Текст книги "From What I Remember"
Автор книги: Valerie Thomas
Соавторы: Stacy Kramer
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Текущая страница: 10 (всего у книги 23 страниц)
is lips are devil red and his skin’s the color mocha. He’ll wear you out. Livin’ la vida loca.” I’ve got the top down on my Mini, and I’m singing at the top of my lungs as I shoot down the 405, on a bullet to Mexico. I’ve gone old-school homo with my playlist—Ricky Martin, George Michael, Boy George. I don’t normally do music this queer unless I’m alone, in which case, I change the pronouns (because, really, Ricky Martin has no business singing about girls) and blast the suckers. I can make out the border up ahead. In a few minutes I’ll be on Mexican soil. Arriba arriba. Not even sure what that means, but I like the sound of it. Mexico, get ready, ’cause here I come.…
I’m loving the fact that Kylie got herself into this mess. It’s unclear to me how exactly this all happened, but who cares? She’s trapped in a foreign country, in need of help. So Bourne Ultimatum. And so not Kylie, which bodes well for NYU. This is the kind of adventure a boy like me can only dream about—getting caught somewhere exotic-ish (it is Baja, after all, not Bali) with an Adonis like Max Langston. Talk about ending the school year with a bang. And to think, only a few short hours ago, I was so disappointed by the day.
I approach the customs booth and am relieved to see that the cars ahead of me are being waved right through. There’s barely a wait. This should be easy. We might even have time for a few drinks, maybe some guacamole and chips seaside before returning stateside.
I slow down as I approach the booth, expecting a simple hand flourish that will mean my entrée into Baja. Instead, the grim little troll in the booth takes one look at me, holds up his hand, and pops out of his cage. I stop the car, and his nasty face is at my window, leering down at me. Calm down, boyfriend, I’m not running drugs or guns. I’m one of the good guys, just your average everyday hero rescuing his damsel-in-distress South of the Border. I deserve praise, not scorn. But that doesn’t look like it’s happening.
I roll down the window.
“Hi there, big guy,” I say, realizing my mistake immediately.
A scowl materializes on his already unhappy face. Oops, my bad. Shouldn’t have called the little guy a big guy. He thinks I’m making fun of his size. I’m not. It’s just what I say. A peccadillo, if you will. Please don’t shoot.
I switch to downright obsequiousness. “How can I help you, sir?”
“I’m going to need to see your passport, license, and registration.”
His uniform is too tight and he’s sweating profusely in the unforgiving Mexican sun, which can’t be helping his mood. He’s looking at me like he’d love to make an example of me.
“Nooo problem, officer.”
I smile broadly at the hobgoblin. It has no impact on his sour mood. I know enough to check my snarky comments at the door. The border is not the place to try out new comedy material.
I rummage through the glove compartment and gather up all the necessary papers. I’m shockingly well-prepared for just this type of situation. This would not normally be the case, save for the fact that my sisters, my mother, and I drove down through Mexicali last year en route to Rancho La Puerta, the bougie spa in Tecate, where we were cosseted, coddled, and catered to for a solid seventy-two hours. Sheer bliss. We were also frisked and questioned at the border, as our trip coincided with a huge spike in drug activity.
I hand over the documents.
“What is the purpose of your trip?”
“I’m visiting a friend in Ensenada.”
I know enough not to say that I’m picking someone up and bringing them back across the border. That would just throw up a slew of red flags. Weirdly, my innocuous comment seems to have the same effect.
“Please step out of the car.”
What? Are you kidding me? Everyone else is literally speeding through the pearly gates, barely slowing down. I want to scream at him, Who, in their right mind, sneaks into Mexico? Seriously? But I bite my tongue.
“Excuse me, officer, I’m just curious what exactly I did?”
“Please step out of the vehicle.”
Uh-oh. We’ve gone from “car” to “vehicle.”
His rigid body stance seems to be saying, Go ahead, make my day. No interest, amigo. I’m all about keeping the peace. Confrontation gives me a headache.
I open my door and step out of the “vehicle,” which is the first time I realize how inappropriately I am dressed for the occasion. I could be in trouble here. I’m dressed more for a Scottish Highlands party than an altercation with Mexican border patrol. I am wearing a Marc Jacobs kilt (bought in the men’s section, but I doubt this will make any kind of impression on my friend here, so I choose not to mention that pertinent fact) paired with black combat boots (my guess is that the subtle juxtaposition of styles is lost on him). I have a jaunty little beret on my head, and a T-shirt emblazoned with a skull and crossbones. I shouldn’t be wearing this. For the second time today I am slapped in the face with the realization that my outrageous fashion choices may be coming up against the law of diminishing returns.
Officer Grumpy takes in my ensemble. His eyes sweep down to my toes and move slowly upward until we are staring at one another. His distaste (and that’s putting it mildly) is carved into his face. I smile goofily at him, hoping he’ll see that I’m not worth his time.
“Listen…William,” he says, glancing down at my license. “I need you to open your trunk for me.”
An obvious joke comes to mind, but I swallow it.
I pop open the trunk, wondering what the hell he thinks he’s going to find in there. Cash? Bombs? A dead body? I mean, really? I’m so much less interesting than I look. I smile to myself as I watch Officer Grumpy take in the mind-numbingly dull contents of the trunk.
There’s a beach chair, a few textbooks, and an empty Vitamin Water bottle. Ooooh, so raunchy. I’m such a bad boy. Spank me.
He closes the trunk and turns to face me. “Are you planning on driving to Ensenada?”
“Yes, I am.”
“Do you have Mexican auto insurance?”
“Uh, no. But I have American auto insurance.”
Mexican auto insurance? Are you kidding me? God, this whole encounter is really dampening my enthusiasm for my Mexican holiday.
“Technically, you don’t need Mexican insurance, but if you get into an accident and you don’t have it, you’ll be taken to jail to determine your guilt or innocence and your ability to pay damages. I would suggest you get it. You should also add legal services to your policy. This way you can have a lawyer represent you, if need be.”
Jesus, what the hell?
News flash: You are lucky I’m even coming down here with my American dollars. I’m doing you a favor, guy.
“Why would I need a lawyer while I’m in Mexico?” I ask, just out of curiosity.
Officer Grumpy doesn’t even dignify that question with a response. I guess the answer is just too obvious. My mere presence violates the law. Say no more. I get it. I look like the sort of person who would need a lawyer on a regular basis, particularly in a foreign country.
“You might also want a number for a doctor and a decent towing company. Anything can happen in Mexico.”
Dude’s in the wrong line of business. He should work for the bureau of tourism. He really knows how to sell it. Jail? Doctors? Lawyers? Mexico is one big party. Fun in the sun.
Officer Grumpy hands me a stack of business cards—no doubt his drinking buddies, from whom he gets a nice kickback when some idiot American, like me, actually decides to buy into his bullshit. This guy has quite the scam going.
“Do yourself a favor. Call these guys. Protect yourself.”
“Definitely, Officer. I will do it as soon as I get back on the road,” I say, taking the cards, with the intention of tossing them into the trash. Seriously, what’s the worst that could happen? A little Montezuma’s revenge, maybe. But my car’s going to be just fine.
“If you’re going to be on your phone while driving, make sure to use your headset.”
“Absolutely,” I say, pulling my headset from my pocket and dangling it from my fingers to illustrate my point. I am all about bowing down and kissing the ring of the law.
With Officer Grumpy’s blessing, I get back in the car.
“Next time, William, consider wearing pants.”
I hear you, loud and clear. Leave the cross-dressing at home. That’s the one piece of advice I actually intend to heed.
I get back on the road, having spent a good half hour with Officer Grumpy. And now I’ve got to pee like a bandit. I’m going to have to pull off the road and pray I can slip in and out of one of these roadside dumps without attracting too much attention. Damn, time is a wastin’. So much for the beach party. I’m going to have to pick up Kylie and Max, turn right around, and hightail it back to the border before it gets too late.
I pull over at a gas station/restaurant/bar (one too many slashes for my taste). There is one lonely gasoline pump. Several feet away, a few men sit on stools, drinking beer and eating tacos as the delightful smell of gasolina wafts through the air. Lovely.
I take the keys from an old woman at the bar and walk around back to the bathroom. There’s a father with a small boy at the sink. As I enter, the man grabs his son and dashes out of the bathroom like he’s seen a ghost. Whoa! That was rude. And a big, fat depressing drag. I’m scaring people. That’s hardly the goal. I know I should be able to dress however I want, but I don’t want to frighten anyone. I don’t want to be that guy. In trying to thrust my sexual preferences into everyone’s face, I’ve become someone I’m not sure I recognize anymore. And what have I accomplished? Does anyone really accept me? Has anyone else at Freiburg come flying out of the closet? Have I helped make La Jolla a gay-friendly place to be? Sadly, no, no, and no. Out here in the real world, beyond the gates of Freiburg, I’m even more of a freak show.
I realize that this persona I’ve created isn’t even who I want to be. I vow to find a pair of jeans ASAP, even if I have to dig them out of a Dumpster.
o far today I’ve eaten tripe tacos, Carmela’s legendary sopa de mariscos, and a plate of stewed goat meat over rice, all of which was amazing. I’m drinking my third glass of sangria and bonding with my new bud Carlos, an eighty-year-old bullfighter. I’m out of my element and totally into it. I want to get home in time for graduation, but I’m not really caring about tonight’s Freiburg parties anymore. I’d rather hang here and do something different for a change. My life’s become so controlled, so contained, I’ve forgotten how good it feels to go off the grid. This whole crazy Mexican side trip, which was a freaking nightmare only a few hours ago, has turned out to be the best thing I’ve done in ages. Another country, a different culture, new people—it’s something I’ve been craving without even knowing it.
I wander into the living room and find Kylie staring at pictures of her father like she’s in a trance. This must be majorly wigging her out. I’m not sure I could handle it if all this news and information were coming at me.
“Here’s one of your dad in high school. He was team captain and we’d just won the countrywide championship. Javier scored the winning goal,” Manuel tells us.
Kylie’s seventeen-year-old dad is being carried through the streets of Ensenada on the shoulders of his teammates. He’s our age and looks like he owns the world. There are pictures of her dad playing soccer for huge crowds. A picture of him holding up some major trophy. One of him signing a poster with his image on it, for a bunch of schoolkids. How could Kylie not know any of this? Kind of mind-blowing.
Kylie pores over the photos, gently touching them. It makes me want to wrap my arms around her, protect her. But I don’t. I keep my arms to myself.
“This is the night Javier won the soccer championship for Colef, College of the Northern Border.” Manuel holds up a picture of Javier smiling stupidly as his teammates pour beer on his head. “Javier dropped out of Colef right after that, I think it was sophomore year, to play for Mexico in the World Cup. Recruiters started talking to him right after that game. Real Madrid, Manchester United. He’d hit the big time and would have gone on to play professionally if it hadn’t been for the accident,” Manuel tells us.
“He got hurt playing?” Kylie asks.
“You don’t know about the accident?” Manuel asks.
“No.” Kylie stares at Manuel, confused.
“He didn’t get hurt playing. But, maybe I’ve said too much. Your father should probably tell you.”
“He never says anything,” Kylie says. I can tell she’s trying really hard to keep her voice neutral. But her eyes betray her discomfort. “We don’t always…get each other, if you know what I mean.” Kylie shifts around in her chair.
“I know exactly what you mean,” Manuel says. “Believe it or not, I was a teenager once.”
“Yeah, it’s not so much a teen thing with my dad. It’s just a…thing thing with him. He doesn’t talk about his past. And my grandmother died a few years ago, so there’s really no one around to tell me anything.”
“Believe me, I know how difficult Javier can be. We grew up together. There were days when he’d stop speaking to me for some stupid remark I’d made. He was always a moody bastard, but he’s got a good heart. I think Javier is probably trying to protect you.”
Manuel is trying to gauge things, figure out exactly what to say. He knows Kylie is freaking. Who wouldn’t be? This is all pretty heavy, even for me. And I don’t know the guy. I feel like I shouldn’t be here, like I’m interrupting a private moment, listening in on Kylie’s family secrets. But it also seems rude to just get up and walk away. So I stay where I am.
Kylie is still looking at Manuel, hoping he’ll confide in her. Manuel sighs audibly as he gazes at Kylie.
“I don’t know,” he says. “Maybe your dad should tell you.”
“He won’t. But maybe if you will, it’ll help me understand him better,” Kylie replies. And then adds, for good measure, “Please?” Looking up at Manuel with those big, beautiful, golden eyes.
It’s going to be hard to say no.
“Okay, I’ll tell you, but you’ve got to go slow when you talk to your dad.…”
“I promise.”
“He’s not good with the surprise attack. He shuts down.”
“Yeah, tell me about it.”
“Hopefully, it’ll be good for both of you. Maybe it’ll get you two talking more. If nothing else, I think it’ll help you appreciate him in a different way.”
Manuel settles himself onto the couch and then launches into it. “Javier was in a horrible accident. It was almost thirty years ago, a few months after the World Cup. Mario, Javier’s father, was a truck driver. And sometimes he would bring Javier and his brother with him on long hauls. I remember your father learned to drive a truck when he was fifteen. I hated him for that. I thought he was so cool.
“That night, all three of them were in the truck and they were almost home. They’d been on the road for a couple of days. Your father was driving; he must have been around nineteen. Another car veered into his lane and Javier swerved. The truck flipped over. His father and his brother died. But Javier didn’t have a scratch on his body.”
Manuel pauses. I can see it’s still difficult for him to tell this story, even all these years later. He looks at Kylie to see if she’s okay. I’m not sure if she is or not.
“Everyone said it was a miracle that Javier survived. Like he was protected by God. But Javier was ruined by it. He felt like he killed his father and his brother. He felt responsible. And he felt guilty for surviving.”
Kylie looks stunned. Manuel puts an arm around her, and the two of them sit there silently. I don’t know what to do. Talk about a third wheel. I don’t want to make things worse, and I don’t know how to make them better, so I just keep quiet, watching and waiting for a sign from Kylie.
I can’t really imagine what she’s going through. I guess my dad’s cancer comes close, but that’s been a slow dissolve. This must feel more like being punched in the stomach. Maybe we shouldn’t have come.
“Is that when he moved away?” Kylie asks Manuel.
“Yeah. He just couldn’t take being surrounded by all the memories. He kept going over and over the accident, blaming himself. I don’t think he knew how to go on without his dad and his brother. He stopped playing soccer and worked as a bartender for a while in Rosarito. We kept in touch whenever he returned to Ensenada. Which became less and less often.
“Eventually, Javier started talking about going to America. He seemed better as he made his plans. He came to see me one night. His car was packed and he had made the decision. He was going to San Diego. After finding a job, he’d bring his mother. I promised to look after Lola while he was gone. In many ways, Lola had it worse than Javier. She lost her husband and her son. And now her only other son was moving to America. She just sat around the house knitting. I used to take her out to dinner once a week. That’s how I heard about you and your mother and your brother. Javier fell out of touch soon after that. He stopped returning my calls. I assumed that was something he had to do to shed his past. So I stayed away. But I never stopped thinking about him.”
Manuel stops talking and looks away for a moment. I think he’s worried that what he’s told Kylie will upset her even more. But Kylie is poised and calm.
“Thank you, Manuel. I appreciate hearing all of this,” she says. Someone would be picking me up off the floor right about now. But Kylie’s holding it together amazingly well. I’m officially impressed.
“This is a lot to take in, no?” Manuel asks Kylie.
“Yeah. But I’m so glad you told me. It helps to know. And it explains…a lot.”
“I’m sure your dad has his reasons,” Manuel says.
“Yeah. Maybe.”
“You’re okay?” Manual asks.
“I am. In some strange way, it’s a relief to find this out. At least there’s an explanation for his behavior. It gives me hope for him. For us. To be honest, I’d kind of written him off.”
“Well, then, I’m glad I told you.”
“I think I’m going to take a walk, get some air. I’ll be back in, like, fifteen minutes,” Kylie says.
“Take as long as you need. We’ll be here,” Manuel promises. “We can talk more later, if you want.”
Kylie gets up. I follow her.
“You mind if I come with?” I ask.
“Nope.”
We head out into the bright sunshine.
“You want to talk?”
“Just…walk with me. You don’t have to pretend to care about my messed-up life,” Kylie says.
“I do care.”
I mean it, which is weird because I usually don’t care all that much. I like to keep my distance, keep it light. Too much baggage messes with my game. But Kylie’s story has drawn me in, or maybe it’s Kylie. I want to know about her family, about her.
Kylie heads up a hill, past a row of earth-toned bungalows. Everyone seems to be having a backyard party. We walk along in silence for a while. I’m trying to figure out what to say that won’t sound completely stupid and insincere. So I say nothing. Brilliant.
I’m pushing to keep up as Kylie goes faster and faster. And then, near the top, Kylie collapses onto the grass. She lies there, motionless. I lie down next to her, careful not to touch her or say anything moronic. I’m never usually this self-conscious, but Kylie has me tied in knots.
“I always thought it was Jake that made him shut down. And then, maybe his mother’s death,” Kylie says. “But now I get that it was so much more. I can’t believe I had to come all the way to Ensenada to learn about my dad. I mean, it would have been nice if he could have told me himself.”
“Yeah, my dad’s not much for sharing either.”
“People say you become your parents,” Kylie says. “But I don’t want that. I mean, I love my parents, but I don’t think they’re really happy. I don’t want to shut out the world like my dad.”
“I think it’s already too late for me,” I say.
“What do you mean?”
“I don’t know. I’m not exactly good at opening up to people. I’m a lot like my dad.”
“What are you talking about? I’m the one who’s always shutting people out. You’re amazing with people. You can talk to anyone.”
“Maybe, but it’s all kind of an act. I don’t like people knowing all my shit. Except Charlie. But that’s different; we’ve known each other since nursery school.”
“Well, you’re telling me your shit now.” Kylie looks at me directly.
She’s right. I am.
We both look away. It’s too intense. I stare up at the sky. It’s a perfect, cloudless blue. I take out my phone and snap a photo of it. Maybe I’ll use it as background for something.
“At least I don’t think he’s a complete dick anymore. I mean, he needs therapy, but I get where he’s coming from now. His drinking, how disconnected he always is. It makes sense. I don’t know why my mother or my grandmother never told me. Jesus. My family is so messed up.”
“Welcome to the club. I’ll have to teach you the secret handshake.”
Kylie smiles. She’s twirling a long curl around her finger. “No wonder I’m such a social retard.”
“You’re not a social retard.” I may have thought that yesterday but not today.
“Do you think, when we have kids, we’ll mess things up as bad as our parents?” “Dunno. Hopefully not.” We just lie here for a while, not saying anything. “Thanks for not…I don’t know, laughing at this whole thing,” Kylie says. “I don’t think it’s funny, and I’m guessing you don’t either.” Kylie sits up and looks down at me. She’s so raw, exposed, beautiful. “Max Langston,” she says as she continues to stare at me. I like the way she says my name. “Max Langston.” She says it again. And then she starts to laugh. “What?” “Out of all the people to find myself stuck with in Ensenada, learning about my dad’s secret past. Max Langston. I can’t believe it. I mean, it’s crazy, right? We don’t even know each other.”
“We know each other a lot better now.”
“That is indisputable, Max Langston.”
“C’mon, let’s go back down. Will should be here soon.”
“Sounds like a plan.”
I jump up, grab Kylie by the hand, and pull her to her feet.
