FAMILY PORTRAIT

School’s out. I rush home and grab some grub before heading over to the cupcake shoppe. I throw on a Princess Aurora dress and fly out to the main shoppe. Today’s theme seems to be different kinds of candy. The cupcakes are decorated with runts, nerds, red hots, and skittles in the frosting. Total cuteness! I Love candy!

I go through the teas when I get to the shoppe and choose one that will go with candy cupcakes. I think I have a knack for it. I turn to the ever-present 8-year-old. “Hello me dearie, how about some lavender tea in me favorite fancy glass teapot?” She giggles at my fake English accent.

Soon, wonderful aromas fill the back kitchen. I pour myself a dainty little cup to sip from at the cashier, channeling Jane Austen; give or take twenty pounds and about eight inches.

Esmerelda looks at prom dresses on the internet. “Do you have a daughter in high school?” She looks at me funny. “I mean, is there some reason you are looking at prom dresses?”

She snatches up her phone, takes my hand, and marches me to the back of the shoppe. She pries open a door I thought was a locked closet. I was curious, but I don’t mess with locked doors, at least not at work.

“Venga aqui.” No way, there’s a staircase! We go up the stairs. She flips on the light, and I see a bunch of empty racks. She waves her arms around dramatically. “This is where the fashion magic happens. This is mi bambino. We sell used prom dresses. I do the inventory.”

I can’t believe this. Esmerelda laughs. “Didn’t you ever wonder why the sign reads, “Fashionable”?”

“I thought it was about our costumes. Do you need assistance in the prom dress search?” I say in a very hopeful voice.

Esmerelda clears her throat. “Usually, no. But, if you want to, you can like send me links to the dresses you find and then I’ll um, consider them. We could start there. If I like what you find, I’ll ask for more help.”

“That’s fair.” I wonder through the empty room, admiring the artsy walls with giant heels and a lady’s face all made up, blowing a kiss. “Who’s the artist? Is that Fernando too?”

Esmerelda laughs. “Um, no. That’s my son, Israel.” I find myself wondering how many kids this lady has and how is it that there is so much artistic male magic in one family? We start to head downstairs. A deep voice hollers. I follow Esmerelda’s lead as her foot stops on the stair.

“Papi! It’s not that much! I just need a little something. Think of it as an investment,” someone says.

“Israel. That’s what you said the last three times. I can’t do it anymore.” There’s a noise on the stairs, and then a blur as he flies by us. Curiosity leads me back upstairs. He stands in the middle of the room. Israel, the starving artist. He’s a gorgeous mess. Tall, whip thin, skinny jeans, two different color hi-tops, a V-neck sweater and a scarf, with a face that can only be defined as rugged. He’s got the darkest eyes I’ve ever seen and waving thick black hair, parted to the side, but the back is military short. I take him all in, wondering if he’s straight.

He’s.. so fashionable. He talks to his mom in rapid-fire Spanish. They talk so fast I don’t have a clue. His expressive hands grab my attention. He’s so intent on what he’s saying, I don’t think he’s even seen me yet, but he’s got his mom in the crosshairs. I glance at Esmerelda, who’s starting to wilt. She needs my support. I go to her side and imitate her stance. I stand up straight and cross my arms. I try to look stern as I stare back at this beautiful, desperate man.

As quickly as it started, the conversation is over. They head downstairs and I follow. Israel goes and sits at a table by a side window. Esmerelda and her husband head to the back. There’s a lot of talking in hushed tones. I hover shamelessly on the other side of the door, not even pretending to work. The door swings open, and I jump back just in time.

They step out, still speaking Spanish. It ends with Israel storming out the front door, hopping on his Ninja bike, and racing away. I feel bad for Esmerelda, but I don’t know what to say, so I just stand at the register, sipping my tea, like everything’s normal and Esmerelda’s heart is not breaking at this very moment.

My boredom takes over. I start cleaning the shoppe, which I somehow manage to spread out over the next two hours until closing time. The front doorbell jingles. It’s Israel. He’s back. He looks rather resigned. There’s buckets of paint in his hands. He heads up the back stairs. Spanish music booms and creeps through the vents, mingling with Taylor Swift in the shoppe, driving me crazy.

I turn off my music. His low baritone voice sings along, making me smile. I’m completely and utterly charmed by Israel. He’s fantastic. I continue with my mindless cleaning and eventually, it’s time to go home. He hasn’t come down.

I race up the stairs, following my curiosity. Israel is shirtless. He paints the walls a brilliant shade of the lightest blue. As the color spreads across the wall, the blue slowly but surely grows darker the farther it goes. His back is to me, and his music blares. I know I’m staring, but his back is covered with tattoos; every one of them more beautiful than the last. I walk slowly to him, so as not to startle his reverie. He turns to me and smiles before I get to him, letting me know he feels my stare.

I clear my throat, feeling awkward. “So, who did your, um, artwork? I mean, are those your drawings?”

He shakes his head. “No. She was the love of my life. Her name was Shakira. She was complicated. I wasn’t enough to keep her from her darkness, but these are her drawings. It’s how I carry her with me.”

His sadness makes me want to cry. “Oh. Well, they’re very nice. I’m, um, going home now. It’s closing time.”

“Okay. I think I’ll stay here a while, and I’ll just let my dad know when I’m done so he can come lock up.”

“Well alright, then. Nice to meet you.”

I turn to leave. “Hey!” I freeze at the top of the stairs.

“Yeah?”

He snaps my picture with his phone. That’s weird. “It’s nice to meet you too.”

I wave and leave. I wonder if he takes every girl’s picture.