Cubanita (14 page)

I tuck the towel back in. “I didn't forget anything. Except that you're a dickhead.” I reach for the doors and slam them shut.

Click
.

On the other side, he shoots out of the chair. “Hey! What the hell are you doing?”

“What the hell am
I
doing? What the hell did you think
you
were doing last night? At the Library?” I shout through the door. “Did you really think you could get away with this?”

I reach for his cell phone and balance it gingerly on the door handle. “Why don't you call
Susy
to get you out of there, asshole? Oh, I forgot, your phone's in here, isn't it? Bummer!”

“Isa! Stop it. Open the door—we'll talk about it.”

I pick my dress up from the bathroom floor and begin putting it on in the dark. “There's nothing to talk about. I was
stupid, that's all. I fell for your stupid tricks.”

He pounds on the glass, and the phone falls. “Isa! Open the freakin' door, come on! Don't do this!”

I straighten my dress and reach for the balcony light switch. I flick it on and off quickly to attract plenty of attention, leaving the lights on at the end of the show. “Tell your audience I say hi. Gotta go.”

I slip on my sandals and pull Andrew's watch close to my face. 9:05. Perfect. He's probably waiting already. Mmm, these strawberries are good.

“You're a fucking bitch, you know that?” Andrew shouts into cupped hands at the glass.

At the door I pause and look around the room. I could take that painting. Nah. I've done enough damage. He's not worth it. I see Andrew pace the balcony, hands at his hips, then he hurls his shoulder at the door and glares at me. I turn up the one finger that best expresses how much I give a shit and close the door.

Head up, eyes focused on the end of the hallway, I strut out of there. The elevator opens, and I breeze past an elegant old couple getting out. Eleven stories down, the doors again slide open, and I head straight through the lobby.

I take a deep breath. “There's a naked guy out on a balcony!”

For a moment a multitude of eyes falls on me. A few scoffs, a few laughs. Then dozens of people rush past me to the hotel courtyard.

Exiting the revolving front doors, I drop my head and
laugh. At the bottom of the driveway I see a car waiting with hazards on. I speed up and pull open the passenger door.

“¿Y?”
Stefan asks, throwing the car into first.

Getting in, I lean my head against the headrest and let out a deep breath. “Done.”

I called Jonathan this morning to let him know I won't be working the last week of camp. When he asked why, I came close to telling him about Andrew and Susy, just to expose them and make them look like weasels. But I decided against it, giving my mother's illness as an excuse instead. Jonathan wished us both well. Now I have nothing to do all day but watch TV and ponder my unexciting future. Hey, at least I'm with my mom.

“Isabelita, telephone.” Mami pokes her head into my room.

I put the TV on mute and pick up the phone. “Hello?”

“Isabel, hi.”

Great, it's Susy. “What do you want?”

“Can I talk to you a minute?”

“You're talking, aren't you?”

She sighs. “Look, I know you're pissed, but there're things you don't understand.” She pauses for a response. Why, I don't know, because I won't encourage her by actually speaking back.

She goes on. “I know this sounds crazy, but it was just…it was just sex, that's all. He really likes you. All he does is talk about you. He's in love with you.”

“In love with me?” I laugh a crazy laugh. “Do you realize what you're saying makes no sense? If he loved me or even liked me at the very least, he wouldn't have done what he did.”

He wouldn't have called me a fucking bitch, either.

“How long have you been seeing him, anyway?” Before she can answer, I add, “No, you know what? I don't want to know. I don't care about the details. I'm over him. You can have him.”

“About a month.”

Figures. A month is the longest she lasted with Iggy, too.

“Look,” she goes on. “I don't want him. I just called to see if you could give him another chance. Please. He really
is
a nice guy—he just knew you wanted to wait a while before going all the way with him, so I guess he looked somewhere else in the meantime.”

“What?! That's the biggest bullshit I've ever heard, Susana. What, is he going to explode if he doesn't wait a few weeks? Whatever happened to porn sites and baby oil? Look, do me a favor, don't talk to me ever again and tell Andrew I say the same.”

“I told you his agenda was different. I tried telling you, but you didn't want to listen.”

“No, if you had something to tell me, you should've said you were screwing him, and I would've dropped him right there, but you kept that from me too. I'm hanging up now. The two of you deserve each other. Bye.”

I would've been more of a bitch, but my brain just won't allow it. She's not worth the trouble. As for Andrew…
He looked somewhere else in the meantime
. Ha. Did I really love him? Or did I just love the idea that a guy like him was so into me? Whatever. Hey, I'm fine, I survived, I'll be smarter next time.

Sighhh. Fresh air, please!

I leave my room to look for Mami, eyeing the storm-girl painting in the living room with a smile. She's in the kitchen, chopping onions for the
sofrito
. As long as I live, I will never make dinner preparation seem as effortless as my mom does. It's an art form in its own right.

“
¿Cómo te sientes?
” I ask.

She lifts the cutting board and slides the onions into the saucepan with the knife. Ah, the lovely sound of sizzling. “I feel better.
Mush
better.”

I laugh and squeeze her shoulders. “
Qué bueno
. You look it.”

“Well, the therapy is going well. My body is accepting it.”

What's different about her? There's something…

“Isa, I wanted to speak to you,
mi vida
.” She hands me the green pepper and a knife.

English. She's been speaking in English a lot more lately. “Okay.” I carve out the stem and slice the pepper in half.

“When does orientation start?”

“At Michigan?”

“Yes.” In goes the tomato paste.

“
El treinta y uno de agosto
. In two weeks.” Man, I'd love to be at orientation, but hey, first things first. I keep chopping.

“
Bueno
. Have you bought any sweaters yet?”

What is she getting at? “Sweaters for what? What are you saying? That I should go? I already said I'm not leaving you.”

She stops chopping and looks at me, a bittersweet smile at her lips. “You're leaving.”

“What?”

“
Isa, mi amor querido
, I'm going to be fine. The sessions have been going very well. I have Papi
y
Stefan, and you have a life you need to start living.”

“But what if there aren't any dorms left?”

“We'll find you an apartment,
no te preocupes por eso
.”

“But I—”

“
¡Ya!
There's nothing to discuss. It's what you want, it's what your father and I want, and it's what Stefan wants too.
El quiere tu cuarto
.”

“Stefan wants my room?”

“Tomorrow morning, we will look for coats. You're going to need a good one
en el frío de madre ese! Coño, la verdad que
you had to pick a school in the coldest place
you could find.
La verdad que hay veces que creo que lo estás haciendo a propósito…
”

She's complaining again. Back to normal. I guess I really can leave now. Holy…I'm going to Michigan? “But Mami—”

“No ‘but Mami,'
nada
. You always have to go against everything I say, don't you?” She smiles.

“I can't believe this. I'm leaving in two weeks?”

“Isa, if it will get that boy out of your head.
¿Pero sabes qué?
”

“
¿Qué?
”

She stirs in the ground meat for the
picadillo
and sighs. “My mother died because she wanted a decent life for me, and that's all I want for you, too.” She doesn't look at me but out at the patio. Or maybe not even that. Who knows where she really is. “Just don't forget who you are…where you came from. Okay,
hija
?”

As if I could forget! “Of course, Mami.”

Is this for real? If so, there's so much to do. I have to start packing, go clothes shopping. I'm leaving! It
is
for real! If Mami's fine with it, then so am I. It'll help close the book on Andrew, too.

“
Gracias
, Mami. I love you so much.” I scoop the little pile of chopped pepper into the pot and kiss her cheek. She touches the spot with a satisfied smile. “I gotta tell Carmen!”

I rush into my room, click open Outlook, and create a new message:

 

From: Isabel E. Díaz

To: C. Díaz-Sanders

Subject: AAHHHHH!!!!!!!!

 

Carmen, guess what? I'm leaving!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

 

That should be enough exclamation marks.

Should I, or shouldn't I? Oh, what the heck.

 

From: Isabel E. Díaz

To: Roberto Puertas

Subject: All moved in

 

Hey Robi, how are you? It's beautiful up here. My apartment isn't too far from campus, so the walk won't be too long. E-mail or call me anytime you want. I hope we're still friends. Sorry about the whole Andrew thing. You were right, he was a jerk. I guess I had to see it for myself. Take care.

 

Love, Isa

 

There. I left the door open for him. If he wants, he'll get back to me. In fact I know he will. We've been friends for way
too long for him not to. I click “send” and watch my message sail off into cyberspace.

 

It's only been three days since Papi went back to Miami, but already I have a care package from my mom. I haven't even started classes yet. As if she didn't leave me enough rice and frozen
platanitos
. I sign for the box, then hurl it onto my cheapie sofa…
my
sofa, in
my
living room, in
my
own apartment.

I look around for my keys (to my own apartment) and find I'm sitting on them (on my own sofa). I puncture the packing tape and slide the key between the box's flaps. There's packing peanuts, newspaper, and an assortment of things every good little
cubanita
will need while living in the harsh, Sedano-less environment of an American college town.

Packages of little
merengues
. I love these things.
Dulce de guayaba
, Cuban crackers, lots of black beans. Vicks VapoRub? Napkins? I absolutely can't live without a stack of thirty Wendy's napkins, now can I? A jar of roasted red peppers and some
azafrán
seasoning for all that
arroz con pollo
I'll be making. The little doll from the Cuba Expo. Ah, here's the stuff—a Cuban coffeemaker and vacuum-packed brick of Café Pilón.

What's this? Could she have wrapped it in any more paper? I unfold the flat, rectangular item. And there, in a nest of tissue, sits my old painting of the egret, along with a mini American flag from Sedano's. There's a note attached:

 

I'm sending you this little bird to keep you company.

Besitos,

Mami

P.S. Llama a Robi, por favor..

 

Jeez, a woman with a mission! She doesn't know that I already beat her to it.

Behind the painting I find something else—a large manila envelope with something hard and flat. I unclasp the flap and pull out a mini Cuban flag with a framed photo. Not just any photo. She sent me
the
photo. The one of my grandparents holding each other, squinting under the Caribbean sun. Their house, clothes, and smiles gleam from an era washed away into the sea, a Cuba of Varadero days and Tropicana nights.

“It's okay,
abuelos
,” I tell them. “Your deaths weren't in vain. We're happy, we're safe.”

I take the stuff to my bedroom. The photo goes on my night table, the flags here in my pencil cup, and the egret painting, I hang above my bed. I lie there for a while looking at it. It seems so out of place here in the land of pine trees and snowy winters. But after staring at it for a while, I close my eyes and float into a peaceful sleep.

I dream of swamps and saw grass, anhingas and herons, humidity and storm clouds…and the sweet scent of the approaching rain.