by Robin Leaf
I have to stop myself from laughing at the sight of this large six foot boy backing away from his five foot attacker. I guess he understands not to mess with a pissed-off Mexican mother defending her only daughter.
“Mama,” I snap, pulling her back to look at me. “He just brought me home. He didn’t do this.”
“Where is your brother, Nana?” she asks in the fast-talking Spanish she uses when she’s about to lose her shit. “Why didn’t he bring you home instead of this boy? You were just supposed to go to the beach with some friends, not get in a fight. Why did you fight? Oh my God, I’ve taught you better than that. Girls aren’t supposed to fight. You leave that to the boys. Oh, mi’ja, your poor face.” She grabs my arm and starts to pull me in the kitchen. “Come with me and we’ll put some ice on it. It looks like it hurts. Does it hurt?”
We enter the kitchen to Matty and Rafi shoving cookies in their mouths.
“Ah, I told you boys you couldn’t have any until after we eat dinner,” she yells, swinging the dish towel at my brothers. They giggle and scramble out of the kitchen. “Mateo, go put on a shirt.”
She grabs some ice and wraps it in the towel. As she places it on my face, I hiss. Daddy enters the kitchen from the back yard, a concerned look on his face.
“Graciela, why were you –”
Noah, who has been standing in the doorway, walks up to my dad with his hand out. “Sir, I’m Noah.”
Daddy looks down at Noah’s hand and takes it reluctantly, shaking it once before letting go.
Noah looks at me. “Does he speak English?”
“Yeah,” Daddy answers. “I do.”
“Sir, may I speak to you over here?” Noah asks, nodding to the doorway to the kitchen. Daddy nods, and they move to where I can’t see them.
Mama starts asking me questions about what happened, so I can’t hear the conversation between my dad and Noah. No telling what he’s saying. Plus, with half of my face blocked by the ice, and Mama in my line of vision, I can’t watch the drama unfold.
“Nana, how did this happen?” she whispers, like Noah could understand her if she used her normal tone.
“This is nothing,” I scoff. “You should see the other guy.”
“So you got in a fight with a boy?”
I grunt at her tone. “It wasn’t exactly a fight. He hit me, so I kicked his ass.”
The timer dings, so Mama moves to take the next batch of cookies out of the oven. She opens it, and the heavenly scent of my favorite almond cookies, the ones I’ve been begging her to start carrying in the bakery, hits my nose and makes my mouth water.
“Probably because you said something horrible to him.” She tisks her tongue. “I warned you that mouth would get you in trouble one day, Cristiana.”
“I won’t tell you what he said to me first?”
She slides the cookie tray onto the counter. “I’m sure whatever he said was awful, but it was stupid to make him angrier with your words.” She grabs the spatula and starts to slide the cookies onto the cooling rack. “Where was your brother?”
“God, Mama, I don’t need Ricky to fight my battles. I took care of the asshole myself.”
“Watch your mouth, Nana.” She points the spatula at me before she turns it toward the doorway. “Then why is this boy here?”
I look to where she points and notice that Noah and my dad have disappeared. “Ricky asked him to bring me home.”
“Is he a friend of Enrique’s?” she asks, scooping the cookies carefully so they don’t bend or break.
“No, he goes to my school.”
She lays down the spatula and raises her eyebrows at me. “So, you are dating him.”
I wince at the statement and shake my head. “No. He’s a senior and… not my type.”
“Not your type? Good lord, why not, Nana? He’s very handsome.”
“Maybe –”
“Maybe?” she accuses, planting her hands on her hips. “Did your eye swell too much so you can’t see how gorgeous that boy is?” Sighing dreamily, she adds, “He is everybody’s type.”
I can’t stop my smile. “I don’t go for white boys, Mama.”
She narrows her eyes at me for a second before resuming the cookie transfer. “Cristiana Constanza Calvillo, I did not raise you to be like that. You can like any color boy. And that boy is cute. Plus, he took the time to bring you all the way home, so he’s a nice boy, too.”
“Even if I was interested, he’s leaving for the military soon. And I want to focus on my dancing.” I put down the ice and grab a cookie. “I don’t have time for any distractions, especially cute boys.”
She smiles and points the spatula at me again. “Ah, see? You do think he’s cute.”
I roll my eyes and slide off the stool. “I need to go finish making up my dance for my tryout.”
“Maybe you shouldn’t practice. You need to rest that eye and keep the ice on it.”
“Mama, I don’t dance on my face. It’ll be fine. I’ll ice it after dinner while I’m studying for finals.”
She walks over to me and cups my cheeks carefully, placing a kiss on my swollen one. “How did I get so lucky to have a daughter so devoted to her future?”
I grab her wrists and squeeze. “You grabbed the wrong kid in the hospital, I guess.”
She pats my good cheek affectionately. “You and your mouth.”
Five
After changing, I emerge from my room and look out the front window to see Noah and Daddy huddled under the hood of that ridiculous car. Matty, who is miraculously shirted, and Rafi stand on the bumper on either side of the taller men, riveted to whatever Noah is pointing out and explaining.
I stand for a minute, watching, noticing how that boy has half of my family under some sort of spell. My mind starts to picture what he would look like leaning against his stupid car, waiting for me after some big event, with his hands in his pockets and a secret smile just for me.
Ugh. I gotta shake that shit off. Now, I just want to rush out there, push him into his purple monster car, and insist he leave right now.
Pinche güero. God, the boys are fascinated by him. He needs to leave before he finds my mother and charms her, too, except she already is charmed by his looks. Mierda.
I shouldn’t stand here and stare any longer. I will not allow myself to be sucked in by this… this devil.
I have work to do. That needs to be my focus.
Yet here I stand, still staring at the four males bonding over a car.
Forcing the curtain closed, I move to the back door. Daddy helped me clear out part of the garage and installed a mirror on the wall so that I can have a place to dance. He calls it my studio.
I am so fortunate to have two parents who support me. So many of my childhood friends don’t. Lupita’s parents just don’t care about her, so she does whatever she pleases. Most girls would be thrilled to be able to get away with so much, but I see how much she wants their attention. She does plenty to try to get it. Then there’s Daniela, who has had to take on the role of mother to her siblings since she was seven while her mother works three jobs.
Yes, I am lucky in the parent department.
I’m also thankful they are simply supportive and not like the pushy, controlling moms I’m surrounded by at my new school. Those women are loca, fighting and pushing for their run-of-the-mill dancer daughters, like they are the next Paula Abdul or something.
Except they’re not.
Most of them don’t even want to be. But I do. Actually, I want to be the first Cristiana Calvillo, the one the next generation of dancers wanna be.
I put in the cassette in our cheap little stereo system, one that doesn’t even have a CD player in it. I had to record the song on a cassette tape like a savage. I push play, and begin to do some fast stretches before the music begins.
I am determined to finish this fucking dance today. That will give me three days to perfect things before the tryout on Thursday. I’m not going for the traditional choreogra
phy my director expects either, no. This dance will be all me and my style, not that bouncy, fake-smiling, boring ass, robotic shit they like to do. Fuck the judges if they don’t like it.
***
Pas de bourrée, chassé, grand jeté, two tondue drag back steps back… set up for eight revolution modified fouetté turn, kick out, body roll turn, run, run, pause, développé and hold, relevé, end pose.
Damn, Ms. Hahn and her insistence on us learning the “correct terminology” for the moves is actually helping me remember my steps. I am notorious for making shit up on the fly and then not remembering what I did.
I take a minute to breathe and write the combination down before moving to rewind the tape so I can perform one more run through. After pushing play, I hurry to get into position before the music starts.
For something different, I chose the song, “Ruiner,” by Nine Inch Nails. The electronic drums start, and my soul ignites. When I dance, I’m possessed; I transform. I become a conduit for the music and whatever emotion it evokes. This song is fast, but kind of dark, so I allow it to envelop me and guide my fluid movements. I want this dance to tell a story, one of wicked forces pulling a woman from every direction, but she overcomes… triumphs over all things that tempt her and rises above the evil.
Yeah, it might be a little much for this stupid dance team tryout, but I believe in going all out. I want to make an impression.
Halfway through the song, I lock eyes with Noah in the mirror. It doesn’t slow me down. In fact, knowing I have an audience makes me put that much more into the performance.
I hit my end pose and wait a beat before searching the mirror for his reaction. He’s leaning up against the wall with his perfectly muscled arms crossed in front of him. His face is hard to read, blank, like he didn’t just watch me expose my soul to him. Only his eyes are intent, silently studying me, almost like he really wants to say something I probably won’t like.
I raise my eyebrow challenging him, and the corners of his mouth turn up slightly.
He clears his throat. “Your mom sent me in here to tell you that dinner is ready.”
I nod and walk to the stereo to rewind my tape so it’ll be ready for my next session. When I turn around, he’s still standing in the same spot.
His feet shift and he looks down. I think he’s going to leave, but he stops and forces me captive with his eyes. “Are you sure…” he begins, pausing to swallow. “Are you really sure that’s the direction you want to go with this dance?”
I feel the bitchy comment I want to make rise from my throat, but he speaks before it makes it through my lips.
“I mean… it just seems pretty… intense.”
I bend to pick up my notebook and pull it to my chest. “I was going for intense.”
The door is behind him, and since he doesn’t move, there is no way to make it into the house without passing by him pretty closely. I throw my shoulders back and strut that direction, trying to look unintimidated by his judgy eyes. I can do this. Just move past him like his comment didn’t hurt my feelings.
His hand reaches out and grasps my elbow, stopping my progress. I look down at his hand then up to his eyes, which have softened.
“Why do you want to be a part of that team of boring, bitchy Barbie dolls?” He takes the piece of hair that is stuck to my eyelashes between his pinky and ring finger and tucks it back in place, careful not to touch my swollen cheek. “You are way too good for them.”
That.
That whispered admission with the hair thing… it starts my heart racing. My mouth drops open, and I feel a tingling in my stomach. He didn’t touch me, and because of that, I almost whimper.
His lips again curl upward before he moves around me to open the door. He doesn’t wait or even throw a look back at me before walking out.
I’m not sure how long I stand there, but I have to force my breathing to slow down and convince my stuck feet to move.
When I finally do enter the kitchen, I see my entire family, plus one, seated, passing dishes around and filling their plates with the carne guisada Mama cooked yesterday. Trust me, Mama’s right… it’s always better the second day. The fact that I’m a little pissed they didn’t wait for me is overshadowed by my surprise that a still-shirted Matty is there, finally allowed at the table because he didn’t refuse to put on clothes yet again.
In fact, I’m so surprised, I don’t notice Ricky seated next to Noah, talking quietly, no doubt discussing what happened with Frankie.
I serve myself, feeling the need to roll my eyes at the way my mother is trying to hide how she is watching Noah, some sort of weird expression on her face. I can’t tell if she’s secretly wishing she was nineteen years younger, or if she’s trying to think of a way to make him a permanent resident of our table.
We make it through dinner where Noah effectively charms every member of my family. Well, except me. I’m immune to his spell. Mostly. In fact, it really pisses me off that everyone seems to be so taken by him.
“Noah, Graciela wants to know what you said it was that Mateo might have?”
“You mean the tactile sensitivity?” He dips another one of my mother’s homemade tortillas into the gravy and chomps it, which makes her smile, and talks directly to her like she can understand him. “Your husband said he was in the gifted program. My mom is a director of the GT program at her school and said it’s not uncommon for the GT kids to have it.”
Daddy translates for Mama, and she nods.
Noah chews another bite. “I know I hate things like polyester and tags in the collars.”
“Yeah,” Matty pipes up. “They’re all itchy and bug me.”
Noah turns to Matty. “I agree, Matt-ee-eye-ee-eye-oh. I have these t-shirts I love that are super soft, and look,” he pulls his collar out from the back, “no tags.” Folding his arm, he holds it out his arm for Matty, and I pretend not to notice how his muscle flexes. “Go ahead, feel this.”
Matty rubs the shirt. “Oooh, that’s nice.”
“I’ll find out the brand and let you know what they are so you and your mom can get some.”
Great. Now I’m a little jealous that my eight-year-old brother got to feel up the perfect arm of the guy I’m not sure if I really kinda like or kinda really hate.
“When do you go into the Navy?” Rafi asks him around a bite of rice he continues to shovel into his mouth. I swear, he eats like Cookie Monster.
“They’ll tell me after I take my PST later this week.”
“What’s that?” Rafi questions again, with a piece of rice flying onto his plate.
Mama smacks him on the back of the head and tells him to stop talking with his mouth full.
Noah smiles at my baby brother. “It’s a test –”
“Like a math test?” Rafi asks, way too loudly.
Noah shakes his head. “No, not exactly. You know when your class goes to the gym, and your teacher makes you run and uses the stop watch?”
“Yeah, I hate that. Carlos is always faster than me.”
“Well, I have to do that, plus a bunch of other physical challenges to see if I am good enough to be a SEAL.”
“Why do you want to be a seal? We saw them when we took a trip to Sea World. They eat raw fish and smell really bad.” Rafi wrinkles his nose.
Noah hits us with another one of his full-face smiles. I swear I hear Mama sigh, or that might have been me.
“Not that kind of seal, little man. It’s a special ops division of the Navy. They do cool secret missions and stuff and bust up evil schemes…” he swallows and blinks, looking down at his plate, “…for the safety of the innocent.”
I look down at my plate to hide my eye roll.
Rafi sits up on his knees and leans over his plate. “Like the Avengers?”
Noah chuckles. “I suppose so, little man.”
Great. Now he’s got both my younger brothers looking at him like he’s some pinche superhero.
So, I’m leaning toward kinda really hating h
im.
And to top it off, he insists on clearing the table for my mom.
Jesus Cristo. Can he tone down the good-guy act a little?
As he leaves, he thanks Mama for dinner and all the leftovers (which I planned to eat for lunch tomorrow) she sends home with him. He even received fresh tortillas and a generous supply of the cookies she spent all day making, including my favorite almond cookies.
My dad and the boys walk him out while Mama and I stay behind to do the dishes.
“Damn, Nana, that boy is perfect. Your dad even likes him. He played with the boys and convinced Matty to wear a shirt all afternoon. I really wish you’d change your mind about him.” I take the plate from her and roll my eyes. “Don’t pretend you didn’t drool when he flexed.” She smiles at me. “Plus, when he tasted my cookies, his eyes rolled in the back of his head, and it looked like an orgasm face.”
I nudge her with my hip. “Gross, Mama. He’s younger than your oldest son.”
“Oh, shit, Nana, I didn’t mean it like that.” She turns hand me another dish. “I just meant that he really liked my cookies, so he’s definitely marriage material.”
To my mom, apparently, liking her food is the single prerequisite for marrying off her only daughter, and the cookies she packed with what was supposed to be tomorrow’s lunch for me is probably, in her mind, the first payment of my dowry.
Nice.
Yep. Kinda really hate him.
Six
2001
Noah
“You’d never know that four months ago, you almost died,” Dr. Jeffries says, reading over my chart. “Ruptured spleen, lacerated liver, damaged kidney, four cracked ribs, internal bleeding, almost a quart of blood loss… you must have had an angel looking out for you that day.”
“Nah, I’m just too stubborn to die,” I say, trying not to flinch as he presses pretty firmly on my still-very-tender left side.
“After I finish here, you will have tests to check out your kidney and liver. I can’t release you to active duty until both are healed.”