I cannot leave school.
The bell has rung. Students have fled. The halls are quiet. Summer has arrived.
But I’m still here, strutting the halls like I own the place, soaking it all in.
I’m living in multiple-A territory. One in English and one in History. Boom and boom! I’m up to a solid B in Algebra Two and a freaking B-minus in chem, which is the biggest victory of all.
I visit my core teachers from the year … check in with next year’s crew. I thank Ms. Bradley and Ms. Hays. Chat them up about summer plans. It’s awesome.
Then I bus it to SeaTac. To the rental.
Kennedy Ta’amu called my dad and learned I missed some dinners. All the dinners. So he sits me down and says stuff about taking me in. Feeding me. Treating me like family. Because you are a member of my family, son. And he tells me when he heard I hadn’t been home, he was gonna kick me out.
Then Kennedy tells me that Jesus Christ taught him to forgive.
I say, I’m so sorry, I’m so sorry. All I want to do is win back that man’s trust.
The bus makes its way up Nineteenth toward Pac Highway, and I send a text to break the ice with Xochitl. I tell her I’m gonna hang out a couple hours before dinner. I leave out the part that if there’s drama, I’m grabbing my burger to go.
The whole bus ride I’m going over summer plans in my head. Yeah, junior year was great. But it’s over. First semester senior year is going to make or break me now. And my summer prep is going to make or break that first semester. In order for my transcripts to fully reflect my complete transformation by application deadline time, I gotta turn myself into a math and science whiz ASAP. So this summer, when I’m not working at Vince’s or studying with Bashir, I’ll be cramming with Caleb or by myself if he’s on shift.
Vince’s promised me thirty hours a week. That means I can see Bashir four, maybe five times a week and still save up money for senior year crap … pictures, AP tests, my UW application, and prom.
Prom. I got my fingers and toes crossed.
Outside of all that, I’ll go to a couple movies with Caleb, sit through Friday dinners at the rental, and make some day trips to Vancouver if I can get myself brave enough.
I hop off the bus, drop the long-term thinking, and go over my immediate strategy. After I moved in with Caleb, and after Xochitl’s visit, she started texting me updates about how Manny and Mami and Papi were doing. All bad news. Those guilt trips worked for a while. Then I stopped returning her texts. And she gave up. So … tonight, there will be no apologies. I’m not starting that conversation. I’m gonna strike first and come right at my family with my two As, my U-Dub goals, and my plans for senior year.
And wherever the conversation goes after that, I’m gonna stay positive. I will not let myself get emotionally sucked in. I will smile. Nod my head yes. I will not let my parents and Manny get me down. I will not let Xochitl make me feel guilty. I will breathe and I will get my green chile fix and get outta there in one piece so I can concentrate on prepping for physics with Bashir in the morning.
Get in.
Remain positive.
Get out.
Easy.
That’s what I’m thinking when I see Xochitl bounce out of the rental.
I put on my hardest smile, ready for anything she’s got.
Xochitl sees me. She smiles back and waves big. She pulls a cigarette from her mouth and shouts, “Hey, stranger!” as she skips to the curb and onto the hood of a beat-up, ancient blue station wagon. She flips some purple hair out of her eyes. “T, meet Sally.” Then she leans into the car and goes, “Sally, this is Teodoro. We try hard to love him.”
Before I can get past her and that beast car, she skips around to the passenger side and opens the door. “Hop in, T. You and Manny get the first ride in the dream-mobile.”
“I’ll pass, Xoch. I’m gonna head in and say hi to Mami.”
“Mami’s still at work and Papi’s at the hardware store. Manny wants to take a ride, so…” She runs her cigarette hand through her hair, caresses the car, and says, “Get inside Sally, T. You know you want her.”
“Sick, Xoch. Why’d you get this thing?”
“Tired of the bus. Tired of bumming rides. You like her?”
“It’s really old. How many miles does it—”
“She’s vintage, T. A 1961 Rambler Cross Country Classic. Full engine makeover. Just outta the shop.”
The rental door opens and Manny stumbles out.
“Hey, Man,” Xochitl says, “Sally’s ready for her close-up. Hop in.”
Manny’s looking beat. Squinting his bloodshot eyes against the sunlight. But he’s standing upright and he’s outside the house. He’s in some nice jeans and that same white shirt he wore for my conference.
He arches his back, stretches tall, and flashes a Manny grin. “Hey, T. Good to see you, bud. Let’s do this.”
That smile about knocks me over. I haven’t seen it since his first days home.
Manny hops in the back seat. Closes the door.
Xochitl nods his way. “Things are looking up, T. Get in, baby brother.”
I tell myself, It’s a little joy ride. She just wants to show off the car. No big deal.
But my gut is telling me to step away from the car. And run fast.
Manny rolls down a window. “Let’s make her happy, T. Come on.”
Xochitl looks at me with big, bright eyes. “Manny’s better. Everything is okay. Let’s…” She mimes holding a huge book and turning a huge page. “Get it?” she says.
“I get it, Xoch.”
“We good now?” she says.
We’re weird now, is what I wanna say.
She holds a hand out for me to shake and says, “I missed you, T.”
I look at my sister thinking how great things used to be between us.
Then I shake her hand and it’s a massive relief. “I missed you, too, Xochitl.”
“Ride time!” she says.
I jump in. The seat is surprisingly springy. And there is more metal on the dash than I’ve ever seen in a car. I reach over my shoulder for the belt but there’s just a frayed end where someone had cut it off. There’s still a lap belt, so I snap that thing on and pull the strap as tight as I can. I close my eyes, take in Sally’s funky spilled-milk-and-smoke smell, and prepare for what’s coming. But Xochitl leans in the window and says, “Sit tight a sec.”
And I’m alone in the car with Manny.
It’s the closest we’ve been since we slept on opposite sides of the wall.
He leans into the front seat and I flinch and immediately feel like a jerk for flinching.
“It’s okay,” Manny says. “I’m sorry. I know I haven’t been easy to live with.”
I tell him it’s all good and no worries and I’m sorry I haven’t been around.
And Manny tells me he’s doing better.
“Yeah, Man?” I say. “What happened?”
“Xoch wore me down,” he says. “I figured the only way to shut her up was to do whatever she says.” He pats me on the shoulder. “It’s good to see you, T.”
That smile … I tell him it’s great to see him, too.
The sound of the tailgate popping open. Something heavy drops in. The tailgate slams. Xochitl gets in the driver’s seat. “Here we are. Together. When was the last time—”
“Ándale, Xochitl.”
“This is a moment, T. Respect it.”
She pulls her cigarette to her lips. Breathes in a lungful. Closes her eyes and holds the smoke in her puffed cheeks for an impossibly long time. Then she blows a slow, steady stream out the window. She stares at the cigarette. Lets out a sigh. And grinds it into the ashtray. She holds the butt up in the air for all to see. “This, my beloved brothers, is my last smoke. Ever.”
“I’m proud of you, Xoch,” I say. “Now let’s—”
“Good-bye, old friend!” She tosses the butt out the window and turns the key. Sally rumbles to life. Xochitl pulls down the stick to shift—clunk-clunk—and punches the gas pedal so hard the tires squeal and we blast off like a spring-loaded roller coaster.
* * *
Xochitl pulls the beast car from one lane to the next, weaving in and out of traffic on this airport stretch of Pacific Highway. I grip the dash and think about the day Xochitl wrecked Manny’s Mustang. Manny was in Iraq when Xochitl got her license. Mami and Papi let her drive it to Eastern Washington to visit our grandma Abita. Somehow, she ended up rolling Manny’s beloved car in the median on Snoqualmie Pass. She was lucky she didn’t get killed.
“The car is awesome, Xoch. Now let’s get back for Mami’s dinner.”
“No worries, T. We have all kinds of time,” she says. And she lets go of the wheel, reaches back over the seat, and swats Manny in the leg. “Can you believe this car, Man?”
“Yeah, Xoch. Just like old times.”
We had a station wagon like this when I was little. Papi drove it on a family trip down the coast to California, then over to our Tío Ed’s farm in New Mexico. We stopped and saw friends and family along the way. I was too little to remember, but I’ve heard the stories a million times.
Before I know it, Xochitl says she wants to show off Sally’s freeway skills and she’s on the ramp for I-5 heading north.
I tell her to please make it quick.
Xochitl hits the gas hard as she darts into the fast lane.
There’s an exit off I-5 coming up. She doesn’t take it.
Pretty soon she taps her turn signal. And we’re driving north on I-405. Another freeway taking us in the wrong direction.
“Xochitl,” I say. “I love this car. Now turn around.”
She pretends she doesn’t hear me.
I say it louder and she says, “I can’t turn around, Teodoro. There’s a dear, sweet old lady in Yakima making dinner special for us.”
“Aw, hell no,” I say. “There’s no way. Turn us around, Xoch.”
“You haven’t seen Abita in a whole year,” Xochitl says.
“And I can’t see her now. So turn us around.”
It’s worse than just my studying getting messed up. My abuela is a sour old lady. Everyone says she was fun when we were little. But to me, Abita’s always been a little pissy and a little mean. Her parents named her Dolores, Spanish for sorrow or pains. Well, she’s a pain and she acts like everything pains her. And the last couple times I saw her she was starting to get sick and slow from old age. So she was crankier than ever.
“I went with Mami a few weeks ago,” Xochitl says. “Abita’s doing a lot better.”
I tell Xochitl to exit and drop me off before she gets on I-90, the freeway to eastern Washington. She says okay. Then she skips the exit and merges onto I-freaking-90.
“Damnit, Xoch. I don’t have time for this.”
Manny pipes up from the back. “I haven’t seen Abita since I got back, T. We should see her together.”
“Yeah, Man?” I say.
“She’s making caldo de queso,” he says.
“Serious?” I say. If there’s one way to get me to go, that might be it. Mami’s side of the family was from Sonora, Mexico, and Arizona until Abita’s dad moved the family to the northwest. Abita’s mom taught her to cook Sonoran style and it is the tastiest.
“Tortillas de harina,” Manny says. “Homemade. And beans. It’s been a long time.”
Aw, hell.
He got himself cleaned up. He got out of the house. And he’s being so nice.
I’m gonna do this for Manny.
And for some of Abita’s caldo and tortillas.
“Sorry, T,” Xochitl says. “I just knew if I told you sooner, you wouldn’t have come.”
“That’s why you should have told me,” I say. “Do Mami and Papi know?”
“Yeah. I told them the three of us were going a couple days ago. Plus, they had to work late tonight.
“Don’t worry,” she says, “You still had clothes in your room, so I packed for you. Toothbrush. Chonis. A T-shirt. You’re set. And we’ll be home before lunch tomorrow.”
We blow past valley towns, Issaquah and North Bend, and quickly start gaining elevation. It’s forest on all sides as we cross the Cascade Mountains, the divide separating two different worlds. When it rains on a winter day in Seattle, it’s snowing in eastern Washington. When we’re dying of the heat on an eighty-degree summer day in the west, it’s ninety-five in Yakima. And where in metropolitan Seattle, there are a couple million walking, talking, pale reminders that you’re a Mexican, in Yakima there’s norteño and tejano on the radio and you’re just another brown dude speaking Spanglish.
I text Caleb and tell him I won’t be home tonight but I’ll be back in time for Vince’s tomorrow.
I text Bashir and see if we can skip tomorrow but meet for longer on Sunday.
And I tell myself it’s gonna be fine. I’ll put up with Abita for a night and a morning. Then I’ll come home, work my shift, get a good night’s sleep, and bust my butt for the whole rest of the summer. We’re doing this for Manny, and I’ve pretty much never done anything for Manny. He’s always done stuff for me.
* * *
Abita’s mobile home door springs open.
“Xochitl!” It’s Gladys, Abita’s new caretaker lady. But she’s not a lady. She’s like Xochitl’s age. A couple years older than me, a couple younger than Manny.
Hugs all around. She pats Manny’s shoulder, smiles, and says, “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Manuel.”
He says hi and manages a decent smile back.
Xochitl and I walk inside. Manny doesn’t. It looks like he’s stuck in place. Like he’s not coming in.
“Hey, Man,” Xochitl says. “You coming?”
He shakes off a thought and forces a smile. “Yeah,” he says. “Yes. I’m good.”
Xochilt takes his hand and we enter together. I’m hit by the smells. The plastic sofa cover. The carpet. The cheesy soup simmering on the stove.
Gladys says, “Finally, I get to meet you guys. Doli talks about you nonstop. I feel like I know you already.”
In the kitchen, the volume gets turned up on Juan Gabriel.
And Abita makes her entrance.
My not-huggy abuela throws her arms open and squeezes Xochitl tight. She’s got on a sparkly blouse and her hair is cut so it comes down around her face instead of up in a tight bun, like she’s always worn it. She’s got some rosy cheeks put on. She looks years younger than the last time I saw her.
“¡Teodoro!” She kisses and hugs me and I’m like, Who is this lady? It’s so weird I step back, but she pulls me in and hugs me again. “I been missing you, mijo,” she says.
“I been,” I say, “missing you, too.”
Then she turns to Manny. “Manuel.” She touches his face and kisses him all over. She wipes tears off her cheeks. Playfully slaps his cheeks. Says his name a bunch more times. She grabs him and holds on way longer than any Abita hug I’ve ever seen.
He laughs nervously and asks her how she’s doing.
She says, “Ay, Manuel. I’m very good, mijo. Very good.”
And that’s a big deal, because as long as I can remember, a question like that would have been answered with a list of reasons why her life sucks, followed by a guilt trip about how you never visit.
“Where is my manners?” Abita says. And she introduces us to her amiga.
“Hi again,” Gladys says. “Put your stuff down. Dinner’s almost ready.”
Xochitl asks Gladys how it’s going with Abita.
Manny tells her she doesn’t have to incriminate herself in front of you know who.
Abita points a bony finger. “I still got ears, Manuelito. Watch your step, soldier.”
Gladys says she and Abita are doing great. “We’re two peas in a pod,” she says as she walks into the kitchen.
Abita points at her and says, “Esta Go-Go Gladys me tiene corriendo. She takes me dancing at the senior center. Hockey in Tri-Cities. Hockey, mijitos! A wine tour in Walla-Walla. I don’t sit no more. No more novelas.”
“You’re looking good, Abita,” Xochitl says.
“Ay, mija. I’m feeling good.”
I can’t believe it. I don’t see Abita in a year and she’s like a different person.
We sit for dinner. It looks as good as ever. I lean in to the bowl and breathe in that steam.
We been through so much this year. Now I’m smelling these smells again and it’s like all the years of Abita’s cooking add up to this thing in my brain that makes me feel like something—this one thing—is the way it’s always been. She passes me a buttered-up tortilla and I feel that thing even more. My body in this old chair at this old table …
Gladys asks Abita what we were like as kids, and Abita tells our most humiliating stories. But it’s different. She’s got a sparkle in her eye as she tells about me falling into a kid’s pool and just about drowning in ten inches of water. There’s the story about my and Caleb’s magician phase. It’s funny the way she tells the stories, and everyone laughs.
Then Gladys asks how Mami and Papi met.
Xochitl and Manny start telling the story at the same time. Then they both stop and look at each other. Manny says, “You go,” and Xochitl says, “No, no, you go.”
“Mami worked at the perfume counter at the Nob Hill Kmart,” Manny says. He looks at Gladys. Then away. He’s shaking. His voice is shaking. “She was a senior in high school. Papi was picking onions out in Granger. Mami saw him walk in the Kmart door.… She just knew.…”
Manny checks in with Gladys as he tells the story. He smiles. She smiles back. He’s quiet and slow. It’s not easy for him. But he keeps on going.
Manny tells her Mami and Papi had a picnic at this boulder at the Yakima River. And it sounds crazy, but they started making plans right away. Then Papi told Mami he had to go soon. He had to follow the seasons. But he’d save money. They’d write letters every week. He’d come back in a few months. She’d graduate high school. They’d get married. He’d get his papers. Learn a trade. She had plans to go to college. They’d start a family. Mami waited for Papi. She made wedding plans. Plans to move away from Yakima.
“They met at that boulder a year later,” he says, “and promised each other that, no matter what, they’d stay together forever.”
Gladys looks at Manny all dreamy and says, “Awww. That is so sweet.” She looks at Abita. “Isn’t that sweet, Doli?”
“I was wrong,” Abita says, superserious. “I told your mami she can’t marry Daniel. I told her your papi is a maleducado nothing. Your mami says it didn’t matter what I think. So I don’t talk at the wedding. Ni una palabra. She and your papi move away. I still don’t talk. I don’t call. No letters. They try to talk. They try to call. But I don’t—”
Xochitl reaches over. Grips Abita’s hand. “That was a long time ago,” she says.
“I almost lost your mami,” Abita says. “I could have lost you.”
“You came around,” Xochitl says.
“I never tell your mami and papi I’m sorry.”
“They know,” Manny says.
“But I need to tell them, mijito. They need to hear it.”
When Abita’s second husband died, Mami and Papi came back and took care of the funeral arrangements and took care of her. They never mentioned how cruel Abita had been to them. And Abita treated them like that grudge phase had never happened. And that was the start of them—then all of us—visiting Abita in Yakima every month.
It’s unbelievable she opened up like that. Unbelievable she admitted she was wrong.
When Xochitl said Abita’s doing better, I thought that meant she wasn’t going to die. I didn’t have any idea it meant Abita would be nice.
Abita isn’t the only shocker.
I been watching Manny the whole night. His hands are shaking bad as ever. His eyelids look like they’re stuck open wider than normal. He might look even older than he did the day he came home. But there was no craziness on the ride over. No craziness now. He looks like he’s listening and like he’s thinking about what people are saying. He’s joking with Abita. He’s sweet with Gladys. And the way he told the Mami and Papi story …
Maybe it’s getting him out of the house. Getting him back to a place where our family spent so much time, and where—even with Abita being Abita—he always managed to have a good time.
When it’s time for bed, Gladys takes off to a friend’s place so we can have her room. There are two twin beds in there. I tell Xochitl I’ll take the living room sofa and she and Manny can have the beds.
She says why don’t we all cram in the room.
I look at her, trying to tell her there’s no way I’m sleeping so close to Manny.
She says, “You take a bed, T. I’ll get cozy on the floor. Right in between my bros.”
I get tucked into one bed. Manny gets tucked into the other.
Then Xochitl sneaks in, holding a wooden box. She looks at Manny. “Are you thinking what I’m thinking?”
She empties the contents of Abita’s ridiculous figurine collection onto Manny’s bed and they proceed to use the figurines to re-create most of the first Pirates of the Caribbean movie. Xochitl does her Johnny Depp as Captain Jack impersonation and Manny is hilarious as just about every other character. Xochitl pokes Manny and reminds him how he used to say the wench lines and pushes him to say the silly stuff even sillier. I go in and out of sleep through the big showdown sword fight, a giggle fest that they try to stop over and over, and the shattering of a gnome figurine, followed by a bunch more giggling through attempts to repair said gnome and a ridiculous argument about how best to dispose of the evidence.