contretemps:
an unfortunate happening.
The second half of the day was harder. Although the wounds were now numb, my hands felt stiff and immobile. I’d eaten way too much, too fast. In the heat, my full stomach made me feel like I was moving in molasses. Worse was the anxiety I felt. What would I do at the end of the day when the Mexicans went home? Would Frank invite me to join him? Would I sleept in the fields? Would I make enough to rent a motel room?
The foreman, the guy who’d invited us onto the truck, walked through the fields to check on the work. “Bueno. Bueno,” he said. Until he got to me. “You’re slow,” he told me. “Much slower than the rest. How’d you get in with the Mexicans, anyway?”
In answer, I tried to speed up. I didn’t even bother looking up at him. I put my thoughts back on Mira.
I’d gone out with Mira for almost a year before I met her parents. She preferred hanging out with my family; I’d soon learn why.
Her house was unbelievable, a giant wedding cake perched on the edge of a cliff, complete with a tree-lined drive, stables, tennis courts, and an Olympic-size pool. The inside was cavernous, with a hall that seemed as big as my whole house, marble floors, and a long, winding staircase.
We met her dad first. He peered up at us from behind glasses, a pipe, and a giant desk in the library. He looked like he didn’t recognize either of us.
“Daddy, this is Adam,” Mira offered. “I’ve told you about him.”
“Ah, the swimmer?” Her dad searched his memory.
Mira frowned and folded her arms. “There’s never been a swimmer.”
“No? What’s your last name, young man?”
“Walton, sir,” I said. I had a feeling I should say “sir.”
“Of course. From the Connecticut Waltons?” he asked.
“No, from the TV Waltons,” Mira sniped. “You know. Mountain people? John Boy and hound dogs?”
“Nice to meet you, sir.” I offered my hand.
“Good. Good.” He shook my hand. “Mountain people. Bottled water. Healthy stuff. Perrier, is it? No, that’s from France. Poland Spring?”
I had no idea what he was talking about.
“We’re going to study now.” Mira pulled me away.
“Got to keep up those grades,” he called after us.
“He needs to think you’re from an important family,” she explained. “He does that about everything. It has to be grandiose. Alcohol-related dementia.”
“I do feel like I’m on a TV show,” I joked, “but it’s definitely not The Waltons.”
“The Apprentice,” she joked. “It gets worse.”
Getting worse meant meeting her mom, I knew.
We found her in a walk-in closet as big as my bedroom. She was trying on various pairs of lavender shoes. She looked exactly like Joan Rivers, give or take a few face lifts, a stick figure in talk-show attire: a lavender tweed suit, pearls, and a diamond ring the size of my fist.
“So …” she began. The expression on her face was not pleasant. “You’re the alien’s boyfriend?”
I felt my jaw drop open.
“See.” Mira gloated.
Her mom was nonplussed. “You look a lot more normal than I thought you would, all things considered. I figured you’d be pierced or tattooed or have spiked green hair. Or … what is that word? ‘Goth’?”
“Thank you,” I said.
“What are you thanking me for?”
“For, uh, having me over.”
“It’s the alien who’s having you over.”
I couldn’t believe it. It was just like she said. Her mom thought she was an alien. Her dad wasn’t the least bit interested in either of us. The taste of envy I’d felt when I saw the house melted in my mouth.
She turned to Mira. “Which of these shoes do you think matches this suit?”
“They’re all exactly the same color.” Mira’s voice was tense.
“There are variations on the shades, actually, but you have to have a subtle eye to catch it.”
“I’d wear those barf-green ones.” Mira pointed to a hanging bag full of lime-green shoes. “Or is it booger green? Come on, Adam.”
Mira led me away. “Well, what would you expect from an alien,” her mom mumbled, then she yelled after us, “Do not close the door to your room!”
We headed up the stairs. My back felt prickly. I half expected her mom to throw spiked heels after us.
“Did I tell you?” Mira’s voice was shaky.
“Wow.” It was all I could say. As fancy as the place was, I could see why she didn’t want to be home.
The man next to me stopped working. I looked up and saw that several others had stopped too. They were staring off in the distance to where a brown truck had driven up. Two men in uniform got out of it and started wandering slowly toward the foreman.
Frank called out to the others in a low voice, and they returned to their work, but a couple of men started running. The uniformed men took chase. “Shit,” Frank cursed. It was the first word I’d heard him say in English.
The foreman approached us then. He shouted instructions in Spanish and gestured to everyone to line up. “Not you,” he said, when I joined them.
The cops returned with one man. The other had gotten away. The first cop was white. He reminded me of a tractor. He had a fullback’s build, and his body moved in one piece when he turned. He had the mean look that some TV cops have. The other cop was older and Hispanic. He just looked sad and tired. “Documentos,” he demanded.
Two of the workers produced worn cards from their pockets and were sent back to the fields. None of my group had papers, though. Not one of them.
Frank, the older man who’d dressed my hands, and six others were led to the brown truck. I wanted to go with them wherever they were going, back to Mexico, to jail, even. I just didn’t want to be left on my own again.
“Go back to work, kid,” the older cop warned, as I followed them. “This doesn’t concern you.”
I wanted to say something, anything, to object, but of course, I couldn’t. I was silent and useless.
“Get lost, hippie.” The mean cop gave me a shove. “Go commune with your plants.”
Hippie? Then I realized that my hair was pretty long. It had been months since I’d had a haircut. At least I’d shaven at Stacey’s.
Frank gave me a nod, as if to tell me it was okay. He’d be back. Td listen to him sing again and share a candy bar.
I backed away enough to placate the cop, then watched my friends being led to the van and caged, the door slamming behind them.
