Big Familia, page 7
I wrap myself in a towel, an old one of Stella’s covered in tropical fish, and say to Jared quietly, Wait a second. Everybody’s wearing normal shorts.
Jared stares at me like he has no idea what I’m talking about.
The speedos. You said you only wore speedos.
Oh no. Are you serious? Jared whispers, wrapping his much more adult red beach towel around his waist to change into his regular-looking swim shorts. He continues, I thought you knew I was joking. You didn’t really get a speedo, did you?
I breathe and consider lying, but I want to be more open with my emotions. I say, I didn’t want to embarrass you, so yes, I bought a pair of each kind of suit. Just in case.
He cocks his head, his look pure delight, and hugs me.
He whispers, If you want to put them on for me tonight, I’d be happy to take them off.
I push him off me and look around.
These are all the people you work with? Everyone’s so young and . . . and cool.
You chose yourself a winner, Jared says and unwraps his towel to reveal his sexy thighs, muscled and appearing perpetually flexed. He has donned light-blue swim shorts, tight and falling only halfway down his thighs.
My striped shorts hang way past my knee, and the waist is too loose. I’m both appalled and delighted. Maybe all that biking has helped. Maybe I’ve lost weight. But now my very pale ass is hanging out of the top of my shorts because they won’t stay on. I look at the tag: XL.
Ugh.
Jared laughs and whispers, Maybe you should put on them speedos, after all.
Up stroll Jared’s friends Patti and Damian. I face them holding up my shorts. Jared puts his arm around me and says, This is my partner, Juan.
Patti, holding a Frisbee, says, It’s about time we met you. He keeps you so well hidden.
We talk and toss the Frisbee, surprisingly easy to do while using one hand to hold up my shorts. We eat and drink, and everyone is so pleasant.
The four of us lounge on our towels, sunscreened and glistening in the sunshine. They tried to make some agreement about not talking about work, but since I’m new and nervous and trying to pay attention, I ask questions about their jobs.
You really take ninety middle-school kids on overnight field trips? I ask Patti.
Damian says, She takes them to Tahoe to measure the snowcap. She’s Colombian and obsessed with anything related to winter. Makes no sense.
It’s true, says Patti. I even lead snowboarding camp.
What happened in your childhood? Jared asks.
Patti doesn’t flinch. Honestly, my childhood sucked. I didn’t even like to read, but I spent hella time in the library just to be anywhere but my house.
Looking at picture books? Damian asks.
Hella picture books. I loved the ones about geology and science. And most were in English, so whatever, I couldn’t even read them if I wanted to. But the pictures of snow. The ones about climate and the world’s environment. That’s all I wanted. To get away from where I was. She continues, Guess that’s one good thing about the fucked-up US policies. They led to my family fleeing here.
Illegally, right? Damian asks, and I can’t tell if he’s serious or fucking with her.
Of course. Tell me when the US ever welcomed refugees, Patti jokes.
They all laugh. For some reason, the way they tease and banter makes me tense. They’re so relaxed, familiar with one another. Like family. I feel my body sweating in the sun, and then feel Jared’s hand reaching for mine.
Patti looks at me and says, When I got here, my first semester in middle school, there was this teacher whose education philosophy was all about taking kids places. We did a trip in the fall to the César Chávez National Monument. The next semester, we went to the Tule internment camp.
Incarceration camp, Jared says. I look at him, because he sounds just like Jason, correcting someone over the politics of their word choice.
Right. Thank you, Patti responds. But the best thing for me was the snow all around the camp. So there you go.
She says, Now I lead children into nature.
Damian adds, Predominantly children of color, no less. From Oakland and Richmond and Vallejo. You do good work, my love. He pats her arm.
That’s right, because this is our heritage, too, Patti says and rolls on her back, extending her arms skyward. She then does some young person’s flip from her back to standing and races through a few scattered groups, yelling for people to join her. She sprints across the scorching sand to the water.
Damian laughs.
I ask Jared, How old is she?
Ah, to be that young again. Want to swim?
I do.
Jared looks at Damian and says, If I beat you, you gotta file all the progress reports next week.
Damian says nothing, but bounds up and takes off. Jared howls and races behind him. I watch their bodies bounce away, then stand and take off after them, feeling my belly and chest jiggle, the uncomfortable angle of my arm holding up my shorts, my other arm flapping wildly, my gait awkward from trying desperately not to touch longer than necessary on the burning sand. For a second, I wonder how I look, but as the water approaches, blue and calm and accepting, I simply don’t care. I hit the water and feel my shorts slide right out of my hand and down my legs.
As I surface and scramble to pull up my suit, I hear Patti and Jared laughing, then Patti yells something about being blinded by the glare off my ass cheeks.
Damian points and says, There’s a nudie beach just down the way, behind those rocks.
I smile and say, I actually already know that.
On the drive home, I break it to Jared that my mother will be accompanying us to the graduation ceremony.
Oh, damn, he says and raises his eyebrows. I see bits of sand stuck in his hair. He glows from the sun and excitement.
He says, Today was great. I feel great. Bring on your mama. I’m ready. He puts his arm around me as I drive, and I have this rush of apprehension.
Rarely do I think of my father locked away in Salinas Valley State Prison. I don’t think about him for a lot of reasons. But he used to say, If it’s pretty and it’s free, don’t trust it. In fact, he said that when I first told him about Betsy and me. He said it whenever something good happened to me.
Jared. He feels too good. So much so that I don’t trust it. Or myself.
I keep my distance over the next few days. I stay busy wrapping up a few client projects. It’s pleasurable work because it’s distracting work. I put more energy into it than I would normally, but sometimes you need to just put one foot in front of the other. Rein it in. Stay calm and focused.
If Jared notices my withdrawal, he doesn’t say anything when I text that we should meet at the Greek Theater right before graduation begins. I don’t invite him to the pre-graduation brunch. It’s just too much.
At ten on the dot, my mother knocks on my door. She stands in the doorway in denim pants, light flannel shirt tucked in, and her old woven leather belt cinched at her waist. Her hair cut short, silver and black, her lips a deep red, the only makeup she wears. She looks surprisingly good. And happy.
She holds a gift bag with a wrapped present and a clearly visible stuffed owl wearing a graduation cap. With the other hand,
Good to see you, Mama, I say in the flattest tone possible. But when we hug I feel my body relax into it. Moms can always do that.
I love you, I say. Can you believe my little girl is graduating!
Can you believe she has the cajones to call and ask to buy my car? She has this whole plan to get her all set up in LA. She thrusts at me a single car key with a small metallic crucifix as the key ring. It’s the spare, she says and steps in. You can pay the rest later.
What? You’re selling her your car?
No. She pats my shoulder. I’m selling you and Betsy my old Nissan Sentra. You can mail a check. It’s not like you to have cash on hand. You look good. A little heavier, but good.
She settles herself on my couch. I’m still holding the door open.
I say, Mom. Jared, my friend, wants to join us at the graduation? The word friend comes so easily I shock myself, though I hate the questioning tone I hear in my voice, which puts the choice into my mom’s hands. My jaw’s clenched tight.
Juanito, have some respect. Don’t you think this should be family only? Not some playtime with friends, she says.
The way she pronounces friends says it all. I remember Stella’s remark about our not sharing emotions. How wrong she is. We can share everything in a single word.
I nod. I walk to my room and text Jared: Call me. Bad news.
He calls in less than a minute.
You all right? he asks.
Yes. But my mom brought a friend, so I need to use the ticket I had for you.
He says nothing.
Jared?
Juan, you know you can just buy a ticket at the Greek. It’s not like it’s sold out.
I didn’t know this. I feel trapped and angry at everything around me. My mom. Myself. Jared.
Juan, it’s ok. I get it. But you don’t have to lie to me. That’s the worst.
I’m sorry, I say, and there’s a pause as he waits for more. It is my mom. She is just so . . . I can’t finish the thought.
Jared says, Listen, I’d love to meet your mother. But to be honest, the last thing I want to do is sit in the blazing sun watching high-school students graduate. You’re lucky. If this was a wedding with bad wedding dancing, you couldn’t weasel your way out of inviting me.
Thank you, I say, both relieved and disturbed by how grateful I feel.
We’ll talk later, he says ominously. Hey, but give Stella a hug for me and remember: bring seat cushions and water and sunscreen. Trust me.
I will.
When I step into the living room, my mother stands, holding her gift bag.
Have you heard from my father lately?
No. It’s the same. I write. It gets returned. I save each one so if he ever says something about me not trying to stay in contact, I can slap down stacks of letters.
I don’t even write anymore.
You know he doesn’t want you to.
I quickly grab the bag that still has my beach towel and sunscreen in it. I throw in some water bottles. I point to the bag she’s holding with the graduating stuffed owl poking out. You never gave me this many gifts, I say.
I didn’t know you wanted stuffed animals, she responds.
Funny, I say and hold the door open for her.
I gave you your dad’s watch.
I asked for it.
You get what you ask for.
She leans up and kisses me as she walks out.
At the graduation, Betsy and I are emotional and bored. My mother is just bored. Betsy’s face is covered in these large aviator sunglasses and shaded by a floppy gardening hat. Even so, her face glows in afternoon sun. My mother sits next to her, holding the handles of her gift bag, tapping her feet like she’s waiting to be called in a doctor’s exam room.
I should have trusted Jared and stopped at Walgreens to purchase seat cushions, but I’m so glad I brought the water and sunscreen. When I reach for a bottle, I realize the speedo is still inside.
I offer sunscreen to Betsy. She’s impressed that I’m so prepared.
We sit on the solid-rock benches. I spread the beach towel over the surface of the stone, and we sit directly facing the sun all afternoon as students give speeches, perform dance routines, hand out awards. The administration gives short peppy lectures about life and how to live it. All the while in the graduates’ seating section—a wild mix of yellow and red—gowned students swat beach ball after beach ball as security runs after each one. The students try to keep them away. And each time the security team gets one of the balls, they pop it, eliciting a loud boo and hiss from the audience.
Then the roll call starts. There are names of kids we have watched grow up, who have been in and out of Stella’s classes all her life. Betsy and I wax nostalgic about sleepovers and YMCA swim lessons and dance lessons and soccer fields.
Betsy begins to cry. Not a loud sobbing cry but a joyous quiet one. I don’t even realize she’s crying till she laughs and snuffles and hugs my mother.
Why are you crying? You never cry?
I cry all the time now.
Getting soft in your old lady age.
She slaps me on the shoulder. No, she says. But I don’t hold back anymore. I’m not ashamed anymore.
You didn’t even cry when we signed divorce papers. What were you ashamed of?
I was ashamed of failing. Of being a bad mom. Come on, Juan. I never wanted the divorce. That doesn’t mean it wasn’t necessary, she says, lowering her voice.
I think of asking why it was necessary. But I know why. It was necessary like change is necessary. Like kids leaving. Like mistrusting pretty things to protect yourself. Like writing letters despite their never being opened.
Plus, she says, look at our baby down there.
They’re at the Gs, my mother says, reaching into her bag to hand us bottle poppers.
I can’t help but laugh. She’s not going to hear these, I say.
It’s not for her. It’s for us. To celebrate, she says, shaking her head.
Look how quickly everything goes, Betsy says.
I look down, and in the sea of red-and-yellow gowns, cheer after cheer goes up for each student. In the amphitheater seating, after each name is called, a mini-celebration happens, air horns wail, streamers get thrown, hoarse voices yell as loudly as possible names and declarations of love.
And then the announcer says it. Stella Gutiérrez.
The three of us go wild. We jump up, pop our bottle poppers, scream Stella, we love you! and embrace. Like it’s the greatest moment on earth.
7
Big Familia
So you’re telling me the first time you sucked a dick was with Betsy, the soon to be mother of your child? Jared asks.
When you say it like that, it sounds perverted, I say and fiddle with the elastic in my spandex shorts.
Absolutely not. When I say it like that, it sounds kind of hot. Jared leans in and bumps me.
We’re standing on this little walking/biking bridge between Lake Merritt and Laney College. It’s a late summer day, and the sky is a sharp blue. It’s the morning of Stella’s last day in the Bay. She’s brunching with her friends now, but she informed me she’d like the pleasure of my company for a farewell dinner at Betsy’s. Our partners are welcome to come.
This was conveyed in a new group text chain she named Big Familia. I smiled realizing Big Familia contained only three people. When I texted her this, Stella responded, It’s to make sure you two stay in contact when I’m gone, to which Betsy replied, You don’t need to worry about your father and me.
I agreed, but Stella’s effort made me feel loved.
After Stella’s graduation, Betsy and I bemoaned her decision to move to LA every chance we got with her, but even so we somehow got suckered into buying my mother’s used perfectly maintained light blue Nissan Sentra for six hundred dollars each so Stella could have a car. She’s enrolled at Santa Monica City College with plans to transfer to UCLA, and she’d lined up a room in an apartment through a Facebook friend she’d never met in person. That was her mother’s big worry, but I’d met enough people online to know not to worry, to know that you can tell a lot about someone by what they post and who their friends are.
Jared wears these yoga shorts he purchased from Lululemon. Not quite as tight as a speedo, and I have to admit they look nice on him, showing off his thighs. And they’re more versatile than my spandex, especially since we’re getting brunch after our ride. I sip my water bottle. Jared has a coffee holder on his bike, so he drinks his coffee from a fancy-looking travel mug.
So the first time you met Betsy, you were naked on your knees?
No, don’t be crass. I met her at least an hour before that. And we were standing, I say with such a straight face that Jared cackles.
He says, This just changes everything about her.
What do you mean?
Do you think they swing? he asks dramatically, but I know he’s playing.
I doubt it, but I try never to assume, I say not intending to sound so intense.
Of course, of course, Jared says, stiffening a bit. But clearly Betsy’s gotta a kinky streak I didn’t pick up on.
How can you pick up on a person’s kinky side?
I’m kind of like an amateur sexual empath. You should know this.
Damn, you sound like Stella with your fancy vocabulary.
She’s a smart one, my homie.
Jared loves to call me my homie. I regret telling him that Jason had given me a nickname. He hated Jason’s choice of JG. He said, I like homie.
I said, That’s like calling me dude.
He said, I know. And you are. You’re my dude. My homie. And he hugged me.
Now Jared disembarks from his bike and leans it against the railing. I can tell he’s wanting some information and won’t stop until he gets it out of me. We’ve been here before.
But seriously, he says. How’d you and Betsy end up together? Meaning on your knees in front of a cock together?
It was my senior year. I was taking a class at a community college all the way across town from East San Jose. I took it there to get away from my neighborhood. I pause for a second. I close my eyes and remember: San Jose. The heat during July and August. The wide streets and low houses and infrequent trees. The corner stores and the candy I loved to buy for fifty cents after school: Chick-O-Sticks and Dinosaur Eggs. The neighborhood at dusk, running wild with other kids. The excitement of getting in a fight. The threat of returning home to find my father.
