by Aida Salazar
after the movie. Can you believe it? A nightmare!
Iván waves his arms and imitates a screaming Pedro.
I giggle to imagine Pedro thrashing in his bed
because he’s got to be almost six feet though thin as a pin
but then my laughing grows partly because
my stomach is a ball of nerves.
I double over
suspended in breath
in that quiet
right before I
explode
with laughter.
Celi, what’s going on?
Why are you laughing with this creep?
I am disarmed, my laughing slows
but the happy orange warmth
for Iván doesn’t leave my chest.
Iván turns to Marco and flails
his arms at him too.
Come on Mar, see, he’s harmless.
I hope Marco will get his humor.
Hey, Magda, can your hair get any butchier?
Iván flings the question at Marco
looking for another laugh.
I’m Mar, not Magda, you idiot!
And I can’t be a butch when I’m …
He pauses as if wasting his breath,
Can you be any stupider, Iván? Marco finishes.
He’s Mar now, Iván, I manage to inject.
Iván bursts out laughing.
You’re the funniest-looking Mar I’ve ever seen!
Marco turns to me, his eyes tearing to shreds.
You call this harmless, Celi?
How could you defend such a jerk?
Before I can really remember my promise
to help Marco I sass,
Oh c’mon, Marco, give him a break
not everyone is going to understand
your changes from one day to the next.
Not everyone’s got moms in a women’s circle like us.
Marco steps back in disbelief.
A shadowlike hurt travels across his face
when he storms,
Celi! He knows about everything now
because of your big mouth!
I know he did not recognize me.
I did not recognize myself.
Marco is my amifriend
but right now I want
Iván to like me more.
Want to be invited
to the movies again
for him to hold my hand again
maybe learn to do
fancy skateboard tricks
and go to the
skate park
with him too.
My locket lies open on
a shore of a sea
of confusion
steady sand grounds my feet
like Marco—best amifriend forever
but the waves of Iván
crash into me
a foam that wraps around my legs
sends a tingle through my body
and swarms my heart
with a feeling of
first love?
His tide draws me
wants me
to swim
in the thrill
of those waters
no matter if he’s been mean
once or twice
and I could drown.
Though I hear Marco’s voice calling my name
waves feel stronger than sand.
Maybe with time, he will
learn to be cool with Marco.
I reason.
I hope.
The next time I see Marco
at school, he looks the other way
hides the bright teeth that spread joy.
Passes by me in the hall as if I don’t exist
and the next time
and the next.
I can’t blame him.
So I shoo away the emptiness I feel
by pretending to be writing
in my notebook but really playing
MASH a million times.
I rig it by writing:
Iván
Iván
Iván
Iván
in all four slots of possible husbands.
This way, I will marry Iván no matter
if I drive a beat-up car
have ten children
live in a shack.
I avoid Aurora’s suspicious beetle eyes
for just a few more days before summer break.
Instead, I wonder
what Iván is eating for lunch and
who he is talking to at this very moment.
Will there be a text from him
waiting
for me when I get home?
I sit next to Marco during class
so that Papi doesn’t suspect
that Marco’s not speaking to me.
I don’t try to look for his eyes.
Marco shuffles his body to
the opposite side of the chair
inch by inch, away from me.
Don’t think he wants Papi
to know either
but I can’t be sure.
Papi always sprinkles his lessons
with drum wisdom nobody asks for,
The African tradition of the drum
helps heal mental illness, problems of any kind
the layered rhythms they provide
soothe the brain with left and right brain communication
and ignite the body to stir out of its rut
from any place it might be stuck.
Maybe it was the drum that helped Marco
find his way to himself and not Iván at all.
Marco stays after class to speak to Papi
though his own dad is waiting in the car.
I hang out in the far corner watching
I don’t hear them but I wonder
if Marco is telling on me
or if Papi is teaching Marco
how to sing from within
how to tune
the drum inside himself.
When Marco leaves, I help Papi and Juju
put away the remaining drums.
My eyes squint while I wait for a scolding
but instead he says,
Marco lleva la música por dentro.
She, I mean, HE carries the music deep inside
like Juju and you, Celi.
My eyes pop open while I point to my chest—me?
Except your body is your instrument.
That’s why you two make such great partners.
I almost smile and shake my head
hoping the guilt I feel will scoot off
like a nagging bug, but it doesn’t.
You can’t have dance without music.
Papi keeps talking …
but I don’t register any more words.
Betraying Marco feels like
a huge bug has landed on my head
and its shameful venom drips down
like egg on my face.
Summer solstice swept away
the last days
of school like a swift broom.
Marco is nowhere.
My parents force me to come
to a community solstice celebration
at Lake Merritt where
large layers of smooth grass extend
out from the gray-green water.
All of Oakland’s colors
are a rainbow
splashed and
spread across the park.
Salseros dance a rueda on the concrete flat near the arches.
A hip-hop cypher’s going off near the barbecue pits
and there’s a capoeira roda over near the playground.
Others picnic or
run
walk
skate
ride
around the paths
while the 580 freeway roars
like a swarm of locusts above our heads.
Then there’s my family who
sets up our batey
littered with geese poop.
Now that I’m here, I feel
the warm sun
soothe my grump.
But then I see
Aurora’s family, the Camachos
begin to load in.
I wish it were Marco’s family
arriving.
Mima, can you text Teresa?
Ask if they are coming?
Okay, mija, let me see.
She fumbles with her phone.
I help Mima lay out
our gray-and-white-striped Mexican blanket
and put out the food:
nopal salad and tostadas
black beans and rice
and Papi’s garlic chicken.
I check her phone for an answer.
Nothing.
Papi’s tuning the drums
and Juju hit the playground
the moment we got here.
I follow Mima’s eyes
searching for Juju
and then I spot him!
Iván, near the playground
standing over a woman
with long black locks
spiraled into a ponytail
reading a book
not too far from the capoeira roda.
Isn’t that your friend Iván? Mima asks.
Um, yeah.
Looks like that might be his mom. I’m
going to say hi. Mima rises.
You coming, Celi?
No!
It’s a good thing I’m sitting
because I fall back into the blanket
and cover my eyes with my hands.
Okay, suit yourself.
I peek through my fingers and watch
Iván greet Mima with his wonky smile
and introduce her to the woman, who really
does look like she could be his mom.
Mima sits on their blanket
and points over at me!
Iván begins to walk over.
I wish Mama Earth would swallow me whole
but all I can do is press my fingers tighter to my eyes
pretend to be asleep
and pray that Mama Earth is hungry.
Too much light for you, Celi? Iván squawks.
He plops down next to me.
I peel myself up from the blanket.
Force a hi.
Iván’s curls sway in the breeze
behind him, the lake’s water reflects the solstice sun
makes it look like he’s got an aura of lava around him.
His voice breaks again.
So when’s your dad gonna play?
I dunno, it’s a free-for-all.
I’m really beginning to like bomba.
I can tell.
Really? You’ve seen me hella stalk your class, eh?
I shrug and answer,
You don’t have to be Puerto Rican to play bomba
you know.
No?
Marco’s Mexican and he plays, I want to say
but instead I say,
Well, no. You aren’t Brazilian
and you play capoeira. Right?
It’s a feeling, and you know
if it’s got you and you’ve got it.
Before we know it
our moms are laughing
and eating together
and the bomba drums
and the cantos
are fired up.
Iván’s capoeira master, Mestre Tamborim,
whistles Iván over for his turn to play in the roda.
I exhale for the first time
since he sat there
but then I hold my breath
again
when he says,
Be right back.
I dig through Mima’s purse
for her phone.
Now I hope Marco’s not coming!
Teresa answered:
Sorry amiga, Marco’s
not feeling well.
Let’s connect in a couple
of weeks when you and the
kids get back from LA. Okay?
A tornado of relief and worry unleashes inside me.
It’ll be another two weeks without Marco
and a trip to LA I didn’t even know about!
And Marco’s not feeling well?
I’ve got to tell Mima
maybe one of her herbal concoctions
will make him better.
But what if it’s me?
Maybe Marco’s
sick of me.
I see Aurora go over
to the capoeira circle
to watch Iván, of course
to see him clap his hands
to the music
and wait for his turn
to battle-dance
in the roda.
I turn away thinking
Iván didn’t sit next to her and she knows it.
I look over at Papi playing the lead drum, the primo.
He points his lips at the center of our batey.
Though I hesitate to grab my skirt because
there is no one like my echo
I remember what Papi told us
about our black Puerto Rican
ancestors who created bomba.
They would dance and drum
after a long day’s work
as slaves on the plantations
to erase their pains.
It is how they kept their spirits alive.
If they lifted their skirts when
they were tired and hurt
I have no room to complain.
Then, I think about all the circles
I see and know:
the Puerto Rican batey
the salsa rueda
the capoeira roda
the Mexica círculo
the drum
this lake
the sun
the moon.
I’ve got to get up and get into the circle
for a solstice bomba dance for all of us.
Iván comes back
in time to see
me hit my last piquete
and Papi’s last drum response.
When I come out of the batey
Iván’s sitting with Mima
AND Aurora on our blanket!
Every one of my nerve endings cringes.
Too late to turn around because
my feet are already walking that way.
My fingers go straight to my chewing teeth
and when I arrive Mima scorns,
Celi, las manos.
You killed it, Celi, Iván beams right into me.
Mima shines, I could watch her dance forever.
Before I can say thank you
Aurora snaps,
You were off time, you know.
I was suspending time, genius.
You’d know that if you
knew about rhythm.
Iván snickers through his nose
in the cutest way.
Celi, be nice, Mima’s voice is seriously low.
Aurora shrugs,
I do know about rhythm
because I’m full Puerto Rican
not like some people.
She clears her throat
and rolls her eyes sideways.
If Mima weren’t here I’d be
tackling Aurora to the ground
and pushing her into the
stripes of the blanket.
Mima reaches over and gently swats my
hand out of my mouth, knows
that maybe I’m thinking
something devious.
What you doing next week, Celi?
Iván asks suddenly.
You wanna go to the skate park?
Aurora jumps in, sounds fun, which one
are we going to?
I glare at her.
Iván crinkles his face
in an are-you-crazy kind of way.
I was asking Celi!
I can’t help but beam
a big fat so-silly grin
to see Aurora’s
shoulders
shrink
into a frown.
When I answer,
That’ll be cool.
I don’t tell either of them that
next week, I’ll probably be in LA
missing the skate park
with Iván.
Yeya, my six aunts
and my cousins in Los Angeles
are a woven rug
of laughter and bickering
that always welcomes us
with the Mexican warmth
of LA’s desert heat.
Though Papi stays behind
this time
because of a gig
and my locket is more
achy than ever without Marco
LA feels like home too.
El-A is:
Yeya and her cazuelas
filled with beans and amor.
Tias who wear
too-tight clothes and
manicured nails
to work at dentist offices
and in computer programming
and in real estate
and to stay at home with their kids …
Cousins too young to hang out
with me but who are the perfect
half dozen to
dog pile on Juju
during water balloon fights.
I escape to Yeya’s brick patio
to the hammock beneath the avocado tree.
Though it is daytime, I see a faint sliver of Luna
peeking through the big leaves.
I sneak the tablet and text Marco
but he doesn’t answer.
He seems as far away as Luna.
I ignore Iván’s text about the skate park.
I don’t care that Iván’s tide is waning.
While I rock
back and forth
forth and back
I notice how all of Yeya’s
plantas—the sábila
the yerba santa
the hydrangeas
the roses
the jacalosúchil
have found a way to grow
no matter the cold cement
that surrounds them.
Like Marco
a xochihuah
who’s put up
with the awful
concrete of me.
As if she can read minds
Yeya asks me about Marco
when she finds me on the
hammock.
I play it off
I dunno, Yeya, I haven’t seen him for weeks.
Yeya’s soft round hands
stroke my hair as she showers
me with sweet Spanish
words that never feel heavy like Mima’s.
You have to be strong for him, Celi.
He doesn’t have an easy road.
I only nod my betraying head
too ashamed to speak.