Xochitl wasn’t quiet enough. My mom woke up and freaked about my all-nighter with Caleb. So today I head straight back to the rental after school.
Xochitl’s here, too. She’s never home for dinner. I’m guessing she either got fired from selling zit cream at the mall or she quit another band.
Mami doesn’t ask questions. We’re all home, so she gets to work whipping up her one comfort food specialty: green chile cheeseburgers.
Mami’s uncle, our Tío Ed, got married to a New Mexican and moved down there a long time ago. He started farming New Mexican green chile, and for years he’s sent us a box every fall. Mami tried out the recipes they make down there, like green chile enchiladas and green chile stew. Those were tasty as hell. But the Avila family go-to became the green chile cheeseburger.
These peppers are not jalapeños. Not poblanos. I got nothing against ’em. But New Mexican green chile was created by the Almighty Gods of Flavor for the purpose of combining heat with cream or cheese and creating ecstasy in your mouth. So Mami only pulls them out of the freezer for special occasions.
I don’t think this qualifies as a special occasion. But I’m not gonna argue.
It’s a quiet dinner. Nothing but the sounds of faces being stuffed till Xochitl slaps a drum roll on the table. She splashes an imaginary cymbal and says, “I bring you this announcement from Fallujah, Iraq: Manny’s coming home! They promised. He’s home for good in February.”
“How do you know?” Mami says.
“We e-mail. It’s all set up. He’ll call you with the details.”
Mami looks at Xochitl like she feels sorry for her for being hopeful.
We’ve been burned so many times. I can’t stand Xochitl even talking about it.
My dad says, “Vamos a ver, mija. We’ll see.”
Xochitl scoots her chair back. “We can’t wait, Papi.” She hops to her feet. “We have to get our act together now. For Manny.”
Barely twenty years old, and she’s taking charge. “We have to make this house feel like a home,” she says. “We’ll paint. Put up prints. Get our old furniture in here.”
“Xochitl, stop,” I say.
“I’m not stopping. And I’m reinstituting game night. Everyone plays.” She points at our parents. “And you two are going out on mandatory dates.”
“Xochitl,” Mami says.
“And counseling?”
“Déjalo, mija,” Papi says.
“At least talk to Father Michael?”
What is Xochitl talking about? We haven’t been to mass in forever.
Then she points at me. “What’s Manny gonna think when he sees you, you big lazy clown? There’s a world out there, T. Find a passion. Set a goal. And go for it, bro!”
I make a beeline for my room, pissed at my sister for turning on me. Pissed at her for jacking up the volume on our quiet dysfunction.
Before I can slam my door, she says, “He’s coming home, guys. Let’s see some energy. Let’s see some smiles. Oh, and I quit the Art Institute.”
“No, Xochitl, no.” Mami drops forehead onto palm and shakes her head. “You can’t do that.”
“I already did.”
Xochitl tells them it’s great she’s quitting because it’s too expensive. Plus she can work full-time during the day and help with rent and bills till Papi finds union work again.
“This way I’ll be home afternoons before rehearsals to help out,” she says.
“We’re okay,” Papi says. “No te preocupes tanto, mija.”
Xochitl looks at the bare walls of the rental. Looks at our parents. Shakes her head. “We have to get right. And we need to do it before Manny comes home.”
I wanna tell Xochitl that’s impossible. Cuz Manny being here—being with us—is the only thing that can get us right.