.
“When I said I never drank or tried drugs, Jason, I lied.”
I’m opening up.
Do you see my insides displayed for you?
I’ve never exposed myself to Jason. I’ve never invited him into my world. My real world. But if we’re going to be together—the image of his mother talking about marriage flashes through my mind, making my stomach knot even more—then I need to start showing him bits of the real me, the deep me, the treacherous me. I don’t know how much longer I can be someone I’m not.
“So,” I continue. “If you want to go somewhere, take a ‘break’, that’s fine. But it should be spent talking about this.”
I wait for him. Wondering. Will he be okay with all I have to say?
“No,” Jason says. “I mean we need a break from us.”
My heart drops. My innards spill. Is Jason breaking up with me?
I finally, finally let him in and his response is to tell me we need a break—that kind of break?
This is why I keep my lips locked up, so my words don’t fall out. No one besides Melissa can handle the real me. Jason just proved that.
“Fine,” I say and hang up the phone.
I’m trying not to cry. I refuse to cry. And I don’t have time for this. I hear Melissa’s horn. Beep, beep, pause, beep. It’s time for school.
I rush out to my best friend’s car. I don’t bother to cover my emotions anymore.
“What’s wrong?” Melissa asks, alarmed.
I practically fall into the passenger seat. “Will you call your sister?” I ask. “I want to go out tonight.”
Melissa raises an eyebrow and takes a drag of her cigarette. “You sure you’re ready for that?”
I am. I’m over the past. It’s time to prove that I can have a good time without going overboard. I cannot show the real Faith to anyone at our school, but I can be myself around Melissa.
“Yes, I’m sure,” I answer.
Melissa smiles, pulls out of my driveway. And with three words, I know she supports me.
“It’s about time.”
18
diego
When I get to Javier’s house Friday night, I’m still having a hard time understanding Faith’s attitude. I’m trying not to think about her, but it’s hard. Earlier at school, she seemed different. She hasn’t been coming to lunch anymore, and she didn’t say a single word in the two hours that we spent sorting books today. Instead of her silence being a reprieve, it was unnerving, as though I had misplaced something but couldn’t quite figure out what.
Maybe because she’s stolen it, pieces of me, my thoughts . . .
“Diego!” Javier greets me at the door.
We go out back where Eduardo and Pedro have made a small bonfire; it blazes bright against the dark sky, like sunshine in the dead of night. Sitting with them around the fire are four girls. Gracias a Dios. I’ll finally have a chance to stop thinking about the girl I shouldn’t be thinking about in the first place.
It’s too hard. Faith. All of it. I don’t let people get close anymore. After mi madre, after what happened . . . I promised myself I wouldn’t let anyone in. With Faith, I can feel the boundaries slipping, blurring, my guard coming down. In the library I came close to kissing her, to wanting something real. I can’t let that happen.
Javier introduces me to the girls, the last of whom is Anita. She has long legs and dark eyes. Her hair curls, tumbles down her back like black ribbon.
You are exactly what I need right now.
“Hey,” Anita says, “it’s nice to meet you.”
“You, too,” I say. She has no idea.
“Want a beer?” she asks.
“You guys have beer?” I ask. “How did you pull that off with Aunt Ria here?”
Eduardo puts a finger to his lips, signaling me to be quiet. “She’s sleeping. Keep it down,” he answers.
“Was that a yes or a no?” Anita asks, then smiles.
“No,” I say. “Thanks, though.”
Some people might be surprised that I don’t drink. This is how I see it: Drinking lowers inhibitions, and where I come from, that’s not a good thing. I’m used to watching my back. I don’t take the risk of being
caught off guard. I like to know what’s going on around me. Call it a control thing. Control is a remnant of my past life, one I want to maintain. It’s the only way.
I take a seat next to Anita and listen as she tells me a little about herself. She’s a sophomore at UCF. Met my cousins in one of her classes. She’s two years older than me. In a subtle way, she makes it clear that she’s just looking for fun, which is perfect. Fun, I can do. She mentions that she recently stopped seeing someone. By the way she says it, I think she probably really liked the guy. That’s cool, because I have someone in the back of my mind that I need to forget about, too.
I stay outside for a while, enjoying the company. When the fire dies out, I move into a shadowed section of the lawn where the moonlight is blocked by a tree’s lush, far-reaching foliage. Anita joins me. I can just barely see her features. I lean up against the wooden fence and put my arm around her. She relaxes into me.
I pull out a cigarette and offer her one. She takes it. As I go to light it, Anita grabs the lighter from me and smiles.
“Let me do it,” she offers.
I don’t know how the girl makes lighting a cigarette look good, but she does.
“You know that’s supposed to bring you luck, right?” she asks.
“Oh yeah?” I ask. I wonder if she means with her, tonight.
Anita lights her own cigarette. I exhale and watch as she blows rings around my smoke, like clouds around a jet stream.
“Want to go somewhere?” I ask her.
“Sure,” she says. “I can try to sneak you into my dorm, if you want.”
My thoughts exactly.
As we leave, Eduardo approaches. “Want to go to the club?” he asks.
I shoot him a look. My intentions are clear.
One of the girls runs up to Anita. “You have to come!” she says.
I learned earlier that Anita and this girl have been forever friends. Joined at the hip.
“All right,” Anita agrees. “Want to come?” she asks me.