Xochitl shakes me awake bright and early on a Saturday. Paint day.
As rough as school has been, life in the rental is a lot better. My parents are actually talking to each other. Xochitl’s around more, and that’s okay because she dropped her bossy act. She’s her old self even though she’s working hard to get us ready for Manny.
Today that means spreading color on walls.
And that means I can take my mind off school for a while.
“Don’t tell Mami and Papi,” Xochitl says. “Let’s just get to work and see what they say.”
We cover our crappy furniture with plastic. Tape up stuff we don’t want to paint. And we crack open a can of sea-foam blue.
When Mami and Papi walk in, their eyes get big but they barely say a word. They just pick up brushes and get to it.
In the afternoon, Xochitl and I take off in a borrowed truck. I fake hitting the radio power button and she busts out a spot-on Jonas Brothers. I know it’s a joke, but I don’t turn the dial, and Xochitl keeps singing bubblegum love songs like she means it. I can’t stop laughing. And singing right along with her.
Xochitl rolls the window down. Lights up a cigarette.
“You have to quit that,” I say. “It’s gonna kill your voice, Xoch … then kill you.”
“It’s not a black-and-white deal, T. There’s a continuum,” she says.
It turns out, on one end of the continuum there’s Dangerous levels of smoke. And on the other end there’s No smoke. And somewhere in the middle is Just enough smoke to get your voice rich and cracky but not enough to do serious damage to your health.
“I keep it in that sweet spot,” she says, “and not one cigarette more.”
“You know how dumb that sounds, right?”
She reaches over and pretends to turn up the radio. And she sings way dramatic in Alejandra Guzmán’s smoky, cracky, power-ballad voice.
Tengo un pobre corazón
Que a veces se rompió
You can feel all the pain of a breaking heart. My sister’s Alejandra is almost worth smoking for.
I reach over and turn down Radio Xochitl, cuz I gotta ask. “Why’d you nag Mami and Papi so hard? Why’d you lecture me like that?”
She stares at the road for a bit. “That night I told you Manny was coming home, I had just read his e-mail.”
She makes me promise I won’t say anything to Mami and Papi.
“Manny’s worried about coming home,” she says. “He’s worried his head isn’t right. He doesn’t want them to know. He doesn’t want you to know.” Xochitl stops at a light. She drags on her cigarette and lets the idea sink in.
The light turns green. She blows smoke out the window. “I was a little messed up about it. That’s why I came at you guys. Sorry.”
“No worries, Xoch.”
“I just figure if we’re doing better—if we’re more like we used to be—that’ll make it easier for Manny.”
The part I get stuck on is why it was okay for him to tell Xochitl but not me. I ask her.
“You know how Manny always was with you,” she says.
“What do you mean? He was Manny.”
“T, Mami and Papi were good before. Really good. And Manny was a great big brother. But you have this fantasy that everything was perfect. And it’s because Manny spoiled you. You were his little brother, and he only wanted you to see the best of him … the best of us.”
I watch the road go by. Office parks. Trees. Gas stations. And I think about my brother. “He might not have been perfect,” I say, “but he’s the most solid person I know. And when he finally gets here, he’s gonna be good. And being home has to be way better than war.”
“That’s true,” Xochitl says.
“He’s going to be the same old Manny.”
“I think so, too,” she says. “But we should be prepared.”
“He’s gonna be great, Xoch.”
We grab stuff from our storage up north on Pac Highway. Our old table and chairs. The painting of the Last Supper that used to hang in our dining room. A box of family pictures.
We drive to a house in Normandy Park for a Craigslist deal. Xochitl hands over the cash and we carry out a recliner that looks like Papi’s chair from way back.
We haul the load into the rental. Papi helps get the table through the door. We all know it’s too big for the space, but that doesn’t stop us.
Mami goes through a box of old pictures. She goes out for a while and comes back with some Dollar Store frames. Every now and then, she holds up a little-kid photo of one of us and we all say awww and laugh. She tacks up this black-and-white family portrait of us dressed up in cowboy stuff. It’s from Disneyland. We stopped there on a trip down the coast when I was a toddler. In the photo everyone is looking old-school serious, but I’ve got this huge Kool-Aid smile beaming out from under my cowboy hat. It’s hilarious.
Mami even hangs up a portrait of her and Papi. It’s them on their wedding day. If they weren’t my parents, I’d say they look kinda hot. I do not say that. What I wanna say out loud is how happy they looked back then.
Before dinner, Xochitl leaves for a gig with some new band.
I dine with Rosario and Daniel. We’re at our real table. Surrounded by those photos. And Jesus supping with his disciples. There are smiles. Mami and Papi might not look hot-young-couple happy. But like they’re on the road to some new kind of happy.
Mami asks me about school.
I lie and say it’s going all right.
“I notice things, Teodoro.”
“It’s nothing, Mami.”
“That’s not true. You’re working hard. I’m proud of you.”
She’s hoping.
“Nah, Mami. Don’t,” I say. Because hope hurts when it goes.
Maybe it’s gone already. Maybe that chemistry quiz was it. Maybe that was the end. Maybe it should have been the end.
I get up from the table and carry some dishes to the sink.
“Ándale, mijo,” Papi says. “We got the dishes tonight. You get to work.”
Mami smiles at him. Then at me. “Go on,” she says.
So I head to my room.
SAT OCT 11 8:23 P.M.
T: Looks like Manny might be
coming home in feb
Wendy: I got you all in my heart.
T: X and I painted. Wanna brighten
things up for him
Wendy: You are awesome, Teodoro.
T: Thanks for recognizing my
awesomeness. Hold on. Taking
a moment to recognize urs
T: There. I took a moment
Wendy: A moment of silence in
recognition of my awesomeness?
T: A moment of loudness. I opened
up a window and yelled WENDY
MARTINEZ IS AWESOME!!! Thought
the world should know
Wendy: I just opened the window and
yelled, TEODORO AVILA IS A
NUT! Thought the world should
know.
T: Happy ur the one to spread the
news
Wendy: ☺
Wendy: Time to hit those books!
I toss the phone on my bed and stare at my pile of work.
All right, Wendy.
I drop and crank out a bunch of half-assed push-ups. Hop to my feet. Jump some jacks.
Then I crack open my chemistry notes.
Read chapters from The Crucible.
Study colonial response to the British victory in the French and Indian War.
Get messed up graphing quadratic functions.
I fight to grab the merry-go-round and slow that mother down.