Emily Goldberg Learns to Salsa (9 page)

Never mind that as far as I know, Noah has never, ever dated a blonde.

Never mind that he's supposed to be
my
boyfriend. The pity train has already left the station.

I hang up without leaving a message.

“Bad news?”

I nearly flip backward in my seat, I'm so startled. I look up to find Lucy's friend Ricky grinning down on me. He's wearing a short-sleeve T-shirt over a long-sleeve T-shirt and manages to look like a refugee from the Hispanic OC. I drop my phone, scramble to retrieve it. “No, um, just a . . . you know, voice mail.”

“You look really . . . bummed.” With his accent,
bummed
comes out sounding cute, actually.

I hastily try to rearrange my features into a more neutral expression. “No. Nope.” I can see by the look on his face that he isn't buying it.

“I'm disappointed.” I sigh. “I haven't been able to get in touch with my boyfriend.”

That sounds pathetic.

“I mean, he has a job and he's out a lot.”

That sounds even
more
pathetic. I seriously need to quit while I'm . . . well, not ahead, exactly, but before I shoot my entire foot off. “Anyway . . .”

“You wanted to talk to him,” Ricky says reasonably. “Your boyfriend.”

“Yes,” I agree. “But he isn't around.” I try to change the topic again. “Anyway, what are
you
doing here?”

That sounds dreadful, like an accusation.

He laughs, showing a broad smile and even, white teeth. He doesn't seem remotely bothered by my total lack of social graces. “I came to say hi.”

I raise an eyebrow. “Lucy's not home yet.”

“I've known Lucy since grade school,
chica
, you think I don't know her schedule?”

Fair enough. But that still doesn't explain why Ricky would have come by. Unless he's here to ... see
me
?

“Lucy's been in her own world lately anyway,” he says, almost to himself.

It hits me: she hasn't been out salsa dancing while I sit and rot in her former bedroom. She's been spending one-on-one time with Rafael . . . just like she said. That's something. I'm still not sure what, but she's evidently been blowing off Ricky as much as she has me.

Um . . . yay?

“So,” Ricky says, as if reading my mind and choosing to disregard my less-appealing thoughts, “I'll talk to her eventually. But I wanted to see how you were doing.”

I shrug. “I'm fine. We're keeping busy.”

“Making dinner?”

I smile. “It's a routine.”

“You're definitely the kind of girl who lives for routine.”

I can't tell if he's being sarcastic and, if he is, whether or not that would be a compliment.

“Anyway,” he continues, before I have a chance to respond. “I was thinking we should break up your routine. I mean, you deserve to have some fun while you're here, right?”

“I went to Old San Juan today,” I say, almost by way of protest.

“Do you want to go to the beach on Saturday?” he asks, wisely choosing to ignore me.

“What? Oh, sure,” I say, stumbling over my words. “With you?”

I can't get anything right this evening.

He chuckles again. “Yes, with me. But not just me. I mean, I was thinking we could get the group together. Lucy and her friends. Rafael. We do that a lot, on the weekends, that is. So you should do that too, with us. Give you an idea of how the locals live.”

“I thought only the tourists go to the beach,” I say.

He shakes his head emphatically. “They go to a different beach, yeah. But we love it in the water—it's fun, and it's cheap.”

“Sounds perfect,” I say, because suddenly it really, truly does.

“Great,” he says, looking really, truly thrilled at the prospect. Is he actually that concerned with my enjoyment factor?

“Are you sure Lucy's free?”

“Saturday afternoons are the
only
time that Lucy
is
free,” he assures me. “It's been that way since the beginning of time.”

“Well, I'm sure she'll want to spend her one free hour a week with me,” I snark. The words are out of me before I realize they've even crossed my mind. I would never have said them aloud if I'd had a minute to think.

To his credit, Ricky's still laughing. I must say, he has a very nice laugh. Very sincere and not at all patronizing.

“You should give her a chance, Emily,” he says, and it gives me a little tingle, the way he pronounces my name.
Emeelee
—as if it were a Spanish word inherently. “She'll surprise you. Like I told you, she's not as bad as she seems.”

He leaves, promising to be in touch before Saturday. I find myself incredibly intrigued to see how Lucy is going to take this development. I have the distinct feeling that she will not be pleased. But then, it wasn't exactly my idea, now, was it? And anyway, Ricky told me to give her a chance. He said she'd surprise me. And he really seemed to mean it.

Maybe he's right. The island is full of surprises, after all. I mean, here I am going to the beach with a bunch of
puertorriqueños
on Saturday at their own invitation. And to tell the truth, I'm pretty excited about it.

Full of surprises indeed.

I
thought this place was a big tourist trap.”

I sit sprawled on an oversized beach towel that my father had the forethought to include in my care package. I'm glad I don't have to ask Lucy for a towel. It's best not to have to ask too much of Lucy.

So far this afternoon she has tolerated me quietly, but it's plain to see that she is
un
thrilled to be baby-sitting me on the one day a week she gets to hang with her friends.

I remember that when she came home Wednesday night and found Ricky and me setting the dinner table together, her eyes narrowed into tiny catlike slits as she forced her lips into a grin.

“
Bueno.
Isla Verde, what a good idea,” she murmured when Ricky suggested the beach.

“Yeah, it's a big tourist spot because of all of the hotels,” Ramona says, back in the here and now. She flips through an issue of Spanish
Cosmo
idly, for all the world a dead ringer for Isabelle's languid weekend disaffect. From where we sit on the beach, I can see the hotel that I stayed in when we first arrived. The guests sun themselves on oversized bleached beach chairs and sip at brightly colored drinks with thick, twirly straws. It's a whole different planet up where they are, separated from the plebes by a sun-washed wooden tanning deck and heated swimming pool. At the moment, though, I don't mind the galaxy that I've stumbled into.

“When we go ourselves, we usually go to Condado,” Pia chimes in. “It's quieter there. That's where people from our school usually . . . chill.” She hesitates on the last word as though trying out the slang. There aren't too many deviations between their English and ours—they watch the same TV, after all—but now and again I've noticed Lucy and her friends get self-conscious. Which is funny. I mean, half the time when they're speaking in Spanish, I've got no idea what they're talking about anyway. It's not like I'm going to judge.

But back to the matter at hand, which is that Ricky specifically took me to the touristy beach, when all along I had thought he wanted me to feel more, um,
authentic
. So much for not being thought of as the token gringa. “But”—I glance at Ricky—“I thought you wanted me to have the real Puerto Rico experience.”

Ricky flushes. “Condado is too quiet. This place is more of a scene.”

“And I seem like the kind of person who would prefer a scene?” I giggle involuntarily, surprising myself. I am not, as a rule, a giggler.

“Sí, mami,”
Rafael says, winking at me and letting Ricky off the hook. “You're obviously a wild woman.” Lucy glares at him. It's quick, but I don't miss it.

“I prefer this beach anyway, and we never get to come here,” she says, shaking her head so her hair fans out over her shoulders.

I'm not terribly surprised. Lucy
does
strike me as the type who would prefer a scene. “Family from the mainland
never
comes to visit.”

What can I say? I'm not sure, but for some reason I feel slightly guilty.

“The tourists always have the best swimsuits.” Ramona sighs and nods at me. She may or may not be compensating for Lucy's seething hatred.

I look down at my suit, a simple two-piece from J. Crew in a deep shade of eggplant purple. As a representative of the tourist faction, I'm letting my people down, big time.

“Purple is my favorite color,” Ramona continues, practically reading my mind.

“Mine too,” I say. We settle into silence for a moment. Lucy exchanges furtive glances with Rafael, once again giving me the urge to giggle uncontrollably. Things in the group are definitely askew. But I'm too tired, too weirded out, and frankly way too nonconfrontational to figure out how to make it better. If nothing else, at least Lucy's friends are being nice. And we have the same taste in crappy reading materials, I've learned.

“Does anyone want to read this?” I wave the trashy magazine I've been skimming through. I'm embarrassed to admit that miles away from home, I still need my weekly gossip fix.
Entertainment Weekly
,
In Touch
,
People
,
Us Weekly
. . . I'm like a junkie. Somewhere deep within my straw tote
Siddhartha
sits, all but abandoned. He would not have approved of Cameron Diaz's shopping habits, I don't think. Or mine either, I'm sure.

“Who's on the cover?” Teresa asks, curious. It's a blond starlet, someone to whom Teresa actually bears a startling resemblance. She wrinkles her nose in distaste. “Ugh, I hate her. Ever since she had an affair with that actor. The one that was married.” She shudders, which makes me laugh. I mean, that sort of thing is pretty par for the course, at least according to
In Touch
.

“Oh, come on,” I argue. “Not like she was the first. Besides, doesn't he take any of the blame?” Now I'm in familiar territory. I warm to the subject, feeling more comfortable than I have in days. “I mean,
he
was the one that was married, after all.”

“That's the way it goes, though.” It's Lucy now, her tone flat. “It's the woman's responsibility to behave. The boys can do whatever they want and no one says a word.”

Our little group goes quiet for a moment. She's right, on some level—maybe more so in Puerto Rico than on the mainland. Here machismo is the order of the day—so yeah, I get where she's coming from. Still, there's a quality to her tone, something about the look on her face that makes me nervous. Something that makes me think this is more than idle conversation. Rafael just rolls his eyes.

“It's the old double standard,” I say, trying to lighten the mood. “It's been going on for centuries.”

Lucy sighs loudly.

“I'm thirsty,” Pia says abruptly. If it's an effort to change the subject, it's not too subtle, but I'll take it.

“Me too,” I jump in quickly. “Who wants a soda?”

Pia, Teresa, and Ramona all eagerly voice their assent; various orders for diet drinks are tossed out. Rafael shakes his head, a quiet “no.”

I raise an eyebrow at Ricky. He stands, brushes the sand off his legs. “No. I mean, yes, I'm thirsty, but you don't have to bring me anything.” He stops, takes a breath. “I mean, I'll come with you.”

Ricky's behavior is uncharacteristically awkward, which I find oddly endearing. I chalk it up to the weird vibe that Rafael and Lucy are putting out. We're all trying aggressively not to notice them. In my whole life, I've never not noticed something as hard as I am not noticing this.

“Sure,” I say. I shake my hair out, pin it back up off my neck. One thing, at least—I'll be heading back to Westchester with a killer tan. They'll think I'm a
puertorriqueña
for sure. Even if they're the only ones. I grab my wallet from my bag, extend my arm, beckoning to Ricky. “Come on.”

 

Once we're alone, I exhale deeply. “What is going on back there?”

Ricky shrugs.
“No sé.”
He looks uncomfortable. I get it: Lucy is his good friend. There's a fine line between filling me in and dishing. You don't dish about your good friend. I respect that.

We walk along quietly. My flip-flops make a slapping sound against the pavement. There's no boardwalk here: either you're staying in one of the luxury hotels, or you're a local making your way down the cigarette-studded sidewalk. Tourists have spas and swim-up bars; locals have Taco Bell. It doesn't take too long to figure that out. We duck into one quickly and load up on soft drinks. Ricky carries them in a cardboard caddy, cradling the tray against his chest.

“She's been out with Rafael a lot lately,” I offer. It's sort of a last-ditch effort to get to the semi-bottom of this. I'm not totally sure what the point is of trying to talk to Ricky about Lucy, but Lucy seems unhappy, and that affects me. In more ways than just the obvious.

“I guess they're going through some stuff,” he says.

I think back to the sound of Noah's voice mail. He hasn't called me back. I haven't texted him back. He's so far away right now. It's hard, and then, it's also . . . not so hard.

“Relationships are difficult,” I say. “And Lucy seems . . . like a challenge.” I wonder if I've gone too far in the direction of insulting her.