Words and Their Meanings (16 page)

36

M
y outfit is subdued for tonight: a boatneck black sweater and jeans without holes. I add a blue beret at the last minute, to hide just how wild my hair is, and also to pay homage to Patti's love of all things Parisian. Her poem, “Perfect Moon” is playing over and over inside my head.

When Mateo comes to the door, the first thing he does is pull me close. His hand is strong and sure around my waist. Like he is the moon and I am the tide and he pools light inside my darkness. I wish I could step outside my body, memorize how it looks to be held this way.

“Are you ready for this?” he asks with a lopsided grin.

“Why? Should I be scared?” I'm kidding, but his expression makes me pause. “Wait. For real? Do they not like me already?”

“No, it isn't that … it's just … well, they are a lot to handle. It's a big family. With a lot of strong personalities.” His cheeks flush. My body warms in response.

The part of the city Mateo lives in isn't as rundown or ghetto as across the river, but it's a lot older and less managed than the township. The neighborhoods here are a mixed bag. Some homes have clipped lawns and only one letterbox next to the front door. Others are pocked with paint chips and overgrown shrubs. A few porches sag low, as if expecting good posture is too much to ask. One is boarded up completely.

When we pull up to Mateo's house, I have to do a double take. It's on a corner lot, and the yard is a mix of green grass and rose bushes. My mom would definitely approve. The house is three stories, with painted yellow gables and minty-green wood siding. It looks like a place with a lot of stories to tell.

“This is … ”

“Yeah, my mom does a good job taking care of it. She loves this place.”

“I can see.”

We walk side by side up to his front door. Before he can turn the handle, it flies open and a skinny girl about our age with slippery black hair to her waist and bright red lipstick barks a hardened laugh.

“Oh my, Mateo. No wonder you haven't brought your little girlfriend around.”

“Knock it off, America. Don't be such a—”

“Hey, hey, don't start calling me names just cause I call it like I see it.”

I shift my weight from one side to another, trying to find the right I'm-too-cool-for-this stance.

“I'm America Veracruz. Loverboy's cousin,” she says, flashing a bright white smile at me. “Our moms are sisters. I live a few blocks from here.”

“Anna.” I don't offer her my hand. It takes a lot more than this to get me rattled.

“Obviously. Tía wants you in the kitchen, Mateo. She's been bitching up a storm about you not helping and everyone else being useless and blah, blah, blah. I swear she doesn't even think anybody besides you can sort and wash the frijoles. She told me to keep your
gabacha
busy. Her words, not mine,” America adds, holding up her hands in innocence as Mateo shoots her a look.

“Come on. I'll show you around,” she says with a deep bow. I think Nat would like this girl.

Mateo mouths “sorry” and hustles off, leaving me to follow America, who is already halfway up the dark wooden staircase.

I run my hand along the banister. Three stairs from the top, my fingers snag on something rough. A messy carving in the wood spells “Mateo,” with the “e” going the wrong way.

America stands above me, shaking her head.

“Mat got himself almost killed for that little incident when he was five. Holy steer, my Tía was so pissed—but now she gazes at it all lovingly, remembering when her boy was ‘still little and needing her' and all that sappy mother/son reminiscing. You really like him, huh?”

America's sneaky. A question like this, tucked into an insider's story, was meant to catch me off guard. I try to ignore it.

“Where do you go to school?” I ask.

“The Knoll. I'm going to be a junior. You know there are a ton of girls around here who like Mateo, right? I don't mean to be rude, but I don't get what he's doing with you, even if you are kinda pretty. I mean, your hair alone is so … .” She trails off, making a face. “This is the upstairs. His room is on the left. You can check it out, but if Tía catches you up here together, you're dead. Fair warning.”

She looks me up and down one more time, frowns, and walks away. My eyes sting. It feels like the walls are closing in, and while I've never had a panic attack, I start counting backward from one hundred, following each breath to the pit of my stomach and back up again, just in case. When I reach Mateo's open door, I stop counting. I stop everything, and just stare.

The walls are covered with pencil and charcoal drawings. Crosses and abstracts, fluid rivers and row after row of portraits. Some of the drawings are cut out, edged with darkened lines. Some are ripped, obviously small pieces of bigger works. Some still have sketchbook frays on one side. There's a large portrait in the corner. My mind flashes back to the alley. It's the same boy, with the same mischievous grin and large forehead. His eyes are cast down.

“Aren't you going to step inside?”

Mateo's wrapping his arms around me, breathing into my neck.

“Who did all of this?”

“I did.”

I whip around to face him.

“I … I don't understand. You never said you were an artist.”

“You never asked.” Mateo shrugs.

I'm trying to process the idea that Mateo could be a star in the kitchen and also be able to do this. He knows himself. He knows what he's good at—but it's clear by the detail and sharp pencil lines of these drawings, he loves this too.

As if reading my mind, Mateo shrugs again and says, “Cooking. It's my thing, being a chef or whatever. It's what we're here to celebrate. This is just … I don't know. Come on, Anna. Let's go back downstairs. I want you to meet my brother.”

He reaches around and shuts off his light, closing the door as if it meant nothing.

Val is sitting on an Oriental rug in front of a large TV, playing a video game. I can tell it's him even with his back turned. I recognize his big ears from the drawing in the alley.

“Hey, Val, I want to introduce you to my girlfriend, Anna,” Mateo says, lacing his fingers through mine.

Girlfriend.

Val leans closer to the TV, his thumbs working a million miles a minute to shoot all the zombies marching toward him on the screen.

“Val. For real, man, turn around.”

“Hi, Anna,” Val says, not turning around.

Mateo sighs. It kind of matches Mom's tired sighs. He walks in front of the screen and Val yelps. He drops the controller and starts waving his hands up and down like crazy.

“Pause it, dude. Just pause it,” Mateo says, irritated. He snatches up the controller and hits a button so the zombies freeze in place. When Val still doesn't turn around, Mateo pulls me so I'm
standing in front of him.

“Anna, this is my favorite brother, Val.”

“I'm your only brother,” Val laughs. His grin almost reaches his ears. It makes me break out in a smile to match.

“Nice to meet you, Val. Do you ever play old-school video games?”

He looks to Mateo, confused.

“Like Donkey Kong, bro.”

Val lights up.

“Yes! I love old-school games,” he says, trying out the phrase and nodding. “Do you play video games too? I don't know any girls who can play video games very well. I once made it to level 199 in Pac-Man.”

“No way.”

“Yup. 199.”

“I've never made it past sixty.”

“Ha! Mateo has never made it past eleven. I like you.”

“You must be Anna,” says a quiet voice behind us. I turn around to see a shorter, older version of Mateo—same dimple, same almond eyes—walking over with his hand outstretched. “I'm Frank Gomez.”

We go through the standard getting-to-know-you questions while Val returns to his video game and Mateo returns to my side.

Girlfriend.

I bite my lip. I wonder what it would feel like to be a real part of Mateo's life. I don't have to wonder long. His mom steps out of the kitchen and looks me up and down with the same distaste as her niece. She's taller than I imagined, her hair sleek like America's, but it stops at her chin and is peppered with gray.

“It is time to eat,” she says, casting Mateo a stiff look before disappearing into another room.

Mateo groans. His dad laughs. Turning to me, he says not to worry. A mother needs to let a girlfriend know who is in charge. Once that's established, she's quite nice, he promises. I nod.

“Let's wait a few minutes more,” Mateo says, rubbing the back of his head. “Maybe if they start passing dishes, we can sit down without a big fuss.”

“Won't that just make your mom even more mad?” I have a feeling the Gomez family dinners include everybody gathering at the same time, saying grace, all that stuff.

“You're right. Might as well make our grand entrance,” he says, giving me a quick kiss on the cheek. “Let's go.”

The minute I walk into the dining room, seven of Mateo's relatives or close family friends stop speaking in rapid-fire Spanish. Even the table noises—spoons bumping forks, chairs inching forward, the swish of napkins moving to laps—it all sputters out. Mateo squeezes my hand. He pulls out a chair for me and stands until I sit.

And just like that, the noise kicks back up again, although mostly in English now. There are lots of questions directed to me—where did Mateo and I meet, how many people are in my family, where do I live, go to school, go to church (followed by silence, then, “Oh, that's not Catholic?”), what are my interests and hobbies—Mateo steps in every few minutes. His relatives laugh and say they want to get to know this girl he's so taken with, which makes Mateo groan again.

When you're used to dinners being silent, crummy affairs where NPR or jazz no longer plays from the kitchen radio, where there are three instead of five, where the most distinct smell is toothpaste because your kid sister likes to draw the ghost of her family in permanent marker on the wood table (Gramps taught us toothpaste will remove the marker, again, and again, and again) … a dinner at the Gomez house is like being caught in an airport on a crowded people mover, going the wrong way.

And the only thing I know to do is get off.

Sometime between the salad and chicken tingas Mateo's knee brushes mine. Our heads turn, and there it is. Heat rushes between us and even though I've never been in love I recognize it at once, as if this feeling has been waiting inside me all along. As if Mateo and I are mirrors, showing each other the truth.

There's a reason I keep a grid of photos above my desk, a reason I'd rather eat dinner on my bed than at the table, a reason I don't belong with a family like Mateo's. I excuse myself to find a bathroom. I lock the door and dial Nat's number before slipping out the front door. Mateo finds me a few minutes later, sitting on his front porch swing.

“You alright? I'm sorry. I know it's a little overwhelming. And this doesn't even include my dad's family. We'll have to rent a banquet hall with a separate inquisition room for that,” he says, holding out his hand. “I'm kidding!”

“I can't do this.”

“Do what?” Mateo asks, sitting down beside me. He rocks the swing a little bit with his feet.

“I can't do this. I can't. I can't.”

I don't have to say it anymore because I can hear Dolores miss a gear as Nat drives down the street.

“I have to go.”

I jump up and walk fast without looking back. When I get in the car, I half expect Mateo to clamp his hand down on the door. Except he's still sitting on the swing, watching me go.

Letting me go.

Daily Verse:

I am human.

37

I
t takes me three days to call him. Sitting on the fluffy beanbag in Nat's room, my best friend glaring to make sure I don't hang up, I punch the numbers and hold my breath. Pray he doesn't answer.

Prayer never works.

“Anna. Hey.”

“Hi.”

Long pause.

“So, um, I owe you an apology.”

“Yup.”

“Well, look, it's not like I meant to—”

“Meant to what? Run off without an explanation or a goodbye? Accept an invitation to meet my family and then not even take the time to get to know them before judging?”

“Judging? Are you kidding? Your family is great. Don't you get it? That's the problem. I used to have a family like that too. I just … I can't be part of someone else's story.”

Another long pause.

“It's cool. We can be friends, right?” Mateo asks.

“Yeah. Of course,” I say, probably too fast. “Friends.”

“So the other day, Nat invited me to go with you guys on the Fourth of July and I offered to drive. Is that all right with you, or would you rather I bail?”

Nat must have been waiting for this to come up, because as soon as I flick my head toward her, her eyes get big and she starts to whistle and walks out of the room.

“Oh. Um, sure. I'll see you in a few days then, I guess.”

“Yeah. Pick you up around nine, okay?”

“Uh-huh.”

I stare at the phone a long time after he hangs up. When Nat comes back she shakes her head “no” before I can open my mouth.

“Don't start. I like Mateo. He's my friend now too, and Alex doesn't feel like doing a three-person party on the Fourth. You know we love this holiday. But I'm not leaving you to sit home or at the hospital sulking either. It doesn't have to mean anything. Just a night out, okay?”

Just a night out. A normal experience. But it's another reason to not call Sarah, not have her finish the story she started at the coffee shop. My stomach turns at her name. I close my eyes and sink to the floor. I wish for one single second “just a night out” could be true for me.