He moves on to greet his big brother, Ephraim, and then Leidys. He grabs them, smooching each of them somewhere between mouth, corner, and chin. Uncle Tony hugs them full and hearty and then shakes his brother’s hand.
“Tony, what is this?” Leidys frowns as she rubs her fingers across the stubble on his chin and cheeks. “You need to shave.”
He pats her hand before he removes it from his face.
“No, I don’t,” he says quickly. “Men grow hair on their faces. It’s called a beard, cousin.”
“You’re much more handsome with a clean face. That,” she says, pointing to his face, “looks trashy.”
“Beards are in,” Blanca says, and Uncle Tony raises his beer in her honor. Leidys just rolls her eyes.
“Thank you, niece,” he says. Blanca and I smile stupidly at his gesture. I’m glad she spoke up. I was thinking the same thing but was too nervous to interfere. I like Uncle Tony’s stubble. I debate whether or not I should tell him.
I watch him gather a plate and fork from the kitchen cabinet. He’s shaking his head and mumbling something underneath his breath. He moves to the stove, but Leidys interrupts, taking his plate and piling it with slow-cooked roast, carrots, and potatoes. She puts a corner of hot water cornbread on the edge of his plate, a recipe my mother sent to her for Easter back when Blanca and I were in the sixth grade. Uncle Tony stands over Leidys, watching her. He frowns a little, and I know what he’s thinking and what he wants to say. He’s not the submissive type; he doesn’t wait for people to do stuff for him. He likes to be in control of everything, I think, and he wants to prepare his own plate. He’s forced to hold his tongue, though, because Leidys whips around from the stove, eyeballing her baby cousin.
“Go sit down,” she says.
“Damn.” Uncle Tony gripes and obeys. He rolls his eyes and rubs his stomach as he sits across from Ephraim at the table. “Fill my plate with everything,” he barks. “I’m hungry.”
Leidys sets Uncle Tony’s plate in front of him, along with a steak knife and a fork. She tears three sheets of paper towel from the roll in the center of the table, hands him two, and then slides the third under his plate. Uncle Tony grabs the twelve-ounce can of beer she sets in front of him, pops the top, and takes a quick swig.
“I appreciate your concern over what I choose to do with my facial hair, cousin,” he says to Leidys, “and how I prepare my plate…but I will do me. And you can do you.”
Leidys walks by and smacks Uncle Tony in the back of the head but doesn’t say anything. She takes her seat next to Mr. De la Vega. As she sits, Antonio looks up at her and leans back in his chair. He picks up his fork and stabs a piece of meat.
“To you, Leidys,” he says, raising his fork in the air, “my beautiful cousin. The food is good,” he says and grins. Then pointing the fork at her, he continues, “But…keep your hands to yourself, please.” He shoves the fork into his mouth. Bee and I shift uncomfortably in our seats.
He sounds serious. I watch as Leidys sits up straight in her chair, her eyes narrowed and ablaze.
“Antonio, stop complaining. I’m feeding you, aren’t I? Just say thank you, you ingrate.”
“I don’t need you to feed me. I come here to visit,” Tony says. The two of them stare across the table at each other. “Besides, if I didn’t come by, you’d blow my phone up.”
“I worry about where you are,” Leidys says.
At that, Uncle Tony grows restless and puts his fork down so abruptly that it rattles around on his plate and slides into the center of his meal.
“Since when do you need to worry, Leidys?” he asks, frowning. “As if I’m some reckless kid who needs chastisement from you…” He shrugs at his own question and places both hands palm down on the table.
He flushes and exhales hard. I’ve known him for nine years. When Blanca and I became friends, he was twenty years old and as wild as any twenty-year-old guy could be. He listened only to his big brother Ephraim, and because of this, he and Leidys always bumped heads. Uncle Tony refused to submit to Leidys’s advice and always took her commentary as an attack on who he was. As he’s gotten older, he has learned to respect her and her opinions, although the restraint it takes for him to do so always makes him tense.
“Can I eat my food?” Tony gripes at Leidys.
She nods and gets up from the table. He looks at me and winks as his blood-tinged skin changes back to its natural pale brown color. I’m so ready to go home. He’ll take me there after he’s full. I need to see my brothers and my mama. It’s been a long fucking day.
Finally, I’m on the way home. Tony cuts the wheel and backs out of the de la Vegas’ driveway.
“You should’ve been home, showered, and in bed a long time ago,” Uncle Tony says as he navigates through the heavy evening traffic on South Fork Avenue. “How was school?” He glances over at me from the corners of his rich, onyx eyes.
“School was fine.” I sigh and toss my backpack on the floor by my feet.
“You’ve been kinda quiet tonight. What’s up with that?” Uncle Tony asks.
I sigh again. “Nothing, uncle.”
I hear him suck in a deep breath, but I say nothing more.
“Zina, I love being your Uncle Tony, but I think…”
I wait, but he doesn’t finish the sentence. I turn in my seat to face him.
“What? What do you think?” I ask. His lips tighten, and he just keeps driving. “Tell me. I wanna know.” I’m too eager with him, and he doesn’t say anything else. “Can you take me to school in the morning?”
Tony frowns at me. “Of course,” he says, as if I’d asked a stupid question. “Just text me anytime if you need a ride.”
“Why’d you frown when I asked, though?”
He shrugs. “You should know by now that whatever you need…” He’s silent as we merge onto the freeway, but it’s not uncomfortable. After a while, I start to mess with the radio until I find The Weekend’s voice.
“I would ride with Blanca in the morning, but she wakes up too early.”
“You don’t have to explain anything to me,” Tony says. His voice is low, and his driving is smooth and easy. I feel like going to sleep, but I stare at him instead, my head resting against my seat. We sit in darkness, except for flashes of light from oncoming freeway traffic. As I drift into sleep, I know one thing for sure: Uncle Tony is really a handsome man. And part of me is foolish enough to think that part of him belongs to me.
CHAPTER 8
ZACARIAS
The early evening hours are peaceful and nourishing to my soul. I leave the restaurant early because I need to find a little peace within myself to cap off the day. I’m satisfied and proud of how well the senior picnic at the high school turned out, and once I made it back to the restaurant, all was well there too.
Whitney comes for me as soon as we finish unloading the catering van and get everything back into its place. All I can say about her is at least she has the good sense to wait until I’m in the back office to go off the way she does.
She’s angry, accusing me of avoiding her phone calls while I was out. Her accusations are so absurd that I’m sure she’s joking. She starts off calm, rattling off a list of offenses. As long as I sit still and let her attack my emotional and mental strength, she’s fine—pleasantly derogatory, in fact. When she attacks my integrity, saying I was probably too busy with some pack of senior whores to call her back, I draw the line. Enough.
“Stop,” I say casually, pinching the brim of my nose.
She tilts her head at me. “Stop what?” Her voice is airy and light.
I lift my eyes to hers, exhausted. “Stop saying all this stuff.”
She sits across from me, her long legs crossed at the thigh. “Why did you avoid my calls?”
I take in a deep breath and slouch in my chair. “I’m too tired, Whitney. Please.” I
plead with her not to do this to me. I don’t have the energy to defend myself, but she continues anyway.
“There has to be a reason. And the only reason I can think of is that you were distracted.”
“I was distracted—I was working!” I raise my voice, growing impatient and irritable with this nonsense.
“It was a buffet, Zack!” she shoots back. “All anybody had to do was get a plate and serve themselves. Not hard.”
“I’m leaving,” I say as I stand up behind my desk.
“You can’t leave,” she says with a laugh as she moves to stand in front of me. “I’m not letting you out of this room until you tell me.”
“Tell you what? Why do you think I would ever…?” I throw my hands up and nudge past her.
“Zack!” She tries to grab my hand, but I pull away.
“What do you think would go on at a high-school picnic? What do you think I am?” I’m offended. No other way to put it.
“I heard some of the guys from the catering team talking about how the girls were looking at you,” she says. “Did you talk to any of them?”
“No,” I say, but she looks at me as if she’s finally caught me in a lie. “You think I’m some pedophile, that I troll the nearest high school, looking for teenagers to cheat on you with?”
“Did they flirt with you? Just tell me.”
“If you think I’m such a tool, why are you with me, Whitney? Why do you leave and then keep coming back?”
In all sincerity, I want to know. I can’t wrap my head around why any woman would attempt to preserve a relationship that wasn’t good for her. I’ve never done anything during the course of our nineteen-month relationship to deserve her distrust. I’ve never cheated—not even in my heart—and she knows this. Or at least she should.
She doesn’t have an answer. She stands next to me, looking into my eyes, her own on fire, burning with something unfamiliar to me. She doesn’t look like a woman who wants to love me. She looks at me as if she wants to control something inside me.
When she first came to Rico’s for a job a year ago, I was gullible enough to allow her that control over me. She wanted my time, and I gave it to her. She wanted to know my mother, so I forced Madeline to tolerate her. She wanted to control me, and I mistook that for love.
I shove past her, car keys in hand, even though she tries to block my path. My stomach is so twisted in knots that it constricts my breathing.
“I don’t deserve this,” I mutter.
It is physically painful to have her or anyone accuse me of betrayals I never committed. She calls out to me, but I don’t stop. I am tired; I just want peace. When I left Albert Chesney earlier, I was relieved and in a good place. All I wanted was to come back to Rico’s and back to Whitney—the girlfriend I’m trying so hard to love. I wanted her to embrace me, to celebrate the event’s success with me. I wanted her love; I wanted her to be mine. But she refuses. She constantly refuses.
When I get home, I don’t shower; I barely have the energy to disrobe. As I bury my face in my pillow, I wonder if I locked the front door. I’m too tired to go check it.
I consider whether I’ll want to talk to Whitney tomorrow, once she calms down. Though my eyes are burdened with the weight of exhaustion, I suddenly imagine the high-school girl—the hungry one—sitting in the corner of my room next to my dresser. She doesn’t smile at me, but she seems poised to watch over me while I sleep. It’s curious to me that my exhaustion would summon her. I fall asleep quickly with my mouth open, drool crusting on my arm and pillow.
The next morning, I wake up unrested. I’ve overslept, and if I want to make it to work on time, I’ll have to put a rush on it. I don’t have it in me. I roll over and dial the restaurant’s number. Bruno answers. He apologizes for not showing for the picnic, blubbering and spewing out reasons I couldn’t care less about. I listen for a minute and then interrupt him.
“I’m not going to make it in today, so you’re in charge,” I say. “Do me a favor and take care of everything.”
After lying around for another forty minutes or so, my growling stomach pushes me out of bed. I get dressed in a plain T-shirt and a pair of black basketball shorts and head out in search of breakfast. I drive around for twenty minutes, while my phone’s vibrating alerts go nuts on me. I finally check it at an intersection—four calls and five texts from Whitney and one text from my mother. I love them both. I hate to keep either of them waiting. But I need more time before I face either of them.
I pass by a doughnut shop. It reminds me of the Cinnabons they’d served at the picnic, and I find myself thinking about the high-school girl again. I bust a U-turn and pull into the drive-through. The line is horrendously long, so I decide to go inside. I stand in line behind two women who can’t seem to stop themselves from looking back at me. I ignore them, distracted by my gurgling stomach and the pastries in front of me. But when one of the women drops some change on the floor, I kneel down quickly to retrieve it for her.
“Here you go,” I say as I hand the coins back to her while she gushes at me.
She wants to talk, flirt, make conversation, but I don’t give her the opportunity. Instead, I force my attention back to the food. I rub my stomach and picture Whitney peering through the glass doors at me. Of course, she isn’t really there.
The pink-frosted doughnuts and strawberry milk—I imagine the high-school girl, Zina, would order that. Whitney likes plain, glazed doughnuts and ham-and-cheese kolache but the high-school girl has a zest, an excitement, about her and a presence louder than a V8 engine. She’d get the pink or red frosted doughnuts and kolache full of jalapenos and sausage. A smile plays at my lips, and when it’s my turn to order, I ask for exactly that.
I make it back from my doughnut run to find my mother’s car parked along the curb in front of my condo. She has a key to the two-bedroom flat my brother John and I share, so I know she’s in there waiting for one of us. I don’t want a visit from my mother. She can’t contain herself when it comes to my relationship with Whitney, so she pries and badgers, wanting to know every detail, about every up and down I go through with her. One moment she dislikes her and in the next finds potential with her.
“I saw mom’s car parked on the curb,” John says as he walks cautiously up the sidewalk and pauses a few feet away from me. I turn and look at him, wide eyed and anxious, hesitating outside our front door. I step back, afraid she’ll hear us.
“We can run for it,” John says, his voice silky smooth and quiet.
“You think she heard us drive up?” He considers it and shakes his head.
“Do you care if she knows we’re here?” he asks, raising his eyebrows.
“I don’t want her to think we’re avoiding her,” I say.
John laughs. “But we are.”
Then he looks at me, noticing the frown lines I’ve been unable to shake off since I left work yesterday and the ragged tone of my voice. He grabs my shoulder and stares at me.
“Hey,” he mumbles, “what’s wrong with you, bruh? You look fucked.”
“I’m not. I’m all right,” I say, pushing his hand from my shoulder. I lie to my brother, because right now I don’t want to talk to him either. In fact, I make a decision. I’d rather try to make a run for my room than stand out here under his suspicious gaze. If I have to bear my mother’s prying for a little while, I can live with that.
“I’m going in,” I say.
I unlock the front door, unsure if John will follow, but he does. He calls out, and our mother appears in the middle of the front living room.
“Good Lord! Where have you all been?” She flashes us a toothy grin. “I’ve been waiting for you two.”
“We know,” John says. “We saw your car parked outside.”
John takes his keys from his pockets and drops them on the hall table before he walks into the living room. He approaches ou
r mother and leans over, softly kissing the corner of her mouth.
“We were avoiding you,” he says. He pauses only long enough to acknowledge her as he heads toward his bedroom and disappears inside, shutting the door behind him.
My mom smiles at me, her hazel eyes on fire; she’s eager to engage. She sits down in John’s favorite armchair and crosses her legs.
“Well,” she says, “John is silly and arrogant, as usual.” She smirks and lays her beige clutch across her lap. “He’s older than you. You’d think he’d at least try to fake your maturity level.”
“John’s not a fake,” I say. “He is who he is and feels the way he feels.” I remind my mother that some of her sons won’t bend over for her the way I do. She folds her hands in her lap and looks at me. I wonder if my brother can hear us.
“I wanted to talk to you about your birthday,” she says. “And I also want you and John to move back in with me.”
CHAPTER 9
ZINA
While I stand at Ms. Boyd’s desk the next morning, waiting for her to write my pass to the nurse’s office, I catch Shannon’s smirk from the corner of my eye. He’s hunched forward over his quiz, tapping his pencil against the clean sheet of paper. The amusement in his eyes forces me to smile. He shakes his head at me, and I turn both palms upward and shrug.
“What?” I mouth at him.
He grins and turns back to the quiz he didn’t study for and has only thirty-five more minutes to finish. I stand at Ms. Boyd’s desk and grunt in pain, loud enough for Ms. Boyd to hear. I wipe invisible sweat from my forehead and mutate my breathing pattern into heavy, ragged breaths.
“Make sure you go straight to the nurse’s office, Zina,” Ms. Boyd says, without looking up. She reaches across her desk and grabs the red, monogrammed stamp pad that bears her signature. But I don’t respond; I haven’t perfected my sick voice. I can fake the gestures, the sounds, and the body language but not the sick voice.
Of Hustle and Heart Page 4