Oliver takes me straight to the cupcake shoppe so I’m not late for work. With JuneBug’s side trip, there’s no time to go home now. I rush inside to find a stressed out Papi. There are cupcakes in the glass, but the frosting is not meeting his standard of perfection, and that just makes me sad. Whoever’s messing with Papi’s style will have to deal with me. I race to the back door and march up the stairs.
I get to the top. I’m not surprised to see Israel. He stands in the middle of so many paintings, I can’t even begin to count them. I can’t help but notice half of the paintings are clearly of the same girl, her face, her body, her eyes, her lips, just about every angle you can paint a person from. She’s beautiful and tragic, but she’s got carnage in her eyes. She looks like she could devour a person whole without blinking. If her eyes were painted this beguiling by someone who actually loved her, imagine what they looked like to the average person who wasn’t under her spell. I shudder just thinking about it.
“I’m guessing this, (pointing to all of the paintings), was the love of your life, then?” He nods, wordlessly. I try to be nice. “Well, she’s beautiful, maybe a little vain? But definitely beautiful.”
He shrugs. “Well, wouldn’t you be vain? I mean, if you looked like her?” I try not to feel wounded.
I know he’s feeling defensive, so I answer carefully. “I would hope not. But I can’t say. Did you, um, ever try meeting someone new?”
He looks at me like I’m a child incapable of understanding. “Of course I tried. But there’s only one woman for me—her beauty can outshine the sun, her lips taste better than the sweetest fruit, her bosoms are softer than anything I’ve laid my head against, her smell is more fragrant than the flowers in spring, her passion could light up…”
I put my hand up. “Okay, okay, I get the picture. Are you sure you aren’t more in love with the idea of her than who she really was?”
He shakes his finger at me. “Who are you to tell me who I love? You don’t know her. You’ve never met her. You have no idea what she was like.”
This is true. However, I’m pretty sure I have met the type a time or two in all my young years; the kind who spend more time looking at their own reflection more than anything else, the kind that go around griping about their looks and fishing for compliments, the kind that walk in front of everyone else through every open door because they assume the world stops for them and them alone. Yes, I’ve met a few.
Of course, I don’t go on a bitter tirade to this young heartthrob who right now is in the throes of reliving a heartache from a shallow relationship. However, I guess I can’t keep my mouth shut long enough. I throw up my hands. “Wow. Israel, I’d hate to see what a real woman would do to your fragile ego.”
He hears me. Oh crapola. Here comes irate Israel, whip-side-stepping through his lovely paintings, being careful not to knock them over as he heads straight for me with his fantastically creative finger-a-pointing. He’s so mad he’s shaking. “You, you, you puta!” He covers his mouth at the same time I cover mine.
Well. Two can play this game. And it’s not cussing if it’s not in English. I point my finger back at him. “Bendejo! Chinga Tu Madre!” I shout.
I hear a “Dios Mio!” behind me from Esmerelda. I whirl around, instantly ashamed.
“Oh, Esmerelda, I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean it. Truly I didn’t. He called me a…a ….puta! And I like lost it!” Esmerelda looks at Israel, and then she looks at me, and then she starts laughing? She laughs so hard that her shoulders are shaking, but then I realize she’s sobbing. I don’t know what to do so I sneak by her and go downstairs. Israel can deal with his crying mom. It’s his fault, anyways.
The shoppe is quiet when I get downstairs. Papi’s making tea in the kitchen. The little one is sitting outside on the back step. I go sit beside her. She draws beautiful cupcakes. This makes me happy. I smile at her. “You’re quite the artist.”
She speaks up, in a very soft, quiet voice. “Thank you. Papi is sad. Maria Antonia got invited to a dance by an Americano. Papi doesn’t want her to go with the boy. Israel is asking Papi for more money. Papi said no. Israel said he doesn’t want to work here because he’s too good for this job. Papi says it’s an honest living. And my cousin Ernesto is here from Spain and Papi doesn’t like him because he came from the wrong part of Spain. I don’t know what that means.”
Boy, this little girl doesn’t miss a thing, and she’s too little to be shouldering all this worry. I pat her shoulder. “Don’t worry. These things will pass. At least that’s what my mom always tells me when I’m sad.” She turns and gives me a little smile. Together, we sit and watch the empty parking lot; each of us lost in our own thoughts.
An idea smacks me upside the head. I will find Israel a decent girl. She has to be strong and sure of herself so that she isn’t run over by his looks or his ego. She has to be able to hold her own. And, she has to look nothing like the last girlfriend he had. I mean, the comparison game is like, so not fair. I remind myself, if Oliver would have wanted another little sprite of a girlfriend, he would not have chosen me, the Amazon. My insecurities about my height are not easy to shake, but I’m working through them. I shake my head. Too many thoughts, Katie, too many thoughts.
Next step, where to find a girl for Israel. That is much harder. I rush back upstairs and spend some time looking at his pictures, trying to get close enough to take his picture without him knowing it. I finally get one while he is staring longingly into the portrait of the She-Devil. By the time he realizes what I’ve done, I’m halfway across the room. I tear down the stairs before he can catch me. He gives up the chase and heads back upstairs to mope.
Thanks to a quiet evening in the shoppe, I’m able to sit near the back of the kitchen, under the guise of “doing homework”. I create a profile for Israel on a dating website. I text JuneBug to consult.
K: I made a dating profile for Israel. As expected, it already has a lot of interest, but there’s a lot of creepy people. How do we weed them out?
J: Give me the site, and I’ll start rejecting.
How could I forget that Social Media JuneBug is all business?
K: Oh. Okay. Wait, I like this one. No, wait a minute, she’s in Chickasaw. That could pose a challenge.
J: Laughing emoji. Get back to work, Katie. Leave Israel to me. We’ll find him someone.
I finish cleaning up and I lock the doors. Israel comes downstairs. “Hey, Katie. Truce?” He’s acting all brotherly and ready to make nice. I let him walk out with me with his arm around my shoulders. I smile back at him. “Truce.” We walk along, laughing. I feel a hundred-yard-heat-seeking-missile locked in on me. I look across the parking lot, and there stands Oliver, looking all so not pleased at me and Israel. Why, I can’t say, about the time Israel leans into me all intimate-like, kisses the side of my head and squeezes my shoulder. He winks at Oliver and struts away. What a turd! All this time I thought Israel was saying sorry for being such a shmuck upstairs.
Nope. I shoulda known it was just the Machismo in him coming out. Israel’s messing with Oliver, which really means he’s messing with me!
I reach Oliver, who looks fighting mad. I try a sweet, innocent approach. I lean in and give him a hug, resting my head on his chest. “Hey,” I say.
He steps away. “Hey.” His tone is cool.
I feel insecure and I don’t like it. “You know that’s Fernando’s son, right? The same one you met at my mom’s house? The same one who is a starving, desperate artist who is staying my mom’s She-Shed? The same one I’ve created an account for on an online dating site and have been screening girls for him to meet?” At that last bit of information, Oliver relaxes a hair.
I try again. “The dude is like twenty-four or something, and he’s not exactly my age or type. I mean, I seem to go for the super stud, built like a brick house, dimpled cheeks dude with to-die-for eyelashes who has a jealous streak that’s a mile wide.” At that last bit, I lightly punch him in the stomach. Oliver says nothing. He takes my punching hand and holds onto it. I smile up at him. “Are we cool?”
He smiles at me slowly and cocks his head to the side. “Yeah. We’re cool.”
For once I’m the aggressor. I lean in and give him a peck on the lips, but of course, it doesn’t end there. We have some serious facetime, and I can’t help it, I love the way it feels to lean into him. He literally radiates heat. I’ve never felt so warm from my head to my toes.
I’m like a white marshmallow on a stick, being held over the Oliver flame, burning me from the inside out. My outside is all black and my inside is a gooey melty mess…but I don’t care. It’s a delicious death…for a marshmallow…”
“Katie.”
“Mmmm?”
“Katie?”
“Yeah?”
“I better get you home. Your mom’s going to be worried.”
I laugh at his concern.
“My mom’s probably not clock watching. She like, totally loves you. I can tell.”
He clears his throat. “Well, just the same.” I climb into his Scout and he drives me home. I hop out. Oliver starts to back out, but then Israel comes strolling out of my mom’s house with his hands on his hips, like he’s been watching the clock. I stop walking toward Israel when I hear Oliver’s Scout door slam. Footsteps crunch on the gravel behind me. I stand off to the side and watch the two of them stare at each other, neither wanting to look away first. Annoyed, I clap my hands between them. “You two are being ridiculous. I’m going inside.”
Oliver follows me in. “Ms. Albright, what is Israel doing…” He stops midsentence as he enters the room. All of Israel’s paintings are out on display. Mom wanders between them, arranging them this way and that.
I stop in front of one, frozen. Right in the middle, sits my picture. Only it isn’t me, because the girl in the picture looks all fierce and stunning. Israel really is an artist! Oliver stands beside me, staring. He clears his throat. “Um, did you sit for that picture?”
Dazed and unable to look away, my answer floats out. “I didn’t know about the picture.” I can’t help the tears in my eyes as I turn to Israel. “Israel, it’s absolutely beautiful, but that’s not me. You are too kind.”
Israel takes my chin in his hand and tilts my face this way and that. “Ah, mi jija. You should know by now to trust the artist’s eye. I only paint what I see. That is my way.” I turn away from him, embarrassed. I look at the painting again. It’s hard to believe. The girl in the picture is fierce, brave, and flawless. She has fiery sparkling blue-green eyes, long thick eyelashes, an aquiline nose, and a bow of a mouth. To top it all off, she has waves and waves of perfectly flowing chestnut brown hair, not the tangled, frizzy mess I get to deal with half the time... The look in the girl’s eye says she’s going places; and no one will stand in her way. She’s everything I want to be. I don’t know what to say.
Oliver is at a loss for words as he turns and walks outside. I follow him. He leans against his door and looks at me like he’s got something he wants to say. “Um, I know how it’s going to sound, Katie. But that picture, well, if I could put on canvas how I see you, it would look just like that.”
I want to melt. I’m feeling so hot right now. I lean in and kiss him, and even though I’m resting smack up against him, I feel like I can’t get close enough. My boyfriend’s got some burning hot lips on him. I love the grip of his hands on my hips. I want to stay here forever, but he gently pushes me away. “I’m sorry, Katie. I gotta go.”
I walk up to the house to join Israel, who sits on my front porch like he’s my big brother or something. I suppose I should be irritated and ready for another fight, but my mind is stuck on the picture. I sit down beside him and lean my head on his shoulder. “Israel? Can I tell you something?”
He squeezes my shoulder. “Of course, mi hija, you can tell me anything.”
“Oliver’s lips have the best taste in the whole world….” I say dreamily. Israel makes a gagging noise. “And I think you are a beautiful, beautiful, soul. You see the best in people, which is probably why you were the only one who could stand the leech who broke your heart. I get that you are like an artist, and you appreciate beauty and all that, but you gotta look deeper than the surface if you are looking for your soulmate. I mean, did your woman like children, or the elderly, or puppies? Because she kind of looked like she might run them all down with her car.”
Israel laughs. He laughs! “Chica, you are some kind of loco! I’m going to bed. See you tomorrow.” He heads through the backyard to the She-Shed.