Jersey Tomatoes are the Best (27 page)

“Where are you from?” Maria asks. I think she half expects I’ll say Mars.

“New Jersey,” I tell her. She frowns.

“Right next to New York, how could they not know
quinces
?” she says, more to Enrique than to us.

“Well, all I can say is that you’re both in for the
fiesta
of a lifetime,” Enrique says.

At that moment the DJ says something into his microphone, and the packed ballroom becomes eerily quiet. Then a rhythmic drumming, just shy of a construction-site jackhammer, fills the room. It booms from the DJ’s giant speakers and the crowd picks up the beat with enthusiastic claps, swaying hips, cheers. The dance floor clears.

The velvet curtains at the top of the staircase part, and Yolanda appears, to wild applause, holding hands with some tall, dark-haired boy.

Her hair is styled in this updo and held in place by a rhinestone and pearl tiara. In her ears she wears long, matching drops. Someone has done her makeup, and even though I’ve never given a thought to lipstick in my life, I make a mental note to ask her the name of this color. Acres of cloudlike gauze and satin billow around her; she gleams with pearls and sequins. But it’s the perfect smile, the complete happiness, radiating from Yoly that makes her the most beautiful girl in the room.

She and her partner dance-strut in unison to the center of
the floor. They face the staircase and join in the rhythmic clapping themselves.

Couples descend the red carpet to wild applause. The guys are dressed in black tuxedos with blue vests, the girls in floor-length gowns of baby blue. The DJ announces their names as the girls line up on one side of the dance floor, the boys on the other. As soon as they are all in place, the DJ switches gears, the rhythm changes and Rihanna fills the room:

Rihanna fans whoop when they recognize the words to “Don’t Stop the Music” and the opening dance by the
chambelanes
and
damas
begins.

In and out they weave, in perfect time. Yoly and her partner lead them at the head of the formation and … the girl’s got moves. I knew she could pound forehands; I knew she could run. But shimmy in a ball gown? Amazing.

David bumps his hip against mine. Laughing, we bump and clap with Rihanna.

“Did they
practice
this?” he says loudly, leaning toward me.

“They hired a choreographer,” I reply, trying not to yell. “They had rehearsals and everything.” He shakes his head in wonder.

It’s too noisy for me to tell him all I know. About the agonies Yoly endured trying to pick this song. “I mean, can you imagine Abuelita rockin’ out to “
Don’tcha wish your girlfriend
was a freak like me?
” she had explained, singing to me one afternoon. She’d finally settled on Rihanna, even though some of her friends thought it was way tame.

I look to my left at David. When he feels my eyes on him, he breaks out one of those heart-melting smiles. He is so gorgeous. I want to dance with him … can he dance? I can feel the music clear down to the small of my back, and I want to move with it. With him.

Then suddenly it’s over, and another, slower tune begins, something Yolanda has played for me. The dance floor clears, and Mr. Cruz approaches Yoly and her partner, who places her hand in her father’s and steps away. Strains of “Find Your Wings” fill the room, and the traditional father-daughter dance begins. The DJ plays the Spanish version, but Yoly has told me what the words mean. About a girl becoming a woman, and her father’s wish: to give her wings and let her fly as high as she can.

The crowd becomes quiet as they dance. Yoly leans her head against her father’s chest. Some people start to gently clap.

It occurs to me that I might truly be in Oz, or on Mars. Definitely not any place I’ve been before. Where fathers dance with cherished daughters and the rooms aren’t big enough to hold all the friends and relatives.

“Are you okay?” David says to me. I put my hands to my cheeks; they come away wet.

“C’mon.” He wraps one arm around my waist and leads me toward the exit. I point my face toward the floor.
Don’t make a scene. Don’t wreck this for Yoly. Don’t ruin your makeup
. I try
thinking of everything possible to stop the waterworks, but the tears keep coming.

At the far end of the now-deserted vestibule, David finds a small couch. We sit; he reaches into his jacket and pulls out a handkerchief. I take it and dab my eyes.

“Is there another eighteen-year-old guy on the planet who carries a handkerchief?” I wonder aloud.

“Comes with the monkey suit,” he deadpans. We both laugh.

“Thanks,” I whisper. I ball the hankie tightly in my lap. He places his hands over mine and I notice, not for the first time, that he has wonderful hands. Long, tapered tan fingers. Strong wrists.

“What’s making you cry?” he says softly. Which brings on another gush.

“I don’t know,” I finally manage. “Something about seeing her with her dad.” He nods. I don’t need to explain more. He gets the Mark thing.

“And the whole party. It’s incredible, don’t you think? Every relative, every neighbor. Even the priest who did her mass this afternoon is coming, that’s what she told me. I mean, my family can’t even manage to get a few friends over for a barbecue, but Yoly’s can fill a ballroom.” David smiles at me and gently kisses the tip of my nose.

“Henry Lloyd, you’re a romantic. I never knew.”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean, you see this cheesy affair with the Mr. Microphone DJ and you get all emotional. It’s sweet.”

Something inside me stills.

“What do you mean, cheesy?” I say. His eyes widen.

“Do I need to explain? We’re in a reception factory, they’re serving cubed Monterey Jack on toothpicks, and I’ve never seen more sequins in my life. It defines cheesy.”

“They think this is a wonderful party,” I say haltingly.
I
think it’s wonderful, I don’t say. A party filled with every imaginable person who loves you.

“Oh, I know,” he says reassuringly. “It’s just not my style. You know what I mean. I’m sure Mr. Cruz spent a fortune. And that dance number was cool. And Yolanda seems happy. Even if she does look like a meringue.” He laughs softly and squeezes my hands. I don’t reply.

“Can I tell you something, Henry?” he continues quietly. Seriously. I nod.

“Cheese cubes and bad DJs aside, I’m having a great time. Because I’m here with you. I’m … really into you.” His mouth forms a teasing smile, but his eyes are anything but. They bore into mine, and I know, absolutely, that this is huge for David Ross.

My mind swirls, abandons me, as I try to take it in, but before I can think of how to react, his lips are on mine. Long, sure kisses that surprise me with their intensity, and I’m kissing him back, this beautiful boy who, like me, has felt different, and alone, for too long.

Loud cheering and applause come from the ballroom now, the father-daughter dance complete, and people drift into the vestibule again. David and I move apart. He looks at me with
this expression of pure happiness. I don’t know what the question was, but he’s obviously thrilled with my answer. He stands, pulling us up.

“So are you ready to dance with me?” he says. I sigh.

“You
dance
, too? I think you may be too perfect. At least for me,” I tell him. He laughs as we return to the packed ballroom, gripping my hand firmly in his. There’s ownership in that grip. Confidence. A little pride. We reach the vortex of the twirling crowd, David turns to me and we dance. I see only him. I can’t take my eyes off him. I want to get lost in this moment, this dance. I want summer to never end. I want everything to work out, for all of us … me, David, Yoly, Eva … for all of it to wind up someplace happily ever after.

I want so badly to love him back.

Chapter Twenty-Eight

H
e’s a pig. He’s a fat, disgusting pig in a white coat, and he’s trying to make me fat as well
.

“Eva, we need you to cooperate so we can help you.”

Yeah, right, you want to help me. You want to stuff me full until I explode. Don’t tell me that bag is water. It’s liquid sugar. No way is that getting into me
.

“Who the hell are you?” It hurts to speak. My throat has been rubbed raw with sandpaper.

“Mr. Smith, could you try talking to her once more?”

Another face hovers over mine. I’m lying flat. The faces float above me.

My father.

“Eva, honey, please listen to Dr. Miner.”

He’s not my father. My father would never let them stick a needle in me. Drip poison into me
.

Rolling sound. It’s rolling toward me again. Swaying bag of water. Clear plastic bag, thick with sugary water
.

“What is that?” I croak the words.

“These are fluids to rehydrate you, Eva.”
Pig’s voice again
. “That’s what you were getting before you yanked out your IV. We need to reinsert it now, but you can’t struggle.”

The father imposter nods. He fakes a smile at me. His lips stretch sideways over his yellow teeth
.

I have to get out of here
.

“Hold her.”

Giant goons in white pin me down. They’re coming for my arm, the top of my hand, where they stuck me before. F—you, stupid pigs! I’ll pull it out again! I’ll pull it out!

A woman is crying
.

“Hold up, everyone. This isn’t going to work.”

The goons retreat. The big pig disappears. He’s talking to someone
.

“This level of resistance doesn’t leave us many options. I’d like to sedate her, get an IV going and, with your permission, intubate her.”

“What’s that?”
Woman’s choking voice
.

“It’s a thin feeding tube we’d insert up her nose. She’d get a steady stream of calories, even while she sleeps. We’ll do this slowly and monitor her to avoid refeeding syndrome. She could arrest again if she gets too much too fast. But she needs something, immediately.”

“I’m sorry. I don’t understand.”
Fake father’s voice
. “Did you just say she could have another heart attack?”

“If we refeed her too quickly, that’s a possibility.”

“Oh my god!”
The woman
.

“Please, just do what you have to do.”
Fake father
.

Pigs! Killers! I won’t let you!

“I’m going to have to ask you to step outside.”

I’ve got to get out of here. I try to lift up on my elbows and climb out, but something invisible holds me. I reach, feel a strap, thick cloth, firm across my hips. They’ve tied me
.

“Daddy! Please don’t go! Daddy, don’t leave me!” The words feel like shouts but sound like the driest of whispers in my own ears. He doesn’t hear me.

“Hold her.”
Goons again. Pressing me down with such force I expect to feel my own bones break. Pinprick, in my arm, cool, spreading, and they’ve done it. They’ve killed me. This is poison spreading through my body. Goons relax their grip
.

“Eva, we’re going to try again, okay? You’ll feel a little sting on the top of your hand. We’re putting water back into your body. You’re very, very thirsty, and it’s important that you leave this in. Don’t pull it out.”

Some woman in a white dress wipes, cold and wet on top of my hand, pricks me. I don’t fight. They’ve poisoned the fight out of me. I watch. I watch from a distance, floating outside myself
.

What does it matter? It doesn’t matter anymore. I don’t matter anymore
.

Chapter Twenty-Nine

L
ate-morning rays of hot Florida sun sneak into my room around the edges of the drawn blinds. We sleep in on Sunday mornings, and after last night, when David and I pulled into Chadwick at two a.m., I’ve slept in extra late. I squint at the digital alarm clock perched on the bedside table: 11:37. Almost lunchtime.

I stretch my arms high over my head, stretch my legs under the thin blanket, big sleepy catlike extensions, then kick the covers off. The gears of my brain slowly click into action. Shower. Dress. Dining hall. Early-afternoon drill session with Missy. I can do this. I stand, yawning. Stumble to the dresser in search of clean socks, underwear. Only my turquoise dress, draped over the back of Yoly’s desk chair, and the foot-torture shoes tossed against the wall, betray any evidence that the
quinces
ever happened.