Cubanita (3 page)

Carmen
P.S. Dan says hi.

 

I reply, telling Carmen about Mom, camp, and Andrew. Carmen always has a way of making me feel empowered. I miss her. But I can understand why she left. Mami's a great mom, don't get me wrong. She's smart and funny and fiercely protective of her family, but she's…overwhelming sometimes. Makes you want to go somewhere, like Virginia, and just breathe.

After dinner, “alone” would be a good word to describe the way I feel. No one here seems to understand the things I want out of life. College, a career in art, independence. Carmen comes closest, but she's over nine hundred miles away. Robi understood too, but no need to call and confuse him. Here at home, however, the people to click with are running thin.

Even Susy is now preoccupied with Hurricane Andrew—whose daunting gaze is the last thing I remember before dozing off to sleep.

Look at those clouds. A storm brewing over the Everglades—how timeless. The same cycle, century after century, is such a phenomenon. Rain falls, lightning strikes, fires start, then we come in and ruin it all by trying to put them out. Amazing, all nature's trying to do is burn the old to make room for the new, but we see that as bad. Maybe the human race is destined to self-destruct. Maybe I'm too cynical for my age, like Mami says. Maybe I need to quit staring out the window and add brighter colors to this painting.

White, white, where's my white? Ah, there it is.

It's been two weeks since the first day of camp. Coach Andrew has greeted me from afar every day this week, a mere wave from across the PE field, and that's it. I guess he's just a nice guy, although the fact that his face was the last thing I thought of that first night is unnerving. Why am I even think
ing about him? It's not like he swept me off my feet or anything, or like he's that cute, either. Susy's the one who should be dreaming about him, not me. I'm not looking at guys this summer, not even Robi.

For real, I'm not.

Mmm. Is it unnatural to love the smell of oils and turpentine this much?

Roberto Puertas. We've known each other since elementary school and were a couple for the last two years. Everything was fine. He's a nice guy from a great family, Cuban-American like me, so we understood each other pretty well. Not only is he a good person, he is gifted in the looks department too. So why dump him?

Well, here's the thing. He was starting to talk seriously about me as “Mrs. Puertas.” I mean, hi, hello, we're seventeen. Granted, he didn't mean for another few years, until after college graduation, but still. I'd like to get married one day, but it's too far away to even think about. What am I supposed to do? Nurture a long-distance relationship come August? I don't think so. He's a great guy, but Robi can look for someone else to sew his underwear. Case closed.

This painting's coming out pretty good. It's one of my better oils. A girl about my age, back facing the viewer. She's looking out at…okay, I haven't decided what yet, but I hope to create a sense of sadness, like she's longing for something. I want the viewer to wonder about it and identify with her. The hard part is evoking that kind of emotion without being able to see her face. But that's what I love about painting.

As I'm detailing the creases of her linen shirt, I hear the door to the art room quietly creak open. It could easily be the wind from the impending rain, but you know how you can sense when someone walks into a room, even when they're real quiet? It's an air displacement thing. Well, I look over and see guess who? Coach.

“Hey.” He admires the room from the doorway.

“How's it going so far? Come in. Everybody treating you okay?” My God, there's that haunting look again. Someone should use him in a horror movie. But then, he's got that solid form that could earn him a role in a baseball flick. About six foot two, but not too pumped up. Got a natural build. Which I like.

Which I like?
Isa! What was all that rationalizing for, not five minutes ago?

Andrew chooses to remain in the doorway. “Everything's going great. I was just packing up to go home, thought I'd check out the whole facility for once. Haven't been in here yet.”

“The art room? Oh, it's nice. Nothing too exciting, but it's home to me. Closets, colored paper, glue bottles, that kind of stuff. No volleyballs in here.” I laugh.

He's not laughing. “I wasn't looking for volleyballs anyway.”

Oh.

“Have you seen Susy?” I ask cheerfully, hoping he'll remember the highly available bimbette buddy of mine and leave me alone. Maybe he should be wandering into her lab,
where kids get to look at bass eggs under microscopes.

“Yeah, she was talking to a parent a little while ago. I didn't know she's the same Susy that dated Iggy. Weird.”

“I know, right? She didn't know you were his roommate. Such a small world.”

He nods in agreement.

I nod.

We stand there nodding. I go back to my painting before adding, “Why'd you move out? You guys had a tiff?”

“With Iggy?” He plays with the doorknob, turning and letting it bounce back to its original position. “Nah, nothing happened. He's a cool guy. I love his family. They practically adopted me when I moved in with him. I just always wanted my own place, I guess, and I found an awesome apartment right across from campus.”

Ah, he wanted his own shag pad. Can't blame him. “Oh, well, hey. Gotta follow your dreams, right? You gonna come in?”

He pulls his equipment bag behind him and leans it against the wall. Then he starts strolling around quietly, contemplating the kids' watercolor landscapes hung up to dry. “What's this one?” He points to one with darker shades than the others.

“Those aren't finished. They're backgrounds only, but my guess is a thunderstorm over land.”

“Really?” He leans in and squints. “How can you see that? I just see gray on the top and brown on the bottom.”

“I don't know. That's just what I see.”

He examines it again.

“So where do you live?” I ask, then remember. “Forget it, right off campus.”

“Yeah. Originally I'm from Daytona Beach. Grew up there. But now my family's in Orlando, and I'm here. I'm a junior, starting business classes in the fall.”

“Business? That's cool. I don't have a head for business, but I admire people who do. Like my dad. He runs a great company and everybody really looks up to him.”

“What company?”

“You've probably never heard of it. ISC Communications.”

“Hmmm, nope. You're right.” He laughs. “Never heard of it. What's the ISC stand for?”

“Actually it's just the initials of my name, my brother Stefan's, and my sister Carmen's.”

He chuckles, inching his way to my easel. “Your dad sounds like a cool guy.”

“He is,” I answer rather quickly. “He is. Maybe you can talk to him sometime.”

“Yeah? That'd be cool if I ever decide to start my own company. He could give me some pointers.” Andrew finishes perusing the kids' paintings. He approaches my corner of the room, sneakers scuffing softly across the concrete floor. He looks comfortable, even though he's alone with someone he doesn't know in the slightest. Me, I'm trying real hard not to show how intimidated I'm feeling right about now.

But then the memory of Andrew that first day, arms open to Iggy's flying niece, sneaks into my mind. The way
he completely changed, how he was Mystery Man one second, then sweet Uncle Andy the next, and I'm suddenly fine. I'd judged him too quickly. I thought he was full of himself. But she hugged him so lovingly, she even kissed his cheek.

Finally he arrives at my easel and quietly watches me work. “That's incredible,” he says, and, if I'm not mistaken, he drew a breath before saying it.

“Thanks. It's not finished, but thanks.” That's awfully nice of him, but I can hear my mom's unwelcome voice in my head.
Este huevo quiere sal.
This guy's on to something, so watch out.

He stands there frozen, while I use a fine point to create the folds on the girl's shirt catching the breeze. Ocean. She's going to be looking out at the ocean, I've just decided. There's a storm on the horizon just like the one outside. We breathe quietly for a minute.

“God, that's so amazing how you do that. I can't even draw stick figures. You, you just paint life exactly the way it is. That's so cool.”

“Wow, thanks,” I say again, too embarrassed to look at him. I pretend to be absorbed by my work, talking to him only to be polite, but the truth is I don't want to see his face. I don't want to see those lashes batting over those eyes. What if I see something in them I don't want to? What if they're telling me something I don't want to know?

“Isabel,” he says softly, moving in to see the painting close-up, “this girl, she sorta looks like a puppy waiting for someone
to come home. Someone she's been waiting for, right?”

Silence.

I was hoping for a more open interpretation with this piece, but this nonartisan business major just hit the bull's-eye. “Um…yeah. That's what I was aiming for. Very good, Coach.” I say it casually, but I'm almost too stunned to move. Coach Andrew surprises me yet again. I thought he was about to ask me out, but I obviously know little about him. And here's the scary part—I want to know more.

“I'm sorry,” he says, floating closer to me, sensing my amazement. “Was I not supposed to guess that yet?”

I pull the brush away from the canvas, dipping the point into the little vat of turpentine, swishing to clean off the paint. I wipe the bristles on a paper towel and place the brush upright into a cup. “No, that's great. That's exactly what I was hoping people would think.” I wipe my hands on my apron. Why are they sweating? Then, without thinking, I do it. I look at him.

A split second later, butterflies flutter inside me. Andrew is closing the space between us. He creeps in to look at the painting, but my mind imagines something else, something I don't even want to think about. I swore to myself I wouldn't. Beneath heavy brows, his dark eyes search my face. I can feel myself swooning. Butterflies are one thing, but swooning? I've never swooned with anybody. Not even Robi.

Andrew smiles. A big, beautiful smile. A sexy smile, damn him. Damn him! What is wrong with me?

He glances down at his shoe and kicks the floor with his
heel. “Hey, would it be okay if we got together outside this place? Maybe hang out somewhere? I'd love to talk more, but we don't have much time here.”

My response gets stuck on delay.
Um…um.
In the distance, a rumble of thunder fills in the silence, and a whooping crane cries out.

Andrew, sensing a refusal on the brink, adds, “If not, it's okay. I can take a no.”

No to Underwear Ad Guy? I don't think so. So we'll go out, no big deal. I can go out with someone as long as I don't get too involved, right? “Yeah, sure. That'd be great,” I hear myself say, right as the image of Susy's gaping mouth flits through my mind.

“Awesome.” He smiles again, and I swear that now, he's extremely hot. That scowl isn't so bad, actually. His attitude and everything else make up for it. He looks again at my painting. “What does she want? The girl.”

“The girl?”
Oh, right, the girl
. “I'm not sure, really.”

I haven't the foggiest idea, but I guess she's gotta want something.

“Maybe we'll figure it out over coffee.” He punches my arm playfully, a magical smile gracing his face. Goofy Uncle Andy.

“Maybe,” I say, having a hard time ignoring the vision of myself as Chicken-Chickee, with the swishing ponytail, running into his arms.

From: Roberto Puertas

To: Isa Díaz

Subject: Hey, Isa

 

How've you been? What have you been up to? Remember that I'm always here for you if you need me. Call me anytime. I haven't seen your face ringing on my camera phone in a while. Remember how it used to crack me up after school during band practice?

 

Robi

 

I don't reply. Instead, I close all windows and log off. He just wants to see if I'm home. I check myself in the mirror one last time and head out to the living room.

“
¿A dónde vas?
” my mom asks as soon as she sees me.

“
Déjala
.” From behind the
TV Guide
, my dad tells Mami to give me a break.

I clear my throat and prepare for the onslaught. “I don't know where we're going yet, Mami. Probably somewhere to get coffee. That's what he mentioned.”

“
¿Mi vida, por qué te estás enredando en algo nuevo?
”

“What? I'm not getting wrapped up in anything new. I'm just going to have coffee with a fellow teacher.”

“On a Thursday night,
hija
?”

“So?”

“I thought it was too hot for coffee.”

Oh, now she thinks she's funny, just because I haven't been drinking hers in the morning. Mom could've been an accountant with that scorekeeping of hers. She offers her best disapproving smirk. “
¿Y vestida así?
”

“
Déjala
,” my dad referees again, without a glance our way.

I look down at the outfit I threw on. Fine, the one I chose carefully. My superlow jeans with a really cute blue peasant top, which Stefan picked out for me. I guess it's not so bad having a mall rat for a brother. “What's wrong with what I'm wearing?”

“Is that how everyone dresses when meeting a fellow
teasher
?”

I make a huge effort to avoid rolling my eyes. “It's teacher, Mami, not
teasher
. Honestly, I don't know why you can't say teacher. It's the same
ch
-sound as in
chocolate
. You can say
chocolate
just fine, can't you? So say teacher.”

“¡Teacher…
teasher
…
déjame tranquila ya
!” She flails the remote control high above her head. And God also forbid
she could speak without using the full range of her arms.

“
Teasher
is something you wear with jeans,” I add. If grief is what she wants to give me tonight, two can play that game.

“Isa, enough.” My dad's crooked eyebrow warns from above the magazine.

You know, she came here when she was nineteen. It's been, like, twenty-six years. You'd think in twenty-six years, she could learn how to speak correctly. “Look, this is what I'm wearing, okay? There's nothing wrong with it.”

She quickly scans my ensemble before focusing back on Univision. “He's going to get the wrong impression.”

“Mom, stop it! I'm not wearing a see-through teddy, am I?”

“
Para de gritar
,” she calmly orders.

“I'm not screaming.”

“
Para de gritar
,” she coos, and any moment now, I probably
will
scream, just from hearing her ask me
not
to.

“
Déjala
,” my father says yet again.

See what I mean? I can't take this! I just love the way she picks fights, pushing all the right buttons, then asks me to stay calm. Bullshit! My friends never have to put up with this. Their mothers always let them wear whatever they want, as long as it isn't slutty. Me, I'm wearing the most normal outfit ever, but she puts on a show.

I tell you, if
not
going out with Andrew is what she wants from me tonight, she's doing more harm than good. If there's anything I want, it's to see him. Someone with a fresh face. Someone who'll listen without criticizing. Someone who can
pronounce “teacher”!

“Good night, Mom.” I think I'll wait for Andrew outside. I grab my keys from my purse and aim for the door. “Good night, Dad.”

As I'm walking out, I hear my father blowing his usual good-bye kisses. My mother's voice, icy and stubborn, calls from the living room. “
Isa, no llegues tarde
.”

Humpf
. I'll get home whatever time I damn well please. Of course, I'd never say that. My father would shove that
TV Guide
right up my ass.

 

Starbucks on Miracle Mile is crazy. We wait, like, twenty minutes just to order and another five to get our drinks. Still, it's a great night, moon out and everything, as Andrew and I sit outside. Table for two. Lots of people on the sidewalk, probably on their way to the art studios around here. Maybe after I stop boring Andrew with tales of Mother Díaz, we can head to one.

Out of thin air a girl appears at our side. A little older than me, blond and pretty. “Andrew, hi!”

He looks up, his eyes go wide. “Hey, Jenny! What're you up to?”

The navel-ring-baring chick points at a group of giggling girls waiting to cross the street. “Nah, I'm just here with my friends. Came over to say hi.” She swivels at the waist like a toddler.

“Cool, this is Isa,” he says.

She looks at me for, like, a fraction of a second. “Hi.”

“Hi.”
Remove thyself from the premises, Blondie.

Before she can say anything else, Andrew adds, “Great, well, I'll see you around.” Kind of a sudden way to end things, but good for him. Fifty points.

“Okay.” Jenny smiles in my direction, like she gets the hint, but leans in to give Andrew a quick peck on the cheek anyway. “See you, bye.”

Yes, bye-bye, run along and play.
“Who's that?” I ask with a smile.

“Girl from school. She lives in my building. Always saying hi, even though I hardly know her.”

“Gotcha.” I was correct about the girls-gone-gaga thing. This happens to him a lot.

He shrugs and takes a swig of his Grande Caramel Macchiato with skim milk, hold the whipped cream. What's the fun of a macchiato without the whipped cream? Or
whippee creen
, as Mami would say. He twirls a wooden stirring stick in his cup. “Why does she act that way? Your mom.”

“My mom? Oh, my mom.” I almost forgot what we were talking about before Blondie broke the flow. “Why? Who knows? It defies explanation. I believe researchers are still working on it. They've listed her under Freaks of Nature.”

Andrew stares, not sure whether to nod in sympathy or laugh out loud. So I go on, “If you'd like to help the cause, send a donation to the Deciphering Cuban Mothers Fund of Little Havana.”

Then he loses it. He cracks up, drawing attention from people at neighboring tables. “You don't even live in Little
Havana!” He covers his face and goes on laughing.

Me, I'm trying hard not to laugh, so he won't think I amuse myself on a regular basis. “You think I'm kidding? I bet you never had to put up with this kind of stuff. I bet your mom's normal, and she gave you free reign over your life while you were home.”

Suddenly his laugh dies down. He clears his throat, and an uncomfortable stillness fills the air between us. Uh-oh, what did I say? “Andrew? I'm sorry. Did I just stick my foot in my mouth?”

Looking down, he shakes his head and softly pounds the table with his fist.

I lean in and try to peer into his face. “Andrew? Please don't tell me—”

He looks up, deep brown eyes locking with mine. “My mother died. When I was nine.”

“Oh, Andrew.” My hand flies to my mouth. “I'm so sorry! I should've thought about that before I said anything. I've only known you a few weeks, and here I am making such a stupid comment! I'm really sorry. Please don't hate me.”

He shakes his head some more, biting his lip, but it doesn't look like he's upset, it looks like he's…And then he can't hold it anymore. He loses it. He's laughing and snorting, and I'm just an idiot who fell for the oldest trick in the book.

“You jerk!” I chuck a few napkins at him, while he continues to crack himself up. “I can't believe you did that! I felt really bad! I really thought your mother had died.”

His face does that thing again, where it goes from intimi
dating to sunny. He's got the coolest smile ever, wide and sexy. “She lives in Orlando with my dad and little sister. Spends half her time on the Internet and makes Key lime pies the rest of the day.”

“You freak!” I pull my earlobe. I always do when I'm nervous. Why am I nervous? There's nothing to be nervous about. Andrew's funny, he's cool, he's…

Mi vida, por qué te estás enredando en algo nuevo
?

What? Who said that? Great, now I'm hearing Mami's voice again. Shoo, go away!

“Spends half her day on the Internet, then bakes?” I ask, trying to focus on Andrew's explanation. I won't go any farther than that. What if he's kidding again?

“Yeah, she runs a home business. She takes Internet orders, then bakes the meanest Key lime pies you've ever tasted.”

“Really? We'll just have to see about that. My mom makes a killer Key lime pie too.”

“Your mom? But you make her out to be this flag-waving Cuban lady who'd, if anything, be making flans, not Key lime pies.”

“Oh, but she does. Don't get me wrong. She makes a killer flan, too, but I bet you my mother's Key lime pie is better than your mother's Key lime pie.”

He fakes injury, looking around to see if other coffee-sippers are listening in on the challenge. “Yeah? Well, I'll have her overnight one tomorrow, then we'll find out who's the real Queen of Key lime.”

“Fine.” I cross my arms with a grin.

“Fine.”

“Your mother doesn't stand a chance.” I offer my most childish competitive spirit.

“And yours doesn't stand a
shance
.” His lips press together and his eyes open wide, as he awaits any flying objects that may suddenly come his way.

Oh, so now he's mocking my mom? “That's so not funny,” I tell him, dead serious.

His expression changes to one of deep concern. “What's not?”

“What you said.”

“What? The
shance
thing?”

“Yes.”

His eyebrows draw together. “But you made fun of your mom's accent yourself! So now I can't make fun of her?”

“No.
I
can make fun of her. You can't.”

“You can't be serious.”

No answer.

He watches my face carefully. “Isa, I'm sorry. Really. I was only messing with you.”

No answer.

He tilts his head and looks me dead in the eye. I stare back at him, meeting his scowl with my own. Then, I can't help it, and the corners of my lips turn up. He grins big, pointing a long finger straight at my nose, and almost immediately I fall apart. “You almost had me!” he cries.

“Dammit! I can never hold a serious face!” I throw the
napkins at him again, and again, and again. “Jerk! Jerk! Jerk!”

“You almost had me!” he repeats, and in a surprise move, leans in and gathers my hands in his, humming to himself, pleased.

Okay, this is weird. Nice, but weird. So this is what another guy's hands feel like after two years of holding Robi's. Actually, it's more than nice, it's butterfly-inducing. I can handle this. We're just holding hands, no big deal. I lean forward, feeling my arms squeeze my chest, creating a great display of boobage.

He's going to get the wrong impression,
my mother's voice echoes in my brain. What the hell? Someone get her out of here! “Shut up,” I murmur softly.

“Excuse me?” Andrew's eyebrows sneak up.

“Nothing.” I smile.

He glances around, looking for anyone to whom I might be directing my order, then decides it's no one. “You're freaking me out, you know that?” But he smiles again, and I know he's really kidding. Grabbing his paper cup, he downs the rest of the macchiato. “Let's go somewhere.”

It's not really a suggestion. It's a declaration. I shrug an okay, toting my half-drunk mocha frap in one hand, hanging on to Andrew with the other.

“Here, take these back to your mom.” He pushes the Starbucks napkins toward me on the table. “They're not from Wendy's, but they still work the same.”

I laugh again. I'm laughing a lot, aren't I? Who knew such a mean-looking dude could be so goofy? But somewhere in the back of my mind, almost too far to even notice, I realize
this laugh was forced. My own thoughts, not Mom's, whisper,
That wasn't funny.

At Ponce de Leon Boulevard, we stop in front of an art studio packed with loud, appreciative admirers. Andrew and I are still holding hands, so I haven't been able to concentrate on much else. The canvases gracing the walls here are colorful interpretations of Cuban landscapes. A woman holding a tray of tiny cups of Cuban coffee offers us some.

“
No, gracias
,” I decline. That stuff is pure liquid nitro.

We stop in front of a small painting of a
guajiro
, an old countryman, dressed in the traditional white pants and
guayabera
shirt. Red bandanna laced around his shoulders. Wide-brimmed straw hat tilting over a rugged, smiling face. We stand there for a while admiring it.

“That one's awesome,” he says. “It looks just like Iggy's father.”

I then decide to forgive his little joke earlier. After all, he's a good guy, he likes the
guajiro
painting. A young boy, no older than ten, weaves in and out of the visitors' legs, handing out sheets of neon blue paper. I take one graciously.