I’ll never have another senior picnic; this week will pass by so fast. I’m sure it won’t matter much after graduation. But I still want to enjoy this day, and I’m so jealous of the freedom my classmates have. I watch them run around, disliking them for the consistent structure their parents have always provided for them. Their biggest concerns? Rubbers or no rubbers, sex or no sex, homework or a movie—I wish my shit was so simple.
Yet I try to smile—especially when it looks like Shannon is watching me. He’s too far away for me to know for sure, but I feel his tractor beams all over me, and I don’t want him to think I’m an envious little girl.
Some of the boys have water balloons and squirt guns and start their assault on the unsuspecting. I laugh out loud when a particularly hotheaded group of fugazi girls gets nailed. It’s so fantastic. A water balloon smashes two of them in the back of the head.
“Damn,” I mutter, flinching. One of them is wearing a cute shirt, and as a fellow girlie girl, I sympathize with her terrible loss. Still, I don’t move from my place on the stairwell. There’s no point. I can’t be present here, and life just feels too heavy right now. I don’t know how to fix it. I’m afraid I’ll never be able to. I wonder why I’m left to suffer alone and why Shannon isn’t the type of guy I read about in novels. The kind who’ll ditch everyone, especially the girlfriend, to come sit with me.
But Blanca de la Vega, my comrade for life, finds her way to me as she always has. She walks halfway up the cement stairs and sits next to me, gazing out into the busy traffic on Wesleyan, the street in front of the school.
“Why are you sitting here by yourself?” she asks.
“I ain’t feeling it, Bee.”
“Why?”
“Because I didn’t pay my senior dues.” I lean back against the steps. “So I guess I can’t eat, huh.”
“Nobody is paying attention,” she says, looking over at the food table. “Go eat.” When I shake my head, she purses her lips and changes the subject. “I saw Shannon in the hall earlier.” She peers over her rose-colored aviators at me. “He said you was gonna ditch.”
“But I didn’t.” I smile at her.
“Why were you gonna skip, and why didn’t you tell me?”
I shrug. “’Cause I just made up my mind to go.”
“Go where?” Blanca asks.
“I need to make some cash real fast.”
She narrows her eyes at me. “Why?”
“Because I ain’t got none. Otherwise, I would’ve paid my dues. I’m skipping so I can go home. That’s where my stuff is.”
Before she can ask me what stuff I’m talking about, we’re interrupted.
“Hello.” A beautiful, husky male voice startles us.
We jerk around to see a young man in a uniform dress shirt and dark slacks standing to our left. He’s holding a red Styrofoam plate covered with napkins. Confession time here…One of the most exciting things in the world for a teenage girl is the attention of an older guy, especially one so composed, so well mannered, so easy on the eyes. Jeez.
I don’t know what to do, so I just sit still and let him do the talking.
“Are you hungry?” he asks, looking down at the plate of food in his hands. He seems shy and stands next to the stairwell, unsure of what he’ll do if I refuse his food. He smiles, but it’s a cover-up smile, as if he’s trying to hide his nervousness. I am fascinated. I look at him, my mouth agape, wondering why a guy like him would be nervous around a couple of teenage girls. When he extends the plate to me, I stutter a thank you, and my face flashes all kinds of warmth.
“There’s more food if you want more,” he says as he turns back to survey his banquet table. “And the parents brought cookies and huge cinnamon rolls.” He holds his hands apart, attempting to show us just how big those cinnamon rolls really are. “So there’s dessert too.”
I don’t often see random acts of kindness. The only people who ever watch over me is Blanca’s family and my own. But this guy shows up at the exact moment when my growling stomach starts touching my spine. He shocks me, and I am humbled by his thoughtfulness.
Blanca shoves my shoulder with the palm of her hand.
“Free damn food,” she mutters through a tawdry grin. She nods toward the generous, soft-spoken guy standing in front of us and then intercedes.
“Uh, yeah, she’s hungry,” she says. She keeps smiling and looking up at him for a second too long before she turns toward me. She sees it too.
CHAPTER 6
ZACARIAS
She takes the food, lowers her head, and thanks me. She’s a pretty black girl. She is round-faced with a pointed chin and has glowing eyes and thick brows. Her Spanish friend looks at her and then at me, with the widest grin on her face.
“I saw you over here…” I say before I can stop myself. I don’t want to say too much. I especially don’t want to say I’ve been watching the entire time. It isn’t suitable to let her know this.
The girl pulls at the napkins covering the red Styrofoam plate, removing each one only after peeking beneath it from one of the lifted corners. Her jaw drops a little; she likes what I fixed for her. This pleases me in the most unsettling way. She places the napkins on her lap, looks up at me, and frowns. She looks around the school grounds, though I’m not sure what she’s searching for. Then her eyes settle on the Spanish girl who sits close to her, hovering around her as if she’s a barrier, the girl’s protection from the outside world. The Spanish girl peers curiously over her friend’s shoulder and nestles her chin into it as she surveys the food I brought.
“You want something to drink?” the Spanish girl asks her friend, but the girl doesn’t answer. Instead, she just stares at the plate and places it on top of the napkins she’d laid on her lap.
“Zina?”
“Huh?” Zina looks up.
“Do you want a soda?”
“A tea,” Zina mumbles.
“Got it,” the Spanish girl says as she scrambles to her feet.
As she begins to walk away, I hold out my hand and step in front of her. “I’ll go. Sit.” I gesture toward the abandoned spot next to Zina. “I’m with the catering team, so I’ll get the drinks.”
But the Spanish girl ignores me. “I’ll be back!” she yells over her shoulder as she hurries toward the drink coolers.
Zina is picking at her food. Tearing a piece from a corner of one of the fresh tortillas stacked on her plate, she places it in her mouth and turns her head away from me as she chews slowly. She swallows, and I can tell by the look on her face that the food is good to her. As she continues to eat, she seems to forget I’m still there. She is obviously hungry. So why didn’t she participate at the picnic? It’s weird.
I have the urge to talk to her. Really talk and ask her all kind of questions—about her life, about school, about her Spanish friend, about why she didn’t want to bother with the festivities, and about the athletic-looking boy who couldn’t stop watching her but didn’t care enough to come keep her company. I fold my arms and shuffle anxiously from foot to foot. Zina looks up at me again in midchew and covers her mouth with her hand.
“Did I say thank you?” she asks, her mouth full.
“Yeah, you did.” We both smile. She seems happier now, her eyes smiling at me. My body floods with a warmth I’ve never felt before. I want to sit with her, but I just stand there. She digs into her food again.
“Oh my God, I’m so hungry…” she says, without looking up. “This is good.”
I make a bold move and sit next to her in the spot her friend had vacated.
“You seem better now,” I say. “Happier.”
“I guess so.” She shrugs and takes another bite.
“Good food makes most of us happy. Why aren’t you out there with everyone else?” I can’t help it. I have to ask. I can’t think of one good reason why a hungry person would
avoid a buffet.
She allows the question to hang in the air. Her chewing slows, and she swallows hard and sighs at me. She doesn’t want to answer. Her pride holds her tongue. She looks over at the boy still lounging on the lawn, the pretty girl twisting her fingers in his cropped, wavy hair. Zina removes the plate of food from her lap and crosses her legs.
“I didn’t do what I was supposed to do,” she says with a casual tone.
I scoot closer to her, a confused look on my face. “What where you supposed to do?” I ask.
“Pay. I didn’t pay my dues. You had to pay a certain amount of money by a certain deadline in order to participate in the senior picnic.” She sighs.
“Oh.” I don’t know what else to say to that. I feel like an idiot for pressing the issue. I expected her to say she’s too cool for a school picnic, or she’s had detention too many times, or something normal like that. But no. She couldn’t afford the senior picnic. Pretty good reason for ditching, I guess.
“It sucks,” she says. “I want to enjoy this whole experience so fucking bad.”
I shift my body a little closer to hers. I’m no rocket scientist, but she’s obviously not a happy girl.
“I want this moment, this whole senior thing, and I want it to be awesome. And it’s not awesome at all, because I don’t feel like everyone else,” she says, swallowing a bite of chicken and shrimp fajita. She seems more focused on the athletic boy and the food than on me.
“I’m a pretty good cook—my whole family is, pretty much,” I say. I want to impress her, keep her talking. She nods and looks across the lawn in search of the Spanish girl. She’s silent for too long, which makes me uncomfortable enough to leave. As I prepare to part ways, she speaks again.
“Is that why you work at a restaurant?” she asks.
I smile. I’d never thought about it. “Maybe,” I say. “I guess…you know, like I said before…people are happy when they’re eating good food.” I smile at her, and she smiles back but glances away, lowering her head to hide her conspicuous blush. I decide to hold my place next to her until her friend returns.
“Your friend’s been gone for a while.”
She looks out toward the buffet tables and frowns. “I know and I’m thirsty now.”
And then the athletic, muscular boy catches our attention. He stares at us, his arms folded over his chest as the Spanish girl stands next to him at the drink coolers. She grins at the two of us. Seconds later, she jogs toward us with a can of tea in her hand. She stops directly in front of us and hands the drink to Zina.
“Goddamn, Shannon is an idiot,” she says, laughing. “I just had to mess with him.” She runs a few fingers through her thick straightened hair.
“About what?” Zina asks.
“About you! I bet you a thousand dollars he wants to motorboat those boobs of yours.” She grins.
“Dude!” Zina says, choking on her drink. “That’s not even cute. Shannon is not that…”
“That what?” The Spanish girl raises an eyebrow.
“He has a girlfriend,” Zina mumbles. “I don’t mess with boys who have girlfriends.”
“Zina, spare me the melodramatics. Accept it. He’s for real crushing on you. He’s so fucking jealous right now.” She cuts her eyes at me, gauging my response.
It’s a weird scene. All of a sudden, I feel invisible, but at the same time, I’m overwhelmed by my insight into this girl and her life. I can feel the depth of her loneliness. And I can certainly relate to it. It is obvious to me, as it is to her friend, that the jock on the lawn is interested in her, but to what extent I can’t tell. But she’s choosing to ignore it for some reason, and I can’t help but wonder why. He’s some sort of an awkward golden boy, if I’ve ever seen one. I thought girls like guys like him.
As I stand and prepare to leave, Zina sets the plate down by her foot and takes a long, slow sip from the can of tea. She doesn’t look at the boy across the way or at me. She says nothing else. I don’t know what to say, but I know I have to go. I look over at my staff; they’ve started the cleanup process without me. I’ve been gone far too long. I want to touch her. I want to reach down and stroke her hair and brush it from her face. Had she been a mature woman, I would’ve. I struggle to keep my hands to myself and walk away.
CHAPTER 7
ZINA
After school, Blanca and I drive to her house in Pearwood, Texas, an upper-class subdivision not far from where I live. During the car ride, I tell her how desperate I am to get my hands on some money and that I’m hungry to do whatever I have to do to get it. The more I talk about my mama’s dwindling paychecks, the more determined I become. Taking care of four growing kids has worn her out, and because shit just keeps getting more expensive, my mama gets deeper and deeper in debt.
Blanca’s mouth drops open, but she keeps her eyes on the road—even when I tell her my mama had filed for bankruptcy two years ago.
“Whoa…” she says. That was the little piece of information that almost made her miss her turn.
We cruise down Highway 288, me spilling everything and Blanca listening silently. Every now and again, I look over at her and can see she’s thinking about everything I’ve said. She’s a smart girl; I know she’ll stay up all night trying to figure this out for me. I feel bad about that because ain’t nothing B. de la Vega can do about any of this. And I wish I hadn’t dumped my shit on her. I wish she hadn’t wanted to know. That’s the thing about having a real best friend—there are no secrets between you, and no matter how bad you want to keep some things for yourself, you just can’t. That’s not how the G code works.
We’ve been at Blanca’s house for hours, lying around half naked and sweating all over the de la Vega’s cushy deck swing. Blanca de la Vega is the love of my life—no homo, just that G code thing again.
“That guy at the picnic today…” Blanca says.
“What about him?” I ask as I squint through the leopard-print sunglasses that Blanca’s uncle, Tony, had gotten for me this past summer.
“He was pretty cool.” She smiles.
I push backward on the deck swing as I think about the way he sat next to me, as if he wanted something.
“Yeah.” I nod as I rear back on my elbows. “He was pretty cool.”
Blanca says nothing but shrugs and consumes a hefty breath of humid H-town air. She stares at the massive oak tree dominating the de la Vegas’ beautifully manicured backyard.
“I feel so strange,” she finally says. “Like nothing will ever be the way it was when we used to climb that stupid tree.”
I follow her gaze, understanding exactly what she means. Neither of us speaks. We sit beside each other, posted up and comfortably lounging on her deck swing that’s big enough for at least four people. It’s lined with blue and orange pillows and cushioned with a pale-blue-and-cream-colored outdoor mattress. It’s so lush that it feels like it was made for royals. I sit, complacent for the moment, and allow the timid breeze to frolic in my hair, adoring the way all this feels. I glance over and notice Blanca’s grin—the same grin of intrigue I am famous for.
“How old do you think that guy is?” I ask.
“What guy?” Blanca shrugs and wipes her forehead with her palms. She pushes a loose strand of hair behind her ear as she shifts positions on the swing.
“The one who…” I think about it and decide not to press the issue. “Nothing,” I snap. “No guy. Forget it.”
I’ll never see that dude again, and continuing to talk about him is a distraction and waste of time. Blanca has already forgotten about him. Guess I’ll do the same. I grab one of the brightly colored pillows and wrap both arms around it, clutching it against my chest. I press my lips together, frustrated. I’ve never felt so alone.
The back porch deck has grown creepy in the evening twilight, so Bee and I leave our porch swing and take our sweaty, sticky selves inside
. We chill in the kitchen for a minute, before her dad and his first cousin, Leidys, the woman of the house, join us from different corners of the de la Vegas’ five-bedroom home. Ephraim, Blanca’s dad, sits at the dining room table, reading a newspaper, while Leidys tends to a roast she has on slow cook.
I hear it first—the sound of an aggressively driven, souped-up car pulling into the de la Vega’s cul-de-sac. Holy heck. Tony, Blanca’s uncle—and mine by association—has come for a visit. I’ve been missing him like shit.
He enters the de la Vegas’ kitchen through the garage and kisses Blanca on the cheek. He grins at me and winks. I flash warm and edgy. My cheek is next. My adoptive uncle, Antonio, has a troubling effect on me. As he moves around the kitchen island, I turn my head, hiding my cheesy blush. I sit in anticipation, positioning and repositioning myself on the kitchen stool. I sit up straight and arch my back. He grins, showing a mouthful of teeth and the smile lines of a twenty-nine-year-old man. My breath catches in my chest as he beams at me.
“Zina, you precious little thing,” he says as he runs a hand along my loosely braided hair.
I smile, and Leidys notices me fidgeting beneath his compassionate touch. He treats me as well as he treats Blanca—sometimes better—because he believes I need the attention. As a little kid, I wanted him to be my father even though I knew it was impossible. He pays attention, remembers my birthdays, and gives me everything he’s ever given to Blanca. With Uncle Tony, Blanca and I never have to share; he gives us our own.
This love I have for him changes every few years. My shifting hormones have a mind of their own, blindly desiring shit that my developing mind and body can’t manage. So now when Uncle Tony comes around, I understand one thing and one thing only: there is no choice when it comes to him. I have to love the only man who has ever taken care of me or given a shit about me. When he kisses me on the cheek, I lean into it. His mouth is soft, wet, and sloppy from the bottle of beer in his hand. His nose brushes against my face as he pulls back, and his quiet breath sends me into a full-body quiver. He smells like chocolate mints and cologne. From the corner of my eye, I see his full, flesh-colored Spanish lips stretch smoothly across his teeth. I smile back.
Of Hustle and Heart Page 3